Hot Flash (9 page)

Three days before my date with hubba-hubba-Tony a.k.a. Easel Boy, I began preparations by power shopping for the ideal outfit. The next day I found the perfect, sexy-strappy shoes.

When I began my preparations early on the afternoon of The Date, my goal was to eke every bit of pleasure out of getting ready. My schedule was filled to the brim with activities such as manicure, pedicure, body-hair removal, and bubble bath.

While I was excited about Tony and my Tuition Plan, it wasn’t likely that the first salesman I auditioned would be a winner. I’m not that lucky.

At worst, preparing for The Date would leave me relaxed and feeling my best for two hours over dinner with an attractive Mr. Creep-Me-Out. At best, we’d hit it off, I’d continue thinking he might be Mr. Perfect, and date number two would be in the bag.

So I was standing in the kitchen, determined to gain pleasure from my pre-date rituals, hard at work so I could adequately pamper myself, when my son stuck his nose out of his bedroom.

“Whaccha up to,
Maman
?”

I didn’t cringe, not even a little. Maybe the French expression was growing on me? Nah. Sticking the cucumber into the food processor, I said, “I’m making a mud facial.”

He looked at the bag of 100 percent clay litter sitting on the counter beside the food processor. “We don’t have a cat.”

“It’s for my facial. Mixing it with liquid will turn it into mud.”

“Le ick.”
He held up his hands as he backed away. “Just so long as you don’t consider it an ingredient for dinner.”

“You’re having pizza, so you’re safe.”

“Delivery?”

“Yup.” I added some water to the cucumber slices, then hit the puree switch. Within seconds, my fresh cucumber was a lovely green froth.

“Can you order a large pizza? That way I can have a friend over.”

“You got it.”

I should have paid more attention to him. Instead, I was concentrating on adding the green froth to a bowl of litter. I hadn’t made this facial before, and it seemed a little odd to use litter on my face, but mud facials are made of clay and since the brand of kitty litter was 100 percent clay, I didn’t see why it wouldn’t work like a charm. The facial mixture came out a bit lumpy, but it probably needed to steep a while.

Since I had other things on my agenda, I abandoned the facial goo and headed to the bathroom. Once I wrapped my hair in mayo and Saran Wrap, I returned to the kitchen and stirred the facial. It was getting muddier and less lumpy. Figuring it needed more steeping, I returned to the bathroom and began my pedicure.

After moisturizing them in the bathtub, I then sanded and powdered and generally loved my feet. I once read an article in
Cosmo
that said women who loved their feet were happier. I wasn’t sure if I agreed but figured it wouldn’t hurt to find out. I even had those cute, bright pink foam pads for separating my toes, which I used while painting my toenails.

I walked on my heels—holding my toes in the air as much as possible—back to the kitchen, hoping the foam pads would keep the polish from smearing. I checked the mud facial. There were decidedly fewer clumps and some of the clumps might be cucumber peel, so I took it to the living room mirror and began applying the green mud to my face.

While I was smearing the stuff on, Stephen came out of his lair again and took one look at me. His eyes met mine in the mirror reflection, an expression of horror on his face, then he immediately went back inside his room, like a turtle retracting for safety.

I looked at my image and agreed; I was pretty scary. From the mayo and plastic covering my head, the thick, green, lumpy goop on my face, my well-worn and oversized COOKS DO IT HOTTER T-shirt (with a number of rips and gouges caused by a run-in with a staple gun), down to the rain forest I call my legs and the hot pink toe separators, I was the spitting image of Sasquatch. At least I’d be beautiful by tonight.

I shrugged and continued applying the goop. It was already drying near my hairline and turning an interesting shade of forest green. Maybe not Sasquatch. Perhaps a visitor from Mars?

The doorbell rang. Figuring it was Stephen’s friend arriving for dinner, I threw open the door.

Mr. Davin Wesley!

How did he always manage to look so … muscular, as if his chest strained against his button-down shirt?

A glop of mayo slid down my neck.

I slammed the door shut.

What the hell was he doing here? My heart hammered. Blood rushed to my head. My hands flew up in the air. (I’d never honestly believed this happens to people when they’re surprised, but guess what? It does.)

Okay. Calm down.

Screw that.

“Stephen!” I shouted.

“Oui.”

“Who the hel—ahem—who did you invite for dinner?”

“Mr. Wesley. I told you I was inviting him.”

Ah, no, he’d said a friend.
Devil
Wesley had never been mentioned. I shoulda known he’d turn up at the worst possible moment.

There was no way Wesley was getting a second glimpse of me looking like Frankenstein hopped up on steroids. I hobbled (the foam toe pads prevented me from running from the scene of my recent humiliation) to the bathroom, yelling, “He’s here. Go let him in.”

I quickly closed the bathroom door and any hope I might have entertained that Davin hadn’t had a good look at me died as I heard his maniacal laughter when Stephen let him in. All the way at the back of my apartment. On the other side of the bathroom door.

It was bad enough that anyone other than a blood relative saw me looking like the undead, but to have it be
him
—a man I disliked and who already had an extremely low opinion of me—made it worse. Much worse.

I had no other recourse but to set a goal. The next time he saw me, when I exited the bathroom, I’d be so incredibly gorgeous it would totally drive the other image of me permanently out of his head. In fact, he’d probably be unable to keep himself from shouting
Va-va-va-voom
while attempting to hide an instant erection.

It was the only solution.

I looked at my face in the mirror over the sink. I had a lot of work to do. Why hadn’t I insisted on a face-lift to go with my new boobs? The Asshole Professor could have afforded it.

Even worse, I didn’t have any other clothes in the bathroom. I searched through the linen closet, seeking something other than a threadbare towel. I came up empty, well, except for the colander I’d been looking for last week. How the hell had it gotten mixed in with the washcloths?

Okay, I’d have to wear the T-shirt, but at least the rest of me could look fabulous.

While the facial continued steeping—and by this point I was wondering how soon I should take it off. Could it stain my face?—the next item on my agenda was tending to the rain forest that had taken over my legs. After my breakup with the Asshole Professor, I’d gotten a bit lax about shaving my lower limbs (I did keep my upper limbs in tip-top smooth shape, natch). I like to think of this sacrifice as my contribution to the world’s ecology. Think of the petroleum products that weren’t consumed by Bic.

With only a little trepidation, I examined my legs. Thankfully, no jungle animals had claimed them as a habitat. Wanting to do things right for my upcoming date, I’d purchased a jar of leg wax. Well, kind of leg wax. Figuring I’d give myself third-degree burns, I bought the kind that you didn’t have to heat and that mentioned the word
honey
on the label. Sounded good to me.

Pure. Wholesome.

I carefully prepared the cloths I’d need for strip-mining the rain forest, and began. It worked very well and, while very sticky, my legs were presentable in no time. Feeling flush with success, I decided to give myself a bikini wax.

There should have been a warning on the label.

“AAIIiieeeEEEEaaaaiiiEEEEEiii.” That’s a close approximation to the sound that catapulted itself through my larynx, having removed some of the soft skin (necessary skin, in my humble opinion) in that tender area where my leg met my body.

Within seconds, Stephen pounded on the bathroom door. “Are you okay, Mom?”

Between screams, I managed to reassure him that it wasn’t necessary to call 9-1-1.

I was even alert enough to note that he’d dropped the French-isms temporarily. After my high-pitched operetta ceased, and the vision had returned to my eyes, I couldn’t figure out how to get the rest of the cloth and pseudo-wax off, because there was no way I was yanking it the rest of the way. I turned on the shower, waited for the water to run warm, then jumped in.

“AAIIiieeeEEEEaaaaiiiEEEEEiii.” Again, I have to applaud myself for my awareness, despite pain akin to having your ovaries ripped from your body via your throat. I realized how very similar my caterwauling was to a female cat in heat, except I was louder.

More thundering on the bathroom door.

However, this time the door was flung open.

Of course it was my nemesis, yelling something about calling a doctor or carrying me to the hospital and a suicide watch.

Between yowls, I said, “Get the hell out of here,” while I tried to hide behind the less-than-opaque shower curtain, and wondered why I hadn’t first removed the mayo and plastic from my hair.

Again the maniacal laughter, but he
was
smart enough to make a fast get away. There wasn’t time for anger now; I was too consumed with agony.

Once I stopped screaming for the second time—amazed at how painful water meeting skin stripped from the body could truly be—I managed to remove most of the waxing product and the cloth. After a quick wash of my hair, careful to keep soapy water from contacting my nether regions, I climbed out of the shower, a mere shell of my former self. I say a shell primarily because I quickly learned that walking was nearly as painful as the water had been. I mastered an odd, spider-walk, where I stuck my injured leg out, far far out, ahead of my body, slung my body forward until it nearly met my leg, then began again. It was pretty scary.

I wondered if women had died from this. Was I the latest on a long list of women who’d sacrificed their health all in the name of beauty?

How was I going to be able to work in this condition?

Even worse, I couldn’t think of anything more dreadful than the idea of having sex, much less auditioning a traveling salesman. Maybe I needed to cancel The Date?

I considered my options and the obstacles in front of me. I’d eventually have to leave the bathroom, either to cancel The Date or go on The Date, so either way, I’d have to face my nemesis while dressed in a towel or my holey T-shirt. But … I had a tube of antibiotic ointment infused with Novocain pain reliever in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror over the sink.

I grabbed the tube and a box of adhesive bandages and went to work on my injury. After applying half the tube to my owie, I slapped a bandage on it. Since I’d been so generous with the ointment, the bandage didn’t want to stick. I grabbed another bandage. And another. And another.

After applying eleven bandages, I figured it had done the trick. Now to see whether I could walk.

I took a tentative step.

At first I could only spider-creep my way to the door. However, after a little practice (or maybe the Novocain finally kicked in), I mastered something like my normal gait. Kinda.

After pacing the bathroom six more times, I decided I could walk semi-normally as long as I took it slowly.

So what if I didn’t get to audition Tony tonight? I could enjoy the pleasure of his company and get to know him better. I could audition him on personality traits rather than sexual prowess. M.B.S. could wait until date number two.

It didn’t take long to dry and style my hair, put on my makeup, and wrap myself in a towel. I was as gorgeous as I could make myself and ready for The Date—well, except for clothes.

Taking one last look at myself in the mirror, I was pleased with my appearance. While Wesley might not have an instant erection, I looked pretty damn good. And maybe the towel would make me look sexy?

I stealthily unlatched the door, pulled it open very slowly, hoping it wouldn’t creak as it often does. I peeked out, but didn’t see either Stephen or his fiendish ex-teacher. Turning my head, I saw Stephen’s door was open wide, revealing an empty room. I stepped from the bathroom. Where the hell were they?

Hitching the towel up higher, I stalked through the apartment and didn’t find either of them, before giving up and returning to my bedroom.

It was just as well they weren’t here. After all, I didn’t want Wesley to see me in only a threadbare towel, and Stephen would probably have made some sarcastic French comment anyway.

I took my time slipping on the new outfit I’d bought for The Date. The skirt was short, very short, as short as the pink one my mother is so fond of when it comes to matchmaking me with unsuitable men. My new one was a lovely shade of dark blue chiffon and it was flirty and youthful and I knew, without a doubt, that I looked fantastic in it.

I pulled on the matching camisole, then covered that in a see-through chiffon over shirt. After slipping on my new strappy shoes, I took a look in the full-length mirror inside my closet door. Oh, wow. I might be forty flipping years old, but I didn’t look it in this outfit. If it didn’t knock any number of traveling salesmen’s socks off, I couldn’t imagine what would. And, it would definitely erase any unpleasant earlier images of me, should my son and his loony teacher have returned.

I quickly put on faux diamond ear studs, a tiny chain and locket, and dabbed on the barest hint of Opium as the finishing touches before emerging from my bedroom.

From the smell, I could tell the pizza had arrived. As I entered the kitchen, two low male whistles greeted me.

Bingo!

From the grins on their faces, I could tell my outfit was a big hit.

“You like?” I asked, spinning.

“Tres bien, Maman.”

“Planning to break some hearts tonight?” asked Wesley.

“I sure hope so.” When I grabbed my handbag from the kitchen counter, I noticed the teacher was doing something to my sink. “What are you doing?”