Reinventing Mona (13 page)

“Okay,” she said. “Just promise me you won’t lose yourself trying to become what you think someone else wants?”

“Deal.”

* * *

What I loved about shopping with Vicki was that she didn’t feel any sense of obligation to stay and look at clothing in boutiques if she knew right away that she wouldn’t be interested in anything there. After I’m in the shop I feel as if I have to examine a few items and feign interest when sales women go on about the designer’s artistic genius. Not Vicki. She isn’t at all averse to walking into a store and making a U-turn like a model strutting the catwalk.

At every store, all eyes followed Vicki’s monochromatic second layer of skin-tight pink jeans, a pink beaded cropped sweater, and pink platform shoes with bows. Vicki slinked over to items I would have never considered, touched the fabric, then held it up against her chest with a beaming smile that asked what I thought. At a hundred dollars an hour, she would get my unedited feedback. “Too low cut,” I dismissed.

“Low cut?
This?
You’re crazy. Try it on. You don’t have to buy it.” This was Vicki’s response to all of my concerns with her selections. I said too tight; she said try it on. I thought too slutty; she said slip it on for a quickie in the dressing room. I protested that colors and patterns were too bold; Vicki said I should have a fling with a brazen sweater.

“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Vicki, but I don’t want you to make me over into you. I need you to help me figure out my own style.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed. I hadn’t purchased anything in our first hour and she was in need of a cash register buzz. “Okay, I’m with you on working out your own style and all, but what did you mean by not wanting to look like me?”

It was a horrible time for me to feel a sense of conquest in deflating the pretty girl’s ego. It’s just that women like Vicki never valued my opinion. They never even asked for it. I had to confess that I felt a smidge of vindication that I hurt her feelings. Vicki had been nothing but kind to me, but in a moment she became every bitch at the Academy who called me a nerd, a freak, a hippie drug addict, and a lesbian. Then I looked at her waiting for my response, and Vicki was just Vicki again.

“I’m sorry,” I said as we sat on the wooden benches outside Forever 21, a store crowded with teens and middle-aged women. “Your look expresses who you are, but I want something that says me.”

“God, Mona, you are so full of shit,” she returned neutrally. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think of the way I dress? You won’t hurt my feelings.”

Hadn’t I already? And why was she telling me I wouldn’t hurt her feelings? Was it that I was just a client, not a real friend? Was it that I was frumpy and my opinion was therefore meaningless? Or was she simply begging me to tell her what she already knew—that the way she dressed revealed too much about Vicki’s desperate need for attention. I inhaled, mustering the nerve. “Vicki, you’re a very sexy woman. There’s no doubt about it. It’s just the way you dress screams ‘trying too hard.’ Your whole stomach is showing in that sweater. And that pink rhinestone Playboy bunny hanging from your bellybutton.” I shuddered. “It’s like you have no idea that people would look at you even if you didn’t invite them to. Please don’t take this the wrong way. All I’m saying is that you look good enough just with what you were born with. See these girls?” I pointed to a pack of teen girls with ironed hair and nondescript faces. “They need to try. You don’t. I think you’d be sexier if you went with a more conservative look. Like the really hot investment banker with the black wide leg pants suit and square toe shoes with tassels.”

“I want to look like a woman,” she protested.

“Trust me, no one is going to mistake you for a guy no matter what you’re wearing. Did I offend you?”

“Mona, I am basically unoffendable,” she postured. “Have you ever thought about getting your hair straightened?”

I shook my head, wondering if we’d finished the conversation about Vicki’s clothes.

“Can I ask you a question, Vicki?” She nodded. “What’s with all the pink?”

She laughed. “I had my colors done once and the woman said I should only wear pink.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Vicki, you’d look good in any color. Aren’t they supposed to give you a whole season or something, not just one color?”

She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I got the cut-rate deal. Do you really think I’d look good in any color?”

Could she really not know this? Or does she just need to hear it again? In any case, there was only one answer that I would give. “Yes, Vicki, you’d look good in puce.”

She smiled and bit her lip, then began shooting beauty tips rapid fire. “You’ve got a nice rich chocolate color to your hair. We should get you in for that Japanese hair straightening deal. Hey, after we get your new clothes, let’s go to the MAC store and ask them to give you a total makeover, then we can see what kind of makeup you should buy. Have you ever thought about shaping your eyebrows?”

Within minutes we were flipping through outfits at Ann Taylor. I bought a form-fitting black cotton sweater with a white embroidered looping design and matching pants, three spring button-down linen tops, a tasteful denim skirt, and a spunky little pair of wedge heels. By the end of the day, I had five shopping bags filled with outfits that were my brand of sexy—not Vicki’s. And she had a few new pantsuits that showed less skin and more Vicki. She dropped the pink and went from stripper chic to elegant sexy with an ease I envied.

“Wanna catch a movie?” Vicki offered as we walked to the mall parking lot to deposit our purchases in our respective car trunks.

“Off the clock?”

Vicki smiled. “Definitely off the clock. I had a good time today. I wouldn’t charge you unless I had to, but I’m strapped for cash right now, which is why I’m doing the whole stripping thing. I don’t want you to feel like we’re not friends or anything. I feel kind of bad charging you.”

“Vicki, I was just kidding about being on the clock. You provided a service today. I’m happy to pay you for it.  Really. Are you really going to get a job dancing?” I giggled nervously at the thought that one of my classmates was going to take her rhinestone-studded diploma and put it to use.

“Got an audition tomorrow. Manager said to come on in, he’ll take a look at me and if he likes what he sees, I need to be ready to give him a three-song routine right there and then.”

“Wow. Maybe our class should take a field trip and watch you some night,” I elbowed her.

“Assuming I get it,” she said, genuinely unassuming.

“You’re kidding, right?” I raised my eyebrows and opened my eyes wide to suggest her doubt was completely unfounded. “You are exactly what they’re looking for. You’re gorgeous, plus you picked up every dance move like it was second nature.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, realizing I was probably right that she’d ace the audition. “But don’t bring the class. Can you imagine Olivia there, ‘Errr, uh, excuse me, but I brought my own CD the girls could dance to. If anyone’s out sick today, I would just loooove to fill in.’”

We laughed conspiratorially. “I’m so sure a group of women would be welcome at a strip club. Can you imagine?” I tried my best old drunk guy voice, which for some reason came out sounding like Shrek. “Ah, come on now, ladies. First The Citadel, then Augusta, now strip clubs? ‘Ow ‘bout lettin’ us boys keep one safe ‘arbor, ay?” We giggled like Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble—chirpy and playfully contemptuous of the cavemen with whom we share the planet.

“Speaking of chauvinist pigs, how’s it going with my brother?”

“So far, all he’s done is sign me up for the stripping class, which I have to say was not an altogether terrible idea. He was right about me getting in touch with a different part of myself. Can I tell you something?” She nodded. “I have been having the hottest dreams since I took that class, not just when I’m sleeping either. For like two days after that class, all I could think about was sex.”

“I take it that’s not the normal state of affairs for you.” Vicki smiled.

“That’s an understatement.”

“Going through a dry spell?”

“Yeah, like a sixteen-year dry spell.”

“Sixteen years?!” She gasped. “Why? Do you have the world’s best vibrator or something?”

“I just never really got close to anyone after my first boyfriend. I just could never ...,” I trailed off.

“Broke your heart?”

“No, he died. He was killed, actually. Him and the rest of my family. There was an accident. No one survived.” It felt weird to say this aloud.

“Whoa!” Vicki absorbed this. “That’s horrible. I mean, you hear about things like that, but I’ve never met anyone who ... ” her voice trailed off. “I’m so sorry, Mona. How awful for you.” She paused, knitting her brow. “So you had sex with, I’m sorry what was his name?”

I hadn’t said it since the last time I spoke to him. “Todd,” struggled to escape.

“So you had sex with Todd, he was killed, and you haven’t been with a guy since?” I nodded. “I hope I don’t seem too crass here, but you’re not thinking you’re like the fuck of death or anything, are you?”

I burst into laughter. “The fuck of death?! Oh my God, Vicki, I can’t believe you said that!”

“I’m sorry.”

“God, no. Don’t be sorry. Everyone always walks on eggshells when they find out about, you know. No one’s ever accused me of being the fuck of death! Priceless.”

Vicki had clearly switched gears. “Mona, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but don’t get too attached to Mike, okay?”

“Attached? We have a business relationship, that’s all.”

“Okay, whatever. It’s just I’ve seen a lot of girls get shit on pretty badly by Mike. Not that some of them don’t deserve it, but you seem like a decent person. I don’t want to see him hurt you.”

“Hurt me? Mike’s an employee. He couldn’t hurt me if he tried. Vicki, I’ve hired him to help me appeal to another guy, remember?”

“Okay, my mistake.”

When I returned home that evening, there were two messages from Greta. The first asking how my day of shopping went; the second reminding me of the Kickin’ Chicks game the next weekend.

Gone Are the Good-Time Girls

—Mike “the Dog” Dougherty

It’s a sad day for dogs everywhere. The last of the good-time girls have gone the way of bridal registries and joint checking accounts. Due to some cruel twist of fate or imperfection of nature, even the hard-core good-time, casual sex party girls have been domesticated. Now, even they want a commitment from guys.

Cyberporn chicks now want a committed relationship with their voyeurs. What’s the world coming to?

I logged on to my e-mail account the other day and saw this subject line that read, “Want to see hot sluts get it on?” Not-so-coincidentally, the answer to that question was a resounding yes. I know how porn works. They give you a little glimpse, then want you to join some club for beaucoup bucks. No surprises there.

What I didn’t expect was that I’d be unable to log off the freakin’ site after a few minutes. Like a thousand relationships in the past, I found myself frantically clicking “End Task” to no avail. Hot Slut would not shut down. She would not go away. Suddenly, I’m getting images of credit cards she accepts. “End Task,” I pound. “Quit,” I press. “Exit. Exit. Exit.” She would have none of this. She was here to stay. She wants a commitment. She wants my money. She wants to introduce me to her slutty friends. Finally, I decide the only choice I had was to hit Control, Alt, Delete. And with the rest of my system, Hot Slut went away. An hour later, I log on again, and guess who’s back? You know it. It’s her and an army of e-sluts accosting me with offers. They tell me they just want to have fun, but I know what they really want—a long-term relationship with my Visa card.

I ended up having to put Hot Slut on my spam blocker, which is the electronic version of a restraining order.

Has the world gone completely nuts? Where are the good-time girls that were stashed in magazines under my dad’s side of the bed? The ones who wouldn’t utter a single word, but stood there posed naked for me to look at, then quietly left when I had something else to do?

Perhaps what’s so tough about this was that I always trusted that porn girls were most like us guys. They don’t talk much and when they do, it’s all about us and our dicks. They never need us to do household chores. They don’t have cats. Basically, they’re us with righteous female bods. When fantasy meets reality is where dreams end and nightmares begin. You cannot take a scrumptious fantasy woman and give her curlers and a rolling pin because the reality completely cancels out the fantasy. Here’s the equation: Pamela Anderson plus commitment equals Madge, the Palmolive lady. Sad but true.

I had to re-read Mike’s column after my lunch with Vicki. Was this man dropped on his head as a baby or something? Then I tried Greta’s pop psych picks. I would never admit this to her, but the books she bought me for Christmas had some interesting exercises. It’s not that I want to deny Greta the opportunity to be helpful; I just know how impossible she’d be if she knew I bought any of her psychobabble. She’d have a reading list for me and three referrals for therapists. I went online and found a book with a title that jumped out and grabbed me:
Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway!
It was the first time I’d ever contemplated that fear and action could coexist peacefully. I always thought I had to get over my fear before doing anything, but according to this Dr. Jeffers, I should embrace my fear rather than swatting it away like a swarm of flies.

It was time for me to call Adam for my tax appointment—the perfect time to feel my fear and do it anyway. I felt a nausea so strong I thought I might actually vomit. I paced the house and rehearsed exactly what I would say.

“Hello, Adam. It’s Mona Warren,” I practiced.

“Mona,” he’d sink into his chair with a smile, “How have you been? I was sorry to hear about Caroline. How are you getting along without her?”

“Thank you, Adam. Naturally, it’s been difficult. The fact that Grammy had eighty-one years and lived such a wonderful life is a great comfort to me. Tell me, will you need to file a 706 form for me this year?”