I am NOT an Avon Lady stripper!
I stamp the back of each one of my Avon brochures with my name, address, e-mail, and cell-phone number, stamp them in time to music, in time to my repeating thoughts. Every two weeks I perform the ritual, gather ink and pressed rubber and some kind of stiff drink in a plastic egg cup, spread my work on the living room floor as my young boys sleep. I used to let them assist until the great Body Art Stamping Spree. It took me a good five days to wash at least thirty smudged versions of my name and number off of Harry's backside and another week to remove traces from Frankie the pot-bellied pig's rump. Really, the less said about this, the better.
I thought about it this morning, about all those flimsy books, the repeated twist of my wrist every two weeks, and calculated that I've branded over 10,000 brochures since I started selling Avon two years ago. How many trees died for my books? How many lost hours have I spent spamming my neighborhood with my beauty pleas? Maybe everyone is a slave to dead wood, to movements your body remembers when your mind ponders something else.
A man called my cell phone this morning as I added two years of brochures. I didn't catch the call, heard the ring as the shower pelted me with heat and hope, as my mind remembered the campaigns I optimistically purchased 500 brochures. He left a short message, just a macho first name and telephone number. I stood in the bathroom, heat pouring from my hands, dialed his number.
"Hi! Is this Rocco? This is Birdie, the Avon Lady, returning your call!"
I sounded ridiculously alive, bright, as if I stood on the corner of Frantic and Spastic holding a dozen pink balloons. I applied the new Avon Super Shape Anti-Cellulite and Stretch Mark Cream to my belly with my left hand as I listened to his plea. I tried to remember how many days I have been using the product, tried to tell if it were doing any good at all. Not really, I thought.
"Oh good. Good, good, good, good, good. I need an Avon Lady. Next Friday night. Not tonight. Next Friday. For a party. How much do you charge?"
He spoke in tiny bites, his voice a breathy growl. I stopped moving. My hand stuck to my belly, a dab of unrubbed cream beneath it. I cleared my throat.
"Ahem. Uh, Rocco? I am really not sure what you're asking. I don't hire myself out for parties. But heck, I might, if you need me to do makeovers or something. Can you tell me a little more about your party?"
I closed my eyes and waited for what I knew would be an unsavory answer.
"It's, you know, one of those bachelor's parties. For my friend. He's getting married next Sunday. We don't need makeovers. We need a girl. You know. A girl. I looked in the phone book but there ain't nothing like that around here. Julio told me to call the Avon Lady. He said you were kinda old but still hot."
I glanced at the hand pressing stretch mark cream into the belly that looked exactly 40 years old to the mirror in front of me. I squinted my eyes, tried to see beyond my own expectations. I guess I'm not that bad, I thought.
"Rocco?"
I used my sultry telephone sex voice, waited for him to say Yeah.
"Yeah? Heh heh heh."
Rocco giggled, as if the anticipation of having an Avon Lady shed lotions at his party was the biggest secret fantasy of his life.
"Listen up, Rocco. This is important. Avon Ladies don't strip. We don't strip. Not even a little. We don't normally attend bachelor parties, either, but I would be happy to drop off a nice gift basket of products from our Men's Catalogue at the start of your party."
I said "gift basket" like it was a chapter in the Kama Sutra, like I promised sixteen unusual positions with massage oil and sandalwood incense. Rocco didn't peep. I heard him breath, heard his brain cells whirl into activity. Should he say yes? I didn't give him time.
"Rocco, I'll be there right at the start of the party. I won't come in, mind you, I'll drop it at the door. But this gift basket will be the.... best. gift. basket. of your friend's life. Now. The charge will be one hundred bucks, even. Can I expect a check or cash?"
Rocco mumbled his answer, gave me the party address, and I hung up the phone.
Now. What should I put in Rocco's gift basket?
11:05:30 AM 
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