“Oh, it’s touched all right. What exactly did you use to make her eyelashes?”
“Oh, those are fake eyelashes. I picked them up at the Walgreens yesterday.”
“So, people probably shouldn’t…”
“Oh, yeah, no one should eat the olives, I’m pretty sure eyelash glue is toxic.” She walks over to the fridge again, and gets out some lettuce, then prepares the platter on which she’ll set the happy couple. “Is that what you’re wearing?” Aunt Dolores asks.
“Yes, you don’t think I look like Jane Goodall?”
“Oh, no,Ithink you do. I’m just pretending to be your mother because that’s exactly what she’s going to say when she sees you’ve decided to dress as a plain Jane. I want you to have a good comeback.”
Dolores and my mother, Naomi, have never exactly hit it off. My mum and my dad were high school sweethearts. She played the clichéd cheerleader to his football star. Petite and pretty, my mum is always well-put-together like one of those 1950s housewives, complete with the pearls. Dolores, who has absolutely no use for all things fashion or frilly, finds my mother a bore.
I pause for a moment, trying to think of a good comeback but coming up blank, which is quite frankly a bit concerning since I’ll need to be quick with the retorts if I’m going to argue effectively in a courtroom someday. But since my mother won’t be presiding over any of my cases, I should be fine. She’s really the one person who can effortlessly get under my skin. “Well, at least I’ll be in costume. That’s about all she could ask.”
The inescapable sound of bass guitar starts up courtesy of our neighbour, Jerry, who reckons he should be the new lead singer of the Grateful Dead because of his sweet licks, his pure vocals, and his name. Jerry is one of the many reasons I need to pass the bar, so I can move us to a nice house without a super loud pothead who walks around outside in his shorty robe all the time.
“Jerry’s up early,” Dolores says.
I glance at the clock and realize she’s right. Jerry normally doesn’t wake up and start playing until after noon, and it’s only eleven.
Ack! Eleven!
I’m quickly running out of time. “Isab—” I start to call but am interrupted by the sight of Isabelle, who, although technically dressed as Sonny, is sporting glittery eyeshadow, overly dark rouge, and blindingly bright-pink lipstick. She grins widely and does a spin. “See, Mummy? I did it myself with the makeup kit Grandma gived me.”
“You certainly did.” I plaster a smile on my face even though the sight of my child like this is rather disturbing.
She holds up both hands, displaying the rainbow of nail polish covering her fingernails, not to mention large patches of skin.
“Do you like it? I maked myself pretty.”
“Made. You made yourself look pretty. Maked isn’t a word.”
“Do you like it, Auntie?” Isabelle asks, blinking quickly.
“You’re absolutely gorgeous. Don’t change a thing.” Covering her mouth with one hand, Dolores mutters, “She looks exactly like that clown from IT.”
Oh, Christ, she’s right.
Dolores pats Isabelle on the head. “Do you know what that outfit needs? A red balloon! Let me see if I can find one in my room. In my purse.”
“Auntie, can you please just finish your cheese people platter?” I ask, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “We’re running out of time, and I promised Amber we’d be early.”
Turning back to Izzy, I lean down a little. “You look really lovely, sweetheart, but we need to take a bit of it off. Sonny didn’t wear makeup, honey.”
Isabelle’s face falls. “She didn’t?”
She? Oh, dear, I don’t think Dolores explained who Sonny and Cher were.“No. He didn’t. But you do get to wear a super fun mustache, so you’ll have something on your face anyway.”
Gingerly, I take her hand and start leading her up the stairs to begin the massive job of scrubbing her down, realizing I definitely willnothave time to touch myself up a bit. It’s fine, really. I don’t need makeup. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure Jane Goodall doesn’t wear any more makeup than Sonny Bono did. Less, in fact.
***
Forty-five minutes later, we’re finally getting into my ancient Toyota Corolla that has been baking in the sun on the cement pad in front of our house. Isabelle, who is now sporting the light brown mushroom-cut wig and matching ‘stache, sits buckled into her five-point harness, kicking her feet with my date, Mr. Bananas, buckled in beside her. After a lengthy scrubbing, she’s gone from resembling Pennywise to a tiny creepy 1970s pedo. Not that I’m suggesting Sonny Bono was a pedo. I’m sure he was a wonderful guy. It’s just Isabelle is having trouble pulling off his signature look.
I’ve managed to settle Dolores into the passenger seat in her long black wig with her cheese people platter on her lap. We’re now running twenty minutes late, so instead of arriving calm, collected, and on time, I’m going to arrive late, frazzled, and frumpy—my normal state. This will lead to the inevitable, “Why didn’t you make yourself up? You’ll never catch a man looking like that” lecture from my mum as soon as she sees me. So obviously, I’m eagerly awaiting that moment…
Hurrying around to the driver side, I mutter, “Just get this over with so you can come home and study.”
