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June 29, 2005
Wear Your Roller Skates Today
This is a Saturday in my new life.
When I was away in LA shooting that show, I looked forward to coming home to see my much-missed boyfriend J.
He did the lemonade fast while I was gone so that he’d be smoking hot when I came home. How sweet of him. He’s smoking hot already anyway in my opinion. I really think he did it while I was gone because, wait, have you ever done the lemonade fast? It’s called the Master Cleanser and you basically shit your face off for ten days. Oh, and you starve. You’re only allowed to drink this mixture of lemonade and syrup and cayenne pepper. I wouldn’t want to be here for those mood swings or those bathroom breaks so good call on his part.
I thought I’d be coming home to a nice, quiet home. Air conditioning running, cuddled up in the papasan with both my boyfriend and my Amy Fisher book. I’m obsessed with all things Long Island, especially scandals. Plus J went to the same high school that Amy Fisher went to. I was too too excited about that one.
Well, it wasn’t quiet my first day back but it definitely felt more like home than anything as I am used to and probably addicted to chaos.
First I have to introduce some characters.
R, a skilled makeup artist whose nickname for the past ten years has been Gay Cock Suck – and he’s not offended at all, he totally responds to it and some people don’t even know his real name – had J’s house scouted for a photo shoot for some glossy upscale New York magazine. They loved the house and decided to shoot a story here. The model was supposed to be a rich but depressed 70s housewife. The photo people said they’d only need the pool area but ended up using the entire house for 13 hours. This isn’t a problem or anything, per se. Every time I hear or see “per se” it makes me think of the time Theo Road Rules challenged me to both spell it and use it in a sentence and I did. It always makes me laugh.
Now, a couple weeks ago, J had been offered a tour with his band. His band hasn’t toured in a minute due to some scheduling problems and some health issues, so J was happy to accept the tour. You see, the thing with J is, if his whole life isn’t upside down and crackhead busy, he’s not happy. He can’t just be content running a business and moving his girlfriend across the country and tending to a rambunctious dog and being a first time homeowner Focker. He needs to be stressed the fuck out to be happy and so, going on tour with really short notice, is a total gift for him. He’s been practicing every night since he signed on to the tour. Yes, every night here in this house, it’s Metal Fest 2005. The dishes rattle, the dog goes crazy chasing his own tail and Oprah is on the highest volume ever.
The pool in the basement has weird issues. When I walked in, the house smelled funny and we all concluded that it must be the pool. I told J that I’d get in the phone book and find a pool dude to come “shock” the pool before we start using it for the summer. I happened to call the most insane person in the world to come by to look at the pool. Bill, who insisted on being referred to as a water specialist and not a pool guy, made a house call.
The thing is, all this shit was happening in one day.
At 9 in the morning, the photo shoot team arrives. A model, a photographer, her assistant who didn’t believe in deodorant, a stylist who made condescending remarks about how rich she was and the whole team hated her attitude, a stylist’s assistant (who was prettier than the model), a hairstylist from Japan that had the total Japanese girl giggle and of course, Gay Cock Suck makeup artist to the one and only Amanda Lepore. Google it. You’ll see that I’m living in some mother fucking high times.
J’s bassist lives in the city and has been staying at the house for a week for practice. He and J have been passing the time between practice sessions watching Star Wars at the movie theater 7 times. I won’t go to the movies with my own boyfriend. He falls asleep every time so I refuse. His bassist is one of those obsessed Star Wars people so it was a perfect opportunity for J to prove to me that he won’t fall asleep as his bassist is his witness. Seven times though! When I gave him my Vanity Fair with the Star Wars people on the cover, still in the plastic, he had a total boner and I was like, “Okay…”
By 1 pm, the photo shoot people have taken over the entire house. They’ve put their food in the fridge even!
Bill, the water specialist and not pool guy, shows up and starts talking a gang of shit. Using crazy words like chloroform and hydroseptic and retroactivation and ultra-filtration. He’s short and totally a Spiccoli but with a beer gut and really cute New Balance wrestling type shoes on. All the while, I’m like, “So can you dump some chemicals in it and then vacuum it or no?” J is waving his hand violently at me to be quiet (behind the man’s back) because he thinks I’m going to somehow make this house call super expensive by simply asking the direct questions. Or he’s totally amused by the man’s professional lingo – I can’t tell. Sometimes J is laughing and sometimes he’s looking like he is paying attention.
Suddenly J’s drummer appears at the front door, ringing the bell. J turns to Bill and says, “Do you like rock and roll, dude?” Bill looks confused and half says yes. J shakes his hand randomly and heads upstairs to let his drummer in. The photo shoot people are still looming around in the office, the living room, the dining room and the back patio.
Bill and I are now alone. He starts talking about dogs. To end this quickly, I dryly say, “I hate dogs…” and it works. He looks around at the pool, bends down and pretends to undo knobs and shit and then walks me to the front door. He starts in with all the pool gobbledygook (yes, I just used that word) and says, “That’s gonna be $100…”
But you didn’t do anything, Bill.
I have the nerve to look in my purse for the money. It’s so not there. I am scared of cash. I live on the debit system. I do not carry or use cash. I’m the type of bitch that will ask Mr. Softee if he takes Visa. I just opened my NY bank account so I don’t have any checks yet. Shoot. I have to go ask J for the money but I can’t because when that studio door is closed, I don’t like to exist. I don’t mess with musician shit. They get deep and involved and make noises with their mouths and sometimes I hear bouts of straight up excitement and I so don’t want to bust in on that.
Should I just dig in J’s wallet? I can’t do that! That’s unethical shit.
I take the $100 out of his wallet and for customer protection’s sake and to remind myself to tell J I took the money because that would be so scandalous if I forgot to tell him and I looked like a little thief, I ask for the receipt. This bitch doesn’t have a receipt and so without thinking before speaking because if I had I could have seemed tons more eloquent, I say, “But you could front a week from now and say I didn’t pay you the cash…” Bill, not familiar with the term “front” i.e. perpetrate i.e. you’re scamming me! promised me to bring the receipt next week when he comes to actually do the work. Whatever. I close the door and I hear the sounds of guitar warm up. Some people play parts of Free Bird or some Metallica song. But J plays random shit like The System’s Don’t Disturb This Groove.
I run upstairs to my secret stash of ear plugs and kindly offer them to the stylist girls.
Rich condescending one goes, “What’s this for?” so not appreciative.
I was like, “Just take them. You’ll want them I think…”
And just like that, the metal begins. She looks horrified and I smile in her face.
The band practices for about an hour and a half and I watch Food Network in the bedroom while I individually scorch marshmallows with this new lighter that folds in on itself. You have to get one. Eat marshmallows in bed as you watch people cooking food and you will feel like the fat fuck that you are.
After the band is through practicing, the photo shoot makes its way to the basement in the pool area. I had been doing laundry all day and now is a good time for me to turn the clothes over.
The stylist girls have set up the wardrobe department right in front of the washer and dryer and are ironing some $4000 Gucci dress on the washer top. But I have clothes in there. I ask to handle my business and I promise I’ll go away. They oblige and stand there both holding the dress like it’s Baby Jessica.
The rich condescending one starts in with the Real World conversation. And not just any Real World conversation. My FAVORITE Real World conversation. The kind where the person claims not to watch your show in a backhanded weird attempt to acknowledge that they do know you from somewhere but not because in some weird way that you’re “famous” and I put that in quotes because that’s the type of thing this type of sighting merits and she stumbles and stammers waiting for me to say that shit and I never ever do.
“So R tells me you’re on a reality show…” she starts.
“He did? Oh R. Yeah…” I say, not even looking as I put the clothes in the dryer. Yes, I was on Real World and now I am performing in a one-woman show called Long Island Housewife so what’s your point, lady? Oh shit, am I bitter?
“Now, was it on MTV…”
In my mind, I’m thinking R didn’t say she does a reality show. That fool said she’s on Real World which is what every other person in the world says because why be vague about something so trivial and random. So why is she doing this…
“Yes, about five years ago” I say.
“Was it the Road Rules or something like that? I don’t watch television. You can ask anyone. I don’t even own a TV so I wouldn’t know…”
You wouldn’t know? But Road Rules is the consolation prize, the parting gift of Real World auditions, the lesser known, less watched one of the two. You know, the fucking canceled one. For someone that doesn't own a TV, she sure did call out the most random show ever.
“Yeah…” I smile with my best actor’s face on. Giving off just the right amount of down-to-earth, so not annoyed by the fact that this lady is trying to get me to say that shit like she doesn’t know and so not willing to correct her by saying, “I was on REAL WORLD as a matter of fact…” because that would make me seem like I actually care to differentiate between the two and care that I am not confused to be a Road Ruler which is half true but only in my own little world that I don’t talk about out loud even though I just did.
The stylist's assistant chimes in with something about Girls Behaving Badly on Oxygen.
“Yes, I am currently doing that show and oooh, that red dress is adorable. Who makes that?”
The assistant has tried on a red Diane Von Furstenberg dress and it is fucking stunning.
“It’s Diane. It’s cheap too! You can pick it up right at the store…” the rich one says adding, as if she’s talking to R just across the way, “well, it’s cheap for some of us” she says in a weird mellow self-congratulatory way.
I thought that was weird and totally awkward and gross.
“Where do I get it?” I ask, meaning I don’t understand what “at the store” is exactly.
“At the store,” she says incredulously.
“Which store?” I ask, still not getting it.
“The Diane Von Furstenberg store,” she says as if to punctuate it with “you silly head” and she continues with, “and it’s only $400.”
So now they’re both looking at me like I’m some asshole because I didn’t know what “at the store” meant and when she says four hundo, I know my face, without words, is screaming, “That ain’t cheap, bitch…” because I’m not refined like that. It’s not cheap. For a dress? Fuck a dress. Four hundred dollars is better spent on facials and massages and hair cuts and shoes and makeup brushes and car payments and presents that make your boyfriend happy he’s going out with a thoughtful lady. Or you know, those starving children in Kuwait or the battered wives in the shelters.
Oh God, and now she gets the talons in deep asking me about my stylist.
My stylist? I host a TV show for a cable women’s network lady. I’m not Halle Berry. I don’t have a personal stylist asshole. Don’t you see I’m putting clothes in the dryer and drooling on the designer wares here.
I think I might be a little sensitive about my “career” and what it means to have left LA, you know abandoning it maybe, for love (I do really love him) and what not. It’s coming off that way but seriously, I gained so much when I came to New York. I also left a lot when I left LA. I am entitled to mourn those losses however they may manifest. Being stank to strangers is one manifestation but she started it, really.
“We had a really nice girl named Allison dress us for the show. But you know, I wore BCBG Girls and a pair of Seven jeans and bright sequins asymmetrical like regular girl host type stuff. And before Allison, we had a girl named Jackie and you might know her. She left the show to open a store on the Lower East Side. It’s adorable,” I say pointing to a frilly overpriced dress, “with a lot of shit like this.”
“But you don’t have someone dress you for your appearances? You should have someone just pull this for you, for like, if you go to a party or something…” she says about the red dress, not understanding that my explanation of stylist for the show means exactly that meaning not for myself.
“Oh, I’m not that involved in the world of fashion. Nobody is pulling dresses for me. I don’t really go to parties. I bake cupcakes and hang out with my boyfriend when I’m not working but my work is in LA, so…” I say, folding a pair of boxers. In my head for my own feelings of worth I tally up all the things I work on when I'm not baking cupcakes, like writing but I never discuss that because what if it the end result I want doesn't come true, then I just look like a person that says she's a writer when she's really not, not published anyway. Gross.
“Do you want to have kids?” she asks.
WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN? My eyes bulge.
Folding like a mad woman, pairing up socks that aren’t pairs I say, “Um, sure, but I just moved in last month and I’m just getting used to living together for now. My whole life has changed as it is. The suburbs is fucking insane…” I say. There’s a hint of female to female one-upping going on here – on her part. She’s an amazing stylist to the stars. I’m a washed up TV person folding my boyfriend’s unmentionables.
“I know, I can’t BELIEVE I’m actually on Long Island right now. When’s the next train?” she says, laughing.
Now, that’s a pretty fucked up thing to say considering she’s traipsing all through this house, displacing the people that live here and and AND, he was kind enough to not charge a location fee. She’s clowning Long Island when she’s probably just a transplant from Indiana anyway. J has trained me to see through people when they make fun of Long Island. He’s sensitive about that as he was born in Brooklyn and raised on Long Island.
With that, I folded my little dishtowels, looked at the scene that they set up near the bar at the pool and said, “Wow, that looks really pretty” and I turned around to head up the stairs.
J was up there and he mouthed, “Are they still here?”
I nodded and he gave me the what the fuck face and leaned in to hug me like he felt bad that this was my Saturday. He always feels unnecessarily bad when he can’t make every day a party like “how it was in LA”. If he only knew. This is an extension of the LA party, just on a better couch with better food options. The only non-party element is the being apart from Coral thing which sucks. I'm with him though, and he rules.
It’s just a different party and I’m going to regret being this honest a couple hours from now when it's too late to delete the post because there's some unspoken law that you can't take things off the Internet after you've put them there or else people send you hate mail. What is that about, I wonder.
P.S. It’s been 19 years, but I updated the Real World section too.
Posted by melissah at June 29, 2005 01:49 PM