A Total Waste of Makeup (18 page)

I take a sip, and it is true ambrosia. (Of course, after how many drinks I’ve had tonight, the $1.99 Charles Shaw Merlot from Trader Joe’s might be true ambrosia—but still.) Doug takes my hand and leads me back into the kitchen. “You know what that goes well with?” He pulls out the bag of Double Stuff Oreos.

“Now see,” I say jokingly. “Why people bother with caviar and toast points, I’ll never know.”

Doug takes his glass of wine and hands me a cookie. “You want to see the rest of the house?”

“Sure,” I say, taking the Oreo.

I pop the cookie into my mouth as the house tour begins.

“Well, you’ve seen the gorgeous balcony…which I like, but I’m afraid of heights, so I don’t go out there much. Here’s my office…,” Doug says, bringing me into a very utilitarian room with a black leather chair in front of a three-thousand-dollar laptop computer (I know this only because I recently picked one up for Drew) on a chrome-and-glass desk. I look at his bookshelf.
Plato’s Republic
is there, along with the complete works of Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, a few Stephen King books for good measure, et cetera.

“It’s nice,” I say politely.

“Okay, it’s boring. We’re moving on,” Doug says, taking my arm gently and moving me out of the office. We pass a washer and dryer. “Laundry room,” he gestures to the right, then, gesturing to the left, “bathroom…”

Ooooh, a Jacuzzi tub. I love those! But I better not say that—sends the wrong message. I notice it’s clean. Too clean. I’m going to guess he had a maid come in today. To impress me, maybe?

“And, in front of us, the master bedroom.” Doug gently takes my hand and leads me in. It’s right out of
Architectural Digest
. The room is so exquisite, I’m afraid to step inside. It’s a confection of white: white plushy carpet, the kind that makes your toes happy; a (made) king-sized bed with a white bedspread; light teak dressers and nightstands; white lamps.

“You made the bed,” I observe.

“No, I didn’t,” Doug admits. “I had a maid come in today. You know, just in case I was having important company over later.” He grins sheepishly, and I am hooked.

“Optimistic,” I flirt.

I lean in to kiss him. We quickly begin a mad frenzy of kissing. Doug tries to pull me onto the bed, which is awkward because…“Hold on. Merlot on white!” I yell, trying to get my glass to a nightstand before it stains. He quickly takes my glass and his, puts them on the nightstand, and we continue our mad frenzy.

Always leave them wanting more.

Okay—the pizza might have burned. I wasn’t that hungry anyway.

Fourteen

No matter how you feel, or what you’ve done, take comfort in knowing that someone, somewhere, has been in the same position you’re in, and has felt all the same feelings you are feeling right now.

I wake up the next morning very proud of myself for not having sex with Doug yet. Okay, so most of his clothes are off. Mine aren’t. And, no, I’m not being a bit Monica Lewinsky about definitions here—no sex of any kind.

Kissing, though. Lots and lots of kissing.

I love making out with a new guy. I love how the kissing is its own reward, how there’s still so much to look forward to. It’s not a prelude, like “Okay, ten minutes of this, then the clothes are off, fifteen more minutes, then five (five?), then he’s off to bed, and I’m off to the kitchen for a chocolate Pop-Tart, and maybe a rerun of some old show on Nick at Nite.”

And you’re still so excited to be kissing each other. You’re still at that phase where you can’t believe he’s even interested in you.

Ahhh, this is the best part.

I’m smiling as I wake up, and instinctively roll over onto his chest and into his arm. Ooooh, I fit well here. Some guys, you don’t fit so well. They’re too tall, or too short, or way too into their own space. But Doug is perfect. He smells perfect. He fits perfect.

Right now, he is perfect.

That lasts about two seconds.

Doug opens his eyes, smiles, and whispers, “Morning.”

I whisper back, “Good morning,” and kiss him. He pulls me on top of him, we neck for a while, and I debate my “no sex” rule.

Then the phone rings. I hear his answering machine go off. “Hi, this is Doug. I’m not able to come to the phone right now, please leave a message.” Beep.

“Hi, Doug, it’s your assistant, John. Look, I’m sorry to bother you so early…”

Doug nearly throws me off of him, and grabs the phone. “John, what’s up?” he says calmly, all business. “Uh-huh…Uh-huh…Okay, patch him through to me…. Hello, Mr. Rocco? This is Will Madrid’s manager. I want you to know that Will will
never read your script
!”

I jump at how loud Doug has just screamed. I flinch backward unconsciously as Doug continues to scream at the top of his lungs.

“No actor of mine reads unless I say so! You should never have given him that script directly! Everything goes through me!”

As the person on the other end of the phone defends himself, I start looking around for my stuff—just in case I need to make a quick escape.

“No!” Doug screams, leaping from the bed. “He’s not smart enough to know what to read and what not to read! That’s why he employs me! That’s why he has a manager! And I’ll tell you something—you will never have Will in your movie! You cannot use his name, you cannot even say he’s seen the material! Your movie is over!”

Doug slams down the phone, making me jump for the second time in thirty seconds. Doug turns to me, gives me a tender hug, and softens his voice. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Business.”

Be wary of people who say “It’s just business” as their excuse for unethical behavior.

I stare at Doug, not quite sure how to respond to the Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde outburst. “Don’t you think you were a little harsh to that guy on the phone?” I ask gently.

“No,” Doug says softly, pulling me closer to him. “You have to understand, I’m the bad cop for these actors. They want to be the good guys—someone asks them to read a script, they say yes. It’s my job to then tell the person no.”

“Yeah, but you could have done it a little more gently,” I point out, trying not to sound too appalled by his behavior.

“If I had done it gently, he might have gone back to Will. The point was to get him to leave my client alone.” Doug lifts my chin and puts his lips to mine. “Now, what can I make you for breakfast?”

I smile, trying to get back into the mood. “Some eggs would be nice.”

“There’s this great little breakfast place down the street,” he suggests. “Why don’t I take you there?”

His phone rings again, and inside I’m already wincing. Doug picks up on the first ring, carrying his phone over to his walk-in closet and ignoring me completely. “Yeah?…put him on. Hi, it’s Doug…No, that’s
not
acceptable! We’ve already discussed this.”

And the volcano explodes again. “You know, you are really wasting my time here! Why the
fuck
would you call me on a Sunday morning to insult my client with that kind of an offer?!”

By this point, I’ve already grabbed my things and started to head out the bedroom door, because I know, by heart, one of the golden rules of dating:

On your first date, see how he treats the waiter. That’s how he’ll be treating you in six months.

Okay, so in this case it’s people who want to work with him and his clients. Same rule applies.

Doug hasn’t even noticed me. He’s too busy screaming, “You know, sometimes I wonder how incompetents like you can even get a job!” Suddenly he covers the phone and runs after me, his voice returning to normal. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

“I’m…” What am I? I’m speechless, I’m appalled…“I’m gonna go. I’m feeling a bit…”

Doug yells into his phone, “I’m on another call! Can you fucking hold, you piece of shit!” Then he puts his arm around me tenderly, and rubs my arm. “What’s the matter honey, are you hung over?”

“Yes!” I say emphatically. “Very. And I’d really like to just get home and rest, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sweetie, I can take care of you…,” Doug says, sounding like a mother hen.

Okay, think. What would Dawn say in this situation? “You know, clearly you have work to do, and I have a lot of errands to run today, so why don’t we just see each other later in the week?”

Oh my God. I’ve become a guy. I’m actually telling someone I plan to see him again just to make a clean getaway. But my hand is now on the front door, and it just might work.

Doug looks confused. “Well, okay. How about Wednesday?”

“That’s great,” I say, “I’ll call you.” Then I give him a quick peck on the cheek, and race out his front door.

“Let me at least drive you home…” Doug yells down the hall after me.

“Not necessary. I’ve got my cell phone with me. I’ll just call a cab,” I yell back as I scurry to his elevator, and get the hell out of Dodge.

Fifteen

When I get home, the disaster of Doug is still lingering in my head. So I decide to use it to good advantage by coming up with another bit of dating advice:

Never throw good money after bad. And when it comes to dating, never throw good time after bad. Cut your losses! Dump the bastard.

The rest of the day went by pretty uneventfully. First I called Kate to see how the rest of her night went.

“Oh, it was so nice,” she says blissfully. “We kissed all night. He’s so wonderful.”

“You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” I ask, worried.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no,” Kate answers, sounding irked with me.

“Good. Did he get your number?”

“I know him through work. He already has my number,” Kate points out, now sounding really irritated with me.

“Okay,” I say. This is awkward, because I already know where this relationship is going, and she doesn’t.

“Don’t give me that tone,” Kate says.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give a tone,” I say carefully. “I hope everything works out.”

“Me too. Anyway, I’ve got some work I have to catch up on. I’ll see you tonight,” Kate says, and hangs up.

I forgot one other bit of advice I should have given her last night:

You won’t meet your future husband at a bar.

But I suppose this is a lesson most of us have to learn through trial and error.

Next, I call Drew to ask him how his night went, to tell him what happened with Doug, and to let him know in no uncertain terms that he will
never
(okay, I didn’t scream it, but I wanted to) sign with this asshole manager. Then I call Dawn to see how her night went.

Both of them said that they had a good time, but neither would give me details. I hate that. I spend much of the day obsessing over what happened between them that neither of them would tell me about it.

I checked my e-mail several times throughout the day for a note from Jordan—but nothing. Rats!

That night, the night before my thirtieth birthday, Dawn and Kate came over with champagne and pizza, to celebrate the last night of my twenties (and, after my second to last night going so badly, I say, “Good riddance!”).

And to create “mate maps” for ourselves.

“What the hell is a mate map, and why am I wasting my time doing it?” Dawn says, holding a glass of champagne as she and I stare at three 2’ × 3’ rectangles of white posterboard on my coffee table.

Kate sits on my couch flipping open a bunch of magazines. “Don’t sound so negative. It’s a really good idea. This woman I interviewed on my radio show wrote a whole book on mate maps. It is
the
confirmed way to find the man of your dreams.”

“Is this woman married?” I ask as I light a cigarette and take a seat on my sofa.

Kate looks up from her magazines, irked. “You needn’t be a chicken to find a good egg.”

“No, all you really need is to find enough chickens to buy your stupid book,” Dawn says, flopping into the overstuffed chair across from us.

Kate glares at her, then chooses to ignore the barb. “Now, we each take a piece of blank posterboard, and think about the qualities we really want in our future mate. You know, things like ‘blond hair’ or ‘solid build.’”

Kate hands us each an old issue of
Cosmopolitan
as she continues, “We go through these magazines for ideas, and cut out anything that appeals to us. So, like, if we want him to have blue eyes, we cut out a picture of blue eyes, and glue it to the board. If we want an athlete, we cut out a picture of a basketball or a football, and glue that onto our board. The idea is, at the end of a few hours, you have a collage that represents the perfect man for you. The theory is, if you dream of him, he will come. And, with a little luck, in more ways than one.”

Dawn flips through her
Cosmo,
then looks at me. “Do you have any issues of
Fortune
magazine?”

I throw Dawn a back issue of
Fortune,
and she takes her scissors to begin.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Kate says, handing us each a thick Magic Marker. “If you can’t find the quality you want in a glueable form, you can also use a pen, and write down words like
committed
and
good-hearted
in thick, black Magic Marker.”

So the three of us took our Magic Markers, magazines, and big white pieces of posterboard, and set about to create our perfect men.

Two hours and a magnum of Veuve Clicquot later, we were ready to read our mate maps.

I stare at my mate map, hidden from my friends, as Kate begins, “Okay, let’s start with an easy one. Hair color?”

“I go with brown or black,” I say.

“Blond,” Kate lets us know. “Definitely blond.”

“I don’t care,” Dawn says, “as long as he didn’t cry watching
Beaches.
”

Kate glares at Dawn. “Political party?”

“Democrat,” I read from my board.

“Republican,” Kate reads.

“Or
Love Story.
I hated that movie,” Dawn mutters to herself. “‘Love is never having to say you’re sorry.’ What a crock. Love is constantly saying you’re sorry, even when you know damn well you’re right.”