Glamour Hormones

Picture it, please.

Two acres of lush rose gardens sitting atop the Vegas valley. The lights from the strip shine into the night. Clinking glasses, hushed laughter and a Grammy-nominated pianist. Christmas lights twinkle from bushes, votives catch the perfect tear glisten as someone sits back and listens to the theme from Somewhere In Time, remembering the day when they were fifteen and Christopher Reeve made them bawl into a Kleenex. The proceeds of the most perfect night ever benefitted a charity for foster kids.

It was heaven on earth, glamour and class in a private garden and it was three months in the making. Three months where I at times considered bodily violence, temper tantrums and lashings; tongue and otherwise. I find that in both my personal and private life, being career, boards and friendships, my role is to deal with personalities.

And not squash the humans attached to them like bugs.

I did want to stomp my feet many times yesterday. I found myself in several situations where yelling would have been appropriate. There were piano movers, AV techs, bartenders, planners, volunteers and an artist. I bit my lip, smiled when the vendors that were late apologized, "Well, I know you're a professional, so you won't let me down. You are slated to be done at 4 pm so AV can mike the piano. I'm sure that won't be a problem."

It never was, no matter how many times I said it and I think that had more to do with the fact that I wasn't releasing paychecks until the end of the night than my understanding words.

There was one call, however, while I was giving my late volunteers a quick run through.

"This is Jeanette."

"Hey, it's me. Where are you?"

I paused, realizing that yelling at Mr. J in front of a crowd of smiling volunteers was not the best plan, however, my voice did take on a tightness that I couldn't seem to let go of, "I'm at the house. Getting ready."

He sounded nervous, "Oh, um. I didn't realize it started so early."

"I left you a note on the counter to leave the house at 5:30. It is 5:35. The event starts at 6." I could feel my throat constricting with my short, clipped words.

"Well, um... I locked myself out of the house. I didn't lock the door when I went climbing this morning and my keys and cell phone are inside. With your note."

I was completely silent, biting the inside of my lip, realizing that this meant that my baby daddy left his pregnant wife asleep in an unlocked house and went skipping off to the mountains without a cell phone to answer when I was in the process of being robbed and murdered.

"I can't help you."

"Can you meet me somewhere?"

This is where poison started leaching from my body, the poison that all the tardy techs and vendors had slowly built up within me, "I cannot leave. You need to get to the Estates and ask the guard to show you where to go."

"How do I get there?"

"Use your nav system."

With that I hung up. He called me again from a bar down the road, just as I was going over the schedule with the pianist.

"How do I get there?"

"I don't know. I don't know where Molly Malone's is and I am busy. Ask someone to get you to the gate at The Estates. The guard will help you from there."

"Can't you tell me?"

"I am going to have to call you back." I hit End, clenched my hands around my phone, wishing it was a neck and got back to business.

I finally settled everyone and in the process two people screamed at me to hurry and get ready when I called Molly Malone's and got a bartender who explained that Mr. J had left. I didn't have time to worry about him and figured that I would handle his dismemberment when I got home. My phone suddenly rang again.

"This is Jeanette."

"Hey, I'm outside. The valet let me use his phone. Can you bring me the keys?"

I ran from the guest house, down the courtyard, through the garden, under a gorgeous trellis entry and out to the street where my husband was standing in his dirty rock climbing clothes, "You. Are. Going home to change and coming. Right. Back. Correct?"

He nodded like a good boy and then made a huge mistake. One that almost ended his life.

My husband looked me up and down, taking in my tank top and flip flops, squinched his nose and in his best asshole voice said to his pregnant, frustrated, harried wife, "Is that what you're wearing?"

This is where I should explain that my husband is afraid of me right now. My hormones have stopped him cold in the middle of several stupid sentences and he has begun to use feeling words like a girl, "I know that you are upset and I love you, but today I feel X and I'd like to talk about it."

Needless to say, he could read the disease on my face, he retreated to the safety of his car, but only after telling me he'd hurry, he loved me and other nonsense to keep me from causing him bodily harm.

I turned on my flip flopped heel, rushed to the guest house, rinsed off, applied an unhealthy amount of eyeliner, sunk into a gorgeous BCBG dress, pulled on my Betsey Johnson heels and in a record fifteen minutes I turned into calmness personified.

And when everyone asked where Mr. J was?

"He'll be here shortly or be castrated."

At the end of the evening I looked at my sheepish husband, still not off the hook, and sent him to the grocery store to buy me a watermelon.

I have to admit.

I kind of like my power.