A Total Waste of Makeup (38 page)

“Jenn…”

“You know what? I hope Charlie doesn’t even invite you to her wedding. You don’t deserve to be included!”

“Jenn…”

“What?!” Jenn snaps, turning toward me.

“I’m not gay,” I remind her.

“Oh…right.” Jenn grimaces at her mistake, then lifts her chin in defiance of my grandmother. “Well, you’re still wrong.”

Before anyone can say anything else, the phone rings.

Welcoming the interruption, Andy picks up the phone. “Hello…Yes, she is. Hold on.”

She hands me the phone. “It’s for you. It’s Dawn.”

Still flabbergasted, I stare at my grandmother as I take the phone from my sister. “Yeah?”

“Come to Room 150. Now,” Dawn says.

“Where is it?” I ask.

“It’s along the left side of the hotel, right in front of a water fountain. Hurry. You gotta see this.”

Desperate for any excuse to get away from my family, I leave my sister’s room and head out for Room 150.

I knock on the door. Dawn answers. She stares at me in my dress. “Fetching,” she deadpans.

She opens her mouth again, but I put up my hand in a “stop” motion. “Before you say anything else, I would like to remind you that, one, I did not pick out this dress, and two, having been with my family since ten o’clock this morning, I am in a piss-poor mood, and you do not want to be on my bad side right now.”

Dawn continues to stare at me. She’s dying to make a comment, but knows to keep her mouth shut.

But she keeps staring.

The silence is deafening.

I cross my arms and roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. One more. Just one.”

Dawn smiles. “There’s a drag queen in Reseda who wants his dress back.”

“Very funny.” I storm into the hotel room and stop in my tracks.

This is not a room, it’s an apartment! There is a large living room, with velvet couches and a real fireplace that uses real wood. (You’d be amazed how many Californians have gas fireplaces with fake, nonflammable ceramic logs. You press a button, and blue flames shoot out of a few highly visible jets. It’s like turning on a gas stove for ambience.)

“This is amazing,” I say, walking around to examine the décor.

“And this is just the living room!” Dawn says, sounding uncharacteristically impressed. “Come see the outside.” She takes my hand and pulls me through some French doors out to a private courtyard, beautifully landscaped with colorful, fragrant flowers and a private Jacuzzi. “Wow,” I say.

“Wait! There’s more!” Dawn says with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old as she pulls me back through the living room and over to an exquisitely appointed bedroom. “This is your room tonight.”

“My room?” I ask, stunned. The room is gorgeous: a king-size bed with a white comforter, shiny dark wood tables and dresser, and an entertainment center with a DVD player and state-of-the-art speakers. And everything’s immaculately clean.

This is what my dream bedroom looks like—when I dream I’m the princess of Monaco.

“What do you mean it’s mine?” I ask, confused.

“Welcome to the ‘too drunk to drive’ room!” Drew says, walking in with a flourish. “Believe it or not, this is the small bedroom. Dawn and I have the larger bedroom, on the other side of the living room. It’s outstanding. I’m telling you, there are days when I’m really glad I’m rich.”

Dawn and Drew show me their room, which is even more fabulous, and the three of us retire to the living room, where a bottle of Dom Pérignon chills in a bucket of ice.

“So, what do you think?” Drew asks as he fills a flute and hands it to me.

“It’s wonderful,” I say sadly, taking the glass. “But I can’t stay with you two. I’d be the third wheel.”

“Don’t be silly,” Dawn assures me. “Drew and I brought you a few things: jeans, T-shirt, pajamas. This way we can keep the party going after the wedding, and you won’t have to drive home tonight, then come back for brunch in the morning.”

I stare at my glass, ready to cry. “You know, I think it’s going to take all my strength just to get through the wedding without bursting into tears. Somehow, I don’t think I could take a party afterwards.”

“What’s wrong?” Drew asks me.

“My grandmother gave my sister a check for fifty dollars,” I say.

They look at me blankly. I take a deep breath and continue. “My grandmother, who has never given any of us a check for over twenty dollars in her life. Ever. And not only does my sister get a check for fifty dollars, but I get a lecture on the evils of gay marriage…You know what? Never mind. It’s hard to explain.”

I take a sip of champagne. “I’m sorry…it’s just…Drew, what did you get them for their wedding?”

Drew darts a look at Dawn, as if wondering if he’s in trouble. “I got them the twelve champagne flutes on their registry.”

“The two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-pair champagne flutes!” I exclaim.

I point at Drew, as I turn to Dawn. “See? My sister finds her soul mate, and not only does she get rewarded with love and happiness, she gets free champagne flutes, and dutch ovens and fifty-dollar checks. And what do I get? What do I get on a day when I still haven’t found anyone to love? When I’m waiting by the phone for some jerk to call me, and acting like a crazy woman, e-mailing him at three
A.M
., clutching at straws that I might ever find anyone? Do I get gifts? No! I get condemnation from my grandmother, and I get to wear a dress that makes me look like a baked potato.”

Drew and Dawn stare at me in silence. I can tell they’re trying to think of something comforting to say. They won’t be able to think of anything. I’ve been trying to think of something comforting to say to myself all morning, and I’m still at a loss.

I fall onto one of the couches, and stare at my champagne flute. “It just doesn’t seem fair that not only do I not get a soul mate, I don’t get champagne flutes, either.”

Dawn pulls out a pack of Marlboros from her purse. “Would you like a cigarette? It might calm your nerves.”

I glare at her. “I quit smoking.”

Dawn looks confused. “Today?”

“No. Yesterday.”

“The day before your sister’s wedding?” Dawn asks.

“Yes,” I say angrily, setting my champagne flute down on the table.

Dawn’s looking at me like she heard me wrong. She turns to Drew, who shrugs. Finally, she asks me, “How’s that working out for you?”

“Argh!” I scream, pulling one of the couch pillows over my face.

And, with that outburst, the phone rings. Dawn answers. “Hello.”

By the change in her tone of voice, I can tell immediately that she is talking to my grandmother. “Yes, ma’am…This is Dawn, ma’am…Yes, ma’am…No, ma’am.”

Dawn has a phone trick I have to include in my book:

When you don’t know what kind of person you’re dealing with, always address them with “ma’am” or “sir.” It immediately conveys respect—even if you’re not feeling any.

“No, ma’am, I’m not Charlie’s girlfriend…Well, ma’am, you don’t have to believe me…Ma’am, not everyone in Los Angeles is gay….”

“Oh for God’s sake,” I say, standing up from the couch and grabbing the phone from Dawn. “Hello, Grandma.”

“Where are you?” Grandma asks accusingly.

“I’m in Room 150. Where you called me,” I say, with the first hint of irritation she’s heard from me all weekend.

“With another woman,” Grandma states, like she’s proven her point.

I sigh. “Grandma, did you call for a reason?”

“Yes, the photos are starting in a few minutes. We need you back here. And try to add a little blush to your face. You don’t want to look washed out in the pictures.”

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.—Serenity prayer

Thirty-Three

No matter what kind of drama is going on before your wedding day, somehow, on the actual day, people will calm down, and it will all come together and be wonderful.

The wedding is beautiful and magical and all the things you dream your wedding will be when you’re a little girl. Despite Andy’s insistence on salmon and silver, the wedding coordinator had somehow convinced her to switch most of the silver decorations for white (except, of course, for my dress), and convinced her to go with peach instead of salmon. The results are spectacular.

There are white and peach flowers everywhere: dripping from the gazebo, hanging from the aisle runners and chairs. Peach and white rose petals are sprinkled over the white silk aisle draped over the grass. Two swans silently swim around the lake.

While the guests look on, the groom and his party take their places in front, and the bridal party stands in the back, waiting for the wedding coordinator to signal each of us to walk down the aisle.

As the string quartet plays “In My Life” by the Beatles, Hunter’s two nieces walk down the aisle, looking adorable in white satin flower girl dresses and throwing peach-and-white rose petals down the aisle from their peach and white baskets.

Sean and Alex come next, walking down the aisle in their white tuxedos, each holding a peach satin ring pillow with a fake ring sewn on. (Jenn said giving them the real rings was begging to have two hundred wedding guests on their knees in the grass, looking for a dropped ring.)

Next comes Jenn, waddling down the aisle, looking like a giant peach.

And now it is time for me. The wedding coordinator throws her index finger forward, signaling “Go!”

I take one step forward, when Andy grabs my arm.

Turning to face her, all I can think is, Please don’t be a runaway bride. Grandma will blame me. But I don’t say it aloud. Instead, I tilt my head, giving her a quizzical look.

Andy smiles and kisses me on the check. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She takes my hand and swings it. “No, I mean, I really love you. I know I’ve been a pain in the butt these last few months, but I want you to know…well, I think you’re the best sister a person could ever have.”

I smile and give Andy a hug. By now the wedding coordinator is yelling “Go!” loud enough for the guests to hear, so I go.

As I walk down the aisle, I turn around to Andy and mouth the words, “I love you, too.” Then I make my way to the gazebo and stand in my designated spot.

The wedding march begins.

As Dad walks Andy down the aisle, I see Hunter is both smiling and crying.

Which makes me tear up a bit myself.

They did the traditional vows:

Don’t write your own vows, unless you intend to subject your guests to really bad amateur theater.

And the ceremony is over in less than twenty minutes.

Party time!

At the reception, Andy is gracious enough to seat me nowhere near my family, except for Jamie, who managed to get his seat changed when he found out where Kate was seated.

I get to be with the cool people. Drew and Dawn sit next to me at Table 9, along with Kate and Jamie, and some friends of Hunter’s, who are all our age and equally cool: Margie, a college friend who just moved to L.A. from Boston, and Susan and Michael, a newly married couple who aren’t the least bit smug about it.

“Are you my date?” Margie asks we seat ourselves for dinner.

“Excuse me?” I say nervously.

She takes the seat next to me. “I was just told by Hunter’s mother, and I quote”—her voice goes into a perfect Manhattan socialite accent—“‘since you’re a single gal, too, we figured we’d seat you with the maid of honor. She’s single, and just turned thirty, and she’s so funny about it.’”

“Yeah, that’s me. I’m a regular laugh riot,” I say sarcastically, and we clink glasses in a toast.

Overall, the conversation is pretty good, and it even allows me to forget about Jordan for a while. Despite having three couples at the table, no one asks Margie or me if we are seeing anyone special, or asks the dreaded question, “So, how come a woman like you has never been married?”

Never ask a single person if they’re “seeing anyone special,” an unemployed person if they’ve found a job, or a married couple when they’re planning to have children. You’re not making conversation. You’re starting someone on the road to Prozac.

Our table stays with safe topics, like politics and religion.

I’m almost having a good time. Yes, I’m still craving a cigarette. Yes, I’m still craving Jordan. But as I watch Hunter and Andy on the dance floor, I am genuinely, 100 percent happy for them—without the least bit of jealousy.

And that’s a step in the right direction.

Of course, I should have known that even a semi-state of wellness couldn’t last long with so many family members lurking about. Right after Hunter twirls Andy for the final crescendo, my grandmother appears at my table.

“So when are you going to introduce me to your friends?” Grandma asks, her autograph book in hand.

I know who she really wants to meet, but I introduce everyone else at the table first, saving Drew for last.

“I just loved you in
The Last Samurai,
” Grandma tells Drew, thrusting her autograph book in his face. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Drew says, smiling graciously as he takes the book and signs it. “But, you know, I wasn’t in
The Last Samurai
. I believe you’re thinking of Tom Cruise.”

“Oh, you’re such a kidder,” Grandma laughs, slapping him on the back. “So”—she addresses the table with a big smile—“do any of you know any available men for old Charlie here? All offers considered.”

“No, no. Charlie’s my date tonight,” Margie jokes. “Hunter’s mother said so.”

Grandma narrows her eyes at me. “I knew it.”

I see Dawn give Drew a pointed look. He quickly hands Grandma her book back, while placing his arm around my shoulder. “Grandma Rose, she’s kidding. The truth is Charlie and I have been a couple for quite a while now.”

Grandma looks at him, confused. And, when I say confused, what I mean is I could have picked her jaw up off the floor. Heh-heh.

“But,” Grandma points to Dawn, “isn’t she your date?”

“No, no. That’s just for the press. You see, since Charlie and I work together, we have to keep our relationship hush-hush. You understand.”