Common, he says with a grimace and a shake of his head, Just so very common.
There's no greater transgression in Michael's world, no greater fault or flaw. He has just turned 50, nowhere near as thin and far less gracefully than he'd anticipated or intended and he likes to relive the glory days, the hard body, brooding good looks, on the prowl days. We argue constantly about age, weight, hair loss and plastic surgery - in short, we argue about vanity - as anyone who has seen The Devil's Advocate knows, Satan's favorite sin. I never make much progress. It's like trying to reason with the John Birch Society.
We also argue about politics, gun control, music, issues of race, social programs, how to housebreak a dog, Fox television, the worth of cats, Coke vs Pepsi, and how warm or cold to keep the office. But vanity is always first on the list. I despair of his obsession with it. He dismisses my lack of appreciation for it.
Rummaging for aspirin in the upstairs bath, I have to make my way through a veritable black hole of cosmetics. Night creams, day creams, wrinkle creams. Jars of foundation and skin care products, face powder and false eyelashes. Lighteners, darkeners, a cup of eyebrow pencils. Astringents, blemish treatments, hair gel, pricey colognes. Concealers, a dozen small containers of blush and bronzers, hair spray. Spray on tanners and hair color, designer soaps, moisturizers, exfoliants and custom shampoos.
It's revoltingly superficial, I scold him, and it's costing you a fortune.
Try some of this natural argon oil, he tells me absently, it'll revitalize your hair and nails.
No, thanks, I say, I'm ok with un-revitalized hair and nails.
He gives me a critical look, appraising my hair and nails I'm pretty sure, than shrugs and steps on the scale. This is followed by a deep sigh. Disapproval is written all over his face and I decide to avoid the inevitable debate and look for aspirin elsewhere. I'm halfway down the stairs when the door bell rings and the dogs go wild, all three charging past me and barking explosively.
Gawd-dayum! I hear Michael shout in frustration, his favorite expression in times of crisis, What wildebeest is here at this godforsaken time of day?
In the best of times, he's not what you'd call a morning person and without coffee and Prozac, he can be uncommonly bad tempered but it's almost eleven and I decide to ignore him. The dogs are running in circles, barking furiously and feverishly assaulting the front door. When I battle my way past them and slip out, I'm confronted with something straight out of a homemade People of Walmart video - all 200 pounds of her - in shorts and a skimpy tank top, fishnet stockings and patent leather heels, gold streaked dread locks past her ample shoulders. What's left of her makeup is stale and doesn't do much to hide the scars and pockmarks and she smells like a brewery. Instinctively I back up a step and try to hold my breath.
Dis be the model place? she wants to know, followed by Dem dogs bite? and finally a request for bus fare. A single gold tooth glints in the sun and she actually reaches out a grubby hand toward me but her eyes keep darting to the behind me where where the dogs are now frantically howling and storming the door. When I tell her I'm going to let them out and we'll see if they bite or not, she curses colorfully and waddles off, her sequoia-like legs scraping together like sand paper. It's a truly cringe-worthy encounter.
Go sell crazy somewhere else. We're all stocked up here.
Jack Nicholson, "As Good As It Gets"
Rummaging for aspirin in the upstairs bath, I have to make my way through a veritable black hole of cosmetics. Night creams, day creams, wrinkle creams. Jars of foundation and skin care products, face powder and false eyelashes. Lighteners, darkeners, a cup of eyebrow pencils. Astringents, blemish treatments, hair gel, pricey colognes. Concealers, a dozen small containers of blush and bronzers, hair spray. Spray on tanners and hair color, designer soaps, moisturizers, exfoliants and custom shampoos.
It's revoltingly superficial, I scold him, and it's costing you a fortune.
Try some of this natural argon oil, he tells me absently, it'll revitalize your hair and nails.
No, thanks, I say, I'm ok with un-revitalized hair and nails.
He gives me a critical look, appraising my hair and nails I'm pretty sure, than shrugs and steps on the scale. This is followed by a deep sigh. Disapproval is written all over his face and I decide to avoid the inevitable debate and look for aspirin elsewhere. I'm halfway down the stairs when the door bell rings and the dogs go wild, all three charging past me and barking explosively.
Gawd-dayum! I hear Michael shout in frustration, his favorite expression in times of crisis, What wildebeest is here at this godforsaken time of day?
In the best of times, he's not what you'd call a morning person and without coffee and Prozac, he can be uncommonly bad tempered but it's almost eleven and I decide to ignore him. The dogs are running in circles, barking furiously and feverishly assaulting the front door. When I battle my way past them and slip out, I'm confronted with something straight out of a homemade People of Walmart video - all 200 pounds of her - in shorts and a skimpy tank top, fishnet stockings and patent leather heels, gold streaked dread locks past her ample shoulders. What's left of her makeup is stale and doesn't do much to hide the scars and pockmarks and she smells like a brewery. Instinctively I back up a step and try to hold my breath.
Dis be the model place? she wants to know, followed by Dem dogs bite? and finally a request for bus fare. A single gold tooth glints in the sun and she actually reaches out a grubby hand toward me but her eyes keep darting to the behind me where where the dogs are now frantically howling and storming the door. When I tell her I'm going to let them out and we'll see if they bite or not, she curses colorfully and waddles off, her sequoia-like legs scraping together like sand paper. It's a truly cringe-worthy encounter.
Go sell crazy somewhere else. We're all stocked up here.
Jack Nicholson, "As Good As It Gets"
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