Might as Well Laugh About It Now (12 page)

For the most part, it all went off without a hitch, but following the show on the way to the airport, Donny told me that he had absolutely no memory of the past two hours.

Then I found out why. He had been putting in long, intense hours every day producing and editing the videos for our Vegas show.

He was anxious about being alert and ready for the early-morning performance, so after we had checked in to the hotel the previous night, he decided to take a sleep aid, one he had carried around in his travel bag for years and had never used. One of the side effects, though rare, is temporary amnesia.

It’s probably a good thing we are Mormon and don’t drink or do drugs, because our chemical tolerance is ridiculously low. Balsamic vinaigrette and antihistamine nasal spray can make us giddy, I swear.

He asked me if it all went well. I told him yes even though I’m sure at some point he’ll probably see a replay of his attempt to apply the Heimlich maneuver to Diane Sawyer for no apparent reason. He may never look it up on YouTube, but I’m keeping a copy to use for ammunition someday when my unavoidable tardiness sends him over the edge. Working with someone as punctual as Donny, it’s good to have one ace up your sleeve to be able to say: “Remember when . . . ??”

I’m not trying to excuse my habit of running behind, but please, the playing field is so uneven when it comes to the amount of time a woman needs to get ready compared to what men need. If the most complicated part of getting ready for me was to adjust a slipknot on a necktie, I like to think I’d be twenty minutes early to everything.

Most women I know have this list of activities to complete before finding the car keys to leave: curling or flat-ironing hair; pressing out the wrinkles on your face, creaming it up, swabbing it down, spatula-ing, sponging, spraying, powder puffing; using wands, tubes, glue and tweezers, nylon, elastic, underwires, and control topping; as well as plucking, shaping, outlining, bronzing, and then blending it all together. Brush hair and then lint roll the runaways; hook, zip, and stretch; coordinate the metalware: earrings, watch, bracelets, necklace, and a hair bobble or two. Then . . . you have to find something to really wear once you realize the outfit you originally picked out looks ridiculous. Find two shoes that are the same style and color. (I don’t know about you, but sometimes I need a flashlight to do this step.) Now you might be ready to go unless you have to change out purses, which adds another five to seven minutes.

Then a woman usually has to repeat at least five of the above steps with and for any person in the household under age eighteen.

Here’s the male checklist: splash water on face, apply one dab of hair gel, find two matching shoes (and not even heels! I might add), make sure fly is up, put wallet in back pocket, grab the car keys, and . . . go.

Still, when Donny and I decided to do this show together at the Flamingo, I made a silent vow to myself that I was not going to be late. I figured I had lost forty-six pounds of weight in less than a year, now it was time to lose my habit of losing track of time.

The first week of our six-month run, I was feeling pretty good about my resolution. I was on time to almost every rehearsal, was ready to go for almost every press occasion and meeting, and . . . so far . . . had arrived for each of the four shows in plenty of time. And, to top it all off, it was the same week I had enrolled the four younger kids in their school, bought and organized school outfits, supplies, sports and scouting equipment, and schedules for the month. My seventeen-year-old, Michael, had been accepted into a performing arts program for high school students. He’s always had an incredible musical ear and the ability to pick up almost any instrument and play it, in the same way his grandpa did.

When Saturday arrived, I took my four little kids, along with Michael, and drove to a nearby health food emporium to pick out some nutritious snacks and dinner food for our family time. Since I have lost weight by eating better, my kids have become more conscious of their own choices. After seeing the massive salad bar, they asked if they could fix to-go cartons for an early dinner. As I helped Abby pick out some carrot sticks and sliced beets, I answered Matthew and Brandon’s repeated questions of “What’s that???” as they pointed to bins of tofu and creamed eggplant.

Then I saw the edamame (soy beans in the pod), which is Rachael’s favorite, so I said to Michael, “Maybe we should make a salad to take home to Rachael.”

“No, Mom,” Mike answered. “She’s not at home. She’s at work.”

“Okay,” I said, checking out the spicy hummus dip.

That was when a cold reality washed over me, as if someone had turned on the sprinkler system to hose off the produce.

“Rachael’s at work???”
I screeched, scaring the kids into a fast freeze.

The reason for my panic was that Rachael works with me, as my wardrobe assistant for the Flamingo show. If Rachael was at work, there was a 100 percent chance that I should be there, too.

I looked down at my watch. It was only three thirty-five p.m., hours before the seven thirty show. But what I had failed to remember was that every Saturday in September, we did two shows. The first one was a four p.m. matinee! What’s worse was that the Flamingo Hotel was no less than twenty miles west of my current location. That would mean a twenty-five-minute drive without any traffic tie-up at all.

“Drop your tongs!” I barked at the kids. “Grab your containers and . . . run!”

Getting through the checkout line was a complete blur, but I’m pretty sure I tipped the cashier 120 percent of the bill as I couldn’t even wait for the change. As we dashed across the parking lot, I kept a fast hold on Abby’s hand so she couldn’t slow to a walk from a jog.

“My mini corns!” Abby cried out, as tiny pickled corncobs bounced out of her open container and torpedoed to the asphalt below.

“Mommy’s sorry, sweetheart,” I said to calm her dismay. “I’ll get you some more for Christmas.” Lucky for me, guarantees like this tend to make sense to six-year-olds.

I had left my cell phone plugged into the car to recharge. Not surprisingly I had about fourteen missed calls and a long list of text messages all saying the same thing: “Where are you????”

I checked in the rearview mirror to make sure every kid and every limb was inside the car and then I backed out of the parking space, pressing the speed dial to my manager, Karl, on my cell phone.

He answered: “Marie! Where are you?”

I’ve never understood why people want to know your geographical location when it’s obvious you’re not where you’re supposed to be.

“I’ve decided I can’t take it anymore and I’m driving up the coast of California,” I said, because self deprecation is my best defense when I’ve put myself in a bind.

Karl responded, “Matthew is nine years old. I’m sure you don’t have postpartum depression anymore.”

I had to laugh. “Karl, trust me. I’m on my way to the theater, but I’m really late.”

“Well, there’s a sold-out house full of people here, looking forward to seeing the show,” Karl said. “So hurry.”

There’s nothing like a dose of guilt peppered onto panic to make you feel like it’s all going to turn out all right. But somehow I knew it would. I took a moment to say a silent prayer for safety and calmness. As always, the result was a feeling of being graced with a sense of peace.

For some reason, the cars in the lanes ahead of me moved aside like floating icebergs, parting to let the “mothership” pass. The kids were quiet and my mind began to process what I needed to do to be ready for the show.

Karl rang my phone again. “Should I tell the stage manager that we need to hold the show?”

“No! No,” I said. “Just give Donny a sleeping pill. I’ll be there.”

I pulled into the Flamingo parking garage fifteen minutes later. (Maybe we
can
time travel!) As I shifted into park, Michael said to me: “Run ahead, Mom. I’ll bring the kids.”

At the top of the elevator, my daughter Rachael grabbed my arm and dashed me into my dressing room. It was five minutes before four o’clock. She and my makeup person, Kim, had laid out my costume across the floor so I could literally walk into it all.

Kim yanked a brush with hairspray on it through my hair to smooth it down as Rachael taped my audio cords to my neck. Someone dropped to the floor, shoving my feet into my show shoes, then tugged out the earrings I was wearing and replaced them with the show jewelry.

There was no time for makeup, so I resorted to my Sharpie marker, which can be used as eyeliner, mascara, and to mark my beauty dot near my eye. From years of lateness, I’ve learned exactly what lines to draw on my face to give me the appearance of being in complete makeup. I threw on a layer of lipstick as the stage manager came through the door.

“Places!” she called out. She looked a bit surprised. “Are you really ready?”

“Ready!” I said, turning to greet her with a smile. I knew that up close, I probably looked a bit like a send-up of Carol Burnett playing Gloria Swanson playing Norma Desmond in
Sunset Boulevard
, but I was hoping that with the stage lights no one would notice my crooked lip line and smudged eyeliner corners.

I turned to mouth the words “Thank you!” to my dressing assistants as I exited behind the stage manager. Their quick thinking saved my backside . . . and my front side, too.

At the beginning of every show, Donny and I descend a flight of metallic stairs, side by side, singing our opening number, but first a set of powerful lights shadows our image in silhouette on the white scrims that hang between us and the audience.

As the preshow music started up, I joined Donny at the top of the staircase to strike our usual pose. It was exactly four p.m.

Donny looked over at me and squinted his eyes suspiciously. He could tell that there was something not quite right, but he wouldn’t be able to say that I was late. About halfway through the show I sing a tribute to my mother and father, their favorite song, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” I think it was one of my best performances ever of that song. I was swinging those lyrics. I guess it could be the “clap your hands and stomp your feet” rhythm of it, but I’m pretty sure it was the jolts of natural adrenaline that were still pumping through my veins from my close call with missing the matinee. It really is a good thing that Osmonds don’t drink or do drugs, because I was flying high for the whole show and through the evening performance, too. By the way, I didn’t dare leave the theater between shows. I wasn’t about to push my luck!

“Wise Men Say”

A doll and a good laugh were always my MO.

The most phenomenal bouquets of flowers that were ever sent to our hotel while we worked in Vegas weren’t for me. They weren’t for Donny, either, or any of my brothers, for that matter. They were for my mother. They were from Elvis Presley.

Elvis Presley adored my mother. He met her after one of my brothers’ early Las Vegas appearances. He looked closely at my mother’s face and then stopped to talk to her for quite a while. My brothers and I stood by, watching in awe, as my mother began a lifelong friendship with him. Now, both Elvis Presley and the Queen of England had my mother’s phone number!