A Total Waste of Makeup (6 page)

“Good,” I say, smiling. “I’m glad you took the phone away. A mother would have cramped my style this evening.”

“They’re all from the 323 area code,” Dawn says, reading my list of incoming phone calls.

“Gimme that!” I grab my phone and check the list. All six from Dave. I quickly dial *99, to retrieve my messages. He left three.

“Hi, it’s Dave. Look, I know this is really short notice, but I’ve been invited to this party tonight by the guy who just produced Mel Gibson’s latest movie. It’s a little businessy, but it should be fun. Call me if you want to go. I’m on my cell. 323-555-6742. Beep.”

The mechanized voice enlightens me: 8:02
P.M
.

Damn it!

Message 2: “Okay, I’m pathetic,” a slightly drunken Dave confesses. “I’m here at the party, and all I can think about is you, and what an idiot I am that I didn’t call you sooner. If I had, you’d be sharing an exquisite Merlot with me…. I saw this thing at Costco for forty-eight bucks. Wait, was that crass that I said that? Anyway, maybe you’d be wearing that little black dress I loved so much, and we’d be talking about Billy Wilder movies, and instead you’re probably out with some fabulous guy who knows to call more than an hour before a party. And you probably never want to talk to me again….” Is he flirting? Was that flirting? “Call me at 323…”
Beep.

“11:02
P.M
.,” the mechanized voice informs me. “Third new message.”

“Hi. Me again. The machine cut me off, which I probably deserved. Anyway, my number’s 323-555-6742. Call me.”

As we walk up to the limo, Dawn gives me the evil eye. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t even thinking about it,” I assure her.

“Yes, you were. But don’t. It’s a booty call.”

“It’s not a booty call if he started calling me at eight o’clock.”

As the limo driver opens the door for us, Dawn begins her lecture. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. He called to ask you out, then when you didn’t call him back, he called again to apologize for not calling you sooner.”

“Yes,” I say as we settle into the car. “And tomorrow I’ll call him back.”

“Sure you will,” my best friend retorts.

And she’s right. I’m not home two minutes before I madly dial his cell phone. It only rings once.

“Hello?” Dave slurs into the phone.

For a moment, I am silent. What am I doing, calling a guy I barely know at two-thirty in the morning?

“Charlie? Please tell me it’s Charlie,” Dave says excitedly.

“Hi,” I stammer. “Where are you?”

“Canter’s Deli. I’m with a couple of buddies. Come meet us.”

“Are you already eating?” I ask, a touch of irritation creeping into my voice.

“Yeah, but that’s okay. Come meet us.” Man, is his voice sexy. Well, I suppose I could just drive over for a minute….

“No. I better not drive. I’ve been drinking,” I say stoically.

“Me too!” he says, like that’s a total coincidence. “Look, gimme your address again.”

“I don’t think you should be driving, either.”

“She’s in Silverlake,” I hear him tell a friend at the table. “Yes, you
are
driving me…,” he yells to his friend. “Because she’s the most luminous woman I’ve ever seen, and it took me six hours to finally get her on the phone, and I’m not getting off the phone until I see her.” Dave then gets back to me. “You will stay on the phone with me until my friend drives me over there, right?”

Damn! Did I mention he looks like Tom Cruise? Shit! Shit! What to say? I wish Jamie was here to advise….

“Wait! I’ve got it on my palm pilot. Here it is! 1912 Silverwood. Okay—I’ll see you in twenty minutes!” And he hangs up.

I can’t help myself. It doesn’t matter what the guy looks like, he can’t just invite himself over at three
A.M
. I call right back.

“Hello?” Dave answers.

“How do you know I’m home right now? How do you know I’m not with some other guy?” I say, maybe a little too belligerently.

“Oh,” he says, disappointedly. “Are you with some other guy?”

“No.”

“So you’re at home?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The next time he speaks he sounds genuinely hurt. “Well, why did you call me if you didn’t want to see me?”

I stare up at the ceiling. How do I get myself into such things? “Be here in twenty minutes, or don’t come at all.”

I hang up and race to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I then head to my closet, throwing off my evening clothes as I paw through my lingerie drawer. Silk pajamas—no. Ripped T-shirt—definitely not. Ah—a red lace teddy. Perfect. I put it on, then throw a white terry-cloth robe over it. This way, it’ll look like I was going to bed, but just happen to be wearing something sexy once in bed. I run over to my book of advice:

If a man calls you at three a.m., he is giving you what we in the 00s called a “booty call.” He wants only one thing—do not give it to him. Have some self-respect.

Well, it is good advice.

Twenty minutes later, my doorbell rings. I have brushed my teeth, gargled Listerine, changed my sheets, sprayed Chanel No. 5 on my sheets, sprayed Chanel No. 5 on my neck for good measure, and reapplied my lipstick.

Okay, so I didn’t listen to my own advice. Like I’m the first woman in the world who’s ever done that.

Four

The heart has a mind of its own.

The following morning, I wake up, and a feeling of love washes over me. Ah, if I thought about it for a few moments—this really could be the guy I’m with forever. Dare I even think…no, not yet. With a smile as big as a hippo’s, I roll over and put my head on Dave’s chest. I look at him, beaming….

It’s then that I realize it’s over.

He’s awake. He’s tense. I feel like if he could chew his arm off….

“Good morning,” he says, his words catching in his throat.

Translation: “I need to get the fuck out of here.”

“Good morning,” I say, then I kiss him. It was worth a shot. His lips actually purse. There’s an awkward silence that lasts, oh, about half a year.

I finally abort our pregnant pause. “You want to go get some breakfast?” I ask sweetly.

Translation: “Please don’t make me feel horrible about what I did last night.”

“No. I should get going,” he says awkwardly, getting up to leave.

“Something I said?” I joke. I can’t help myself. I just can’t wait by the phone for another week, second-guessing every detail of last night.

Dave forces a smile as he puts on his underwear. “No. Not at all. You’re great. You’re amazing, in fact.”

“So, naturally, you’re leaving,” I say, clutching the sheets to keep them over my naked chest as I sit up.

Dave sighs, then sits back down on the bed. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

I thought I was seeing him. Silly me. But I’m smart enough to know not to enlighten him with that bit of obvious information. “Um…there might be a few other guys sniffing around.”

“What a relief,” he practically belts out. “I mean, I figured you were seeing a bunch of men—a woman who looks like you. Truth is, there’s this girl I’ve been seeing for a bit. She’s not my girlfriend, or at least I haven’t started calling her my girlfriend yet, but I’m feeling really guilty right now—so I guess she is.”

As Dave continues his monologue, and proceeds to get dressed, I stay firmly entrenched in all my covers. There’s no way he’s seeing me naked again. I’m humiliated enough.

I won’t even finish the story. Every modern woman has lived through it. Let’s just move on.

There will never be peace in the Middle East.

Well, not the most creative thing I could write, but I’m right, aren’t I? I’m sitting at a Beverly Hills wedding salon, waiting for my sister to arrive to put me in something hideous. I don’t want to write another anti-wedding comment in my book of advice because, let’s face it, women love weddings. We love everything about them. We love the cake, the champagne, the being the center of attention, all the gifts. We love that we can make our nearest and dearest look like a giant cupcake, and not feel the least bit guilty about it.

That said, I’ve just been dumped. I feel bitter.

No one’s here yet, so I open one of the bridal magazines to make myself feel worse. Here’s an article that says, “A surprising trend in the South: one out of five brides opts for a wedding with fewer than 100 in attendance.” What surprises me is that the other four have more than that. The article then informs me that one of the most popular wedding themes is Cinderella. Yeah—’cuz it worked out for Princess Diana so nicely. I flip through the pages to an article entitled: “The Best Dresses Right Now: Princess Gowns, Outrageous Ruffles”—those must be for the bridesmaids and not the bride—“and One Marvelous Mini!” I turn to the page with the minidress. Yikes! Who would the bride be wearing this for? Is she planning to pick someone up at her own wedding?

Next article: “Tiaras for Springtime!” I would think you would have to be pretty ballsy to wear a tiara, unless your first name happens to be preceded by the title “Princess.”

On the next page are some invitations with teddy bears on them. I pull out my notebook and write:

If you are publicly declaring yourself an adult, and old enough to get married, try to avoid teddy bears and cartoon characters for your wedding invitations.

“You look like shit.” I look up, and there’s my brother Jamie.

“I was up until six this morning,” I inform him. “Then I got dumped around eight. What are you doing here?”

“Mom said I had to come so we could take Andy to lunch for her twenty-ninth birthday. Sorry about the dumping. First time?”

“No. I’m happy to report I’ve been dumped before. Thanks for asking,” I say, slamming the magazine shut.

“I meant did you sleep with him for the first time?” Jamie asks.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Oooh, first time. Ouch,” Jamie says, rubbing my shoulder sympathetically.

“How would you know that? I didn’t say that!”

My brother Jamie is six years younger than me, five younger than our sister. My parents call him the “oops” baby, but I suspect he was the second choice in that old “save the marriage” adage: new house, new baby, new kitchen. He is the light of my life, which I mean in as unsick and un–Angelina Jolie a way as possible.

Having a little brother is like getting information from the enemy camp. When he was the tender age of five, he explained to me that Bill Gardner must have a crush on me, or he wouldn’t call me every day to stay silent on the phone.

“Was he drunk?” Jamie asks knowingly.

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Were you?”

Yes, I was, but I’m sure as hell not going to admit it. “I’m not sure I like where this conversation’s going.”

“Dopamine,” Jamie says. “That’s your problem.”

I open the magazine again and pretend to read. Jamie says nothing further. Damn. Finally I close the magazine. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s dopamine?”

“It’s the chemical your body makes when you’re drunk. It makes you happy,” Jamie informs me.

“I thought that was oxytocin.”

“No, that just makes you all unnecessarily attached to us. Dopamine makes you happy. The problem is, if you’ve had too much to drink, the following morning, you wake up depressed, because your body’s out of dopamine. That’s why you should never sleep with a man the first time when he’s drunk. If you do, the next morning he wakes up depressed, and he associates you with his depression. Which, to answer your next question, is why all of us say we’ll call you, then never do.”

I furrow my brow, and stare at him incredulously. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“
Cosmopolitan
magazine,” Jamie says proudly. “And I have a lot of ex-girlfriends, and if I didn’t listen to them and all their theories, they wouldn’t still call me at two
A.M
. when they need some…uh…someone to listen to them.”

“God, a two
A.M
. booty call. You long for those things when you’re married,” my cousin Jenn says, waddling up to us. I’m not being insulting—Jenn is six months pregnant, and that pregnant woman waddle is just starting to take.

I stand corrected on not knowing anyone who got engaged in less than a year. Jenn met her husband—get this—at a wedding. On Valentine’s Day. He proposed on their fifth date.

She told him to get serious—she was still in her Residency. (Yes, she’s a doctor, besides. Couldn’t you just puke?) She “didn’t have time” for a relationship. Besides, Rob was an English professor—what could they possibly have in common?

Everything. Jenn actually found a man who liked watching
Mad About You
reruns at two
A.M
. And could use the word
casuist
in a sentence, and not sound like Diane Chambers from
Cheers.

Rob proposed every day until their six-month anniversary, when she finally said yes.

They were married, to the day, one year after they met.

They’ve been happily married ever since, and now have a four-year-old, Alex; a three-year-old, Sean; and another one on the way.

Jamie kisses Jenn on the cheek. “You look great.”

Jenn gives him a kiss back. “Please. I’ve put on thirty pounds already. But thank you.” She turns to me. “Have you heard the latest? Black is out, she’s back to putting us in orange.”

“Salmon,” I correct her.

“Yeah, I looked that up. It turns out it’s orange.”

Jenn was one of those rare brides who picked nice bridesmaids’ dresses for Andy and me that we could actually wear again. They were velvet, dark purple—gorgeous. So, for some odd reason, when she became Andy’s bridesmaid she thought it would be quid pro quo.

Silly rabbit.

“Like it’s not bad enough I’m going to have to be rolled down the aisle—now I have to look like I’m swimming upstream.”

“Actually, since you’ve already spawned, I think you’re swimming downstream now,” I joke.

“I’m going to get even. I swear I will,” Jenn assures me. “Mark my words—I’m a pregnant cranky woman with insomnia—I have time to plot my revenge.”