by Cheryl Barnette

Created on: November 24, 2009   Last Updated: November 28, 2009

One of those days

I had just stopped shaking long enough to put more mascara on the one eyelash that had already had an abundance of it on. Revlon would be proud. This one-eyed Tammy Faye look may not go over big at the recording studio.

I was preparing to make a pre-recorded video in an upcoming award speech. I had a one of the funniest monologues in mankind etched in memory. Best to have this rehearsed over and over rote method than to go in guns-a-blazing-heave-ho ad-lib style, especially when one's eyesight is distorted due to an overage of eyelash glue, and it makes it all that much harder when the come-to-the-rescue cue cards are indecipherable.

Did I tell you I was driving during this makeup application on Route 93? So of course the inevitable happened. A truck driver pulling alongside me gestured that he thought I was hot. He pursed his tobacco-stained lips and blew a kiss aimed at my passenger window. It missed! Whew!

Then on the other side, another slick trucker drove alongside me, this time on the driver's side. He took one look, then another, and his faced stayed poised in a question mark. You see, the driver's side silhouette looked similar to the passenger one, but when I did a complete about face to look at my other trucker admirer, I didn't know he would be afraid of me having had the raccoon look. No kisses blown, just one of the quickest speed-up, the silent unbelievable shaking of the head posturing.

Then I had to stop off to make a pit stop. While in one of the restrooms I thought resembled very much one in a horror movie rest area, I proceeded to restore my eyesight by removing my thick appendage on left side of my eye. There! Much better. Empty bladder, eyelash glue removed from pupil, check! I am out of here to make my pre-recorded monologue.

Driving along, there was a construction site. Not to panic, I thought. Traffic a little slow, but there's still time. Bright orange cones were displayed in the center lanes and flag men flagged left and right. My nervousness overwhelmed me once again thinking of being tardy for my dress rehearsal. More bright orange cones neoned and zig-zagged their pattern on the newly-constructed area. I made it through, like a champ! Hurray!

Maneuvering down the small one-way streets of the city, nearing the opulent fashion district of downtown Boston, people began taking notice of me. Taking notice as in finger-pointing. Oh, what did I do now? My vanity overcame me and I thought once again the populace had mistaken me for Whitney Houston. Surely there are celebrities galore around here, and after all, I was going to the Ritz-Carlton.

Finally, at a red light stop, a small crowd gathered. I assumed it was for the persistent autograph hounds, so I rolled my window down with a smile. They began to burst my celebrity-look-alike bubble, and it wouldn't be me bursting their collective bubbles, when a gentleman poked his car in my window and laughed heartily, Hey sweetie! You have one of those construction orange cones stuck in your tire well! Loud and raucous was the laughter, and humbled and embarrassed was I. Do you want me to remove it? No! I thought. Just let it stay in a little bit longer at this stop light for more people to see, like those sight-seers over there at McDonalds! But I said respectfully, Yes, would you mind? Not at all, replied the man who was about to turn blue as he yanked the form from my tire well.

I left the scene carefully, but promptly wondering if Whitney had ever had been in a situation like this?

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