• Photo

Mark Sage as Rita Boutit. Photo by Jean Farley

Sphere IT

Save This Page

Reader Reaction

digg it

SAGE ADVICE: Ugly woman in a beautiful dress

By MARK SAGE/Columnist

The girl who sat behind me in 10th grade history once told me I’d make a pretty girl. That was before my hair left my head and scattered to my chest and back. I was thin then and hadn’t yet went through the whole pimple thing. A few accidents had scarred up my face, but it was still smooth for the most part. Even razor nicks weren’t much visible since I only had to shave about once a month, give or take a month.
If only Tricia could have seen me Saturday.
I don’t, in fact, make a pretty girl, good-looking woman or hot mama. I do look a lot like an ugly Janet Reno in search of her Elian Gonzalez.
That ugly Janet Reno thing is no oxymoron. Trust me.
I found out exactly how terribly ugly a woman I make in the moments before a womanless beauty pageant in the Bland gym. I hadn’t taken any of the wigs or clothes for a test run, so I was fairly shocked when I looked in the mirror. I think I gasped, which made me feel pretty unmasculine, decidedly less masculine than Janet Reno, particularly when Mrs. Reno has her gun trained on little Cuban boys.
Now before you knuckle-draggers start shooting air through your lips and shaking your head in that way that says “I woulda thunk different of that boy,” the whole evening was for charity. It was a Relay for Life fundraiser that brought in a couple thousand dollars and attracted 25 other pretty ugly women, many of us with knuckle-dragging bona fides that would make you look utterly cosmopolitan and metrosexual.
Despite the initial shock, and the fact that I felt the way a horse getting bridled for the first time must feel, I wasn’t nervous about strutting in heels and a dress in front of 200 or so spectators. I don’t get nervous, mainly, I think, because I don’t really compete. I gave all that nonsense up years ago when stomach ailments and ruined family Monopoly nights caused me to lose sleep, friends and peace of mind. I willed it away way back when and now can’t will it back.
My wife is the competitive one. She’s one-third genius, one-third artist and one-third perfectionist. The dress my ugly persona, Rita Boutit (pronounced Read About It – get it?), wore was made by all three of my wife’s thirds coming together for one long night of labor. While I slept she toiled, folding and weaving and taping old newspapers. When I awoke, viola, there was the newspaper dress. It’s impressive, if I have to say so myself, which I can since I had absolutely no part in its creation. Had there been an award for finest dress made entirely of folded, weaved and taped newspaper, I guarantee, she would have won first, second and third place.
It’s impressive enough that I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if one of them reality television shows asks her to join the cast of people who MacGyver all sorts of clothes from trash bags and twigs and whatnot. It was impressive enough that I was sure all the whispers Saturday night weren’t about how dreadfully ugly that big fella was but rather how darned incredible that dress was the ugly big fella was wearing.
But it wasn’t impressive enough to land me a spot in the winner’s circle. Probably because I’m an ugly woman, despite what Tricia said all those years ago. And also because I gave up on that whole competing thing fearing it might turn me into an ugly woman with a chip on her newspaper-covered shoulder.