“Yes. Babies and my grandparents, even.”
“Oh wow. Well, I’ve got material that’s fun for the whooooole family!”
“Yeah,” he says, looking around for a place to put the used wet wipe.
I take it from him, and he follows me over to the snack table. The mother of the birthday boy waves for me to join her in the kitchen, so I put my hand on Paxton’s little shoulder and say, “I have to go talk to Joshua’s mom for a minute, okay? But after my next set I’ll get more information about your party.”
“Okay, Miss Cleo. Thank you.” He holds out his hand.
“Oh my goodness,” I say, shaking his hand and curtsying. “You can just call me Cleo—thankyou.”
“I really enjoyed your fart jokes,” he says, as if he’s telling me he learned a lot from my TED Talk.
“I very much enjoyed sharing them with you.” Gosh, this kid is great. I wasn’t planning to sing it today, but I’m going to perform “Last Christmas I Gave You My Fart,” just for him.
5
CLEO
I’m in my bedroom early Saturday evening after performing at a children’s holiday party in Sherman Oaks. I just took the neighbors’ dogs for a walk and responded to some queries from my Etsy store. Now I’m minding my own business, frantically trying to pick out a costume while eating a protein bar and listening to Christmas songs, when my old friend and new landlord, Franklin Baldwin, calls out, “This has to stop!” He bangs on the closed door with the palm of his hand and says, “I don’t care if you’re naked or not—I’m coming in.”
“Sadly, that is the sexiest proposition I’ve had since I moved to LA.”
He opens the door, sees me in my pink-and-white-striped stretchy polyester candy-cane jumpsuit and slaps his hands over his eyes. “I came in here to tell you to stop playing that Mariah Carey song over and over, but now I only hear the sound of my own voice screaming inside my head.”
He is so dramatic—I love him. Franklin and I grew up next door to each other in Paso Robles, and when he heard that I had to find a new apartment after my New York boyfriend dumpedme, he encouraged me to move back to Los Angeles, offering me his spare bedroom. I’m paying rent, of course, because I can afford it. Apparently a teacher from Paso Robles met the love of her life while living in this very room! I would be into that. I think I’m ready for the love of my life. I just hope he’s ready for an emotionally mature grown-ass woman in a candy-cane costume.
“Shoot, you know what…I just realized I can’t wear this to the party I’m going to because?—”
“Because it’s not a party for blind people?”
“Because there will be adults there, and the last time I wore this in New York at least ten guys walked up and licked me.”
“Ew. But also, does it come in my size?”
“You can have this one. I’ll alter it for you. And let’s be real—I was licked by random strange men in New York while wearing jeans and a sweater too.”
“I can totally see how someone who isn’t me would find you super yummy.”
“That is honestly the most flattering thing you have ever said to me—thank you! Can you unzip my jumpsuit and help me remove this headpiece?”
“That is, sadly, the sexiest propositionIhave had since you moved to LA.” Franklin removes the stuffed, arched cane hat from my head, tosses it onto my bed, and then gestures for me to turn around so he can unzip me. “Okay, Iwillsay that your booty looks sensational in this horrific boner-reducing waste of pink-and-white polyester and faux fur.”
“Thank you! Now help me decide what to wear to the party I’m going to in Brentwood.”
“Miniskirt, over-the-knee socks, knee-high boots, bralette under a tight sweater. Next question.” Then he mutters “No, no, no, God no!” as he goes through every item that’s hanging in my closet, eighty percent of which are costumes.
“It’s for a job. This adorable seven-year-old boy hired me, and I want to wear something special instead of one of the elf costumes I always wear around the holidays. I’ve only worn this one once since I bought it,” I tell him, pulling out the glittery blue-and-white snowflake costume. “But the last time I wore it a really creepy guy asked if he could pay extra to find out if I’ll melt on his tongue.” I shudder at the memory.
“If he was hot and had an English accent, then yes please; if not, that is grounds for pepper spray.”
I look at the clock on my bedside table. “Shoot. How long does it take to get to Brentwood from Silver Lake on a Saturday?”
“It takes forty-five minutes to get anywhere in LA—no matter what time of day it is, where you’re going, or coming from.”
“That can’t be true, but whatever. I’ll just wear an elf costume.”
“It’s a nighttime party. There might be single uncles and daddies there, so wear the slutty elf costume.”
