Free Dorothy on the Rocks by Barbara Suter Page B

of Jockey-for-Her cotton panties and the rest of my under-gear, which is a leopard print bra from Kmart that cost only $6.99. A good cheap fun bra is a real find, and I absolutely recommend Kmart’s annual two-for-one sale.
    I take time to put on Paul Simon’s
Graceland
because it always gets me in the mood for about anything. I approach the mirror. Time to paint the face. At forty-one, I have to say I look pretty good. At least my skin still has a glow and some natural moisture, but time is definitely moving along. My neck is getting that chicken skin thing that my mother always complained about.
    â€œIt looks like plucked chicken wattle,” she would say as she tweezed her eyebrows in the magnifying mirror held close to her face. I stand now for a moment and review the subtle changes, which are becoming less and less subtle. I pull the neck skin tight by placing my index fingers under my jawbone and moving them back about an inch. And that does it. It is such an easy adjustment it seems it could be accomplished with a desk stapler and a hot glue gun packaged in an over-the-counter kit with some gauze and surgical tape—“A Brand New Face” by Revlon. And Dee-Honey says I’m still pretty. Even that heckler was jealous. I still have it. I go to the kitchen and get a beer. Here’s to the eternal ingénue, I toast myself.
    I sense something awry down south as I apply some eyeliner. My jockeys feel funny. I scratch a little. I check the clock. Time to get a move on. But there is now a good bit of discomfort. I scratch some more. Something feels sticky. I pull down my panties, but the crotch is stuck. Stuck to what? I think. Stuck to my pubic hair! A wad of sticky gray substance is stuck to my pubic hair! What is this? A fossilized egg that has been trapped in my fallopiantube for twenty years, an early sign of menopause, or possibly the Lindbergh baby?
    I pull off the cotton jockeys and realize that the gum I had innocently put in my mouth a half hour ago has somehow ended up in my crotch. I think back over the sequence of events:
    1. I put a stick of gum in my mouth.
    2. I lit a cigarette.
    3. I was getting ready to floss my teeth so
    4. I took the gum out of my mouth.
    5. The phone rang and
    6. I put the gum on the closed toilet seat.
    7. I answered the phone and sat down—where?
    8. ON THE CLOSED TOILET SEAT!
    Now what? I’m dumbfounded for a moment and have no idea what to do. I can’t face the emergency room and the rude comments that this situation would elicit. Scissors, I think rather squeamishly. I find a pair and gingerly start to operate. It takes only one snip to realize this is not a good idea. I look in my medicine cabinet and see it. I know it’s my best option. Got to do it. I brace myself and reach for the nail polish remover and cotton balls. I swab it on fast. Yowsa! The stingy paint thinner kerosene stuff in the nail polish remover does the job. I jump in the shower lickety-split and the crisis is over. I consider writing the whole experience down and submitting it to Eve Ensler for her show
The Vagina Monologues.
    NOTE TO SELF . . .
    Keep your gum in your mouth and not in your panties.
    I get to the audition. I’m out of breath and a little scorched around theprivates, but I’m perky and focused and the casting director, Mike Oft, winks as I leave and gives me the high sign. He’s a nice guy and I’ve booked a lot of stuff through him; he always tries to get me the gig. It’s nice to have someone on your side. Of course, the final decision isn’t his. He’s one of many hurdles on the road to production. There is the client, the advertising agency, the casting director, the agent, the receptionist, the guy who delivers the pizza, and, lastly, the talent. Sometimes the client’s wife or son or accountant or butcher has a say as well. I did a voice-over for a panty hose brand (I won’t name names, but they come in a plastic