I live in an area that is one of the top make-up sales locations in the world according to the Made-Up Make-Up Sales-Stats Ass-Ociation. The top three are, Clown College, Whore University, and the area from whence I speak, Most Don’t Go To College.
I’m not talking about subtle, pick a season, winter, spring, fall, summer make-up usage. If these people picked a season it would be Carnival! But, it’s not for any grotesquerie they spackle their faces, heavens no! It’s, as has been explained to me, because of the pride they have in their cities that bursts through in a cacophony of blue and, what looks like to my untrained eye, lizard.
I can see their point. The triumvirate of cities I am speaking of do have many things to crow about. One can be heard boasting of the largest collection of muscle cars still cruising, the largest bravado with fewest brain cells and, my personal favorite which is a testament to civic pride, a city where there are more cosmetology schools (3) than hospitals (0).
So, it’s not unusual to see a Pollack coming at ya. I’m not just talking women here. I’ve seen guys with make-up. Before you start sending emails calling me all sorts of ‘ist’s (like ageist, sexist, istist), I am not talking about actors, TV weathermen, or transvestites. That’s part of their job. I’m talking about average Joe’s. Like this guy I knew, Joe. He lived upstairs and it was quite a thing to have a conversation while taking barrels out on trash day. He’s talking about whatever it was he was babbling about while all I could think was,”Is he wearing mascara?”
I guess he noticed my interest because he said,
“Are you wondering about my make-up?”
“It cross dres. . .I mean. . .crossed my mind.”
He goes on to explain that, years ago, he realized his best feature was his eyes so he had an ex-girlfriend experiment until they found a style that made his eyes, to quote the man, ‘pop.’
Hey! That’s good enough reason for me. Whatever makes the weasel pop, I always say. I guess the fact that his eyes popped overshadowed the fact he had a serious case of Dunlop’s Disease.
What? You don’t know about Dunlop’s Disease? It’s where your belly’s so big it dun lops over your belt. And his was a serious case. Half way down his zipper that boy’s went.
But, as long as his eyes popped, he was a model of civic pride.
I’m at the counter helping a very nice man. Contrary to all beliefs, I don’t mind helping people. I mind helping stupid people. When some invents a Mental Detector I’m sure the world will be a much nicer place where things will get done quickly and smoothly. But, until that day. . .
“Is there anyone here to help me!?!?!” Screeches this woman while I am standing in front of her talking to the aforementioned gentleman.
“That would be me, ma’am, and I’ll be with you as soon as I’m done with this gentleman.” I screw in my fake smile (you know the one, you’ve seen it) while answering her. I notice the gentleman I’m talking to is shying away. I know it’s not the Earl Scheib job she’s done to her face, he’s a grizzled veteran of the area, it’s the fact he is so well schooled. He knows she’s the penultimate of the creature of the ilk.
She’s a woman whose actual face, hair, nails (I’m going to stop there but the list goes on) none of her many husbands (oh, don’t start ‘ist’ing me again! I know how the story ends) have seen. She’s a woman who, although the act should have ceased years ago, continues to work at drawing attention to her decolletage. The fact they’re below see level is nothing a few 2×4’s and a caulking gun can’t handle.
A move that is potentially inbred around here is the act of coquettishness. I’m not a big fan when someone is trying to get something from me. If they want to give something to me, well, I’ll make the proper adjustments. This woman, not getting on demand attention, slides next to the gentleman in an attempt to make eye contact with me.
“Is there anyone else who can help me? I am a very busy woman.”
If you scale back on the full body blast and daily eighteen hours of beauty sleep, I think, you’ll have more than half an hour a day to compete all your tasks. I look at her, smile unscrewed, saying,
“I’m it and, as you can obviously see, I am with this gentleman right now.”
While she has my eye contact her body naturally falls into it’s coquette dance. It’s as sincere as a cat rubbing against you because it wants to get fed. And much less appealing. But it does draw my eyes to her false eye lashes. When flapped I swear her head snapped back due to the force of those bat wings.
We exchange a few more pleasantries before she takes a step back. I am under no illusion that I’ve vanquished Ms. Varnished. I know she’s regrouping. As long as she doesn’t do any major adjustments I’m sure we’ll all get out alive.
I continue with the gentleman who is imploring me with his eyes to quickly end our business. I dive back into solving his problem while keeping a peripheral eye on the woman. I notice her pants are so tight things best left unseen aren’t.
While deducing how far this woman will go I see the obvious outline of a belly ring. The fact she’s also a sufferer of Dunlop’s Disease does not daunt her attempt to stay edgy. The fact the edge of the ring was shearing through her shirt was just icing.
I was happy she had pants on but not all that happy when they were just as tight as everything else. They left nothing to the imagination which includes everything in your own sick little mind plus her veins. Both varicose and collapsed.
When I didn’t complete my business with the gentleman within the eight seconds she’d remained silent, she approached the desk and tapped her red, French manicured talons on the counter. I ignore this annoying attention grabber and, finally, complete my business with this now exhaling gentleman. Before he is out of the door the woman begins to tell me what I am going to do for her.
Oh, and here I was thinking she’d make it less painful when she got attention.
She tells me, if she deigns this place adequate enough to patronize, I will do all these tasks for her that, trust me, I don’t even do at my house. With each of her demands, I explain the legal and moral ramifications of her requests. Undeterred, of course, she traduces each of my statements and sally forths.
It is her opinion that I am being difficult so she turns to the phrase I’ve heard so many times as to be a cliche of the area.
“Do you know who I am?”
Why am I never asked if I care? But, I’m not so I play the ball I’m given.
“Who you are is of less importance as to what you are requesting. And, everything you’ve requested, cannot be accomplished here.” Of course, she didn’t hear a thing because she’s already started giving me her history. And, at her age, this could take a while.
And it does.
She starts with the importance of her ex’s, deceased, and current husband then segues into her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. Surprisingly, those historical facts passed by quickly. It only took a second to figure out why. They weren’t directly about her.
We begin to cover her life in reverse chronological order. And, if 1/10th of what she said had a shred of reality adhered to it, my best guess is she’s Zsa Zsa Gabor. Through the telling of her story, all in an attempt to impress me that she was quite the cats meow during the Mesozoic era, she continues her gyrations. I’ll say one thing, it did give me a product idea. I wonder what the market would be for jello slinkies?
I get the feeling we’re nearing the end of her story. I figure that because we’re covering the time she won the big spermatozoa swim meet. At the end, I can tell she figures I’ll be putty in her hands just like the sixty or seventy thousand other doughboys she’s rendered love struck.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” I begin. I explain what services we will render and which we will not. Her expression begins to slip (maybe it was her make-up. By now I was paying much less attention) and she begins to lash into me for my many obvious flaws.
“Many men would consider it a privilege to do me any of these petty services just to be near me. I’m considered quite a catch!”
She fixes me with her gaze. It’s looks a little cataractal to me but, among the many things I am not, I am not a ophthalmologist. But, with the old beauty pageant try hanging in the air, I smile and say,
“Yeah, I’m sure you were quite something when that diamond on your finger was a lump of coal.”