A Total Waste of Makeup (13 page)

I turn around and head over to Craft Service to get cappuccinos. At seven o’clock exactly, I open the door to Drew’s trailer—and nearly choke on all the smoke billowing out. It looks like Spicoli’s van in
Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
I sniff. Nope, not marijuana. More like flowers.

Bracing myself, I walk in to see Drew has redecorated his trailer again, this time in an Indian motif. His new couches are done in jewel-toned silks of dark red and dark green, with delicate gold embroidery sewn in geometric patterns throughout. Candles and incense burn everywhere (hence the smoke), and sitar music is piped in from…I still can’t find any speakers.

I look around at the newest decorations—elephant heads. Not the whole elephant, mind you. Just the head. An elephant head on a human body, sitting in meditation position. An elephant head with six human arms and legs. Five elephant heads on eight arms and legs. An elephant on a giant…rat?! I move closer to a pewter elephant incense burner to get a better look.

“Ganesh,” Drew says to me.

I turn around to see Drew lying on his new couch, making some sort of guttural noise. I’m not sure if he’s chanting, or trying to sound a mating call to a female elephant. Please God, let it be chanting. “Excuse me?” I say.

“Ganesh,” he repeats.

“Gesundheit,” I respond.

Drew opens his eyes, and sits up. He starts talking to me like a three-year-old describing the latest episode of
Blue’s Clues.
“I was watching the most amazing program last night after you went home. It was all about Ganesh, the Hindu god of India. The more I heard about it, the more I realized, I’m destined to be Hindu.”

I furrow my brow. “What happened to becoming a kahuna?” I ask.

Drew waves his hand at me as if to say
pshaw.
“That wasn’t for me. It turns out you have to do years of intense studying to become a kahuna. I’m not a student, I’m a movie star. But this…you’re born into it. So I’ve decided I must have been born a Hindu, I just didn’t know it since I was born in Rhode Island.”

I try to keep from visibly shaking my head. “Drew, the Hindu religion is very complicated, you can’t just…”

Drew jumps up from the couch and hands me what looks a stone elephant doing yoga. “This is Ganesh,” he says, as though he’s introducing me to his new puppy.

“Nice to meet you, Ganesh,” I say sarcastically.

Drew looks at me with complete sincerity. “According to the host of this program, the world is not created in the way we Westerners think of when we think of the word
creation.
It exists, but does not exist. It is only a relative reality, an illusion that we think of as truth, but that might not be truth. We are the product of Maya—the power of illusion.”

He stares at me, eyes wide open, slowly bobbing his head up and down, like he’s just told me the meaning of life. I look back at him, nonplussed. “Okeydokey. Well, it’s good you have a hobby. You want to go over your weekend schedule?”

I can tell from the way he’s looking at me, that wasn’t the response he was going for. But he shrugs and says, “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

I hand him his cappuccino, and go over his schedule for the weekend.

I stare at a printout of his schedule, and take a sip of my cappuccino. “All right. We start with an eight
A.M
. jog with your trainer—”

“Whoa. Way too early,” Drew states emphatically as he sips his cappuccino. “Cancel that.”

“Followed by free weights at nine…,” I continue.

“Cancel that,” Drew says, nodding.

“Then yoga with Chris at ten…”

“Cancel that, but tell him it has nothing to do with him rejecting you last night.” Drew takes another sip of his cappuccino, and scrunches up his lips in disgust. “Does this have sugar in it?”

“No. Equal,” I say. “Which brings us to your eleven o’clock appointment with your nutritionist…”

“Yeah. Cancel that. That guy’s diet is too strict. Find me someone who allows sugar in my coffee, bacon for breakfast, and a nice glass of scotch at night.”

I sigh. “Okay, here’s the thing. You specifically told me to force you to stay on this diet until you lost, and I quote, ‘these goddamn eight pounds.’”

“Yeah, I know. So you’ll get rid of him?” Drew asks, switching cappuccinos with me (mine has sugar in it).

I shake my head. “You said that no matter what you told me, that I absolutely, positively had to make sure you went to this appointment, or you would fire me.”

Drew rolls his eyes. “Look, sweetie, I love you. But if I wanted a woman to hold me to everything I said, I’d still be married.”

“So you’re sure you want me to cancel the appointment?” I ask.

“I’m sure,” Drew promises me.

“Fine.” I make a note on my pad, but the truth is, I cancelled the appointment last week. “Therapy from twelve to two…”

“Oh, good.” Drew says, pulling out a pen and writing it down. “I can talk about Dawn.”

“Hospital visit for Make a Wish at three…”

“Got it.”

“And then you have a meeting at five with some guy named Robert Browne from
Maxim
magazine. Your publicist arranged it.”

“Oh, shit!” Drew yells. “Blow Me!”

I look over my notes. “Is he some interviewer? I don’t have him on my computer.”

“No, he’s one of the editors. I totally forgot. I need you to write my ‘Blow Me’ list.”

I stare at him blankly. He returns my stare with an expectant smile. After several moments of confusion, I finally manage to stammer out, “To say that I am disturbed by the sound of that really is an understatement.”

“It’s for
Maxim
magazine,” Drew informs me. “They’re having celebrities write a ‘Blow Me List,’ which is basically a list of things that make you want to say, ‘Blow Me.’ I need you to write it for me.”

“Why can’t you write it?” I ask.

“I’m not very good at hating things. My life is so charmed,” Drew says with not the least bit of irony in his voice. “But you’re always complaining about something. And you’re so much funnier than I am.”

I blink at him several times. He just keeps smiling at me. “Don’t we know a writer who can do this?” I finally manage to ask.

“No. I’m supposed to write it,” Drew insists. “Which means you have to write it.”

Okay, how do I say no without getting fired? I have to be tactful and diplomatic. Let him know how much I treasure my job, and how important it is to me. “Are you out of your fucking tree?!” I blurt out.

“Oh, come on,” Drew says, waving me off. “Look, to show my appreciation, I’ll get you a limo for your Girls’ Night tomorrow.”

“The night that you invited yourself to?!” I whine. I’m trying not to whine, but I can’t help it. When I get upset, I sound like Minnie Mouse, just like my sister.

“And I’ll pay you a thousand dollars, cash,” he offers.

“How many words do you need it to be?” I answer immediately.

Hey, I’m not stupid.

“No word count—just a top ten list,” Drew says. He wins. He always wins.

“Write me fifteen or so, and I’ll pick my favorites.”

Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.

I hate Drew for this. I spend the next four hours in Drew’s director’s chair, on set, coming up with a “Blow Me” list.

1. Men who don’t call.

I cross that off.

1. Sixteen-year-olds trying to sell you wrinkle cream at Bloomingdales.

I cross that off.

1. Hillary Clinton.

Maybe.

And, as I’m thinking about people who don’t call, the phone rings (or I should say vibrates, as we’re on the set, and no cell phones, pagers, or anything with sound is allowed on a set).

I see it’s Andy, so I run off the set and call her right back.

As I walk onto the set of the exterior of a Manhattan street, Andy picks up. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me. What’s up?”

“Mom and Dad just faxed Hunter and me a seating chart for our wedding.”

Uh-oh. I wince. “Did you ask them to do that?”

“Are you upset your younger sister’s getting married before you?” Andy asks me back.

Ouch. “Well,” I begin, preparing to give an upbeat answer, when Andy interrupts, “I’m just asking, since apparently it’s ‘Ask a stupid question’ day!”

Double ouch. As I pass the fake Zabars, I remind her, “You know, I’m one of the only people on your side here. You should be nice to me.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t believe everyone’s making this so awful for me. This is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and instead I just want to get it over with. Do you know Hunter’s mother just added fifty more guests to our list, and Hunter won’t tell her no? And now I get this stupid seating chart…”

“How bad is it?” I ask warily.

“Well, Dad wrote the name ‘your dumb-ass grandfather’ on the seating chart with a big arrow pointing to the top of the page, pointing to the word
Canada
….”

I rub my right palm into my right eye, feeling a headache coming on. “Where did Mom put Julia?”

“Next to an arrow at the bottom of the page, pointing to the words
six feet under
. Look, are you busy tonight? I really need you to come to Mom’s house so we can sort everything out.”

“I guess I can do that,” I tell her, only because I can’t think of a good excuse not to. “But if you’re going to ask them for more money for more guests, wouldn’t you rather do it without an audience?”

“Are you okay turning thirty without a boyfriend, or is your career enough to sustain you into old age?” she counters.

“Will seven o’clock be okay?” I ask immediately, dreading whatever her next “stupid question” would be.

“Divine. I’ll see you then. Love you. Bye,” Andy says, and clicks off.

“Love you, too,” I say, and head back to the set.

I hate her. I really do.

Nine

Everything happens for a reason.

I’m not quite sure what possible reason the universe could have for me to write a “Blow Me” list. But, nonetheless, two hours later, Drew and I are back in his trailer, going over it.

As he sits on his new silk couch, sipping his seventh cup of coffee of the day, I read from my clipboard. “Okay,” I begin. “Number one. Sylvester Stallone, Ben Affleck, and any other actor who’s won an Academy Award for writing.”

“I can’t say that,” Drew says, shaking his head.

“Why?”

“I like Ben. Besides, what if I decide to write a screenplay someday? Then no one at the Academy would vote for me.”

A screenplay?! He can’t even write a “Blow Me” list! But instead of pointing out the obvious, I scratch it out, and we move on. “Number one. Anyone who calls you ‘Sir.’”

“Why would I hate that?” Drew asks.

“Because it implies you’re old,” I say.

“No, it doesn’t. It implies the person respects me.”

“Because you’re old,” I counter. But I see his point, and cross it off. “Somehow, it works better as people who call me ‘ma’am,’” I tell him. “All right. Number one. Martha Stewart.”

“Oh. I can’t write that.”

This is getting tiresome. “Why not?” I ask, clearly irritated.

“Because a few years ago I made kegel on her show, and I don’t want to offend her.”

“Kugel,” I correct him.

“Excuse me?”

“You made kugel on her show. Kegel is…” I’m so not explaining this to my boss. Although, if he did make Martha Stewart kegel,
that
is a show I would want to see. But I cross her off the list. “Never mind. Number one. Roger Moore, George Lazenby, Timothy Dalton, and Pierce Brosnan, or anyone else not Sean Connery, playing James Bond.”

“I can’t say that,” Drew says, taking a sip of his coffee (now with two sugars).

I roll my eyes. “Now what?”

“Pierce is a good guy,” Drew says emphatically. “I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“I agree. Pierce is a good guy. But I doubt he’s reading
Maxim,
and even if he is, if he has any kind of a sense of humor, he’ll think it’s funny.”

Drew furrows his brow, and shrugs. “Okay. That’s one, I guess.”

“Good.” I put a star by that one. “Number two. Britney Spears.”

“Oh.” Drew looks up, and smiles appreciatively. “I like that one.”

It was a safe bet. No straight man I know will admit to liking Britney Spears. And yet they all loved that kiss.

“Good. Number three. Fat-free ice cream.”

“Fat-free what?” Drew says, jerking back his head.

“Ice cream,” I repeat.

“You’re making that up,” he accuses me. “Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”

“No, I’m not. And yes, it is,” I tell him.

“Well, is it any good?” Drew asks.

“Of course not,” I practically spit out. Apparently, it is stupid question day after all.

“Okay, you can put that one down,” he says.

“Good. Three down, only seven to go. Number four. People who have been to a
Star Trek
convention more recently than they’ve been out on a date.”

“Good. I hate those people,” Drew says.

My phone interrupts us. Drew looks at it expectantly. “Is it Dawn?” he asks.

I check the caller ID. “Yeah.”

“Answer it!” he demands, and jumps up from the couch, suddenly a nervous wreck.

I do. “Hello.”

“Are you alone?” Dawn asks.

“Ask her about me,” Drew whispers.

I silently wave him off. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“What do you think of Drew? Be honest.”

Shit. I can’t tell her what I really think of Drew with him sitting right next to me.

Drew whispers, “Is she asking about me?”

I jab my index finger at him harshly, and put it up to my lips to pantomime
Sssshhh
. “Why do you ask?” I say nonchalantly into the phone. “Do you like him?”

“Yeah, I think I do. He’s called me every night this week, and we talk for hours. I haven’t met a guy like that in a while. And he’s sent me flowers every day this week, which normally would creep me out. But, I don’t know, for some reason, I think it’s kinda cool.”