The Doctor is In

“You weren’t there, Karen,” he said, “she tried to kill me.” He would be Todd, from Boston. 

Todd and Karen, my sister in law, were newly married, and at that precise moment were in the midst of a heated discussion in a tiny bathroom in a typical OKC home.  Todd was balancing himself on the toilet, not using it, but had shimmied onto the seat to close the window in the event Karen’s family, my family, a bunch of lunatics, had escaped the asylum and could hear him from the yard.  He feared they were closing in on all sides. They’d retreated to that tiny nook in the house because it was the only door with a lock.  Todd was scared out of his wits.

Bob

“Don’t you know who I am?”

The answer to that question is almost always, “No.” And, can usually be followed by one of the following phrases, and stop it, I don’t care, or get the hell out of here.   Most of the time, when someone says it, it means, I’m a nobody, and I want to be somebody. Pay attention to me.  I’m a midlevel cube farmer in the valley, but I want to be more.  I heard a man say it once, and he was a somebody.  His name was Bob.

I was 19 years old, and a student at Richland College.

It had all started with a panicky phone call from one of my gay friends, and by gay I don’t mean happy.    Back in the day, before cell phones and text messages, at any moment, I could get one of those calls.  Liza Minelli was in rehab again, there were size 15 pumps on clearance somewhere, Tina was coming in concert, I need a ride Hunky’s Burgers…  It was always something. 

“Get over here right now,” he pleaded. 

“I’m busy, I have to study.  I don’t have time for this right now.  Like, no…” These were my standard responses to Warren.

“Please,” a dramatic begging tone tinged Warren’s voice, “I don’t know if I can hold him off much longer.”  I heard the sound of breaking glass and a loud male voice in the background.

The Bait and Switch

I perched smugly on the patio of Primo’s one evening a few years back listening to my Girl’s Night crowd complain in stereo about the general “maleness” of their husbands and significant others.  “Now, football season is starting again,” one said with frozen margarita dripping down her chin, “and baseball, never seems to end…”  “Hockey!” exclaimed a member of the sisterhood to no one in particular.  “And, the endless golf…”  “And what’s the deal with extreme fighting?” They suddenly turned their attention to me, “You’re awfully quiet for a change…”  “Girls, please,” I shook my head, “my man doesn’t watch sports or any of that.  He’s not that way at all.” 

“Is he gay?” Their mocking chorus drilled into me.

Madonna and Child

There’s got to be a burgeoning 12 step program somewhere for me.  I know better than to go to Neiman’s to shop for cosmetics.  Like a moth to a flame, I just can’t help myself. Remember this?

It started last month.  It’s all Frederic’s fault.  Back in June I was suckered lured, enticed into meeting the legendary celebrity stylist at an in-store event.  I wasn’t insulted, not even once.  He even said I had great hair and beautiful eyes.  I blame that one complimentary phrase for what happened next.

While basking in the glory of my gorgeous hair and peepers, one of the Barbies mentioned casually, that Madonna’s personal make-up artist, , would be in Dallas on June 19^th, at the store, giving advice.  I was further informed that Gina Brooke (pictured) is coincidentally the artistic director of Shu Uemura.  (Can you say cha-ching?) I like Shu Uemura so much I blew my whole stash of InCirlce points last year on a kit that came with Swarovski crystal in-laid feather eyelashes and a gold eyelash curler.  Just the thing every stay-at-home mother needs, don’t you agree?

Moth, meet flame.  I booked an appointment post haste. 

Let me pause and say this, I don’t really like Madonna.  At all.  I used to, I think, a long, long, long time ago…back in her “Lucky Star” days.  But that was a long, long, long time ago.  She pushed me over the Borderline.  My subsequent attempts to embrace The Material Girl…eh, not so much.  Oh, let’s see, I’ll sum it up for you, there ‘s been:  Enough Black Rubber Bracelets to Destroy Life on Planet Earth, Mousse and Perms: Don’t Try This at Home (aka Why My Yearbook Pictures From 1986 Suck), Simulated Sex at the MTV Awards (aka Nice.Dress.), The Black Jesus (aka Getting Dumped by Pepsi), Can’t She Afford and Orthodontist Yet? Aka (Seriously? Is She British), Could You Leave Your Hair Alone (aka Cuffs and Collar Don’t Match), Sean Penn, Dick Tracy (aka, She Never Met a Dick She Wouldn’t Tracy), Warren Beatty, Truth or Dare (aka Why Amanda Should Never Say “You’re So Fired” to Her Boss), Dennis Rodman (aka Seriously, You Didn’t See That Coming?), her book Sex (aka Oh My Eyes), There Are Some Things I Don’t Need to Know About Sandra Bernhardt, Your Trainer (aka, Couldn’t You Find a Better Sperm Donor), What Ever Happened to Her (aka That’s Some Good Peeing, alternate title, There’s No Crying in Baseball), There Are Some Things I Don’t Need to Know About Rosie O’Donell, Who The Hell is Trudie Styler (aka Sting is Still Hot), Who The Hell is Stella McCartney (aka Oh, She Moved to England), That Explains the Teeth (aka Stereotypes Have a Shred of Truth), Cougar Alert (How She Scored Guy Ritchie), They Can Have Her, Why We Should Require Parents to Take a Qualifying Test (aka Rocco, Are You Sure About That), That Always Happens to Me at Clubs (aka Ray of Light), Oh, Now She’s an Expert on Kids Too, What’s the Deal With Kaballah (aka I’m Confused, if She’s So Religious Why is She French Kissing Britney Spears), What Now She’s a Designer? (aka, Nordstrom Will Never be Neiman’s and Here’s Why), Alex Rodriguez  (aka At Least It Wasn’t Derek Jeter), Homewrecker…and in three simple words:  Too.  Much.  Drama.

A waste of my time, a life so completely contrived it makes me nauseous.

But as usual, I digress.  I’ll hand it to Madonna, she’s been around for a long, long, long time.   

I used this analysis to justify my impending consultation with Gina Brooke.  After all, if Madonna, nearing 50, can look like that, I needed to do this.  I had to do this.  For you.