Glamore Gal

 It was a cold and rainy Sunday afternoon.  Bill and I slept through church after celebrating my 38th birthday a bit too voraciously, so I was feeling spiritually deficient.  The gala had left me with a nagging headache.  I tried to make a dent in the pile of dirty laundry, but my dryer wheezed and burped and then stopped, and no amount of kicking or jiggling could make it tumble dry.
    
    As I walked to through the kitchen to unload the dishwasher, my feet crunched on the bits of red clay that had fallen from the boys' cleats after baseball practice.  I sighed, and vacuumed the floor.  I sent the twins to their rooms with strict orders not to emerge until their bedrooms were absolutely clean, including their closets and under their beds.

    Bill and Finn left to go to the grocery store, and I descended wearily into the basement to do some fascinating internet research on dryers.  I had narrowed my search to two promising models when the phone rang.  Suddenly, my life changed.

    It was an acquaintance of mine who runs a hip clothing store here in town.

    "Hey, I need a model for this big fashion show fundraiser in two weeks.  All the boutiques are participating, and we're expecting a big crowd.  Would you be interested?"

     I wasn't sure I had heard her correctly.

    "You mean ME?" I asked incredulously.

    "Yes.  You'd be great!  You're tiny and cute," she said.   I don't think of myself as tiny and cute, exactly.  More like stylish and self-confident, but whatever.  I could be tiny and cute.  Maybe.

    "You know, you haven't seen me in a while," I said.  "In the interest of fair disclosure, you ought to know a few of the less attractive things about me.  I'm five feet four inches max.  I wear a 36AA bra, so any outfits requiring cleavage would be out.  I have a huge scar on my back from my crack up to the base of my neck from my spine surgeries.  I have been waging a constant battle against adult-onset acne.  I think I have a big nose."

    "Go on," she said.  She sounded a little less enthusiastic.

    "On the other hand, I do have some good attributes," I said.  "I am currently winning the war against the zits.  I have some reliable fake stick-on boobs that make me a solid size A, and I have great legs and fingernails." 

    Apparently this was enough.

    "You'll be perfect!" she trilled.  "You'll need to have a fitting, and we'll have a rehearsal on the catwalk the day before.  You'll need to go to Meditation Salon the morning of for hair and makeup, and call time for the models is 1:30. "

    I didn't have any idea what a call time was, and I have never walked on a catwalk in my life.  But the thought of free hair and makeup, just like a real model, was exhilarating!  I pictured myself in the chair, lazily holding a glass of champagne in one hand and my cell phone in the other.  I'd be talking to Bill, saying something like "Honey, did Finn remember his glove and his water?  Oh, sorry-- I have to go-- Omar has to set my hair.  See you on the catwalk!"

    I was really liking the sound of this.  "I'm in," I told her.

    "Wonderful!" she chirped.  "You'll be the perfect model to expand my demographic.  I already have a sixteen year old, an eighteen year old and  a twenty-three year old, and I need an older model, you know, to balance things out."

    What a letdown.  It was flattering to be asked to be a model, but it didn't feel so great to realize I was being recruited as a "mature" model.  I changed my mental image of the preparation.  Now I was sitting in a salon chair being attended by an old blue-haired lady named Florence, who was busily setting my hair in hot rollers in preparation for shaping it into an enormous beehive.  I was holding a cold cup of coffee, not champagne.  I tried my cellphone, but couldn't get a signal.

    I banished the image from my mind.  Better a mature model than never a model at all.

     I went upstairs and made dinner: Beef Balls in Red Wine Sauce with Winter Vegetables.  Finn and Drew ate their rice and examined their meatballs in lieu of actually eating them.  Porter attacked his plate with gusto.

     Finn interrupted his meatball study to announce,"Dad, I can't believe you'll be 40 in two years.  That's scary."

     Bill looked at him in disbelief.  "That's not scary.  That's young."

     Finn shook his head,  "Well, it seems old to me," he maintained. 

     For a brief moment there was silence at the table.  I checked on everyone's beef ball progress.  Finn's plate was still quite full. I swear, I don't know why I don't just fix Easy Mac and hot dogs every night.  Cooking with no resulting appreciation can wear you out.   

     Seeing the look on my face, Finn tried deperately to save himself.  "You know, Dad," he said, "you won't LOOK 40.  You'll look 30 and Mom will look 25 because she's the most beautiful Mom in the whole world!"

   He looked at me expectantly to gauge my reaction.

     "Finn," I said sternly, "You still have to eat your meatball.  And if you do not eat it for dinner, I am wrapping it up and giving it to you for breakfast."

    He scowled, and went back to making tiny pinpricks in the surface of his meat with the tines of his fork.  Porter finished his meal, and Drew's, and went back for more. 

     I declared an end to our happy family meal, then cleaned the kitchen while everyone showered and bathed.  By the time the Academy Awards had started, I was settled in front of the TV, ready to get some red carpet tips.

     Finn and Bill came to join me.  Finn jumped when he saw my face.

     "Mom!" he yelled, "you look like a zombie!  What is all over your face?"

     "It is a sulfur mask," I replied, with as much dignity as I could muster.  It does make my face a chalky greenish white, and I had smeared it from my forehead to my neck, leaving only my lips, eyeballs and nostrils bare.  Just then Drew and Porter wandered in, smelling blueberry fresh from their shampoo.  Porter immediately claimed the space next to me and snuggled as close as he could, while Drew looked at me with disgust.

     "You look hideous," he announced, as he settled himself onto the sofa.  I may not have mentioned that Drew is the palest, whitest kid in North America.  He has white-blond hair, blue eyes, a pointy little chin, and skinny arms and legs.  He has very long feet and toes.  We call him our little Martian, in a loving way, of course.  I didn't think Drew had any right to comment on the whiteness of my face, given his pasty demeanor, but this was too complicated to point out to a six year old.

    "Mom is a ghost! Mom is a ghost!" Porter began chanting, dancing around the room in his Sponge Bob underpants.

     "Everyone sit down and be quiet!" I bellowed.  "This is what ladies do to look beautiful."

     "Mom," Finn said hesitantly, "don't take this the wrong way, but you really don't look beautiful."

     "I know I don't look beautiful now," I hissed, "but after I wash it off my skin will be fresh and glowing."  I was having a little trouble enunciating because I had Crest Whitestrips on my upper and lower teeth, and they were slipping a little.

     "Do you have Saran wrap on your teeth?" Porter asked, staring intently at my mouth.

     "No, these are pieces of plastic you put on your teeth so they will be whiter," I answered.

     "Do I have to do that?" Porter asked.

     "No, this is another thing ladies do to be beautiful," I answered.

     "I'm glad I'm not a girl," Finn said. 

     "Me, too," said Drew.  "You look hideous."

     "You already said that," I told him.  Porter curled up next to me, sucking his fingers and clutching my chenille turtleneck.

     Bill and I let the boys watch thirty minutes of the Oscars, which was a mistake, because Chris Rock, the host, said "pootytang" in his opening monologue and Porter and Drew heard it and thought it was the funniest word they had ever heard, which it might be.  (Later I googled the word to see just how awful it was, and found out it's actually "Pootie Tang," and it's the name of a bad movie.  It sounds like something a lot worse.)

     They had just started jumping from one sofa to the other shouting "POOTYTANG!" when Bill and I decided we'd had enough.

     "Glamore family meeting!" Bill said.  "It's time to calm down and go to bed."

     "Pootytang!" Porter responded.  Drew started laughing so hard he fell off the sofa.

     "You cannot say 'pootytang' anymore," I decreed.  "It's like stupidhead and shut up and pinkeye.  I do not want to hear you say it here, and you most certainly should not say it at school."

     "Yes ma'am," Porter said.

     "I wasn't saying it," Finn said.

    "I know," I said.  "Don't start."

     Drew was still laughing too hard to respond, so Bill picked him up and stuck him in the bed.  I tucked Porter in and kissed Drew.

     My face was starting to feel tight and heavy, so I went to the bathroom to rinse off my mask.  Examining my face in the mirror, I certainly couldn't tell any difference, but beauty does not happen overnight.

     I finished my nightly routine and hopped in the bed to read my Sunday New York Times.  Bill was already in bed, reading the latest issue of Triathlete.  After a moment, he started sniffing.

     "Do you smell something?" he asked.

     "No."

     He continued sniffing around.  Then he started smelling my elbow.  "It's you," he proclaimed.  "You smell like something's burning at the beach."

     "That's my self-tanner," I told him.

     He looked puzzled.

     "You know, you put it on your skin every day and after a few days you have a natural looking tan," I explained.

     "It doesn't smell natural," he said.  "It smells like an oceanfront barbecue.  Are you going to put that on EVERY night until this fashion show?"

     I considered this.  I don't really have Nicole Kidman coloring and creamy pale skin, and a good tan goes a long way toward hiding stubborn pimples.

     "Yes," I said.  "It's my only chance to model, and I am going to do it right.  Bronze skin is in.  And I'm still not finished.  I've still got to practice my walk and my pose."

     "Okay," Bill said.  "Let's see what you've got."

     I got out of bed and walked carefully from the bed to the closet, holding my head up, and placing one foot carefully in front of the other.  At the end of my walk, I turned to face Bill and posed, making a sexy pout with my lips.

     He turned bright red and stuck his face under the covers.  I could see his shoulders heaving under the sheets.  I strode over and grabbed the sheets off him.

     "Are you laughing at me?" I demanded.

     Bill wiped his eyes and struggled to regain his composure.

     "Honey, that was some great walking.  You look very sexy, especially in that T shirt and underwear.  I think you've got the walk down.  But what was the part where you stood still and stuck out your lips like you're blowing on your soup?" he howled, laughing so hard the bed started knocking against the wall.

     "That's my sexy pout," I said defensively.  "That's what you do when you stop to let everyone look at your outfit."

     "Has someone actually told you to make that face?" he asked.

     "Well, no," I admitted.  "I made it up myself."

     He pulled me over and hugged me.  "Honey, keep up the walk.  You look damn good, and make sure you get a short outfit to show off those legs.  But," and he started laughing again, "you've got to come up with a better sexy pout.  You look like you're blowing out candles on a birthday cake."

     So, my new career as a mature model is off to a shaky start, but I am confident I'll have all the kinks worked out by the time of the show.

Comments

[sharon]

I laughed out loud. Can't wait to hear if it's Florence or Omar who does the hair.