The Botox Diaries (17 page)

“Why? Who’s here?” I ask, trying to figure out what she knows that I don’t.

“Just get the door, now!”

I fold my arms. “Tell me what’s going on, young lady.”

By now, Jen is apoplectic. “Just open it! Open it!” she shrieks.

So I do.

Standing there is a model-gorgeous guy with spiky sun-bleached hair, a grin plastered on his face, and a bunch of pink roses in his arms.

“Congratulations!” he says, giving me a big sloppy kiss on the cheek. He’s about two heads taller than I am, athletic-looking, and wearing a cutoff Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt that declares he’s “Surfer Dude.”

“I’m Boulder!” he exclaims, as if I should be as excited by the news as he is. “You won! I’m your date!”

He lunges in for a hug, and, forgetting about the armload of flowers, crushes the roses between us. Would that be a thorn that’s now lodged in my cleavage? I always did prefer orchids.

“Look! Give us a big smile!” Boulder says.

He spins me around and I see eager photographers, stocky men with videocameras, and young, stylish women with notebooks and stopwatches all swarming up my front lawn. In the driveway, the high school marching band, dressed in full beribboned regalia, strikes up the only song they really know. “Stars and Stripes Forever.”

Suddenly a microphone, a clipboard, and a makeup brush are simultaneously thrust in my face.

“What the hell … I mean the heck … is going on?” I ask, pulling away from the microphone. One of the cameramen steps in so tight that I don’t know if he’s going for a close-up of my crow’s-feet or a shot of the thorn in my cleavage. I stick my hand out to push him away and then decide that’s the wrong move. Only time you see a hand blocking the camera is when some corporate bad guy is trying to keep his face off
60 Minutes
.

“What is this?” I demand again. “What’s going on?”

“I picked you!” Boulder says, the sunlight bouncing off his unnaturally white teeth. “Seven thousand letters. Or maybe it was seven-hundred thousand.” He looks over at one of the young women with notebooks. “Mindy, how many people should I say wrote in for a date with me?”

“Whatever you want,” she calls out.

“Millions of letters!” Boulder says enthusiastically. “And you’re my perfect match!
Cosmo
’s Most Eligible Bachelor has found his girl!”

It’s all coming back to me now. The date Jen found in the magazine. The letter she wrote in my name and must have sent off even though I never corrected the spelling. But maybe Boulder didn’t notice.

“Jen!” I call, looking out into the sea of lights and lenses. “Jen, where are you? Come here, now!”

She pops up in front of me, giggling and hopping from foot to foot in her white patent flats. Okay, maybe she is getting a little old for them. I should have bought her those high-heeled sandals.

“Mom, I kept the secret! I did, didn’t I? You didn’t know anything, right? I promised not to tell and I didn’t.”

“Really natural reaction,” Boulder says to me, admiringly. “You seemed just like a suburban mom.”

I’m glad a decade in Pine Hills has accomplished something, although not everyone would take that as a compliment. Just then, Mindy steps forward, waving her clipboard marked
SEGMENT PRODUCER
.

“Perfect, Jess, you did great,” she says cheerily. “I’m so glad we don’t have to reshoot the surprise arrival. Got it on the first take. You really acted surprised.”

“I
was
surprised,” I say, offering an explanation that obviously hasn’t
occurred to anyone yet. “But what’s going on here? You can’t just show up on my doorstep this way.”

“We got all the permissions we need.” Mindy grins. “From your daughter.”

“She’s only eleven.”

“Right!” Mindy beams.

How did Jen know about all this and not tell me? Maybe I’ve gone overboard teaching her to keep promises. Better add a codicil: Sunday school lessons do not apply when dealing with reality-TV producers.

“Now you and Boulder can go inside and talk a little while we reset. But don’t give away any secrets,” Mindy warns. “We want to capture all that getting-to-know-you stuff on tape.”

“Sure. Perfect way to start a relationship. Get intimate on tape.”

“And by the way,” Mindy continues, “I’d like the next shot in the kitchen, if that’s okay with you.”

“No, it’s not okay with me,” I say, bristling. “There’s pancake batter all over everything. Let me go clean up a little first.”

“The set dresser and two prop guys are here to get the kitchen ready,” says Mindy, as if every household includes a cleanup crew of three teamsters. “We even brought oatmeal in case you don’t have any. Quaker Oats paid for product placement.”

And I thought all I was getting was Boulder.

Inside, away from the sunshine and bright lights—a double whammy that must be ultra flattering with me in no makeup—I try to regain my composure.

“Would you like something to drink?” I ask Boulder, falling into my best hostess-with-the-mostest mode.

“No thanks, I’m in AA,” he says happily.

“How about orange juice?” I ask, since that’s what I meant in the first place.

“I don’t drink that, either,” he beams. “Though maybe if it’s low-acid. Do you have any soy milk?”

“No. Do you drink water?”

“Sure. If it’s Perrier or Pellegrino. Or even Poland Spring,” he says good-naturedly.

“How about Pine Hills?”

“Never heard of it, but I’ll take a flyer,” he says adventurously.

I hand him a glass of tap water and try to think what we have in common. Nothing. “Are you really a surfer?” I ask, remembering the magazine article.

“Sure thing. I’m out there hanging ten in Malibu every day. But what I really want to do is be in movies,” he says, as if he’s the first person to come up with that idea. “By the way, just so you know, I’m only in AA for the contacts. Seven a.m. meeting in Santa Monica at Shutters on the Beach gets all the studio execs. That’s where everyone gets discovered.”

“I’ll remember that,” I say, though why I’d use up precious brain cells over that, I’m not sure.

“And stay away from the four p.m. meetings in Venice Beach,” he adds helpfully. “That one gets all the winos.”

I look around the kitchen which the prop guys have already cleaned up. They do a nice job on sinks. Maybe we could shoot in Jen’s bathroom next.

Boulder squeezes by the camera tripod that has been installed next to the table, and then he traps me in another bear hug.

“Can you believe this?” he asks, thoroughly thrilled with himself. “We made it! You and me! Not just in the magazine—we’re on the TV show!”

“Yeah, I’m pretty surprised myself,” I say, honing my skills in understatement. “I mean, I know why they picked you, but what made you pick me?”

“I was amazingly smart on this one,” Boulder says, so pleased with himself that the grin spreads—I didn’t think it possible—even wider. “I figured all the other
Cosmo
bachelors were gonna go for the sexy girls. But only ten of us would get picked to be on the TV show. And I thought, Go for an old one! A mom! Somebody nobody else would pick! Somebody you’d never expect! They’ll love it!”

“I guess it worked,” I say, stunned. Who knew that being old enough to have my memory and my collagen break down would land
me a date? But hold on. I’m not looking for a date. And this is worse than one of Lucy’s fix-ups. Why would I go through with this?

“You know, this whole thing was my daughter’s idea,” I say, inching away from him. “Maybe you should get someone else. Someone sexy. Your own age.”

“No, hey, I really wanted you,” Boulder says earnestly. “I like moms. And you remind me of my own mom. She’s pretty cool.”

“Maybe she and I can have lunch sometime,” I say frostily. “But let’s face it. You and I are never going to work out.”

“No, don’t take it wrong,” he says, adjusting the Surfer Dude T-shirt around his six-pack abs. Which in his case are a twelve-pack. “You’re pretty good-looking. You’ve really kept yourself up for someone your age.” He pats me on the backside with about as much passion as a ten-year-old petting his Saint Bernard.

My patience is wearing thin. “Thanks, but you know, I think everyone should just get out of here.” I wave my arms broadly, as if that’s all it takes to shoo him away.

“No way. You gotta do it. This is our big chance.”

“My chance for what?” I snap. “I’m a happily single mom. I love my life. I love my daughter. I just turned down a trip to Dubai. I mean it. I want everyone out of here.”

“Hey, please?” he asks imploringly. “I really need to do this. Don’t say no.”

By now, Boulder’s lower lip is trembling and his brow is starting to furrow. Suddenly he’s a little kid, and all my maternal instincts kick in.

“You gotta help me out here,” he adds dolefully. “I don’t make any money surfing and my agent says I might get a commercial out of this.” His baby blue eyes glisten and he blinks hard.

Ten feet away, I see Jen looking equally scared, shocked that I’m getting mad instead of married. She was trying to make me happy. She had a plan about Boulder, and gosh-darn if she didn’t get him here.

I can’t disappoint Jen. I just can’t. And besides, I’m desperate for Boulder not to start crying right here in my kitchen.

“All right, all right,” I say, capitulating. “I’ll do it. Just tell the crew not to scuff my floor.”

“Thanks.” Boulder grins. “I won’t forget this.” And just like that, all’s right with the world again. He must have been an easy child.

“So isn’t this whole thing too fabulous, Jessica?” Mindy gushes as she rushes over. “In your wildest dreams, could you have imagined that today would turn out like this? I love making people’s dreams come true.”

Boulder looks over at me nervously, but I’m as good as my word and I don’t utter one nasty thing about this not being my dream date.

“Anyway, we’re about to start up again,” Mindy says, fixing the collar on my shirt. “Scene Two. Breakfast. The set’s ready.”

The set? I usually refer to it as my kitchen.

“Your letter says you’re a great cook,” Mindy says, now fussing with my hair. She leads me over to the breakfast table and fusses with the gold heart locket I’m wearing.

“It wasn’t my letter,” I say, repeating my mantra for the day. “Jen wrote it. In fact, she should be part of this.” I look around the room to see what’s happened to my contest-entering daughter and spot her standing excitedly in the doorway.

“Come over and have some breakfast with us,” I call out. Jen starts to run toward me but Mindy grabs her.

“Not yet, honey!” Mindy says. “We have Boulder bike riding with you later. We don’t need to see you twice.”

I stand up. “Set” or not, this is still my house, and I get to make some of the rules. “I need Jen with me,” I say firmly. “I’m not going to do it without her.”

“Whatever you want,” says Mindy. “But I have a better idea.” Turning to Jen she asks, “Would you like to be my assistant?”

“Awesome!” Jen answers.

Overruled, I sit back down and notice how
Elle Decor
my kitchen table now looks. I turn over one of the cups. Where have I been hiding these Wedgwood dishes? Not to mention the Irish linen place mats with the matching napkins and the Kosta Boda crystal glasses.

“Boulder, before we roll, the writer has some notes,” Mindy says, motioning to a skinny guy standing next to her. “He’s really good. He just came off a gig on
Survivor.”

“Survivor
has writers?” I ask, surprised. “Isn’t that a reality show?”

“Of course,” says Mindy. “But you can’t count on real people. They just never sound authentic without a script.”

The writer, predictably decked out in thick glasses, black Keds, and disheveled shirt, steps forward. “Hey, Boulder, remember your claim to fame is that you’re the bachelor who loves kids,” he says, fumbling with his yellow pad. “Tell her how cute the kid is.” He looks over at Jen. “What’s your name again, beautiful?”

“Jen,” she says helpfully. Great. The television crew’s been in my house for less than an hour and already my eleven-year-old answers to “beautiful.”

“Right. And remember to keep complimenting your date. Tell her you like her hair and her big brown eyes. Or maybe they’re blue. Green? I can’t see from here. Can somebody find out what color the date’s eyes are?”

“I’ll check,” Mindy says, making a note to herself. Guess they’d never think of asking me. I might get it wrong.

“Anyway, just talk about her eyes,” says the writer, continuing on. “Girls eat up that compliment stuff.”

So this is what they mean by revenge of the nerds. The geeky writer gets to tell the stud muffin how to seduce me.

“And don’t forget that one of the reasons you picked Jess is because she’s such a good cook,” Mr. How-to-Get-a-Girl continues. “That’s important to you in a woman. So for breakfast she made you a carved-pineapple fruit salad, a whites-only omelet, and oatmeal pancakes. Quaker Oats pancakes. Be sure to mention how healthy and delicious they taste.”

The prop man comes to the table to deliver my homemade breakfast and two cups of double cappuccino.

“Okay, roll tape,” Mindy calls. “We’re ready to go. Hit it, Boulder.”

On cue, Boulder reaches across the cutlery to place his hand on
mine. “Great breakfast you made for me,” he says. “And I want you to know first thing it doesn’t bother me at all that you’re eight years older than me.”

Wait a minute. I agree to do him a favor and he thanks me by telling America I’m robbing the cradle. Why don’t we just paint a sign on my forehead,
OVER FORTY
. Or maybe Mother Nature already has.

“Older women have their advantages,” I say, trying to win some points back. “We have experience, you know. We’ve learned how to do a thing or two.”

“Whoo, whoo!” Boulder whoops. “I’d like to see some of that experience later.” He winks at me, or maybe the camera. “I have some things I’d like to show you, too, if you know what I mean.”

I grimace. Weren’t we supposed to be talking about my great cooking skills? I look over at the egg-white omelet in front of Boulder. Looks kind of bland. Maybe I’ll offer salt and pepper. That sounds safe.