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Dany Levy

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Posted Friday, June 22, 2001, at 8:30 PM ET

The Making of a Candy

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Cafe Loup, West 13^th Street, 9:45 p.m.

"A little pill, a little torture, a little Jewish comfort food, and then I'm done."

This, by far, is the most classic quote of the day. In weeks, actually. Better than any of the fashion missives Noel, the personal shopper at Barneys, declared during the make-me-over television shoot I did for Oxygen this morning. ("You are such a Galliano girl!") Better than the lovely subscriber feedback I have gotten throughout the course of the day. (An all-cap, two word "LUFF YOU" e-mail, a "Where can I find a good dry cleaner in Carnegie Hill?" e-mail, an "I was told by a friend that I am able to find an apartment through your web-site" e-mail. A "Recycle your old worn-out toothbrush!" e-mail. Hate mail. Fan mail.) Better than my discussion with Richard, a very sweet, very patient AOL account rep who explained to me why I was booted off AOL for guerrilla marketing in chat rooms. Better than the 35 or so PR pitches I've fielded: "You have to meet Dr. So-and-So. He's the derm of derms! The dean of dermabrasion!"

Back to the poetic pill-popper. This is Celia, a friend and co-worker, talking. And this, of everything I've seen today, is a DailyCandy item: Women taking painkillers before subjecting themselves to the much-touted, highly invasive, take-it-all-off (or almost all-off, depending) Brazilian bikini wax. Serious painkillers. Vicodin. Codeine. Tranquilizers work too, I am told. Xanax. Klonopin. Atavan. Anything a woman can get her hands on.

Celia is explaining her ritual pre- and post-wax. First she takes the horse pill. Then she lies prostrate, before Myna, her Hungarian "aestheticitian," and pretzels herself into all sorts of gymnastic poses all to have her pubic region stripped clean.

However did this, of all topics, arise?

The Park, West Chelsea, 7 p.m.

I'm having drinks at the infamous hotspot, the Park, the scene-of-all-scenes—listening, in all my harried glory, to the pitch.

I've just met Darlene, a pretty-as-can-be twentysomething. She's wearing a strapless jean dress, flashing a clean bright smile, smoking Dunhills. Darlene is from publicist X's office, and, after having canceled on her three times, I've finally bucked up and agreed to meet. We're milling about suits and scents, slinky sirens and sleazy men, sipping Stoli. She's offering to wine and dine me at Alain Ducasse, telling me about Michael Douglas' hotel in Bermuda and Catherine Zeta-Jones' famous lullabies. We both have dinner dates in 50 minutes and we know what needs to be done. She's got the ideas. She wants me to write about them. She's volleying: The only restaurant in New York that hands out pashminas to ladies who get a chill in the dining room. A Bastille Day lunch special. Martha's new garden clogs. Mimi Maternity. Minty mouthwash.

Pass.

Thirty minutes left in the game, and I score. I've got the story. I've found the item. I've gotten Darlene away from the subject of her client list and onto her personal life (her dating woes, trips to Jamaica, her boss, serious dish on other journalists and—of all things—her injured left foot and the contents of her back pocket).

That's where the Vicodin comes in.

Yes, I've just learned, that wonder drug I took when I had my wisdom teeth removed, that rosy little make-all-better, ain't-life-a-peach pill is what she and all her friends pass around the office for use for one thing and one thing only.

Tolerating Brazilian torture treatment. And her brother has a secret source in Mexico.

Two hours later, I've called three friends on my way to dinner. I've asked if they have engaged in such behavior. I've gotten two affirmatives and need the third to make sure it's a bona fide phenomenon (the Holy Trinity rule of trend-spotting). I've landed at the corner bistro for a quiet dinner where I've run into Celia. So I ask, "Have you ever taken anything pre-pruning?"

Celia casts a wide, wicked smile. She nods. She squeals, "Of course I do!" And then those words. "A little pill, a little torture, a little Jewish comfort food, and then I'm done." Read: Tylenol with codeine, a trip to Myna, and a nice bagel with a schmear. The Good Girls' Guide to Painless Waxing.

Now, that's an item. And if Ms. Zeta-Jones is a believer too, then maybe, well maybe, I'll mention her hubby's hotel.