Imperfection

Thanksgiving is Beth Holly's birthday this year. She's turning -it's-no one-business...how old. The Botox and Juviderm, good hair, dash of make-up, yoga practice and vegeterian diet have taken off at least 10 years. Her life is happy. She's fashionably dressed, well-married, devoted mother, traditional and gracious in manner, educated, and socially involved.

Just home from yoga class last Saturday, she stretched out on the navy/green/beige Egyptian living room rug and balanced a cup of hot tea on her stomach. She'd done it a hundred times before. The tea cooled a bit while she thought out the rest of her day's schedule. Then the dog barked. The cup of tea slid down her side and spilled onto the carpet.

The dog barked again.

"Please don't bark, "she pleaded. "You spilled my tea." She stared at the tea stain on the beige areas of the rug. A dishtowel would soak it up. She grabbed a couple from the kitchen drawer and got down on her hands and knees pressing her hands atop the towel, feeling the liquid.

Then she saw it. Her white yoga tank top had tea on it. She rushed to the bathroom and pulled it off. It had to soak in cold water with liquid glycerin soap. It will be fine, she thought. Just give it time. "My tank top is stained," she shouted to her husband.

"What's going on? I'm busy," her husband answered. His Baritone voice resonated from the living room.

"I spilled my tea," she confessed, shivering in her sports bra as she came back in the living room. "It slid off my stomach."

"I can see the stain, " he said. "You didn't get it all up. Get another towel."

"I need a shower after yoga. My face will break out, if I don't," Beth Holly said. "And my hair is a mess. I'm getting really tense." She stood there, riveted to the spot. "Maybe the stain won't come out," she said. "I've messed up the rug."

"I'll take care of it," her husband said, shoving her aside. "Why did you spill it?"

"It was an accident. The dog barked." Beth Holly was shaken to the core."Maybe the rug was like that when we bought it. And, we just never noticed. Do you think anyone else will see it?"

"Just go take your shower," he said." You'll be a mess otherwise. Do you want people to see you that way? Where is your pride?"

She hurried to the bathroom, locked the bathroom door, and began to cry. How could this happen to her? A stupid stain on the rug. In the shower, she recalled a song her mother sang. "I'm going to wash that man right out of my hair," Beth Holly sang, "I'm going to wash that stain right out of my rug...I'm going to..." she cried harder. She scrubbed her head, soaped and rinsed her entire body twice, using the hand held sprayer to rinse everything especially well.

As she stepped into her robe, she looked in the foggy mirror. She'd even forgotten to turn on the fan. Better that I don't see myself, she thought. It's best that I stay home today. I can't let anyone see me like this. Beth Holly removed her wedding ring before she put the styling gel in her hair and scrunched it up for curl control. Wiping her hands, she looked at the ring on the counter, then put it in her makeup case.

Beth Holly's body literally shook, inside and out. She sorted through her books on the bedside table. O Magazine caught her eye. Settling in the pale pink chaise near the window in the bedroom, she scanned the ads then began to read the first article, "'Ten Tips to be Happiness' Number 1. Don't let the little things get to you. 2. Know what's important." She could not read any further.

I can make a good cup of tea, boil an egg, and give a good back rub, she thought. Tomorrow's another day. It's just another birthday.

And that's true. To some extent.

The Pink Prom Dress

Micheline and Oscar have been living together in downtown L.A. since before it was fashionable. Their home is two large cardboard refrigerator boxes on skid row. A man and his dog sleep to their left. A old woman in purple flannel pajamas talks nonstop on their right. 

Oscar's a big husky man given to wearing long flowing gowns. He was wounded, his left leg, in the war (although he has never said what war) and he suffers from endless phantom pain. The only time it doesn't hurt is when  he sees himself in a beautiful gown in a shop window.

"Let's go window shopping," Micheline says when his pain becomes unbearable. "We'll look at your dress. Wouldn't you love that?"

"Oh yes," he says. Oscar pulls himself up from the sidewalk, leans against the wall and takes her arm. "Watch the curb," he says as they cross the street. "I don't want you to get hurt." He offers a smile and hello to all who pass, holding his head high, even as he winces in pain. With his free hand he lifts his gown a few inches from the street so as not to step on the hem.

At a shop window, they gaze intently. "This window is cracked," Micheline says. At the second shop, she shakes her head. "This window is distorted." 

"I think it makes me look good," Oscar says. "Just not quite right. My leg really hurts."

"You can lean on me while we walk," Micheline says. "If we don't like what we see today, we will tomorrow." She puts his arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, look over there," Oscar says, catching sight of a store window. "Perfect." 

In the reflection of the dusty shop window Oscar sees himself, strong, fit, and as beautiful as any woman he'd ever known. Micheline runs her fingers across his back until she's hugging him close. "We're a very lucky couple," she says.

"Yes we are," Oscar says. His pain has disappeared. They begin to waltz down the street, in a world all their own, gliding up-down, one-two-three. Then Oscar stops. He watches a young prosperous couple holding hands. He strides up to them. Micheline lags behind. 

"Hey buddy. Micheline's suit is at the cleaners and I left my money at home. Give me $10. We are late for the party already and no bubbly for our friends."

The man and woman stare at Oscar whose flitting left and right in his  pink chiffon prom dress that is a size too large.  

Micheline steps forward and speaks up for her friend. "He really wants to go. I want to go with him. And as you can see I'm not dressed for it. You may not know this, but he hurt his leg real bad in the war. He used to be a nurse at the Country Club hospital just up the street."

The man looks up the street. There's an apartment building. Country Club Hospital?  "That's the best story I've heard all day. You got it," he says, smiling, then pulls  a $20 bill from his pocket. "Have fun. You deserve it." 

"Thank you," Micheline says. "You're very understanding." She pulls a black comb from inside her thick matted hair and waves it at them. "I styled his hair. Doesn't it look fabulous?"

 

And that's true. To some extent.  

Zoom zoom

Stephanie is 27. She's a marketing executive for a major corporation. She's unmarried.  She's worried. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Her mother and father probe. Lovingly. Relentlessly.  She hears it in conversations with her married friends, too. It's a good-natured pressurized echo. What are you waiting on? Hurry up. Find someone. Why are you so picky, Stephanie? 

Stephanie knows it isn't about being picky. It's just that there is always something that just isn't right. Somehow when she starts seeing a man, there's something, some piece that doesn't work. It's been that way since high school.  

Wearing purple lace thong panties and a matching bra, Stephanie riffles through her closet. She's on the phone with a girlfriend.  "I don't know what to wear. I'm meeting Robert. I can't wear the same thing as last time."

"You're wearing your jeans, right?" the girlfriend asks. "The ones that look really good on you not the others." 

Stephanie twists around to check out her butt and thighs in the mirror. She stands on tip-toe. It doesn't help. Her legs are short. A tiny bit of cellulite marks the line where the elastic band on panties used to be. She rearranges her thong but there isn't enough to mask anything. 

"Yes. I have to hurry. I'll text you in a minute. End." Stephanie touches the cellulite and starts to cry. Still holding the Blackberry, she pulls out a pair of jeans, dark but not with a lot of stitching and tosses them on the bed. Then, she pulls out a cream colored cotton camisole, tosses it on the bed. Then a cream deep v-neck cashmere pullover.  

She texts: Wht d I wr w the jns & crem cami? Cash plvr V?  

The reply: Y  wht shoes?

She texts: boots

The reply: wch bts?

She texts: sde

The reply: rain?

She texts: no

The reply: G8t. hv fun. Call m ltr.

Stephanie checks herself in the mirror, this time from the front. Looks much better. Sideways. Good. Other side. Good. She wiggles into the dark jeans with very little stitching, sucks in her stomach and zips. The camisole slides over her head without so much as touching her hair or face. Then the pullover, same way.

A quick check in the mirror. Yes. She fixes her make-up. Her eyes are pink, but no one will know she was crying.

Then Stephanie pulls a pair of yellow striped cotton socks with green ivy on the scalloped rim from her dresser drawer, and puts them on. They are soft. She smiles and wiggles her toes. Next she shoves her foot, then jeans into one black suede knee-high four-inch heel boot and then the other.  

She stands in front of the mirror again. Each side. Good. Front. Good. She pauses and sighs. No more tears. Slowly, she twists her upper body to look at her butt. 

She texts: Im tkg coat.

The reply: ?

She texts: Bg Bt

The reply: K

Stephanie rearranges the sheer cream color deep v-neck sweater around her hips. She grabs a three-button black coat from the closet. She slings her extra large black leather bag with the buckles over her shoulder, and looks back at the mirror one more time as she leaves the room. The boots are perfect.

She hits send to call her parents. By the time she gets to the car, she'll be in a dead zone.

And that's true, to some extent.

You, and you, and you were there

Ana Maria Carmen and Ruben Sanchez sit at a very large elaborate banquet table. Maria sits to the right of God and Ruben sits to her right. They are nibbling on tiny green peppers as they talk. Ruben has a Dos Equis and Maria has a Margarita. God sips champagne.

"My mother said I could not get married until I was five feet tall, so I stood very straight and always wore two-inch heels," Maria said as she shrugged one shoulder. "I married my Ruben in a  white muslin dress with a flowing white Mantilla as soon as I was 18. You blessed us with a good life together."

"I was the luckiest man alive for 42 years," Ruben said. "Maria was my beautiful lady."

"Oh no," Maria said, stifling a giggle, "Our daughter, Giselle, is so much prettier than I ever was. She was always your favorite."

"You were a wonderful mother," Ruben said.

"Sometimes I think I loved shoes almost as much as I loved my children," Maria said. The giggle bubbles out. "I taught Elizabeth too well. She spends too much for shoes, and so many.  I worry."

"Our sons are good men, good husbands, and good fathers," Ruben said. "You don't have to worry about them."

"They yell at their children so much," Maria said. "And they work such long hours. I wish we could have done better for them."

"You had a lot to overcome," God said. "You had no education, no health insurance, you lived in a dangerous neighborhood.  Sadly, prejudice continues, even now." 

"I worked three jobs until all the kids were in school," Ruben said. "We lived with Maria's aunt in her big old house for so long she left it to us."

"Do you remember her antimacassars? She was so proud of them," Maria said. "It was so funny. Ruben went around saying something smelled bad." Maria covers her mouth with her fingers as she laughs. "I'm sorry. We're eating. I was embarrassed to admit I knew what they were."

"That smell stuck like smoke. I worked on getting rid of it for years," Ruben said. "Made the house into a nice inheritance for the children. Worth a lot more now than it was then." Ruben's belly jiggles over his big belt buckle as he laughs and pulls at his moustache.  

"This is just like Father Texerios said it would be," Maria said. "The food is delicious, family and friends are here, everything is perfect."

"Thank you," God said. "I appreciate your gratitude. I do so love providing this big party, lots of good food and wine. It's too bad those very things are what send so many here before I expect them."

And that's true. To some extent.

Xanadu

Wanda Olive  Coleridge hated her nickname. Her mother's friend started it as a joke before she even went to school. Get it, her initials in reverse are COW.

"I want to be one of those girls who stand up on the ponies in fancy clothes," she said at the circus on her 10th birthday.

Then Cirque de Soleil came along and blew her away. Literally. "I imagine myself, dropping from the sky, moving in slow motion to the sound of my own heart beating," she said at her 18th birthday party.

This made sense to Little Wanda-Cow as she was known in her crowd because she had developed a nasty drug habit before she dropped out of high school. She hid her secret at the Dress Barn where she worked 30 hours a week, so she would have, ahem, money to live on. Then she got busted for shoplifting and the judge said rehab or jail.

"I'm not stupid," she told the judge. "Rehab. Here's the thing, dude. How would you like my name?" Her 'tude tipped the scale.

"Your name is Wanda Coleridge. What's wrong with that?" he asked. "And, young lady, you'll also do a year of community service. Note: Do not call a judge, 'dude'."

Little Wanda Cow whined and sulked in group at rehab. It was the best she could do, what with withdrawal sapping her powers. "They called me COW," she snapped at the girl with tatts covering both arms. "They thought it was funny."

"So what," tatt girl said. "Do you drink a lot of milk?"

"No," Wanda  said. She had to think about that.

"You don't even know your own name, Wanda Coleridge," the tatt girl mocked. "I mean like, there's a famous poet with your last name. If you don't believe me, Wikipedia it."

After dinner Wanda what-ever-her-name-is searched for her name. It took her awhile, all she knew how to be was a gamer, but what she found took her breath away.

Kubla Khan; or A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1797 at a farmhouse near Exmoor (wherever that is), England.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, a sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to sunless sea.

"Wow," Wanda said out loud. She felt his vision. "That is really beautiful."

She read some more...

For he on honey-dew fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.

In group the next day, Wanda read the poem. "Maybe, he's like, my great-great-great-great grandfather," she said when she finished reading.

"I'm really into genealogy," tatt girl said.

"I think maybe the dude smoked," a guy with glasses and bandages around his wrists said. "Opium."

Wanda sighed. "It's still so cool," she said to everyone in the group. "I mean, like, someone could have called him STD, you know what I mean, as a joke. But he wrote this great poem anyway."

And that is true. To some extent.

Margaret: A Very Uptown Gal

Margaret has had a difficult week. Not because she works in the financial industry, not because she's losing clients left and right, not even because she's been too busy to shift her summer wardrobe to the back of the closet. 

She's been in a Midwestern city for a wedding. First the humidity bombed her blond stylish long-bob, and, on the same day ruined her white silk Dior blouse.

"Ring around the collar," she emailed her secretary. "For what I paid, it should have been good for at least 25 wearings. It's white! Oh, what am I going to do? There's not a single decent store here that could replace it." 

Her secretary did not email back. However, she did forward it to her co-workers who all got a good laugh.

"I guess Margaret's social skills will just have to pull her through," one woman  replied, laughter crackling between every word as she typed. "I wonder what she will do? Wouldn't it be fun to be a fly on her wall."

The day of the wedding Margaret stood in front of the full length mirror in her hotel suite, which by the way, had a brown floral polyester comforter, and matching drapes. "I'm 50 years old," she said to her husband as if he didn't know she was actually 60 years old, "and my chin has such bad acne that my make-up won't cover it. I've never had acne in my life!" Another untruth.

Her husband sat on the bed and tied the laces on his black Johnson and Murphy wing-tip dress shoes. "It's not so bad here. Be nice if we had a little rain storm."

"Don't say that, " she snapped. "I didn't bring a rain coat although that would cover up a multitude of sins." Bedraggled, that's how I look, she thought to herself. Be-draaagggle-d.

"I'm ready," he said, standing up and adjusting his navy suit jacket without even looking in the mirror. "We need to leave soon. I'll wait in the lobby downstairs." 

As the door slammed, Margaret jumped. Hotel doors always have to slam, she thought. Why?

Did Princess Diana's hotel doors slam? I'll bet they didn't.

Margaret flat-ironed her hair, section by section , just as she had done for the last howeverlong. Oh how I envy those women with cuts that fall into place no matter the weather. She imagined a thin statuesque blond striding through a crowd, head held high on a swan neck, every hair in place, grey eyeliner emphasizing individual false eyelashes attached more closely at the outer corner than the inner corner of the eye. Iridescent pale cheeks, raspberry lips, and a creamy smooth chin with just a hint of pink along the jawline.

Oh, a lace collar with the burnished long necklace, that chunky one, weighted with the pale jade whatever it is, doesn't matter. I'll look fabulous.  

Margaret grabbed her Blackberry, punched in her husband's number and waited while it rang and rang. God Lord, what is that man doing, doesn't he ever hear this thing? Ah..

"What?" he said, slightly slurring the word. "What?"

"Get my jewelry. Go to the concierge and have them bring it up to me, right now," she said.

"They don't have a concierge here," he said. "And your jewelry is in the suitcase. Just do something, we need to get there."

"Oh, of course, " she membled with her last ounce of breath.

She put the phone in her bag, the small cylindrical cream colored beaded one she'd already prepared to take. Margaret turned slowly, in slow motion actually, toward the suitcase open at the foot of the bed. She riffled through for pantyhose without even looking at the packaging or color. 

Sitting squarely on the side of the bed, she rolled one stocking leg and slide her foot in first up to the ankle, then she rolled the other stocking leg and slid her other foot in up to the ankle.  As she stood up to wiggle them upwards into place, she looked down at her feet. 

Margaret made an executive decision: It doesn't really matter what I wear here. No one will notice. 

 

Karen's epiphany

Karen is a housewife in the San Fernando Valley part of Los Angeles, neighborhoods of single family residences complete with lawns and swimming pools and gardeners. Suburbs. All of it.

So anything to get out of there, over the hill into the city, is a get out of jail card. Going to the opthalmologist in Beverly Hills was an occasion for khaki dress-up carpi's, a Brooks Brother polo shirt and good gold hoop earrings, fresh loose curly hair and lipstick. Obviously mascara and concealer were out of the question. Oh well...

"Traffic's so light we have time to stop for your suit at the tailors,"she said. The car's air-conditioning blew her hair like a stylist's fan. "How do I look?" she asked her husband. 

He had picked up a mobile call from his office which went on most of the way. Oh well...

Her husband stood ramrod straight in front of a three-way mirror in his new Burberry suit with a Barney's tie and Brooks Brothers shirt as an elderly Russian tailor pinned the jacket.

Karen flipped through a W magazine. Cat eyes and electrocuted hair on  14 year old, she thought. Who actually wears this bizarre stuff? The booty shoes aren't flattering on anyone. 

Her years in the l980s in New York City came back like a dream. Standing on the corner of 43rd street and 9th avenue with two friends. Karen had worn a starched short white cotton low cut wrap dress with a sash that tied twice around her tiny waist. Tanned ballet-trained legs and arms, perfectly coiffed big hair, and Oscar de la Renta neutral suede flats. 

"You look good enough to eat," her boyfriend, not yet her husband had said. 'We'll make an early evening after you get back."

She had known what he meant.

The friends shared a cab to the townhouse where Moss Hart's widow lived to  convince her to give them the rights to one of his plays for an off off Broadway play. She had agreed, but... 

"It wasn't meant to be," Karen's boyfriend had said later at their candlelight dinner. "Not enough money. It happens to a lot of would-be producers. Find it somewhere else."

Desperation bubbled just beneath the surface. Nothing worked out until Oscar de la Renta stopped her on Madison Avenue, and asked if she would try out his new rain boots. She wore the red boots, his beige suede ankle strap shoes, a brown jersey evening gown cut to the waist, held together by one tiny ribbon, his afternoon dresses. If you can succeed in New York... 

When he invited her to a salon at his Hampton beach house, she hadn't even RSVP'd. The other girls will be thinner, taller, more beautiful, they wouldn't get drunk on champagne. There had been a hundred excuses.

Our wedding was special, Karen thought. So what if I switched to denim skirts and flats. Heels and a baby stroller don't go together. My hair always looked great. Usually looked great. Oscar de la Renta's gifts hung in the closet for years. I donated them to a worthy cause.

She walked over to her husband with the W magazine and showed him a particularly provocative outfit. "I could have worn this," she said.

  

"Just a moment, sir," the tailor said, pining the pant's inseams. "I don't want to hurt you." 

Flipping her hair, pouting her lips and turning sideways with her arm on her hip, Karen gazed into the mirror. I may be a woman of a certain age but I'm only one size larger now.

"It's still there, " he said, glancing over at her. "Whenever we go out black-tie, you turn heads. A little make-up and you're more beautiful than ever."

"I really need to get to the opthalmologist," Karen said. It's the yoga, she thought to herself.