A Total Waste of Makeup (2 page)

“I know,” Andy tells me. “Mom’s smoking out as we speak. Now, back to the salmon—you don’t like it?”

Hmmm. This will be tricky. It’s like she’s loaded up the minefield, and is asking me to walk. “I thought your colors were going to be black and silver,” I say carefully.

“They were,” she sighs. “But my future in-laws thought that was morbid.”

“Ask your future in-laws if they’ve been planning your wedding since you were five,” I remind her. “No, they have not.
You’ve
been planning your wedding since you were five.”

Her future in-laws are East Coast rich, and stuffy as hell. There are even a few Kennedys coming to the wedding. Which at least means there will be drinking, so the evening won’t be a total loss.

My sister, on the other hand, comes from a frighteningly crazy—wait, I’m not allowed to use that word—
colorful
artistic family. We have four actors, three writers (including our mother), one director of photography, a costume designer (our father), and a producer. And my poor sister with her MBA from Harvard. She always was the white sheep of the family.

Yes, poor Andy. The stork having dropped her down the wrong chimney, Andy chose as corporate a route as she could think of. She was a huge marketing whiz at one of the major studios until she moved in with her boyfriend to become the upper-class snob she always wanted to be. Pretty much overnight, she went from
Ms.
magazine to
Martha Stewart Living.
I don’t mind that type of woman, I just worry that my sister can’t ignore her roots forever.

“Look, it’s your wedding,” I tell her. “Tell them it’s a Hollywood thing. Black and silver are the ‘in’ colors right now. Black is the new pink.”

“Salmon,” Andy reminds me.

“Salmon,” I repeat back.

“Can I invite Drew?” she asks. Or should I say blackmails?

Okay, here’s a dilemma. I work for Drew Stanton, one of the highest paid movie stars in the world. If he shows up for her wedding, my sister will look oh-so-cool, and this will justify her color choices to her new in-laws. It’s total blackmail. Show up with a megastar in tow, or show up preparing to swim upstream.

“Of course. He’d love to come,” I say with the insincerity of a sorority sister. Hey, better women than me have pimped their friends. Or, in my case, their bosses.

I jot down on a Post-it note:
Note to self: Make sure Drew is scheduled to be out of town wedding weekend. Book secret weekend rendezvous with Catherine Zeta-Jones type if necessary, or, if desperate, schedule him for some type of plastic surgery.

“So, would you prefer silver to salmon?” Andy asks, bringing me back to the conversation at hand.

Great. Now I have the dubious honor of choosing between looking like the inside or the outside of a fish. “What about black? You said your colors were going to be silver and black.”

“Yes, but the bridesmaids will be wearing black. You’re the maid of honor. I’m thinking, if I put you in silver, you’ll look special.”

What I want to say is,
How is impersonating a big ol’ bag of Jiffy Pop going to make me special?
But my cell phone beeps its call-waiting before I have time.

I check the cell’s caller ID. This time it really
is
Drew. “Andy, it’s Drew. Do whatever makes you happy. I’ve gotta go.”

“I’m not Mom,” she says in disgust.

“I know. Which is why I don’t lie to you. I love you. Bye.”

I click over. “Hello.”

On the other line, I hear Drew scream at the top of his lungs, “Put the fucking teddy bear down!”

I drop the phone, then quickly drop to my knees and grab it from the floor. “Drew, what are you still doing in looping? You were supposed to be out of there by two.”

“They had some sort of tape problem. I didn’t even start until noon,” Drew tells me in a normal voice, then booms, “
Put the fucking teddy bear down!
”

For those of you who have never watched
Entertainment Tonight,
looping is what we call redoing your lines after a movie is completed. Let’s say you had a great scene—the take was perfect, one tear fell from your face as you choked up your line, “I will always love you.” The director is sure he cast the perfect actor, you can just hear your Academy Awards speech now, all is perfect…

And then a gaffer drops a fifty-pound light on his foot, and screams words you never knew existed.

Well, then you keep the take, but go back later to redo the line. It’s sort of the opposite of lip syncing. And this is where Drew is right now.

“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask. “I would have gone down there.”

“I felt like being alone today,” Drew says. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I say cheerfully. The fact that he is at a sound studio looping his last movie with a team of technicians listening to his every breath seems to have been lost on him.

I am Drew’s personal assistant, which means I keep track of all of his appointments, and hang around the set with him to get him coffee, snacks, a pretty girl to talk to, whatever. It’s more detailed than that—but you get the gist.

Overall, it is a great job. Forget what you’ve heard on
E!
If you can find the right person to work for, it’s the best job in the world. You get to travel, you make a lot of money, and you get to go to cool parties. Plus, on days like today, while everyone else is stuck in an office in their business suits, you get to be in your own home, in your favorite plaid pajamas, waiting by the phone for your boss to call.

“Hold on, baby,” Drew says sweetly. “Put the fucking teddy bear down!” he screams again. This time I wince, but keep my hand firmly planted on the phone. “Sweetie, can I call you back in a couple minutes?” he whispers. “I’m in Vietnam over here.”

And he hangs up on me.

I’m not sure if he’s referring to his movie, or the fact that he’s having a bad day. Either way, I’m back to being left alone in my plaid pajamas. Life is good. I proceed to write the following bit of advice:

Never expect anyone to take care of you financially.

As I said, I am a personal assistant. I work for megasexy, megastar Drew Stanton—voted
People
magazine’s “Sexiest Man Alive.” Twice. His wife left him last year after cheating on him for two of the three years they were married. Welcome to Hollywood.

I make $1,500 a week, week in and week out, every week of the year, no matter what. When he’s shooting a movie, I make $2,000 a week. The downside: the guy’s a complete nut.

For example, he once got me out of my warm bed at three in the morning because he wanted me to book him a private charter plane.

To Montana.

In February.

Did I mention it was three o’clock in the fucking morning? And that he actually expected me to come with him?

Why? “Because,” as he told me with great sincerity that night, “everyone keeps talking about how it’s the place to go when you want to get away from it all. And I need to get away from it all.”

When we got there later that morning, Drew took one step out of the plane, realized it was ten below with the wind chill factor, then turned back around to announce, “Let’s try Pittsburgh!”

“What on earth for?” I asked.

“If you truly want to get away from it all, you need to go where no one else is going,” he reasoned. “I don’t know anyone going to Pittsburgh.”

So, off we went to Pittsburgh, where we had a very nice lunch, actually.

Then it was on to Cleveland, where we took a tour of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and Drew still complained of the bitter cold.

Finally, we ended up at the Grand Wailea Resort in Maui. For a week. All of my expenses paid. So, you can see why I put up with him.

Oh yeah, I actually like him, too. Not like-like. Just like.

My home phone rings. Vowing once again to get a downstairs phone with a caller ID screen, I pick up my home line. “Mom, I have a job…”

“He hasn’t called. Has he?” my friend Dawn says sympathetically.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I say dryly.

“Oh. Am I wrong?” she asks hopefully.

“No,” I’m forced to admit.

“So, kick ’em to the curb. What are you wearing tonight?”

“I’m not sure I’m in a ‘going out’ mood.”

“No. You’re not sure you want to go out tonight just in case Lunkhead calls at the last minute to ask you out. You’re going. I have a limo and everything. Listen, I’m in Makeup on a Ja Rule video. Gotta go. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

And she’s off. I hang up. The phone rings again. Please, please, please be David. “Hello.”

“What’s the word for using your feet as a tool?” my friend Kate asks.

“Prehensile.”

“How do you spell that?”

“P-R-E-H-E-N-S-I-L-E.”

She pauses. Clearly, she’s writing something down. “Thank you. Do you happen to know how the French prime minister pronounces his name?”

Shit. Now see, if she’d asked me to name the two youngest Brady kids, I would have gotten that. “I’m not sure.”

Another pause on the other end of the phone. “Please tell me you know the name of the French prime minister,” Kate says.

“I know the name of the French prime minister,” I confidently say back.

“You’re pathetic,” Kate says.

“I’ll know it by tonight,” I counter.

“Oh good, you’re going,” Kate says brightly, then changes her tone. “Wait, but I guess that means he hasn’t called.”

“Do you plan to say anything that will make me feel better during this conversation?” I ask.

She thinks about it a moment. “No matter how old you get, I’ll always be older.”

“And with a boyfriend,” I respond. “You’ll always be older with a boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my Fwip.”

“Fwip” is short for “Friend with Privileges.” The term is Kate’s way of avoiding the inevitable. Kate has been dating Jack for nine years, since our senior year of college. Dawn set them up one night, they had what Kate thought would be a one night stand, and they’ve been dating ever since. He is her boyfriend. I don’t care what they call each other—they play slumber party four nights a week, and they are the last person the other one speaks to at night.

Which gives me an idea of what to write next:

If you’ve been dating someone for a year, you know if you want to marry them or not. Fish or cut bait. Either get married, or set them free. And if a man you’ve dated for a year hasn’t proposed—definitely cut bait.

Which is great advice. And the minute I find someone who actually did get engaged in less than a year without getting pregnant, it’ll sound even better.

“So what did you do last weekend?” Kate asks.

“I had an incredibly romantic weekend,” I say, with a smile in my voice. “On Friday night we went to
La Boheme
…”

“Jack and I got drunk and played Trivial Pursuit…”

“Then Saturday we went to the beach all day…” I continue.

“We painted the living room. Mr. Anal Retentive and Ms. Let’s Get This Fucking Thing Over With…”

“Followed by almost a week of waiting by the phone.” I finish.

You know, she may be able to pull a king and an ace, but I always have the trump card. My cell phone rings the cancan again. “Gotta go.”

“See you tonight,” Kate says. “First round’s on me.”

We hang up, and I check the caller ID on my cell phone. I click on. “Mom, this is supposed to be Drew’s line.”

“I know, sweetie, but we’re having a crisis here, and I need your help. Is fifteen thousand dollars a lot for a wedding dress?”

Good Christ. “You’re talking to the wrong girl. I think fifteen thousand dollars is a lot for a car.”

“Well, Andy saw this wedding gown she thinks is perfect, but it would be a rush order, and it needs to be made with some special kind of silk or they won’t be able to bead it right. I don’t understand why she can’t just wear my old wedding dress, it’s still in perfect condition….”

While Mom continues with her run-on sentence, I write the following:

Never subject your daughter to your wedding dress. Styles have changed.

I mean, should leg of mutton sleeves have ever really been in fashion in the first place? Besides, my mother, God love her, was five months pregnant when she got married. My sister is a perfect size two.

Mom apparently is still talking. “…and besides that, if we really want to save money, the real trend right now is papier-mâché dresses. They’re really hip, you can’t tell the difference, and they’re only about a hundred dollars each.”

Somehow, I do not see my sister in a papier-mâché dress. This is the type of statement I don’t think one should ever have to utter aloud. And I don’t want my mother to mention it aloud again—as this would increase the chances of yours truly wearing a silver papier-mâché dress.

Mom continues, taking my silence as some form of encouragement. “I just wanted your opinion, and now that I have it, I want you to talk to your sister. Here!”

Andy immediately gets on the phone. She has that same lovely, irritated voice she’s had ever since the one-and-a-half-carat ring was placed on her finger. “What?”

I quickly jot down my next words of wisdom:

Don’t spend your whole life looking forward to your wedding day. Don’t spend a year’s salary paying for your wedding day. It’s just a day. You will spend more time writing a term paper than you will at your wedding reception.

As I’m writing, Andy spits out at me, “Heeellllooo? You know, I can’t hold forever. I have a dress to get. The rest of us have lives, too.”

“How much did Mom say they would spend? Answer in letters if you need to.”

“Chocolate,” Andy says, speaking in code. Mom must be hovering.

C
—the third letter in the alphabet. That means they said $3,000—max. “Don’t speak in code in front of me,” my mother shrieks from the other side of the salon.

“We’re not speaking in code. I’m just hungry!” Andy yells back.

“And how much is the dress you want going to cost?” I ask.

“Donuts.”

“Well, at least you aren’t hungry for eggs. Or jelly beans, for that matter. Put Mom back on the phone.”