10 Reasons Why Lip Gloss Can Make You a Better Person, Part 3

3. Lip Gloss brings all the boys to the yard.

  By the time I was in junior high, I was a High Priestess of lip gloss application and functionality. It had brought so much goodness to my life and I was eternally thankful for its creation, never spending a waking moment without at least three tubes within reach. Mom was slightly concerned about what she perceived as an unhealthy relationship, but she finally let it go, because in the end she couldn’t really complain about something that kept me busy and preoccupied.

  Besides, she still might be able to save my two younger sisters from following the twisted path I had chosen for myself. I was too for gone for redemption, but perhaps she could stop the wee ones from tumbling off my cliff. I didn’t bother to inform Mom that it was too late to save Mellie Jo. She already had numerous issues that were far more unhealthy than a simple infatuation with cosmetics. It no longer surprised me when authorities knocked on the door at all hours. I would just point at Mellie Jo’s bedroom door and then go back to drawing pictures of myself with mascara.

  And as for Little Sahara, well, there wasn’t much to worry about there. She had only spoken about five words in the last three years. As we all know, you have to be able to carry on a conversation if you plan on getting into any type of trouble that would be considered worthwhile. But at least Little Sahara did have one friend that she spent time with, so that was good. Granted, this friend was actually a stick that she had found in the backyard and named “Jenna”, but she seemed to enjoy their time together.

  Anyway, it was a Friday afternoon, and I had just left behind the hideous junior high building where I was currently serving time. Those people just didn’t understand me, and it was quite frustrating. Truth be told, I was in a bit of a mood, because the history teacher, an insipid man by the name of Mr. Lashua, has insisted on telling us about some stupid war rather than comment on my dress. I just can’t fathom why anyone would care about guns and treaties when I had a pretty frock.

  But at least we were finally done with that, and I was on my way to meet my best friend Chandra at the Dairy Queen. We had very important plans to make about tonight’s session at Skate Planet, because it was the first night of this season’s round of Friday-night roller-skating, and everyone’s position in the social hierarchy would be determined for the rest of the school year. It was critical that we be prepared.

  Unfortunately, there was a slight glitch in our planning. Mom had sent a note to school that I was responsible for picking up my atrocious little sisters from their baby school, and must keep them alive until Mom could return from some very important sale at Wal-Mart. Despite years of past pleading, Mom did not agree with my firm belief that life would be much better if the little attention-stealing munchkins would get kidnapped, thrown into an anonymous van, clutching each other in their matching outfits, and then never be seen again. I already had preliminary plans to knock down the wall between my and Mellie Jo’s room, so I could have a suite like Olivia Newton-John did.

  But the abduction would have to wait for another day, because if Mom got all distraught over the missing worthless siblings, my debutante arrival at the skating rink might be jeopardized. Therefore, I trudged the two blocks to the elementary school to pick up the little hag-lettes.

  Of course, I only stepped one foot onto the school property, and then just waited. There was no way I was going to actually venture into the building, because small people are annoying and of little social value. The little urchins would have to come to me. So I just stood there, tapping an impatient Earth Shoe and hoping no members of the skating royalty would drive by, gathering details for a potential scandal.

  Mellie Jo arrived first, of course, because she almost always had to leave the school building in a hasty manner, usually due to irrational actions on her part. This time, the front doors banged open, sending several unprepared kindergartners flying through the air, and Mellie Jo came thundering down the stairs. She glanced behind her, noting the position of her pursuers and calculating the exact seconds she would need for successful escape. Satisfied that odds were in her favor, she skidded to a halt, turned around, flipped a double bird at the still unseen hunting party, then resumed her flight, racing past me, the wind whipping the hem of my cute dress.

  “Mellie Jo!” I snarled, as Bonnie raced past me toward Clyde’s hideout. “We don’t have time for this. Chandra is waiting at Dairy Queen!”

  Mellie Jo dove behind a trash dumpster, and then peeked around the metal corner. “Two minutes and we can go. Those people are old and tired. They’ll give up.”

  I turned back to the school steps, just in time to see what appeared to be a janitor and a generic coach stumble out the front door. True enough, they were already huffing heavily and producing that nasty sweat that men do. (Women don’t sweat. They glisten.) After glancing around a bit, they finally sighed and went back into the building.

  I faced Mellie Jo again. “What did you DO? Does it affect me in any way?”

  Mellie Jo came out from behind the dumpster, throwing down a piece of rubbish that had interested her briefly. “Don’t worry about it. Nobody died.”

  Fine. I really didn’t care. “Now, where’s Little Sahara?”

  Mellie Jo made a face, because Little Sahara was her least favorite relative. “The cafeteria ladies are making pizza for some stupid meeting tonight.”

  Ah. No further explanation needed. Little Sahara worshipped pizza with a mystifying passion. A love that dare not speak its name. “Let’s go get her.”

  We rounded the corner of the building, startling two fourth-graders who were smoking. (We didn’t have cable TV at that time, and entertainment options were limited in our small town.) They squealed and ran away, terrified, especially when they caught sight of Mellie Jo. We proceeded to the employee entrance for the cafeteria.

  And there was Little Sahara, standing on a turnip crate and gazing rapturously in one of the windows. (She was holding her friend up against the glass, so Jenna Stick could see what was going on as well.) I think she was quietly mumbling some worshipful hymn, but the only word I could understand was “cheese”.

  “Little Sahara, it’s time to go. Come on.”

  “Pizza,” said Little Sahara.

  “I understand that. But you can’t have any. Come on.”

  Little Sahara whispered something to Jenna Stick that sounded somewhat spiteful, then she turned and hopped off the turnip crate. She started to reach for Mellie Jo’s hand, but caught herself in time and did not proceed with the fatal mistake. She clutched at my hand instead, and I was blessed with something sticky that had probably been on her little fingers for three days.

  We headed to the town square.

  Which took about three seconds. Once there, I glanced around for my friend Chandra. We both greatly loved making a grand entrance into Dairy Queen, but it was no fun doing that by yourself, so I was sure Chandra was waiting for me somewhere on the square.

  “That light is SO stupid,” smirked Mellie Jo.

  Fully realizing that I probably didn’t care, I turned to Mellie for further information. “What are you talking about?”

  Mellie Jo pointed at the single traffic light in the square. “It always blinks just yellow. It’s stupid and nobody pays attention. Dumb.”

  I smiled sweetly. I knew why the light was there. It has nothing to do with coordinating traffic on the quaint little streets of this trapped-in-time town. It was a beacon, alerting the rest of the world that my magnificent presence was located here. Just in case people needed to organize a parade in my honor or set up a coronation stand of some kind where I could receive kings. I sighed contentedly.

  Mellie Jo picked up on this. “Oh, just stop it. It is NOT always about YOU. Because SOME people have better things to do than give you presents.” Then she threw something in the gutter. Just what all did that little heathen pick up while she was behind the dumpster?

  Anyway, I didn’t listen to her. She was just bitter. People are always bitter because they can’t be as pretty as me or have as many friends. Maybe some day Mellie Jo could join the Air Force and appreciate the chain of command. You earn your rank, either through sheer birth-given natural skills or very hard work. There are no short cuts. You can yell and scream and fight for attention and throw younger siblings in the dryer all you want, but there are regulated steps to follow. If you aren’t born with talent shooting out your ass like me.

  There’s a shout from down the street, so me and Mellie and Little Sahara turn and look, wondering what banshee is begging for attention now. Oh look, it’s my bestie Chandra standing outside the Java House, which is Kirksville’s version of Starbucks, only with less of the foo-foo Italian terms and more of the corn-fed country girls who are just waiting to get pregnant.

  Chandra: “Get down here NOW! We have to figure out what color shoelaces you should wear when we first get to the skating rink

  I grab my sisters and head toward Chandra and her ability to bellow like livestock are on the loose. I’m really hating Mom for making me drag around these siblings, because I clearly have things to attend to and familial love should only go so far.

  So there I am, dragging Mellie Jo behind me as she squirms to run away and torment ugly people, and Little Sahara as she squirms to follow the Domino’s pizza truck that just shot by. When suddenly, in a total surprise, something catches my eye in the front window of the Merle Norman shop to my left. All sights and sounds around me fade into the distance, becoming nothing but white noise. I even let go of my siblings, because if a UFO needs to abduct them right now, that’s fine.

  Positioned front and center in Merle Norman is a tantalizing display of the latest lip product. It’s yet another version of lip gloss, which is fine, because there can never be enough, but this one is offering something new.

  The lip gloss has actual glitter in it, creating a shimmering effect that could help planes land. I immediately shove my face against the glass, a line of drool trailing from my chin. I cannot live until I have some of this sacred essence.

  Melissa Jo, clamoring up from the sidewalk where I threw her sorry ass after noticing Nirvana at Norman, glances at the window display. The blood drains from her face and she begins screaming in terror.


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