A Total Waste of Makeup by Kim Gruenenfelder Page A

me. “Charlie, I’d like you to meet—”
    “Hi, Chris,” I interrupt, kissing Chris on the check. “How have you been?”
    “Good, good,” he says, smiling to show off his bright white teeth. “You? Your mother still making you crazy?”
    “You have no idea,” I say, then turn to Drew. “Drew, Chris is my mother’s, um, gentleman friend.”
    “Part-time gentleman friend,” Chris corrects me.
    “Chris is my mother’s whatever,” I say. Which is true. When my mother first started dating this twenty-nine-year-old, we asked her what we should call him: boyfriend, friend, “Dad,” pool boy? Mom said “whatever,” and the name stuck.
    Oh, another one for my book:
    The difference between a middle-aged man and a middle-aged woman is that when a woman dates someone thirty years younger than her, at least she knows she looks like an idiot.

    Okay, my mother doesn’t, but most women would.
    Chris and I talk for a few moments when the doorbell rings again. Jordan enters the drawing room, looking perfect in a gray suit, red silk tie, and a camera hanging around his neck. As I am about to say “hi,” he flashes his camera to take my picture. I blink my eyes a few times, trying to clear up the green square filling my vision, as Jordan walks up to me.
    “You look gorgeous,” he says, taking my arm and kissing me on the cheek.
    He kissed me! I think. Okay, just the cheek, but still… and he said I looked gorgeous.
    “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” I say.
    Inwardly, I cringe at my lame response. You’re not so bad yourself? What am I—Mae West?
    Jordan smiles, blushes a little, and turns away. “I clean up okay. Look, since you’re the only person I know here tonight, do you mind if I hang out with you when I’m not working?”
    Is he serious?
    “Oh sure,” I stammer. “No problem. You can count on me. Maybe we can sit together at dinner…”
    As I continue to babble, Jordan looks past me and his jaw nearly drops. I turn to see who or what he’s looking at.
    Behind a married couple coming in, I see Dawn, wearing a gold beaded bias cut dress with one slit up the leg to show off her perfect calf and thigh (and, frankly, her recent bikini wax, but maybe I’m being bitter).
    “Charlie!” she yells to me, her face beaming. “Have I got gossip for you!”
    I start to make my way toward her, only to be pushed out of the way by Drew.
    “Dawn, you look stunning,” he says, kissing her hand lightly.
    It’s a good thing men don’t have tails, or this lovesick puppy would be wagging his so fast, it would look like a helicopter.
    “Can I get you a drink? We have ice-cold martinis at the bar,” Drew says as he takes Dawn’s hand and begins to lead her to the bar.
    “That would be lovely,” Dawn says, then mouths to me, “Gossip.”
    “Great,” Drew says, then yanks her toward the bar so fast it looks like her neck is going to snap backward. As they pass us, she turns to me, stretches her arms out wide, and mouths, “Huge.”
    I cock my head as Jordan takes a picture of Drew dragging poor Dawn to the bar.
    Then he turns to me. “She’s cute. What’s her story?”
    No! No! No!!! “Her story is she’s a spectator sport,” I say cattily. “Fun to watch, but if you try to go out on the field, there’s going to be blood and broken bones all over the place.”
    It came out sounding harsh, but it’s the truth, actually.
    “That’s a shame,” Jordan says. “I have a friend who would have loved her.”
    Two more couples come in, both married. One couple I recognize—Gigi and Nick. She’s a producer, and he’s a stay-at-home dad. The other couple I don’t recognize, but I assume they’re married, since they both wear wedding rings, and seem to have no problem separating from each other long enough to mingle with the other guests.
    This is usually a sign of an older, more secure couple. I hate it when I’m at a party talking to a guy, just chitchatting, only to have his ferocious