Trailer Trash Tess

Mobile Alabama
Monday Evening

After four straight days of no-makeup and no blow dryer, I believe I have reached a new low in appearance, the next rung down being the no-shower level, but I pray I do not go there.

First of all, we’re in Alabama. People here are unpretentious, and many live the simple lifestyle. Which is to say, there is fertile ground for the “What Not to Wear” show, and face painting appears not to be a priority. So when in Rome…

Also, it’s damn hot here. Two days ago I watched from the inside of our air-conditioned coach as the outside temp danced around 100 degrees in the one-day-it-will-be-luxurious-but-right-now-it’s-dirt Gulf Coast Motor Coach Resort and Golf Club outside of Foley. I should have known that something was afoot when the owner invited us to spend three free nights. Nothing is free. Sure enough, six sites were habitable, but the other 250 were just a dust mote in the eye of their creator. The pool was a hole, the clubhouse was a pile of bricks and 2x4’s and the plants were still on order from Burpee. So we parked and sat inside and watched the backhoes do their thing.

We were there and not in Mobile because the coach was hiccupping and burping so badly at speeds above 45 that we were pretty sure we wouldn’t make it there. We hoped against hope that a day or two of rest would perk our transmission up and we would forget we even had problems.

Wayal. We made it as far as Mobile, finally, but Buddy of Buddy’s Transmission told us he was amazed we’d gotten this far. So, tonight we’re sleeping in the repair station parking lot and maybe tomorrow we’ll get repaired. Or maybe not.

Would you bother with makeup or blow-drying your hair in my situation?

So call me Tess. That’s my idea of a trailer park name, and don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s the alliteration.

Yesterday, when I stole the Jeep to take a forbidden ride to the outlet mall – I NEEDED those white pants! -- I was assisted by a lovely African American woman who probably outweighed me by 50 pounds, but who nevertheless made me aware of the frump I’d become. She had on a lovely white skirt, all flowy and cool-looking, a fuchsia tank top, (fuchsia being a word I rarely spell correctly and I didn’t this time either) pretty sandals and tasteful jewelry. Her hair was skimmed back in a neat French twist.

I, on the other hand, had … hair. Clean, definitely, but air-dried instead of blown straight, which meant that with the humidity, it was now sticking out from my head horizontally, not curly, not lush and wavy, more like crimpy and frizzy. I had also not bothered with even so much as mascara, which meant, given my blonde proclivity, that my eyes had receded into my head and gotten lost, my eyebrows, barely noticeable on a good day, had disappeared, and my lips, always “delicate” were now non-existent. In other words, I was a giant dandelion puff surrounding one of those yellow happy faces, but without the black magic marker.

I was so embarrassed to be in the presence of this gracious and perfectly groomed woman, I took out my brush right then and there, swept my hair back and put a rubber band around the mess. Sorry for looking so untidy, I said.

Oh no, she said, I just thought y’all had been to the beach.

Then she added, hastily, but you looked fine before.

Right.

I got into the car and looked in the mirror. I promised myself I’d never go out again looking like this. Like myself. How sad is that. Once back in the bus, I fired up my computer and comforted myself with those pictures of Goldie Hawn, Katherine Heigl, and that one who’s getting killed off on Desperate Housewives, whatsername, Nicole somebody? Without makeup they all look as bad as I do, which is to say, human, normal and with some years on them. Reese Witherspoon I won’t comment on, since she looks perfect no matter when the cameras catch her. She’s probably an alien. As is Nicole Kidman who is taller than most humans, a dead giveaway to her extra-terrestrial roots.

All of this hurry, by the way, is because we have to be in Houston by Thursday in order to fly to… hello … Mexico. Which, as of this writing, our Harvard-educated and therefore presumably brilliant President has recommended we avoid like the plague.

Yes, there is irony in that last statement. Also an incredibly clever pun. I may have ugly hair and absent features, but neither heat nor dead transmissions nor swine flu can dampen my keen sense of the ridiculous. Especially when the ridiculous one is Tess herself, yours truly.

Betty