The Botox Diaries, page 22
“The best,” Lucy says, kissing his cheek. “But could we stop with the ‘fuckings’ now?”
“Sure. Till later,” he says with a wink.
Hunter swaggers toward the hotel’s cavernous restaurant, where the cameras and lights are already set for the interview, and settles into a banquette. The audio engineer clips a wireless mike on Hunter’s lapel and hands him the remote to snap onto his belt.
“Actually, we’re not starting the shot right here,” Lucy says diplomatically. “Darling, I didn’t mention this to you, but the network’s having a little problem with the rough cuts of the pilot they’ve seen so far. They want a few changes.”
“What’s the matter, they don’t like me? They want a new host?” Hunter asks jocularly, confident that the network’s about as likely to replace him as the Pope is to announce his engagement.
“No, no, nothing like that. Not yet,” Lucy says. “We’re not nearly at that point.”
“At that point?” Hunter asks in disbelief. “What do you mean ‘at that point’?” His ego is so fragile that with three words he’s flip-flopped completely. Now he’s expecting that the invitations to the Pope’s wedding are already in the mail. And he’s not even on the list.
“Don’t worry, darling. I think we can solve it with more behind-the-scenes. The network thinks that’s where you’re stronger. So we’re going to start this shot in the kitchen. With you working with the chef to make the Olsen girls’ lunch.”
Now Hunter’s ego is flat-lining faster than WorldCom.
“You mean I’ve got this great opportunity to have a sit-down with the Olsen twins and you’re shuttling me off to the kitchen?” he asks in despair.
What’s happened to the teen twins not being worth his time? I guess compared to flipping burgers for them, an actual interview with Mary-Kate and Ashley is looking better every moment.
“It’s pretty nice in the kitchen,” I say, handing Hunter the just-brewed double soy Equal cappuccino no whip that I’ve fetched. “The chef’s terrific. Did you know they invented the rum-and-Coke right here at this hotel?” And who’s to say not? Love this research gig. I wonder if encyclopedic knowledge of the Olsen twins and unprovable claims about mixed drinks will get me into Mensa.
Lucy, working hard to keep the talent happy, takes Hunter by the hand and leads him into the kitchen. “So here’s the lineup,” she says. “We’ll shoot the girls with their menus and then cut to you in the kitchen. You’ll give America all the behind-the-scenes on what really happens in a famous restaurant kitchen. Then—and this is the best part, darling—you’ll come out with the tray.”
Hunter is now too deflated to ask how his carrying a tray could possibly be the best part. Good for pumping up his pecs? So Lucy helps him out.
“I can just picture the shot, can’t you? The girls think the waiter’s coming and then it’s you. Hunter Green. They’ll be so thrilled to actually meet you. I can hear them squealing now.”
“That could work,” Hunter says, hearing those very same squeals of delight.
I, however, can hear only the steady buzz of the air conditioner. I guess you have to work in TV full-time to share an audio hallucination.
The Olsen twins arrive in a whirl of tight tees, long hair, and dozens of long-looped necklaces. They plunk down their pocketbooks and sit shoulder to shoulder, just as adorable as advertised. But gosh, they’re young. Maybe if you add their ages together with Hunter’s and divide by three you hit the key demo. There’s an equation Einstein never thought of. Mensa, here I come.
Even hidden away in the kitchen, Hunter knows how to make a scene shine. Once the cameras are rolling, he ties on an apron and schmoozes with the chef. You’d think that learning how to make the perfect Salade Niçoise is all he ever wanted to do in life.
“This is fabulous,” Hunter swoons to the chef, theatrically tossing olives into the bowl. “I never imagined the drama that goes on back here. So much hustle and bustle. So much tension. It all seems so calm when you’re sitting out there in the dining room. But now we’re seeing everything that really goes on.”
Well, not everything. The cameras carefully avoid the sous-chef who drops a piece of raw chicken on the floor and casually picks it up and throws it on the grill, as if it’s an everyday occurrence. Which I guess it is. Then there’s the recycled coleslaw. What’s left over on one person’s plate just gets sent out with a new order. And as a pièce de résistance, we have the assistant who’s garnishing the dishes. Alas, he seems to be having a sneezing fit. So along with the beautiful edible flowers, he adds his own finishing touch. A spray of germs. Not on the menu.
With lunch ready, Hunter trades in his apron for a crisp maroon waiter’s jacket. Size XLG. This isn’t menswear at Barneys—nobody’s sized down the uniform to spare his feelings. Ready for his big entrance, Hunter hoists the tray in the air, pushes through the swinging doors and heads out to the Olsen twins.
“Lunch is ready,” he carols.
The girls are deeply engrossed in conversation—they obviously don’t get enough time together—and never look up. So Hunter, the consummate performer, takes the oversized salad bowls and places them carefully in front of each twin, appropriately serving from the left. Or maybe he’s just the consummate waiter. What actor isn’t.
Finally, the ever-polite Olsens look up and flash him their million-dollar smiles. “Thanks so much,” they say in unison, as they dig into their salads. But there are no squeals of delight or even minor hints of recognition. Hunter hovers awkwardly, not sure what to do next.
And then he decides.
“Can you just scoot over a little bit?” he asks an astonished Ashley, trying to nudge his way onto the banquette.
I’m worried that the girls are going to scream for security. Or Hunter, feeling insecure, is going to start screaming at Lucy. But instead, he puts his hand lightly on Mary-Kate’s and offers a friendly grin.
“You have no idea who I am, do you,” he laughs. “And no reason you should. But I know that you’re the amazing Olsen twins. Honored to meet you, I’m Hunter Green.”
Look at that—the Olsens have turned from “fucking” to “amazing.” And Hunter’s saving the day.
“Oh!” squeals Ashley. “We know who you are.”
“Of course we do!” squeals Mary-Kate.
Love those squeals. At last. And with charm to spare, Hunter wins over the Olsens and starts chatting so comfortably with them that they almost forget they’re on camera. My research has paid off. He knows which twin is older and joshes that pretty soon that won’t seem like an advantage.
“A few birthdays from now you’ll be insisting you’re two minutes younger,” he teases.
He banters about boyfriends but doesn’t ask anything embarrassing. He mentions that they’re on the list of the richest teens in the world—and artfully leaves room for Mary-Kate to point out that they earned their money while the others inherited it. He tells a story about Eminem, then confesses that the first time he heard the singer’s name, he thought it was a candy. When, after thirty minutes, the cameraman stops to change tapes and Lucy calls a wrap, the girls don’t want to leave.
“We’re having so much fun!” Ashley gushes to Hunter, her new best bud.
“Maybe you could be in our next movie,” offers Mary-Kate.
“Right, I could play the irascible grandpa,” Hunter laughs, making a joke at his own expense.
“No, you’re a cool guy,” Mary-Kate says cheerfully. “You could play the father.”
Hunter would probably have preferred the on-screen role of boyfriend, but he accepts the compliment.
Hunter and the Olsens exchange kisses and e-mail addresses. And then he has one more request.
“I know of two sweet little girls who’d love an autographed picture,” Hunter says. “Can you sign one to ‘Lily’ and the other to ‘Jen’?”
“Sure,” they say, signing the pictures and loading him down with a stack of DVDs and CD-ROMs before heading out to their limousine.
“That was so incredibly sweet of you,” Lucy says when the girls are gone, the cameras are packed and the tumult has died down. “Wonderful interview. And after all that, you think about the kids. You do everything right.”
“That’s why you adore me,” he says, pulling her close. “Maybe,” Lucy says.
I’m back in school. And the wire-haired, bulbous-nosed teacher standing at the blackboard has an announcement for the thirty-five parents fidgeting uncomfortably in the dim, overheated classroom.
“We should encourage our children to masturbate,” says Ms. Deitch, the phys-ed teacher, in a whiny, high-pitched voice. If anyone knows, she does. She’s obviously never had sex any other way.
She and her accomplice, an overweight, greasy-haired science teacher with a thin pencil mustache and big sweat rings under the armpits of his short-sleeved Dacron shirt, nod knowingly.
I always thought it was a good idea that our kids would be offered sex ed next year in the sixth grade. But now that I’m seeing the instructors, who are giving us a preview of what they’ll be teaching, I’m having doubts. These aren’t the people I want Jen to conjure up every time she thinks about sex. Although maybe they are. It could help promote teenage abstinence.
Sitting in the wooden classroom chair next to me, Dan leans over and scribbles a note on my pad.
“Cn u believe this?”
“Shh, pay attention,” I whisper.
“I already know it all,” he whispers back.
“Excuse me, could we have one conversation here?” Ms. Deitch asks sternly, peering out over her bifocals at Dan, clearly now branded as the class troublemaker. “Young man, did you have a question about masturbation or may I continue?”
“Sorry, please go ahead,” Dan says. Then he adds to me under his breath, “I think I’ve got the topic in hand.”
“Would you stop it,” I say, punching him on the arm. “I don’t want to get in trouble, too.”
“As soon as everyone’s comfortable with masturbation, I’ll move right along,” says Ms. Deitch.
If this overview of the sex-ed syllabus is turning Dan into an adolescent, I can only imagine what it’s going to be like when the class is taught to the kids next year. Are they ready for this? The stats say it’s not unusual for kids to be having sex by seventeen. I didn’t even have my ears pierced by then.
Ms. Deitch drones ahead, managing to make masturbation, menstruation and copulation all sound equally boring. She has learning tools for the children, including a detailed drawing of the female reproductive system and a three-dimensional polyethylene model of a penis. Looks better in real life. Well, usually.
“We’re just about at the climax of the evening,” says the science teacher, Mr. Johnson, making a bad joke and laughing nervously. Oy. If this is how Jen learns about sex, I’ll never have grandchildren. “Before we get to our climax,” he repeats, not knowing when to leave bad enough alone, “let’s take some questions.”
Everyone is silent.
“Come on,” he cajoles. “There must be something.”
Finally one woman in the back nervously raises her hand. “I think all this information is so important for our children,” she says in a timorous voice. “We didn’t have this when I was in school. So there’s one thing I’m wondering about.” She pauses, working up her courage. “What can you do if your husband always comes before you do?”
“You can get a new husband,” says Mr. Johnson efficiently. “Next question?”
Maybe I underestimated Mr. Johnson. He does have a natural flair for comedy. Dan is smirking and I refuse to catch his eye, knowing that if I do, I’ll burst out laughing.
“Come on, one more question,” Mr. Johnson prompts.
“Here’s one,” says the dreaded PTA president Cynthia importantly. How did I not notice her here before? “What does it mean when the children say they’re ‘hooking up’?”
“Glad you brought it up,” says Ms. Deitch evenly. “You might want to write this down because it’s a little complicated.”
Dutifully thirty-five parents poise their pens to pad.
“Hooking up,” she says, as if she’s narrating a BBC documentary. “We’ll go through it step-by-step. In seventh grade it’s kissing. Eighth grade, French kissing. Ninth grade, fondling. Tenth grade, oral sex. Eleventh grade, intercourse. Did everybody get that? Did I go too fast?”
No, but it sounds like the kids are. I make a note to call Boulder’s mother, the good Catholic, to find out where the closest convent schools are.
“So what happens in twelfth grade?” asks Cynthia.
“You don’t want to know,” calls out another mother. Who obviously has older children.
That topic taken care of, our instructors are ready to forge ahead.
“Now my favorite part of the evening,” says Mr. Johnson eagerly. “Pick a partner. We’re ready for a practice session.”
Now I can’t even look in Dan’s direction. But I don’t have to. Because he’s started laughing so loudly that he’s attracting attention.
“You again, young man?” scolds Ms. Deitch, trying to rein in the class member most likely to be sent to the principal’s office. “Do you need a moment to collect yourself in the hall or may we continue? I have something to distribute.”
If this is how she’s going to handle things next year, she’ll be teaching the entire class in the hallway. But Dan, trying to redeem himself and prove that he’s ever the good boy, springs to his feet.
“Let me help you give those out,” he volunteers, taking charge of the box and starting up and down the rows.
I can’t see what Dan’s passing out until he gets to my desk.
“Oh great, thanks,” I say, looking at the offering, grateful for the snack break. “I’m hungry. A banana. Exactly what I needed.”
I start unpeeling the banana when Cynthia leaps up and snatches it out of my hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she screams at me. “You can’t eat that banana. They’re visual aids. Paid for by the PTA.”
Okay, now I get it. I’m glad to know my PTA dues aren’t being wasted.
After Dan finishes distributing the bananas, Cynthia—wanting to reclaim her position as the Student Most Likely to Succeed—hijacks the supply box. Her chore—handing out condoms. Trojans. All shapes and sizes.
“I have one mantra that I insist all the children memorize,” says Ms. Deitch emphatically. Repeat after me. “No penis …”
We all look at her in shock.
“Please repeat after me,” she barks. “This is absolutely the most important thing you’ll ever learn. Ready? No penis …”
By now, too battered down to argue, we dutifully repeat, “No penis …”
“… is too big …”
“… is too big …” we chime in, warming to the subject.
“… for a condom.”
“… for a condom!” we boom in unison, thoroughly caught up in the group spirit.
That felt good. I’m finally bonding with these people. With all the uncertainty in the world, it’s important to have something you can count on. The air is crackling with so much energy we could be at a revival meeting. Before we burst into “The Hallelujah Chorus,” Mr. Johnson breaks open his condom package
“Face your partners, banana between you,” he instructs. “Any of you married people who are still monogamous might not have done this in a while.”
Following Mr. Johnson’s lead, I tear into the condom package with gusto—managing to rip the contents.
“Whoops,” I say. “I guess I’m out of practice.”
Dan looks over. “Not your fault. Looks like you got the lambskin. Not very durable. You can share mine. It’s a lot stronger. And glow-in-the-dark.”
I get that we want the kids comfortable with condoms. But glow-in-the-dark? Just how young are we aiming here? Did Cynthia provide Blue’s Clues condoms, too?
Ms. Deitch, not quite as forgiving as Dan, comes over to my desk.
“What happened?” she asks as if I’d just dropped Michelangelo’s David. “Please stand up and show the class what you’ve done.”
I shuffle to my feet. “I had the lambskin,” I offer, meekly looking for an explanation while next to me, Dan snickers. But Ms. Deitch isn’t letting me off the hook so easily.
“Go ahead, show the class,” she orders, hovering over me with arms crossed until I limply wave the torn condom in midair.
“This is how babies get born,” she says accusingly, as if I’m personally responsible for the population explosion. “Parents, I want you to go home tonight and practice, practice, practice!”
Practice having sex or opening condoms? Little chance I’ll do either. Chastised, I sit back down and the instruction continues: How to unroll a condom onto a banana. Are we going to get graded? I hope so, because Dan and I ace this one. What a team. But the woman behind us is encountering some difficulty.
“This isn’t working,” she complains loudly. “My banana’s too soft.”
“I only got the very firmest bananas,” Cynthia shoots back defensively. “I checked every one myself.”
Hate to be standing behind her when she’s buying grapes.
As we finish protecting our bananas and wrapping up the session, Mr. Johnson has one final announcement. “Just to let you know that starting in ninth grade, condoms are provided in the nurse’s office to the children,” he says. “No questions asked.”
Very reassuring. I have to sign in triplicate before they’ll let Jen go on a class trip to the Museum of Natural History. But she can have sex, no permission slip needed. Then again, I could sign in quadruplicate forbidding Jen to have sex until she’s thirty-five and it wouldn’t make any difference. Ultimately it’s going to be her decision. The best I can do is teach her my values, light a candle and pray.
Before anybody can get out, Cynthia makes a beeline for the door.
“Turn in your bananas,” she orders. “No one leaves with a banana.”
Most of the parents dutifully return their visual aids to the box.
“Condoms, too?” asks one man.
“No! You can keep those if you want,” Cynthia says. “Just make sure they’re off the bananas. Last bake sale of the year is next week and I’m making the banana bread.”
