A Total Waste of Makeup (25 page)

“Won’t you get into trouble with the FCC for saying fuckwit?” I ask.

“No,” Kate assures me. “I bleeped myself so it came out ‘beep’ wit. But I notice none of the women needed a cue card.”

Dawn nods. “I take it the Mike conversation did not go well.”

“Oh, not only did he spend the entire week not calling me,
and
avoiding me in the halls at work, but when I finally went to see him in his office today, he actually tried to hide under his desk.”

“Final verdict?” I ask.

Kate lowers her voice to sound like a man, “Hey, we had some laughs. Let’s not make it into a big thing.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“What makes it worse is, while I’m out thinking about that asshole, a perfectly nice guy is calling me every day, trying to convince me to marry him.” She sighs. “I’m telling you, I have sworn off men. That’s it. From now on, I’m just going to focus on my friends and my career.”

Famous last words.

The three of us spend the next half hour in a three-way debate about why anyone dates. Although, I guess it’s not really a debate if everyone is “con.”

Then we head to the quiet room, where I pick up a financial magazine. “Are you ready for retirement?” it asks me.

I don’t want to stress myself out, so I put the magazine back down.

Ignorance isn’t really bliss. But some days, it’s just easier.

A girl calls me for my Hunter’s Retreat.

I go back down the hallway with a new therapist named Patricia, who leads me to one of the “wet rooms,” which sounds a lot raunchier than it actually is.

I walk into the wet room, which is a large, white, tiled room that looks like a giant shower, except there are bouquets of flowers everywhere.

I hang my robe, slide onto a big waterproof massage table, and prepare to be exfoliated.

The huge showerhead turns on above me, and the water is perfect. As the shower cascades down on me, I become even more relaxed, if that’s possible.

“Is this your first trip to the spa?” Patricia asks as she scrubs some sort of granular stuff on my back.

“Yes,” I say, hardly able to breathe as she scrubs me down. We don’t say anything more. The whole thing is so relaxing, and everything smells so good, I think I fall asleep for a few moments.

Patricia has me turn over, and we do the whole thing again.

Patricia finishes scrubbing, then rinses me. Next she cleans me with—I’m not sure what. It feels kind of funny, like cotton balls in baby oil. “What are you using now?” I ask.

“Wheat stalks. Soaked in essential oils,” Patricia tells me. As relaxed as I am, I can’t help but wonder who the first person was to be standing in the middle of a wheat field thinking to himself, “You know, we could soak these in lavender oil and sell them in New York City and Los Angeles. There’s gold in these here amber fields!”

But the stalks smell good, and as I am being cleansed, I go back to thinking about Jordan.

I’m wondering what he would think of a place like this. Would he make fun of it? Most men do. Then again, I did until earlier today. Does he even like baths? Or is he more of a shower guy?

Damn it! I haven’t even kissed him yet, and I’m in the middle of this luxurious and decadent experience, wondering what someone else would think of it. What’s wrong with me?

As I force myself to put Jordan out of my mind, I am rinsed again. Then Patricia asks me to dry off. I do. In the final part of the treatment, she massages oil all over me. It sounds weird, but nothing could be more soothing. I am ready to sleep for twelve hours.

When I emerge from the wet room, I head back to the ladies’ locker room. I ask a spa attendant if they have any coffee. Relaxed is one thing—but I’m so sleepy I could pass out for a fourth time. She tells me that they only have herbal tea and water with cucumbers in it. Cucumbers?

No matter. Back in the ladies’ locker room, I grab a towel and head for the steam room again.

When I get in, I can’t see a thing. “Dawn,” I try to whisper.

“Goddess in the corner,” she whispers back jokingly. The wall of steam begins to clear, and I see we’re the only two in here. I put a towel down, and lie down on the bench below her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“So good, I’d like to see about moving in here.”

I can hear the smile in her voice. “I knew you’d like it. You make fun of me, but I know you pretty well.”

“Oka-ay…,” I admit. “You were right.”

“It’s just like that time in college when you said you didn’t like chocolate fudge Pop-Tarts.”

“Oh, was I ever that young?” I ask nostalgically. “Where’s Kate?”

“She’s at the front desk, trying to schedule a facial,” Dawn says. “So give me the latest dish on Jordan before she gets back and chastises you for ever allowing someone with a Y chromosome to enter your thoughts.”

“Okay, but promise not to tell Drew,” I say.

“Why would I tell Drew?”

“You just have to promise. He doesn’t fall under the mate rule yet.”

The “mate rule” is a rule that we made up in college that basically states that when you tell someone a secret, they are absolutely, positively not allowed to tell anyone other than their mate. The theory is that (1) you’re supposed to tell your mate everything, and (2) he’s a guy, so he won’t care most of the time anyway.

But this way, you do get to spill the secret to one person. And, let’s face it, most of the time we told our boyfriends anyway, so there was no point in feeling guilty about it.

“Once I meet his parents, does he count as a mate?” Dawn asks.

“No!” I say vehemently. “Although maybe once he meets your parents.”

“You know full well that could take years,” Dawn says, crossing her arms in frustration.

“That’s what I’m counting on,” I say. “Which is why this is a real secret. No telling Drew.”

“Okay, fine.”

I let her in on every detail of the online conversation, followed by the instant message conversation from the week before, and how Drew interrupted both times.

Dawn got the gist of my dilemma, and we talked for so long, we ended up walking over to get the pedicures together, babbling the whole time about what to do about Jordan. Then we talked through the pedicures, only taking a break to discuss what shade of red polish I should choose to match the red wraparound blouse I was going to wear tonight. (Guess who chose the red polish? Well, in my defense, sometimes Dawn does know what’s best for me.)

By the time we were done, we decided that Jordan was absolutely flirting, and that I had to make my move tonight.

My spa day ended about an hour and a half later, after an amazing facial that consisted of four layers of stuff spread on my face, and something called “extracting,” which is basically getting all the gunk out of my pores. It was painful, but I have to say, I positively glowed after the facial was done.

I didn’t want to leave—I mean, I really didn’t want to leave.

But I only had a few hours to get ready for the party, and I was so relaxed, I was going to need yet another nap when I got home.

I decided I would ask Drew for the same present for Christmas.

And my birthday next year.

And Groundhog Day.

And I had a new bit of advice for my great-grandniece:

Money can’t buy happiness. But it sure can rent it for a while.

Twenty

Every action has a consequence.

And, damn it, tonight I am going to take action!

I spend over two hours getting ready. I try on at least five different outfits, then start putting different tops with different skirts. I can’t decide if I want my look to be short, tight, and slutty; or long, flowing, and dignified.

Until Dawn calls. “Hello?”

“Don’t make me come over there and make you change into the red top and black skirt,” she threatens without preamble.

So I wear the red top and black skirt—frankly, because then I can blame her if I don’t get any type of positive response from it.

After that, it was another hour of makeup and phone calls, where I actually called Dawn to ask if I should wear the “plum” eyeshadow with the shadow called “spun sugar,” or go for “lilac” instead.

Eventually I look in the mirror and decide that I look okay (which doesn’t sound good, but for me, on a scale of 1 to 10, that’s a 45). Then I take my car keys and head out the door, determined to change my life.

Okay, well, at least my dating life.

Okay, at least for tonight.

The wrap party is in an elegant hotel in Marina Del Rey, a beach city just south of Santa Monica. Unfortunately, I was one of the first people to arrive: not only no Jordan, but no Drew, or Dawn either. Not even a Keenan.

I walk around admiring the ballroom, which is decorated all in white, I’m not sure why. But it looks dreamy—white tablecloths, white chairs, white Christmas lights drizzled throughout the room. Even the bar is done all in white.

And, speaking of the bar, did I mention all the drinks were comped? So I head to the bar by my lonesome, order a Merlot, and walk out to the lanai to gaze at the view.

The hotel has an amazing view of the harbor, with all the local boats bobbing in the light breeze. It’s a bit nippy out, but the lanai has heat lamps over all the tables, so I make my way over to the table with the best view, sit down, and contemplate what’s next.

I am starting to feel nauseated. You know that feeling they call
butterflies in your stomach,
when you know you’re about to see the person you really like, and you can’t help but feel sick? I guess it’s called butterflies in your stomach, because if you said a guy made you physically ill, that might be construed as a negative.

But that’s what I am feeling. It probably doesn’t help that I haven’t eaten all day, but I wanted to look thin for this outfit.

The second I see the waiter with the silver tray of shrimp the size of a baby’s foot, I abandon thin for yummy.

“Shrimp?” he asks. I take four, each on a toothpick, and down them like a woman from a deserted island. The waiter strolls away from me, over to a couple by the fence. I stop the poor waiter on his way back inside, and grab four more.

As I hastily stuff my face, I hear from behind me, “You really do get a body like that through indiscriminate eating.”

Oh, hell.

I turn around, and there’s Jordan, looking gorgeous in a burgundy jacket and tie and black pants. He’s grinning from ear to ear.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” I say through a mouth bursting with shrimp. “I’m sorry. I haven’t eaten all day. I’m famished.”

“Hey, nothing sexier than a woman who has a voracious appetite.”

I’m not sure if that’s a line or not. And I don’t care. He just said “nothing sexier.”

I unceremoniously pop the last of the shrimp into my mouth. “Well, then I guess you’re going to worship me.”

I can’t believe I am feeling this at ease with him. The butterflies have magically gone away. I’m just really happy to see him.

“I already worship you,” Jordan says, sitting down. He looks at me lasciviously. “And if we were online, I’d make a joke about being on my knees worshipping you.”

I crinkle my nose up, in on the joke. “But since you’re not, you won’t.”

“No. Then it wouldn’t look real,” he says, then scoots his chair a little closer to me. “So what happened to you last night? I waited, just like you told me.”

“I’m sorry, a friend called me, and—”

Before I can finish my thought, I hear a loud, “There you are, Jordan. Perfect table!” followed by several crew members walking over with their wives and girlfriends. We are immediately at a table full of very loud partygoers.

Rats.

“So,” I ask Jordan, trying to act like I’m actually happy to have all the new company (as if!), “Was this the group I missed today?”

“In the flesh,” Keenan says. “Have you met my new bride, Constance?”

“I haven’t,” I say, and immediately begin talking to the woman on my right for the next twenty minutes or so.

I had no choice. The second this group showed up, Jordan went from “flirty, interested guy” to “totally not interested, just one of the crew” guys who hangs out with his buddies. So, I just talked to the other women at the table for the next hour, making sure it looked like Jordan and I were just friends, and that I wasn’t interested in anyone at the party.

During that next hour, Jordan somehow managed to end up on the other side of the table from me. It wasn’t his fault. He went to get drinks for everyone, and when he returned, someone had taken his seat next to me. I didn’t want to be bitchy, and say, “Sorry, this seat’s taken,” but when Jordan came back, I could have sworn he looked disappointed.

Finally, I just threw caution to the wind, and left the table. “I’m going to go look for Drew,” I announced to my tablemates.

There were mild protests (I notice not from Jordan), but I insisted I was working tonight, then I made my way inside.

And good thing I did. Jordan was right behind me. “Do you mind having some company?” he said, catching up to me.

“Not at all,” I say. Aaahhh—my plan worked. I thought if I could separate myself from the herd, he might start the hunt again.

Pink’s “Get the Party Started” is playing, and people have begun getting on the dance floor. “Would you like to dance?” I ask him.

He tenses up his shoulders and puts his hands in his pockets. “I’m not much of a dancer.”

I let it go. “No problem. Maybe after another drink or two.”

“Speaking of which, I need another beer. Can I get you something?” he asks.

“I would love a Merlot,” I say, and walk with him to the bar.

“So,” Jordan begins, “this friend of yours—was she okay?”

“Yeah,” I say awkwardly, still not wanting him to know it was Drew. “Just my sister. Some wedding-day jitters, that’s all.”

“Oh,” he says, and I can’t read his expression. I’m not sure if he believes me or not. “Well, one of these days, we should switch to DSL, so neither of us gets bumped offline by a phone call, and we can talk longer.”

I smile. “I would like that.”