Cynthia has three white wicker chairs in her living room. They
provide a striking contrast to the overstuffed turquoise and pink love seat
that sits right in front of her bay window.
A white, red, and pink rose floral arrangement
sits on the square glass table in the center of the room. It's so spotless that
it almost serves as sort of a mirror. A large framed self-portrait of Cynthia
in an off-the-shoulder dusky rose evening gown dominates one wall. That's the
only picture in the room. On the wall next to it is a state-of-the-art entertainment
center, overflowing with CDs, videocassettes, DVDs, eight tracks. The works.
Her collection is of old and new and of every genre: rap, jazz, classical, country.
It's all there.
Off from the kitchen is the master bedroom. Like
the living room, pink is the reigning color. A down comforter with a rose design
is bunched at the end of the bed. It has a matching pillow sham and bed ruffle.
A few pillows are wedged between the railings of the white headboard.
An assortment of wigs and costume jewelry cover
every inch of the dresser. Some of the drawers are half open with clothes hanging
out. Tossed carelessly on a chair in the corner are a blue blouse and a white
suede skirt. Both closets are open and overflowing. The left closet contains
blouses, pants, dresses, and skirts, in all the latest styles, hanging neatly
and some even still with the price tag. The right closet contains all of her
old clothes. Clothes she doesn't wear, clothes from when she was a child. They
are in boxes and bags and suitcases and strewn all over the place. It's dusty
in there, and it's evident that some of the clothes haven't been washed since
the last time they were worn because of the smell. It's a musky smell. And distinct
because it's mixed with the Victoria Secret Pear Glace Body splash that overpowers
the room.
In the midst of all the clutter, there is tons
of exercise equipment. Every product Suzanne Sommers ever endorsed, every book
she's ever published, every video she's ever made is in Cynthia's bedroom: on
the nightstand, on the floor, in boxes. Everywhere.
Everything in the room is reflected off the two
full-length mirrors she has on opposite walls. Other than that, the walls are
bare.
The bathroom is big, but it's cluttered. There
are two diamond shaped mirrors across from the medicine cabinet. Around those
mirrors are paper copies of various diets: carbohydrate diets, ice cream diets,
rice diets. Taped beside them are ads for body wraps and metabolism boosters.
There are cotton balls, Q-Tips, cleansing bars, makeup, miniature bottles of
water, and moisturizers scattered all over the place. On the counter around
the sink are three pairs of curling irons, each one serving a different and
specific purpose and an assortment of brushes, combs, and hair accessories.
The medicine cabinet is made of oak and has plastic ivy vines falling from the
top of it. The mirror is divided into three panels, each providing a different
view. Inside the medicine cabinet are three rows, each filled with bottle after
bottle of Aleve and different brands of laxatives. On the back of the middle
mirror panel is a picture. It's about the size of a quarter and at first glance
looks like an old sticker. It looks like it's been washed, it's faded and in
black and white. There is a remnant of a young, plump face standing in front
of an old wooden barn. She's all wrapped up and looks like a caramel Marshmallow
Man. In small letters at the bottom of the picture is the word "mama."
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