Spooning Page 8
“Yes!” Wade shouted as if in mid-orgasm (out of character for her). “Girls, this is our first official Thing!”
“Another first. I don't know if I can contain myself. I haven't had so many firsts in a long time,” pondered Tara.
Our Thing. Hmm. My first official Thing. I stood a little taller in my foil-covered boots just as the doorbell rang.
Somehow, our innocent invitees had taken it upon themselves to invite more friends—the whole word-of-mouth effect. No one likes to be alone in New York City, thus New Yorkers gravitate toward crowds. They surround themselves on all sides, buffering themselves from the taxi horns, police sirens, and other lonely people. And suddenly, our intimate Sinful Singles' Holy Halloween dinner party had turned into a Holy Shithouse Halloween. Within the first hour, the elegantly arranged dinner table and chairs, assembled from various rooms and a friendly neighbor's apartment, had been banished to the corners to make room for dancing. The delicately strung spiderwebs were torn and someone had eaten out the insides of Wade's canapés. Wade had doctored up some small menus announcing our festive feast:
They were now serving as coasters. Our first course had been stuffed into a plastic container (Note to self: Beans are not a group fave.), and the guys had dug into the Funeral Potatoes using coffee mugs instead of the etched glass dishes I had borrowed from work. But the Devil was cavorting with our resident Angel, and the male Tooth Fairy was dirty dancing with a Cinderella. Our first Thing was a success.
I barely heard the praise for my star-spangled butt as my attention was focused on finding my jolly green giant. Three hours in, as the clock ticked toward eleven, I finally saw a green entity. My Hunk had entered the building. I ran, lasso in hand, to the far side of the room, draped myself over his shoulders, grabbed his strong jawline and planted my most super- powered kiss on his gorgeous mouth. I was in a go-get-'em kind of mood. Forget the candy, I wanted the treats! He returned my kiss with a passion I could only equate to long-lost lovers on a deserted island. I swear it lasted so long I was breathing through my ears. He grabbed onto my golden-cinched waist and I simultaneously praised the weeklong water diet I had been on.
“Wonder Woman, wow!” I figured he was referring to my eagle-bearing cleavage. “You can take me down anytime.”
Now! I was thinking, Now! I opened my eyes and … I wasn't sure what I was staring at.
“You're not the Hunk—I mean the Hulk.”
“No, I'm the Boogeyman!” a green guy with a pimply- looking mask said with pride.
“Not the Hulk,” I repeated, ready to cry.
“No, but I am in your dreams. And now you'll definitely be in mine!” Oh, the lines! He reached for me, but I wiped my hands on my fishnet tights (I'd modernized Wonder Woman a bit) and backed away. What the hell had happened to my Hulk? Figures I'd end up kissing a snot-covered slob. Feeling the need to redeem myself, and feeling slighted that Mr. J. P. Morgan had blown off my exclusive invite, I made my way through the throngs, seeking a cute boy to kiss. I knew Tara would be surrounded by such boys. True to form, she was backed, willingly, into a corner with five guys. I assessed the options and zeroed in on a Greek God.
“Who am I? Who am I really?” My train of thought during my sexual romps would be a psychologist's wet dream. For instance, now, with my wrists wrapped in Greek God's fake ivy, I was thinking about how far I had come in three months. True, I had not conquered the corporate world or received a marriage proposal, or wrangled any sort of commitment for that matter from Mr. J. P. Morgan, but I did have a little white square box of an apartment in one of the greatest cities in the world. The cutie on top of me, on the other hand, still hadn't moved out of his parents' house. He had explained to me that he just didn't feel the rush to join the corporate race, especially considering he had no idea what interested him. His major in Classics hadn't given him a clear direction. (Classics at my college had been the jocks' choice of study since they only had to read and write glorified stories about mythological gods—all of whom they desired to emulate.) Now he told me that he was seriously thinking about law school (an easy extra three years of prestigious noncommitment). But in part I envied his carefree spirit. I especially admired it when he'd captured my mouth in the middle of dancing to “Oh, What a Night!” We had snuck off to the bathroom and the Grease 2 bowling song about “scoring” had blasted from my inner core. “We're gonna scorrre tonight, we're gonna scorrre tonight!”
Soon enough, the sink's ill-placed faucet brought me back from my drunken haze. That and Syd's voice shouting on the other side of the bathroom door.
“Charlieeeee!” she called, pounding on the door with her fists. “Phoneeeeee!”
I quickly held out my wrists to Greek God waiting for him to untangle the ivy, then plopped an apologetic kiss on his cheek. I stood, readjusted my crown, and gathered the other hastily strewn parts of my costume. I flung open the door and stepped out into the drunken masses. Syd handed me the phone and I pushed my way through the crowd to get to my bedroom.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Hellloooo to you Miss Charlie-poo.” It was J. P. Morgan. “Whatcha dooooing?” he asked, slurring his words. I looked down at my watch. It was midnight and he was definitely out partying. Wherever he was, he was completely piss drunk.
“Our party is still going on.”
“Oh yeahhhhhh, the party.” I wanted to scream. Had he not gotten the Evite reminder?
“Yep!”
“How's that thiiinng gooooing?”
“This Thing's okay.”
“Um, I just finished work.” I could hear loud voices and clanking glasses in the background.
“Where are you now?” “Whaattttt?” “Where are you now?” Did I really need to yell? I was Wonder Woman. Wonder Woman didn't yell.
“Met some of the guys out, ew-up-rpp.” What was that? Was it a burp? What, from too much Scotch?
“Are you going to swing by now?” Ever hopeful.
“Nah, don't have a costume. Sorry, babe.”
“You don't need a …” and then I stopped. What was I doing trying to convince him? This was supposed to be our honeymoon-slash-wooing phase. He should have been running my way. Something rumbled in my stomach. Too many Funeral Potatoes, I thought.
“Gotta run! Someone is looking for me,” I lied. I didn't tell him that I had been looking for him all night.
“I think I lost my costume,” Syd mourned the next morning. We had found her passed out on the toilet at about 9:00 A.M. Her white gown had pooled around her ankles while glitter mingled with the drool escaping her mouth.
“Do you think it's drugs?” Macie had whispered. Just then Syd's head popped up.
“No, no drugs. Iss jusss bee'a—” She had slurred before falling off her heavenly throne.
Now Tara demanded, “What do you mean you ‘lost it’? You were an angel, what could you lose?”
“Well, a pimp daddy walked off with my wings, and I think I gave Elvis my halo,” she admitted before curling up on her bed in the fetal position.
“You are indeed a fallen angel!” Tara cheered. “Congratulations!” The comment actually mustered a blush from Sydney.
I was sitting on the couch twirling a hastily constructed ivy crown around my finger. God, a diamond ring would look so much better than this fake leafy thing. And I had thought it had looked so good the night before—must have been how those green eyes complemented the wreath. I tossed my hookup token on my bedroom door: the splendor and spoils of victory. It would hang there for about a month, until the dangling dust bunnies annoyed Macie to the point where she made some comment about resting on my laurels.
“What's up with you, Charlie?” Tara prodded as she shoved some cold leftover Funeral Potatoes into her mouth. “You look like someone died.”
“Well, J. P. was a no-show—”
“Surprise, surprise,” muttered Tara.
“And then I hooked up with some random Adonis.” I continued. “Should I feel guilty?”
/> “Guilty? Nah,” Macie dismissed. Macie was in a lotus yoga pose, sporting quite an afterglow from her own holiday escapades.
“You were spontaneous,” Tara threw in.
“Would J. P. feel guilty?” I wondered aloud. Wait. Had he been hooking up? My heart hiccupped.
“Did he call yet?” asked Tara.
“Nope.” I paused. “So what about Greek God?”
“What about him?” Tara demanded. “Mr. J. P. Morgan didn't show up. Nor did he call until almost midnight. What were you supposed to do, wait?” Syd rolled over and gave me weak thumbs up in agreement. I sighed. The drama of it all. After my escapade with the Greek God, I'd realized that not much had changed in the past few months after all—and I'd decided that I was going to change the fact that not much had changed. I was sick of no strings, college-style hookups. I wanted exclusivity. I didn't even know how to spell the word, but I wanted it.
“You were Wonder Woman, for God's sake! Mighty, independent—”
“And flying solo,” I finished.
“Mr. J. P. Morgan needs to be kicked off his mighty throne,” murmured Syd from her bedroom.
“Or knocked off the toilet,” laughed Macie.
“At least I'm not pregnant!” Syd added.
“You were expecting to be expecting?” Wade questioned. Tara, Mace, and I rolled our eyes. Syd had this intense fear of becoming with child. She had an economy-sized box of pregnancy test sticks in the bathroom. At least once a month she would tear out of our little bathroom singing the praises of her empty uterus. You'd think that anyone with such a fear would just abstain from sex, but not Syd. No, her reassurance rested in that narrow white plastic stick. And don't think that she was above bragging about her expertise at holding the stick steadily under her flowing stream of urine. (P.S. Pregnancy Test Makers: Talk about lack of dignity in a stressful time, please advise.)
“Well, he did call last night,” I ventured.
“And that redeems him? Did he actually come over to see you and spend time with you?” Macie, ever the realist, asked. I shrugged.
“You should be in the Salad Stage,” she continued.
“The what?”
“The Salad Stage. You know, that beginning stage—when you meet someone exciting and everything is light and refreshing. Nothing is complicated yet. You're still honeymooning over the idea of a budding relationship. It's the best phase, the Salad Stage. And relationships, with food or men, are not supposed to be that complicated. They should be easy.”
“I don't like roughage anyway,” I assured her. “Can we change the subject now?” Macie picked a feather from under her left thigh.
“Okay,” she said grinning. “Did I mention that I was a spring chicken last night? And damn, was I plucked!” Way to sum it up, Mace!
Better Than Ben Affleck Dessert
Serves 6–8
Crust
1 cup finely chopped pecans
1 cup flour
½ cup margarine
3 tablespoons granulated sugar
Preheat oven to 350° F. Mix the crust ingredients together with spoon. Pat into greased 13 × 9-inch pan. Bake crust for 15 to 20 minutes till golden brown. Remove the crust from oven and let it cool.
First Layer
1 cup powdered sugar
One 8-ounce package cream cheese
One 12-ounce tub Cool Whip
Mix the powdered sugar, cream cheese, and Cool Whip with electric mixer and pour mixture on top of cooled crust.
Second Layer
1 box Jell-O Instant Pudding, chocolate or vanilla
2 cups cold milk
Mix the Jell-O and milk with electric mixer slowly until it thickens. Spread on top of cream cheese mixture.
Third Layer
One 12-ounce tub of Cool Whip
Spread Cool Whip on top of Jell-O layer
Fourth Layer
½ cup grated Hershey Chocolate Bars
Sprinkle chocolate shavings all over the top of the dessert. Refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours.
Serve to your sassiest single ladies. You'll have even the biggest skeptics asking, “Ben who?”
In New York City, the fall is one of the friendliest times of the year. The air is not too humid, it's crisp and refreshing. There are usually a few last days of Indian summer spattered here and there. You can still dine at one of the hundreds of outdoor cafes that line the various avenues and streets, or you can cozy up in one of those quaint back garden restaurants in Little Italy. You can thankfully dress to the nines and not have to worry about donning a bulky winter wrap … yet. You can drink to Columbus, Halloween, the New York City Marathon, or to the Veterans.
True to form, my first November in New York arrived with a lot of hype and expectation. Holiday sales began right after Halloween, so window shopping was the sport of choice. The pre- holiday season allowed for guiltless shopping—it's better to give than to receive—shop, shop! One can't help but be optimistic as Christmas carols are blared from street performers' trumpets and keyboards at every intersection. Even the ringing of the Salvation Army's bells seemed to harmonize with the taxis' horns. Second to the sport of credit card swiping, one of New York's premier athletic events, the New York Marathon, always held on the first weekend in November, was fast approaching.
The city was so eager to capitalize on the marathon that it was practically boiling huge pots of carbo-loaded pasta for the runners who were about to descend upon the city from around the world. None of us, meaning me and my girls, was running. After our collective Halloween dinner party debauchery, we had all theorized about running it one day—one day in the distant future. But on Marathon Sunday, we all decided to meet at mile 25, located on the east side of Central Park South, for inspiration. Syd showed up looking confused. The cops had reworked the traffic patterns. The roads that ran east now ran west and vice versa—and the transit restructuring had drastically affected the city and its inhabitants.
“Good God, there are cops everywhere!” she fumed. “One of 'em wouldn't even let me near Tavern on the Green! Totally annoying.”
“Syd, that's because it's the finish line and you are not a runner,” Macie explained.
“Yes, but I always use the bathroom there after I have my soda and pretzel from the guy on Seventy-ninth Street, and he wouldn't let me near it!”
Meanwhile, Tara was cheering on the marathon runners as they went by. Most of them wore their names scribbled onto their shirts, and Tara, always good at getting close to people, was making intimate athletic connections on the sidelines.
“You go, Gary!” she screamed. “Shake those arms out or you'll cramp up! Go, Suzy, go! Hon, you can see your butt crack, hike those shorts up!” You could tell that she was going to be one fanatical soccer mom someday. “Come on, get going, Tyrone!”
“Jesus, Tara, I would break my stride to run over and deck you if you told me to ‘get going’ at mile twenty-five,” scolded Macie. Tara just shrugged and unzipped her Juicy sweatshirt a bit.
“And why are you wearing a jogging suit when you are clearly not running?” Sage asked her.
“Why to blend in, of course. But I want to blend in and look good … not be puking in the bushes with my knees knocking and my hair matted down with sweat.” She gave another thumbs up to a nearby runner who was in just such a state.
“If you really want to blend in, you need your name on your sweatshirt,” suggested Wade. “Maybe you should have that top monogrammed?”
“I'd rather get my phone number tattooed on the back,” Tara laughed, “8–6-7–5-3–0-9!”
About an hour later, post a finish line photo op to remember our classic New York moment, we arrived at Top Shelf, ready to celebrate the marathon that we had not taken part in. Each and every bar on Broadway was packed, with lines out the doors due to the proximity to the finish line. It occurred to me that my father would have a field day making a math problem out of the situation. I'd figured you could calculate how many New Yorkers were not runni
ng the marathon simply by watching the bar bathroom lines. Subtract that number from the total city population and you'd know just how many runners had to be from out of state or from the other side of the world.
“I'd be pretty pissed if I was running, and the rest of the city was boozing,” Wade remarked. “If I ran next year, would y'all come cheer me on or would you be scoping out the best bar stools?”
“Honey, I'd be standing on my bar stool and toasting your mighty fine running posture as you breezed by!” answered Tara.
Speaking of the sheer numbers, the bathroom lines on this Sunday afternoon were approximately twenty-five to forty-five minutes long. The boys' line, of course, moved efficiently. The girls' line, however, was stagnant. A fellow GBL (girls' bathroom liner) and I decided that the bathroom process was a lot like running the marathon: You trained your muscles before- hand—kegel exercises allowed one to hold it for as long as possible; once in the middle of the throng, you bonded with other participants—over the course of twenty minutes, we decided that we were supposed to be best friends after this trying experience; you begin to cheer on everyone else:
“Come on, you can do it!”
“Pick up the pace, go, go, go!”
“You're almost there!”
“Way to go, you are a speedy one!”
Some other GBLs gave us dirty looks as they exited. Apparently they did not appreciate such encouragement. But as we neared the finish line, with those metal stall doors in sight, the mental game kicked in. Just like the runners must surely feel, all of a sudden I could not go on. I began to groan, not sure if I could make it. I had made it so far, and now with the end in reach, I was not sure I was going to be successful! The cramps, the tears. But to make a long story short, my new best friend and I both made it and high-fived each other (after washing our hands, of course). I was as high as a kite and had not felt this good in a long time (granted because the oppressive pressure on my bladder had ceased). By the end of Marathon Sunday, after all the excitement and a few too many beers and Bloody Marys, we were all camped out on our respective couches, exhausted, a bit wired, quite light-headed, and not sure we were going to make it to work the next day. Runners, we can definitely relate!