A Hot Glue Gun Mess, page 15
“Don’t worry, I didn’t get beat up,” my mom said as I stared, aghast, at her swollen, bruised face. “I paid for this!”
I’m not sure that when the pioneers crossed the treacherous Sierra Nevada mountains to settle in California, they would have predicted that their descendants would risk their lives to put large hills on their chests. Modern-day Angelenos treat a trip to the plastic surgeon like a trip to Starbucks. “Do I go for a grande or venti penile implant?” one might ask oneself . . . on a Thursday.
There was a time when I was in high school that my mom checked out of life and checked in—to hospitals. She was there to get “tune-ups” and would come home with various bruises and bandages or, worse, drainage bags—clear plastic sacks attached to tubes that were embedded in her flesh to catch the fluid released from all the swelling. This was totally normal. I’d come home from school, pour myself a glass of Hibiscus Cooler, and tell my mom about my day, trying to avoid eye contact with her fluid bag, the contents of which resembled my refreshing beverage to an alarming degree.
Mom was always really open about her procedures. She was known to publicly lift her shirt at the horse show competitions we attended to show the gay horse trainers her newly “lifted tits.” She passed out her doctor’s info to anyone who showed a mild interest, and it wasn’t long before everyone was walking around with their very own fluid bags and maxi pads taped to their tummies to act as giant Band-Aids.
I didn’t really mind my mom getting plastic surgery. She seemed pretty nonchalant about it and never ended up looking too scary after things healed. I got used to her looking as if she’d gotten hit by a truck, but the thing I hated was the pain pills.
Her doctor would prescribe her gnarly drugs that turned her into a loopy, swollen, bruised, moaning mermaid . . . not the beautiful water nymphs of myths, but the manatee kind—a sea cow. My mom would flop around on her bed, making guttural noises with her flesh, the bloated purple color of a blubberous sea mammal. Her words seamed together, and she’d often drool.
“Kate, couchuu bring me some tatershipss,” she’d slur, and I’d fetch her kettle chips on my way to do my homework.
Hired private nurses attended to her after she returned home from her trips to the doctor. They were usually nice, portly Jamaican ladies who slept on the couch and woke up periodically to give her more drugs and keep my mom a happy manatee. On one post-surgery occasion, I was talking to my mom in the kitchen, right after she had taken a Percocet and was eating some salad—manatees are vegetarians. She was leaning on her hand with her elbow propped on the kitchen counter and the fork, with a lonely piece of lettuce, was very close to her eye. I watched as the Percocet took over, her sentence lilting off and her glassy eyes rolling in her head. Her head started to droop toward the fork spikes inches away, and I yelled “Mom!” just in time to jerk her back to semi-reality and not poke her eye out. Not sure how Doctor Plastic would have fixed fork-in-eye syndrome.
In her painkiller haze, Mom would often make rash decisions, like the time she decided to go back to the doctor after she had gotten a facelift to have him also give her breast implants. She came home with drains coming out of her head and chest and couldn’t lift her arms or turn her head. She did, however, decide she wanted to start a journaling group.
“Fajah tolll me she hasa connecshun to get beuutiful Indian fabricsss,” my mom told me, looking like an excited mummy in her head bandages and feebly gesturing to Fajah, her hired nurse. “I wanna buy sssome and make long flowwy kimonos for our girlfriendss and we can wearr them and journal when it’s the full moonss.”
I nodded. “Sure,” I said. “Makes total sense.”
The next day Fajah showed up with $3,000 worth of gorgeous, intricately embroidered Indian fabrics from her “connection.” Fajah displayed each one in front of my mom’s face, since she couldn’t turn her head to look at the pile.
My mom never made the fabrics into kimonos, nor did we ever journal with girlfriends under the full moon. The fabrics stayed in a neat pile in the top shelf of her closet until I moved into my first apartment in Santa Barbara during my freshman year of college.
“Let’s use my beautiful Indian fabrics to upholster the walls and ceiling in your apartment!” Mom exclaimed. With no surgical procedures currently on her calendar, my move to college would be her new operation.
“Sure,” I said. “Makes total sense.”
And we did just that. We broke out the electric staple gun and the gorgeous embroidered fabrics, and my mom lifted her arms and got to work.
#WhyNot Avoid the bloating, bruises, and price tag of surgery and highlight your natural beauty with glamorous DIY Easy Makeup Contouring.
DIY Easy Makeup Contouring
PREP IT
Foundation, a few shades lighter than your skin tone (I like using liquid for more natural-looking coverage)
Foundation, a few shades darker than your skin tone
Foundation, in your skin tone
Foundation brush
Stipple brush or blending sponge
Blush
DO IT!
1. Apply the light foundation to the center of your forehead, under your eyebrow, on the bridge of your nose, on the tops of your cheekbones, above your upper lip, on the tip of your chin, and along the top of your jawline.
2. Apply dark foundation to your temples, either side of your nose, the indent of your cheeks, the base of your jawline, the sides of your neck, and just beneath your collarbone.
3. Combine the dark and light shades by dipping the stipple brush in a little bit of your tone foundation and blending it all together using circular motions.
4. Finish with a little blush on the apples of your cheeks.
Chapter 40
POOP IN THE BATHTUB
I used to refer to the guys I’d set my romantic sights on as “projects.” Guys that presented a challenge always enticed me, and I especially liked smart, weird, or adorably innocent dudes who I could bring to the dark side.
I was twenty-one, in college, and studying film production. My project for the semester was Henry, whose smoldering brown eyes and passion for space operas made him a dork and completely oblivious to my mounting attraction. He was a mean dork, a breed of dork prominent around film school, the kind that will defend his dorky honor to the death. “Yes, abso-fuckin-lutely Starfighter is better than The Wrath of Khan!”
I would try my darndest to get some one-on-one time with Henry and suggest things in class like, “Can we go off in teams of two for this discussion on sexual tension in film noir?” as I’d slyly look at Henry, who seemed more interested in the weird stain on his corduroys than my sexual advances.
One day in Spaghetti Westerns 101, Henry made an announcement inviting the class to Little Tokyo to watch his friend’s band perform. I thought, This is my chance! A social outing with copious amounts of alcohol and my best Klingon cleavage will definitely lure him into my clutches!
The band sucked—it was one of the screaming varieties that put a sourpuss on the old Japanese man who owned the dive bar—but it ignited an uncharacteristically gleeful Headbanging Henry. To numb my eardrums and my nerves, I sucked down five too many Long Island iced teas. I guess the fact that I was the only other person in the bar headbanging to his friend’s band’s crappy music was the straw that broke the camel’s camera lens, and I ended up going home with Henry to “sleep it off.”
We slept in his twin bed in the room he shared with his equally dorky and mean roommate. Henry was a decent kisser, but staring at a poster of Chewbacca while Henry tried to locate my R2-G-Spot was soberingly earthbound.
I woke at around six in the morning with an excruciating headache and only one thought running through my head: I have to poop!
I went into Henry’s dirty bathroom and proceeded to have a very hungover poo. Apparently, too many Long Island iced teas make you pee out of your butt.
Even though I was in agony, I maintained my ladylike manners and tried to do a courtesy flush to keep the smell from permeating into the bedroom beyond. Wouldn’t you know, the toilet wouldn’t flush!? My panic acted as a butt plug. I still had to go, but I knew I had to get that toilet to flush, because otherwise this “project” that I had worked too hard to snare would be confronted by the B-movie horror scene in his toilet. I flushed again and prayed to the gods of one-night stands. The damn thing just filled with more water, threatening to spill over the sides. Oh no, this was quickly becoming like a scene from Waterworld. I grabbed the red Solo cup where Henry and his roomie stored their toothbrushes and used it to scoop some excess water out of the toilet and into the plastic trash can. I piled toilet paper in the trash can and into the toilet to mask the liquid contents. The scene was not cute, but it could pass for a “I just went pee and your toilet didn’t flush!” situation. But ooohhh shit!—I still had to go!
There was only one bathroom in Henry’s dumpy love lair, and the area of LA he lived in had no close-by restaurant or shops—plus, it was 6:15 A.M. on Saturday! I knew I had to get this Long Island poison out of my body, so I did what any self-respecting, hungover twenty-one-year-old would do: I pooped in the tub.
It made total sense to me in the moment. My poo was liquid, and the tub drain was more trustworthy than the toilet, so I sat on the edge of his tub and reenacted Psycho.
After I was done I thoroughly rinsed out the tub using his Selsun Blue, disposed of my wiping tissues in the trash can, and wet my hair in the sink to justify the tub being wet, because duh, I wasn’t actually going to take a real shower in my emergency toilet! I gotta draw the line somewhere.
I crawled back into Henry’s bed, headache still thumping but tummy nice and empty. Later in the morning I acted surprised when I saw the toilet. “God, boys are so gross.”
Henry drove me to my car in his pickup truck while we listened to the soundtrack from I Know What You Did Last Summer.
#WhyNot Don’t find yourself in a poopy situation. Cover your tracks with this aromatherapy DIY Pre-Poo Spray.
DIY Pre-Poo Spray
PREP IT
Little funnel
20 drops lemongrass essential oil
9 drops geranium essential oil
3 drops tangerine essential oil
6 drops lavender essential oil
Perfume or spray bottle
Purified water
DO IT
1. Funnel all the drops of oil into the spray bottle and fill it with water.
2. To use: Shake the bottle and spray a few pumps over the unused surface of the toilet water to keep your doody fumes from tainting the room!
DO IT Elsewhere! Make your spray bottle look glamorous with a vintage reproduction pump atomizer you can purchase online or at the flea market!
Chapter 41
MY GRANDMA THE BITCH
My grandma is a bitch—the kind of bitch you want on your side. The kind that will shake her tiny fist at anyone who crosses her granddaughters.
She is a native New “Yawker.” She loves Chris Rock—like, dies laughing whenever she watches his stand-up shows—and has been known to cuss out bike riders who use the sidewalk instead of the bike lane. “These fucking bikes are taking over the city!” she yells, standing in her miniature Manhattan kitchen and brandishing her tomato-sauce-covered wooden spoon (she’s half Italian and a great cook).
When I was little, Granny would visit LA and take me to the park. One time, I was playing on the swings with the other kids and all of a sudden there was yelling. I looked up to see little Granny pointing at the bushes on the far side of the playground where a man was creepily tucked behind the foliage.
Don’t mess with my Grandma. She’ll throw rocks at you.
“I see you, you creep!” she yelled, pointing her bony finger at him.
The other mothers looked aghast and the creep looked startled.
“You get away from these kids! What are you, a pervert? This is a playground, not a place for old men!” She started toward him.
With all eyes on the creep, he stepped out of the bushes and opened his mouth to protest, but Granny cut him off before he got a word out.
“Don’t you utter a word, you sicko!” Granny screamed and picked up a plastic shovel out of the sandbox. The shovel was attached to a plastic bucket, but she nevertheless brandished the whole weird assortment of sand toys at him menacingly as she advanced in his direction.
“I’m not going to say it again—get outta heeea.” She sounded like a really shrill Fonzie.
The guy looked genuinely freaked, grabbed a bag of gardening tools, ran to his pickup truck, and took off. Granny had just chased off the gardener.
One hot, sticky New York summer I stayed with Granny and Grandpa at their apartment in the Bronx. They lived near the projects, where it was customary to crack open a fire hydrant on a hot day so the kids could play in the spraying water. Granny wanted me to experience these urban rapids, so she marched me up to a large group of children who were much older than five-year-old me and instructed them to step aside so her granddaughter could get sprayed. She threatened to seal the hydrant if they didn’t move. They heeded her request, and all eyes were on me as I got an exclusive tummy pummeling by the exploding nozzle. It was delightful.
Once when my sister was in daycare, a three-year-old boy threw sand in her eyes. Tess told Granny, and the hit was out. The next day when Granny dropped off Tess, she sidled up to the boy, out of earshot of the daycare teachers, and whispered, “I’m a real-life witch, and if you throw sand at Tessie again, I’m going to turn you into a frog!” The petrified toddler was on his best behavior from that point on, and thankfully Granny was never arrested for harassment.
These days Joey and I often stay at Granny’s apartment when we visit New York City. We always try to bring her a thank-you gift for hosting us, and so far she’s given back to us all but one of them—a cane with a decorative handle, which she decided would be the perfect weapon to jam into the spokes of bicyclists as they passed her “illegally” on the sidewalk.
Over Granny’s dining room table hangs her spirit animal: a portrait of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas that my sister painted for her, to remind anyone who dines at her table that she is a proud curmudgeon.
When my grandfather was dying of lung cancer, Granny was his constant caretaker. She’d make him her famous chicken noodle soup to soothe his searing throat, and change his pajamas every day. She was incessantly caring. One day she was making him roll over to avoid getting bedsores from his hospice bed, and he turned to her with a smile on his face and said, “You’re such a pushy bitch!”
She loves that story. She tells it often. She’s such a bitch.
#WhyNot Take your grandma’s doilies and tell them to kiss your butt with this DIY Granny Chic Doily Skirt.
DIY Granny Chic Doily Skirt
PREP IT
Skirt
Thirty 6-inch doilies, more or less depending on the size of your skirt
Pins
Hot glue gun and clear fabric hot glue sticks
DO IT!
1. Put on the skirt and pin the doilies on in rows, starting from the bottom hem up toward your waist. You want to wear your skirt when pinning to ensure that the doilies are glued to fit the skirt as it’s worn, but be careful not to stick yourself with the pins—get a friend or your grandma to help you!
2. Carefully remove the skirt and hot-glue the doilies in place exactly where you pinned them, starting with the top row, but glue only at the top and sides of your doilies. Leave the center and bottoms free and clear to allow for stretching around your lovely curves!
DO IT Elsewhere! Paint a canvas black and glue doilies in a cascading arrangement for an edgy girly art piece.
Chapter 42
BILLIONAIRE BUST
My best friend is a billionaire. There are so many other things about him that really define who he is: a funny, kind, intelligent, loyal, and very talented guy. But the fact remains that he grew up as a billionaire . . . which for a kid, is super weird.
I met Nathaniel at the horse shows, where we competed in the same equestrian jumping division. His nannies would cheer him on from the stands while his parents vacationed in the Caribbean. I was sixteen and he was an awkward, chubby twelve-year-old with a killer sense of humor. We were an odd pair, but we got along great. He even invited me to his bar mitzvah at his Beverly Hills compound.
Nathaniel had the most bizarre upbringing out of any of my friends. He lived in a gargantuan Beverly Hills mansion with a staff of twenty. Sleepovers at Nathaniel’s house were the weirdest and most indulgent I have ever experienced. I’d sleep in one of the exquisitely decorated guestrooms, where one of the seven white-uniformed maids had already turned down the bed for me. It was better than any service you’d experience in even the nicest five-star hotels. The maids would peel back the luxurious bedding just so and leave a glass pitcher of water and a bowl of fresh fruit on the beautiful chest of drawers next to the sumptuous bed . . . you know, in case you wanted to nibble on some strawberries in the middle of the night. This was life as usual for Nathaniel.
My favorite sleepover amenity was the pets. We had the option to phone down to the guard house to bring us up a dog or three to cuddle with at night. Nathaniel’s mom broke the only-three-dogs-allowed-per-household-in-Beverly-Hills rule by twelve! They had fifteen dogs on the property, complete with their own full-time staff. At night the dogs were kept in kennels near the East Guard Gate—yes, that means there was also a West Guard Gate—so that all we had to do was buzz down to the security guards via the intercom system that webbed through the entire house and say, “Can you please send up Duchess and Duke and, hmmm, maybe Chiquita as well to Nathaniel’s room? Thank you!”
