Part 31 (2/2)
Suffice it to say, yesterday was rough, what with my apartment spinning and all.
But today I felt better. That is, until Carol played me the voice mail I left for her at 1:03 AM. Somehow I thought I had been able to hold it together on the phone. Following is a transcript of the message I left: 30 seconds of heavy breathing, giggling, and intermittent hiccups (At first Carol thought it was a 911 call.) ”Oh, heeheehee, I waa.s.sshh wayyyting for a beep. But noooooo beeeeeeep. Why don't you hash a beep on your, your, ummmmmm...celery phone? Noooooo beeeeeeeep, hic, heeheeeheee.
Um, hiiiiii, itsch JEENNNNNNNN!! It's thirteen o'clock in the peeeeeee eeeemmmmmmm. Heeeeeeeellllllllllloooooooo! I went to my wedding tonight and it wash sooooo niiiiiiiiiice. Hic.”
More giggling and the sound of a phone being dropped and retrieved ”Nannyway, I am calling to telllll you noooooooooo fis.h.i.+es tomorry...no fis.h.i.+es for meeee! I hic, heeeee, can't smake it to the quariyummm. Maybeeee you can call me so I can say HIIIIIIIIIIIIIII later hic in the day hee hee hee. Call me at, um, 312, ummmmmmm, 312, uummmmm, hee hee hee I can't member my phone, Hic. Do you know my number? Can you call me and tell me what it isssch? I LIKESH TURKEY SAMMICHES!”
10 seconds of chewing, giggling, and what may be gobbling sounds ”Okay, GGGGGGGGooooooodniiiiiiiiiggggggggggggg hhhhhhhhhhhttttt! No fis.h.!.+ Um, how do I turn this tthing off? Shhhhh, calllls' over. Beeee quiiiiiietttt, hee hee hee.”
15 more seconds of giggles, hiccups, shus.h.i.+ng, and a great deal of banging Perhaps this is why most people only have one wedding?
In the 1997 thriller The Saint, Elizabeth Shue plays the character Emma Russell. Emma is an Oxford-based scientist who's created the recipe for cold fusion. Naturally, dark forces want to take this formula for themselves, and the easiest way to do this is to kill her.
In one scene Emma is wet and running for her life through the snowy streets of Moscow, being chased in a b.a.l.l.s-out pursuit by the Russkies who want her dead. In the distance she spots the American emba.s.sy and dashes toward it, knowing her life is on the line, and yet hoping that the hypothermia and exertion from the escape don't trigger her heart condition first. They show her hurtling toward her goal with the hot breath of the a.s.sa.s.sins virtually on her neck.
Just when you see that she's slowed to the point of the chasers being able to reach the hem of her coat, she gets to the gate, holds up her pa.s.sport, and with her last breath screams, ”I'm an American!” A couple of stern-looking soldiers allow her entry, slamming the door in the face of the evildoers. Emma is able to collapse in the arms of a st.u.r.dy Marine, knowing that FINALLY she is safe.
Point?
That's the exact same feeling of bittersweet relief that I experience when I enter the Molto Bene salon for the first time in six months and see the smiling countenance of the best colorist in the city, waiting to make me pretty again.
”Jen! I thought you'd left me!” Rory picks at a half-black, half-gold strand. ”But, um, I guess you've been too busy to come in.”
I smile. Busy. I guess that's one way to describe the past two years. ”Something like that.”
”The front desk idiots give you any trouble?”
”Trouble? No, not at all.” You know what? Manning a reception desk and answering the phone concurrently isn't quite as easy as it looks. Granted, I couldn't concentrate because I was afraid a 747 was about to crash into the lobby, while the brain trusts here were aflutter about Justin Timberlake's solo alb.u.m, but still, the concept's the same.
”What are we doing today? Full highlights and a lift?” I glance at the other patrons in the salon, and I see row after row of girls with ash blond highlights and the modified Jennifer Aniston Friends cut. They're wearing sweater sets and expensive shoes and flashy engagement rings. Half of them are attached to their cell phones and all are surrounded by shopping bags. They look like Generic Chicago Businesswomen and any one of them could subst.i.tute for another. For months I've dreamed of joining their ranks again, but suddenly, I'm hesitant.
”Let's do something different. I feel like going dark again.”
”Ooh, bold! But do you want me to highlight a few pieces around your face for emphasis?”
”Um...OK. But just a couple,” I acquiesce. Hey, Rome wasn't built in a day.
”What other services are you having this afternoon? We have a new hot-stone reflexology ma.s.sage that's to die for. I got it done after work a couple of days ago, and I thought I'd melt right into the table.” Rory mixes a group of concoctions in black plastic bowls at the stand behind me.
”Just the color.”
”Really? I thought you always got the rose petal manicure.”
”Nah, my nails are in good shape today. See? I did 'em myself.” I splay my hands out, displaying the fresh coat of Tropical Punch Pink. By manicuring them at home, I'm ahead of the game almost forty dollars.210 ”Wow, I'm impressed.” She drapes a plastic poncho around me and fastens the snaps at the back of my neck. In the mirror I can see her shaking her head while inspecting the damage. ”Where's all your stuff?”
”I've got my purse on my lap under the cape. Why do you ask?”
Rory starts to expertly section off my hair with the end of a rat-tail comb. ”No, silly, your shopping bags. I practically didn't recognize you in the lobby without being loaded down with a ma.s.s of glossy, cord-handled carriers. I even picked all the magazines off the chair next to you so you'd have some place to put them.” She paints the hair from my crown with peroxide and wraps each section with a small piece of foil.
”Oh. I'm not really shopping anymore.”
Rory pauses midstroke to gawp at me. ”Are you kidding? Jen, Queen of Michigan Avenue? How come?”
”I'm trying to save some money.”
”Yeah? Well, I admire your willpower.” She brushes a coppery-colored toner on the strands in between each foil packet. I'm quiet while she parts and paints. ”Look down for me, please. I need to get the back of your head. Anyway, I bet everyone at Nordstrom's shoe department misses you.”
”Totally. Their kids are probably going to have to go to college in state now that I'm on a spending hiatus.” We laugh.
”Are you saving up for vacation? Or maybe something exciting?”
I think about this question for a minute.
”Actually, I am.”
”Yeah, like what?”
Our future.
EPILOGUE.
Weblog Entry, 12/14/03 WANNA BE LIKE SADDAM.
So they captured Saddam Hussein today. Frankly, I can't blame him for hiding. I'm sure if I were a dictator, I wouldn't want to give up all the palaces and my likeness on every wall if some foreign country demanded it. Really, I suspect that living like Saddam would involve some sweet perks.
When Saddam was in power, he had all that lovely state-mandated control. I know that if I were a dictator, I'd also be a big fan of having unlimited power, especially as my own personal quest for domination came at a very young age. When I was three and tried to steal my brother's new Christmas toys, he told my mother, ”First she was a seed, and now she's trouble.” Another telling incident occurred in third grade, when I declared, ”I can make Stacey Coopersmith do anything I want.” (Fortunately for Stacey, her family moved to Arizona in fourth grade. Although I did not believe I was the impetus for this move, I could never be sure.) My policy of usurping control and violating borders followed me to college. Although my freshman roommate Joanna fought valiantly to hold on to her half of the dorm room, I eventually emerged victorious on my pursuit of additional sweater s.p.a.ce. Upon move-out, I possessed approximately 75% of all available square footage.
So, if I were to become dictator of America, now known as Jennsylvania, I believe my first conquest would be Canada. Seems like a nice place, so I'd like to bring it under The Umbrella That Is Jen. My army would invade clad entirely in pink, green, and khaki items from Ralph Lauren and Lacoste. (And who says you can't march in Ba.s.s Weejuns? They are quite comfortable.) I wouldn't hurt the Canadians-soon to be called Jenizens-as I would not embrace Saddam's policies of violence. Rather, I'd wear them down until they were ready to surrender-much like Joanna-by constant verbal badgering.211 Although I like America a whole lot now, some things would have to change in order to morph into Jennsylvania. The White House would be painted pink, Kate Spade would re-make the flag in florals and plaids, and the national bird would become duck with orange sauce.
As the dictator, although formally addressed as Her Honor, The Governor, I would grab control of the media. Although I would still allow professional sports to exist, they could only be broadcast at times when I was asleep and could not be discussed in my presence. (Professional figure skating would be the exception to this rule, as it would become our national pastime.) Prime time would be filled with now-nightly episodes of Trading s.p.a.ces, and Fox's program 24 would be changed to 24/365. I would allow cloning so that another Kiefer Sutherland could film while the real Kiefer accompanied me to state affairs. The only exception to my policy of non-violence would be that anyone involved in the making or playing of the Feelin' Groovy Gap commercials would be put to death without trial.
I feel that I would be a benevolent and beloved leader, as Jenizens would receive many perks. First, my government would subsidize pedicures and highlights, paid for by a 50% surcharge on health club members.h.i.+ps. Every corner would have a Borders or Barnes & n.o.ble, where my people could get free coffee, paperbacks, and pistachio ice cream. Of course, obesity would be lauded and not shamed, because over-consumption would help spur our economy. Fas.h.i.+on magazines would boast articles such as ”The Fat a.s.s Is The New Black!” and ”More Is More!” I would also introduce a Flat Abs tax. And if I didn't mention it, everyone would be ent.i.tled to three complimentary angioplasties.
Jennsylvania would be a paradise, full of tulips and dessert carts and beautiful handbags, all set to a perpetual and pervasive soundtrack of New Wave music. In short, it would be Utopia.
It just occurred to me that when a new regime is installed in Iraq, it will need a leader.
So, I'd like to humbly nominate...
...myself.
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