Bad Mormon, page 19
I struggled adapting to a business within the medical sector. I hated everything about it. The regulations, the licensing, the limited vendors, the overhead, the liability, and the competition. Salt Lake City was a saturated market for plastic surgeons and med spas. We had as many med spas per capita as Beverly Hills and they all seemed to be run by rich white men who were not keen on allowing two novice stay-at-home moms to burst onto the stage. When the word got out about Beauty Lab + Laser and the ways it was disrupting the industry, the push back was intense and immediate.
With no experience, no investors, and no idea what we were doing, we turned a bankrupt plastic surgery practice into a booming Beauty Lab Business. In September, we launched the Mini Lip Plump, a new service never before created. The brainchild of Dreather. Before the Mini Lip Plump, if you wanted to inject your lips you were limited to a minimum purchase price of at least $600. This was the preassigned quantity and price decided by the manufacturers and the FDA. As business owners, we felt hamstrung, held to minimum prices and services that didn’t work for us or our clients. There was no medical justification, just a forced upsell, and we refused to accept it. Back in my Steelhead Designs days, Charlie had challenged me to create a product within the customer’s price point. I drew on my experience at Doctors without Borders and remembered that goods could be parsed out according to the customers’ needs, not just according to big pharma’s standard minimums.
We started buying filler in smaller quantities and then created an easy process so that customers could try injecting their lips for half the price and half the downtime. For girls who want a little, not a lot, the Mini Lip Plump at $350 was a hit and everyone wanted to get one. We tore down the mystery curtain that doctors loved to hide behind: the art of war when it comes to pricing, and units, and syringes, and specials. We trademarked all of our services, made our pricing transparent, eliminated tips, eliminated upsell, and sold skin-care products at cost plus shipping. Once customers realized what we were doing, the business took off. Our staff couldn’t inject people fast enough.
When we look better, we do better, we feel better. And I knew that better than anyone from my days of partial facial paralysis and half-mouthed public prayers.
In January 2017, we incorporated Beauty Lab + Laser as the love child of your plastic surgeon and Sephora. We changed the name on the wall and pushed forward full steam. With business booming, I went to the celebrity-frequented Sundance Film Festival to promote our Mini Lip Plump. We gave away free vouchers and B12 shots in the swag bags of yet another Park City entrepreneur: Meredith Marks.
* * *
Meredith Marks has been there since the beginning, but she doesn’t like to boast. Boasting is unbecoming, after all. We met through Lisa Barlow and were business associates before we became friends.
Our first project was a trunk show on Main Street in Park City featuring her fashion and jewelry. Vida Tequila provided alcohol to party, and Beauty Lab + Laser provided IVs to recover. Meredith Marks provided a little of both.
Nothing about Meredith or her life screamed Mormons or mountains. She was a big-city girl, an Eloise grown up and all about town. She was brunch at Jean Georges, lunch at Balthazar, and dinner at Le Bilboquet followed by drinks at the Regency: Belvedere up with a twist, ice on the side.
The last fancy drink she ordered on a girls’ night out was called the Impossible Dream because it was impossible to choke down without retching. Mezcal, Grand Marnier, tequila, Belvedere, and bleccchhh. We all took one sip before Angie Harrington exclaimed that the atrocity Meredith had ordered tasted exactly like a Dollar Store smells. The Pic ’n Save Margarita was born. And by the end of the night, she had us all ordering them.
And even though Meredith and Seth lived and raised their kids in Park City, the hometown heartiness of the High West repelled off their backs the same way cheap fabric melts when you iron it.
Meredith is always couth, always measured, rarely frazzled, and never not sure. Of all the SLC Real Housewives, Meredith Marks has the most real education. A JD and an MBA from Northwestern University, a jewelry business, an apparel line, a coffee business, and housewares on the horizon. Add NFTs to her CV and she will be a TKO.
Our first independent event together was a family affair. Her friend had loaned us her store on Main Street for the evening, and we set up to ply her patrons with B12 shots and IV hydration bags. Meredith invited her two youngest children, Chloe and Brooks, to attend as well.
Brooks was barely sixteen and already breaking boundaries back in the day by wearing baby pink before it was gender-bending. Even as a teenager, he oozed star quality. The kind of kid who would be plucked from the audition to star in his own Disney series and then transition seamlessly to leading man before he was twenty-seven. He had the bone structure, the bankroll, and just the right amount of banal malaise that made both the girls and the boys swoon. If Meredith wasn’t destined to be a Real Housewife, her youngest son was destined to be a real star.
Meredith’s parties always featured her real-life friends, and they are everything you’d want the noshing and poshing Upper East Side crowd to be. Mind you, Meredith is neither exclusively New Yorker, Los Angelean, or Chicagoan. She’s a mixture of all the major metropolises of the world, and she’s making her mark on the Mountain West. It’s rare to meet someone in your life who personifies a word, but Meredith does just that. She is the human embodiment of hobnob.
Any good sociologist would tell you it’s important to study Meredith’s migratory patterns in order to fully understand how she operates. If you can keep her up late enough and keep the drinks stiff enough, you may be lucky enough to witness Meredith Marks descend from her ivory tower and slowly slide into her alter ego: the Dread Pirate Mary Poppins. There is no spoonful of sugar for this sourpuss. Her accent will transport you like a pirate ship to a world where only Dorit Kemsley recognizes its exotic origin.
Above all things, Meredith is always a mother. She’s deeply entrenched in her children’s lives, and if they are anywhere in the vicinity, you can plan on being eclipsed by their immediate needs. It’s rare to have a phone conversation without one of her children ringing through. And she always answers. I’ve pushed decline on my kids’ calls one thousand times for every call that Meredith picks up on the first ring. She may be an empty nester with all her children away at school or beyond, but her brood is still nestled in her bosom. She is as dedicated and involved with her kids as any Mormon driving a minivan in the Midwest. With her, it’s just harder to tell, because Meredith doesn’t drive. In fact, she might not even have a driver’s license. Her first car was a limousine, which is almost as cool as her first lasting love: the self-confident, schmoozing Seth.
Meredith was on the original group text with producers talking about a show in Salt Lake City, and she was also one of the first people, along with Lisa, to recommend me as a potential cast member. She saved all her receipts. Why doesn’t MM pretend like she’s in charge of production? Because Meredith Marks doesn’t give a shit. Let the peasants squabble over scraps of bread.
We’ve shut down Sundance together. We’ve danced on tabletops at Tao. We’ve even shared an entree at the Cheesecake Factory—an act I forced her into at Fashion Place Mall in Murray, Utah, and one that I will never live down.
When we first began filming The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City and it became clear that Lisa might feel territorial, Meredith and I both gracefully retreated from our friendship to allow some space. It was just a matter of time before she had burned bridges with both of us, giving me and Meredith the chance to split as many SkinnyLicious tacos as we wanted.
Watching Meredith ride back from Zion in a Sprinter van surrounded by junk food and Jennie Nguyen’s self-taught karaoke is an image burned in my brain. It was like looking at an oil painting of dogs playing poker: absolutely absurd yet totally believable.
When I heard that Meredith had fucked half of New York, I wasn’t surprised, she doesn’t do anything half-assed, unless it’s her pants size. There are still a few tricks I can learn from this garbage whore.
* * *
Collaborating with stars like Meredith and Lisa at Sundance only fueled the success of Beauty Lab + Laser back in Salt Lake City. Dre and I together were “getting butts in seats.” The BeautyLabbers were rolling in one right after the other. It was amazing. We were two moms making the tables shake and surprising ourselves at every turn. We had spun straw into gold. Feeling supported in my business, I felt emboldened to continue pursuing my other hustles and hobbies.
My love for photography never faltered, and when I wasn’t focusing on the fifth B, business, I was happy to photograph the original three.
Photography and my lust for all things led me into the art of boudoir. I knew sex. I had been a married woman, and I had been outside the backyard gates enough to learn a few things. I worked solely on referrals and denied more clients than I accepted. When Whitney Rose reached out, there was no doubt I wanted to take pics of her wild and untamed.
The first time I hung out one-on-one with Whitney was behind the camera lens. I was prepared to be the art director, the set director, and the boudoir stylist. Most boudoir shoots required a lot of hand-holding, confidence-boosting, and lingerie-coaxing.
“Try this leather harness, bra, and matching thong. I know it feels weird, but it photographs fantastic.”
“Try getting on all fours and arching your back. Tilt your head toward me, chin down, relax your lips, booty pop.”
Click.
“Nailed it.”
Within five minutes of arriving at Whitney’s shoot, I knew this was not going to be an ordinary session.
This wild rose was not scared to handle a little prick.
As soon as I arrived, she showed me the shopping bags she had brought, overflowing with thirst-trap thongs and thigh highs. She had enough stiletto heels to make a stripper pole jealous and just enough kink to make me feel like I might be in over my head.
It was clear that she knew all of Victoria’s Secrets and I had things to learn!
The next few moments did not seem like the beginning of a boudoir photo shoot, they seemed more like a scene from Titanic, where Rose takes Jack back to her first-class cabin under the guise of pursuing art. I was clearly Jack, the eager artist, and the outspoken Whitney was, quite aptly, Rose.
I suggested she wear the black gauzy nightgown that swept romantically to the floor and opened in front all the way to the waist. I took note that the matching panties were microscopic and dangled off the hanger like a tiny pirate’s eye patch.
When Whitney emerged from the bedroom in the outfit, all the lessons about boudoir photography that I had learned from Santiago years ago came sharply into focus. I was filled with what can only be described as el espíritu de los tres B’s. This was the sign, the mantle shifting, the calling made sure. My time had come at last to sip from the Holy Grail of boudoir photography. I was to shoot the three B’s, and I would glorify them through the chosen vessel: Whitney Rose.
We started out with a few pictures of her walking, the nightgown billowing behind her bronzed boobs and butt.
She was a natural model: playful and sexy, sweet and seductive. I could not take the photos fast enough. I had the music in me.
We went outside in the floaty black nightgown to get some natural wind and golden light. Whitney shone. There wasn’t a second of cajoling or negotiating for a good shot. She was down for anything and everything and flipped through expert poses the way I flipped through Instagram filters.
In a town full of beauties and beasts, there is only one wild rose. And she was blooming.
We were wrapping up scene number one and getting ready for outfit number two when Whitney went straight for B number three.
Jack, I want you to draw me like one of your French girls. Wearing this… wearing only this.
She reached down and slowly removed her pirate-patch panties. Ahoy, matey!
My prayer came out instinctively, fervently, and surprisingly in Spanish.
Oh, espíritu de Santiago! I pray to thee, dime fuerte and guide mi mano that I may honor you and los tres B’s, especially the barenaked part which is presented before me now.
I felt the answer to my prayer immediately after I offered it. Why was I panicking? I knew exactly what to do. Something about Whitney’s panty-less attire was strangely familiar. I had seen this once before.
Yacine, in the city of Perpignan, in the South of France, sitting bare-assed on my lap, penis dangling, as I taught the sacred Law of Chastity. If he had taught me anything, it was to embrace the philosophy: no pants, no problem.
Whitney pulling a full Winnie the Pooh? Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.
I proceeded with the photo shoot as calm as a summer’s morn. I photographed her from belly button to backside without breaking a sweat.
As I was leaving later that night, I spotted the tiny black panties on the patio—once flung, now forgotten. I walked over, picked them up, and slipped them into my pocket as smoothly as a sleeve of French Imovane. You never know when an eye-patch might come in handy.
CHAPTER 27 ONLY GIRL (IN THE WORLD)
Lisa Barlow had given me her fast-talking quick pitch—“I’m putting together a reality show”—but I had never given it much thought. Whenever I interacted with Lisa, I just smiled and nodded in awe and told the emperor how fabulous her new clothes were. The irony was that her actual clothes were fabulous. Her style impeccable.
Anyone who can relate to the “fake it till you make it” motto would absolutely relate to Lisa Barlow; her performative reality made mine look like a sock-puppet show. She enters a room and… begin scene.
“Hiiiiiiiiiiiii.”
The conversation is mostly one-sided but still scintillating.
The private plane is ready for her trips with her friends. Not you. Her friends. “It’s a G6, not a Cessna. Anyone can own a Cessna.”
The obscure villa on the Mediterranean she visited while yachting: “Marseille? I love that. You served your mission there? Amazing. I love that.”
The multiple lots with multiple homes in the beginning stages of construction: “Most of our projects are in media res. That means ‘right in the middle.’ ”
My favorite version of Lisa Barlow is when she is unhinged, enraged, and raw. She’s tough and mean and scrappy. This is usually when she claims her “NYC” is showing. Lucky for Lisa, “New York is not a city, it’s a world”… because she’s from Schenectady. But that’s the only thing small town about LB. She’s bright lights, big-city energy. If you want to eat and drink well at a restaurant, you want to be sitting next to Lisa. She knows more about terroirs and oak barrels and soil acidity than the most seasoned sommelier. She will help you pronounce foreign fashion words and remind you not to fidget. She’s unfettered and fancy, but she will still throw down. It’s a peek behind the stage curtain that is terrifying and thrilling.
Lisa is an overachiever and, as such, takes the gold medal in many things, but especially in the art of the subtle name drop. “I’m friends with Denzel.” This is one of the many events in the Mean Girls Olympics: the name drop, the disinvite, the Radar Online, the compliment sandwich, the naked wasted.
I never thought that Lisa was lying about being a mini-producer for her television show. She believed all the things she was saying were true because she wanted them to be. This is a coping mechanism that I’m more than familiar with. I’m sure people saw me parading around keeping dinner warm for Billy months after he had moved out and just nodded and smiled and told me how fabulous I looked in my new clothes. Performative reality works; let this be your cautionary tale.
Lisa had plugged her show enough that when a casting agent texted me out of the blue, I was not surprised. I figured it would be a one-and-done phone call, and I’d be able to give him a few names of my influencer friends and BeautyLabbers as potential participants. The stakes were not high; I felt zero pressure about being cast myself. I just didn’t want to let Lisa down. I wanted her to be glad she had given them my name.
I responded immediately when I received a text message that, on the surface, seemed to be nothing significant. An ice floe on a calm sea.
“Hey Heather, it’s Joey from InventTV. Let me know when you have a few minutes to chat.”
“Hey, Joey! I’m free now or anytime this afternoon.”
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.
When Joey called me the next day, I laid it all on the line and answered every single one of his questions authentically from my heart rather than from the script I’d been given as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was scary, but it was easier than I thought it would be. Sometimes the truth is like a second chance.
The casting process was fascinating and arduous. It was a little bit like falling in love… it happened slowly and then all at once. It started with a phone call, less than forty-five minutes, just chatting with the casting director while he asked questions to gauge my interest level and basic stats.
“Tell me a little about yourself and your friends. Are you a Mormon?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me a little bit about Mormons and the LDS Church.”
“We are a worldwide church, worth more than $140 billion, run by men—specifically, twelve men we call the general apostles, who then report directly to our living prophet, seer, and revelator.”
“Are you Christian?”
“Yes, we believe in God the Father, his son Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.”
“What makes you special or different?”
“There are a lot of rules. We follow the Law of Tithing: 10 percent of our income goes directly to the church. We follow the Word of Wisdom: no coffee, tea, alcohol, or nicotine. We follow the Law of Chastity: no sexual relations outside of marriage. We do proxy work in the temples for people who have died. We volunteer as teachers, choir leaders, ministers, youth leaders, primary leaders. We wear sacred undergarments that we believe protect us from temptation and evil.”
