Read Online A Total Waste of Makeup by Kim Gruenenfelder - Free Book Online

on the set, I am dusted with glitter—literally. It rains down from above.
    “Sorry Charlie!” I hear one of the art department guys yell.
    “No problem, George. Good morning!” I say brightly as I step over some wide cables and head to Craft Service to pick up my morning coffee.
    This is where I see Jordan Dumaurier sipping a coffee with several of the crew guys.
    There’s no such thing as a perfect man.

    Jordan is perfect. Have you ever seen a young Parker Stevenson in old Hardy Boys reruns? Jordan looks so much like him, that on the first day of the shoot, several girls on set checked the call sheet to make sure his last name wasn’t Stevenson. (This is Hollywood. You never know. I remember years ago telling this actor named Ty that he was a dead ringer for Tyrone Power. Turns out Ty’s full name was Tyrone Power Jr. Oops.)
    Anyway, Jordan’s last name was Dumaurier—no relation to anyone famous. Jordan Dumaurier. Hmm. Charlize Dumaurier. A bit “character from All My Children, ” but you know, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.
    Jordan’s the film’s still photographer, which means he takes pictures of the actors during rehearsals. Those pictures are then used for press kits and the DVD box. It also means he has lots of time to talk throughout the day. Which is what he is doing at this very moment.
    “Man—you’re wrong! Magic Johnson is the best player of all time,” Jordan says as I pour myself a cup of coffee, eavesdropping on their conversation.
    “Dude,” Keenan, a beefy grip, argues, “wrong MJ—Michael Jordan. Five MVPs and six championship rings. And if he hadn’t taken time off to play baseball, he’d have eight rings instead of six.”
    I sneak over to them with my coffee. I stare at the ground and try to remember how to breathe. It’s stupid, I know, but every time I get around this guy, I feel like a geeky little teenager with braces and bad skin.
    “You’re both wrong. What about Wilt?” Jeff, the focus puller, vehemently disagrees. “One hundred points in a single game. He averaged fifty points a game one year.” Jeff turns to me. “Help me out here, Charlie.”
    Reminds me to write in my book:
    Most women have no interest in sports. Don’t apologize for it.

    “Um…,” I say, looking down at my shoes nervously. Damn it! Say something witty, something really clever….
    “Charlie’s got my back on this,” Jordan says brightly. “She knows Magic could’ve led the league in scoring if he’d wanted to. He made everybody on the team better. Plus, Magic played against better competition. How many rings did Michael win before Magic and Bird retired? Just one. And Wilt only won two his whole career.” I look up timidly to see he’s smiling the most gorgeous smile, and looking right at me . (Yikes!) “That’s what you were going to say, right?”
    “Uh…I think Johnson was quite good,” I say weakly.
    “Charlie! How can you agree with him?” Keenan lays into me. “Michael never had big-time players around him in the early days. He wasn’t just a big scorer, either—Rookie of the Year, Defensive Player of the Year, thirteen All-Star games—and he was still a star at age forty.”
    Okay, when guys start quoting sports statistics, all I hear is “Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah, blah.” But to point that out right now might not be clever and cute, so instead I nearly whisper, “Well, you make a valid point, too.”
    “Check back in five years and you’ll all be wrong.” I hear Drew next to me as he puts his arm around my shoulder. “Check back in five years and, one word, LeBron.”
    There’s a round of “Hey Drew”s and “How’s it going?”s.
    “Splendid,” Drew tells them. “Had a sweet weekend in Maui and this really hot girl called me from out of the blue. I’m thinking of taking her to the wrap party next week.”
    Uh-oh. “What girl?” I ask nervously, hoping to God it’s not Dawn.
    “Cool,” Keenan says. “Is she J. Lo hot or