“You’re nuts. He’d never touch Carly,” I say and shudder.
“Just because you hate her doesn’t mean everyone does. Bobby in marketing banged her two months ago, and remember Glenn who got fired last year? They hooked up all the time.”
“Ewwww. Why?”
“Because she’s hot and easy.”
“She is not hot. And Justin’s not into easy.” Kevin laughs, and I feel like a naïve virgin who finds out that French kissing has nothing to do with traveling to Paris.
“Every guy is into easy,” he says sagely and sips his green tea. “If I were straight, I’d take a whack at her.”
“All men are pigs,” I say and throw up my hands. “I might as well give up and become a spinster.”
“If this were Victorian England, your tombstone would read: dead before thirty with no marriage prospects.” I throw my napkin at him as Justin comes back.
“Now do you need a new napkin?” he asks, frustrated. He gives me the chopsticks packet.
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“What are you two talking about?” He sits and digs into the sushi, eyes intent on rice and pink ginger.
“Your beard,” I say quickly before Kevin can bring up Carly.
“Thought I’d give it a try,” he says and rubs the stubble. His hair grows fast! He must get a one o’clock shadow. “What do you think?”
Kevin says, “Did you know a man’s facial hair growth is linked to his sex drive?” It’s Justin’s turn to stare, and Kevin says, “What? And your lights on all day theory wasn’t bizarre?”
“I had a date last week, and she mentioned that men with facial hair are sexier.” Justin had a date? When was this and why wasn’t I informed? He used to ask Kevin and me for advice all the time. Not that we’re experts, Kevin’s a serial dater and I’m more of a terminal non-dater, but at least he shared with us. The thought of women finding Justin sexy is odd, and I rethink Carly’s behavior. Maybe she’s trying to get Justin’s attention.
“It went well?” asks Kevin, but he looks at me.
“Better than Cassie’s date apparently.”
“And? Any fireworks?”
“We had a good time, and I’m seeing her again next week.”
“Well,” says Kevin, “at least one of us is getting laid.” Justin’s mortified face is enough for me to ask the server for our tab, who has it with him already.
“Any dessert?” he asks, knowing that if we say yes, he may go on a murderous rampage.
“Not today, thank you.”
“So, Captain McBeardy Pants,” says Kevin behind me in a singsong voice, “how exactly does one become a tuna boat captain?” Lift palm insert face.
October
Creepy Kenny and Rule Number Five: You will dress up this Halloween and you’ll like it.
I gape in horror at my costume. There is no way in hell I’m wearing that monstrosity. Absolutely not. Even when I was sixteen, I wasn’t tarty enough to put that on. Who do the girls think I am? Might as well ditch my job and join the Bunny Ranch, because that’s where I’ll be sent if I leave my apartment with that on.
The girls find it hilarious. Lindsey’s costume is not much better: black latex cat suit with thigh high stiletto boots and black cat ears. Keeley is adorable as a sluttier version of Glinda the Good Witch, pink wand and crown glistening and strawberry blonde wig curled to perfection. Alicia can’t come with us when we go out on Halloween. Kids tend to come first, Halloween parties far distant. She’s wearing the same thing she’s worn since her first son Mickey was born: a long white sheet with a hole for her head to go through and a white mask. I’m not sure if she’s a ghost or the Lone Ranger if he joined a cult. She makes her kids’ costumes every year, so it’s impossible for her to focus on herself. Her husband attends his swanky office party and leaves Alicia to take the kids around their neighborhood. I’ve only mentioned Mickey so far (I’m a bit biased, since I’m his godmother) but the other two are okay. Mickey is six and can almost have conversations that last more than five seconds. His greatest accomplishment to date is the recitation of the alphabet. Her middle child, the only girl, is Beth, and she’s three. She looks like her father but has her mother’s attitude. She organizes her stuffed animals before bed each night and cannot stand if her room is messy. The boys drive her crazy. Adam is two and definitely in the “terrible” years, but he’s been a terror since he was born. He’s a hair-puller, and face puncher, and a screamer. Alicia ignores him whenever he makes a fuss, which worked with the older kids, but Adam couldn’t care less who’s listening to him. He just likes to hear himself screech like a demented barn owl.
Back to my ensemble. The girls bought it early this year, prepared to take me out somewhere “fun.” My idea of Halloween hijinks involves a lowball glass, a bottle of scotch, and some sandalwood candles. Maybe I watch the Charlie Brown Halloween Special; who can resist The Great Pumpkin?
The lime green bodysuit covered with shiny, sequined leaves and branches sits on my bed, and I feel it staring at me, daring me to measure my thigh circumference to be sure they’ll fit through the leg holes. Matching tights and bicep-length finger-less gloves lay next to the suit, and knee-high darker green boots are heaped near the bed. Keeley said she’ll do my makeup, as I can’t be trusted with glitter eye shadow. I’m Poison Ivy, or so Lindsey said. She wanted me to match her for some reason and was quite miffed when Keeley refused to be Harley Quinn. She wanted us to be the villainous trinity from Batman. I never even knew she liked comic books. Keeley will clash with us, though she insists Glinda is heinous in Wicked, and while I agree she was a manipulative bitch in that book, she doesn’t measure up to the Joker’s right-hand lady. But they’re both relatively covered, albeit in skin-tight outfits. Mine looks like a one-piece swimsuit with accessories, afterthoughts when the person that designed it realized she looked like a greenhouse hooker. Lindsey says it will look smashing and shut up, it’s rule five and you’re going to have fun dammit.
If they give me a few shots before we go out, maybe I’ll have a good time. Maybe they’ll squeeze my suddenly massive body into that damn bathing suit. Why do thoughts of swimsuits and skimpy Halloween costumes send even the most toned women into hysterical suicidal thoughts? There’s nothing worse than knowing you’re fit then seeing saddlebags appear out of nowhere attached to your thighs like enormous leeches. I steer clear of dressing rooms during spring for this reason. The three bathing suits I felt were necessary for an impromptu spring break vacation two years ago linger in my lowest drawer under the lingerie I never use and the bandanas from my 5k races.
Halloween is not for two weeks, so I’ll beef up my body a bit. Maybe I should go back to my old gym. It would be like greeting a friend thought lost at sea. I haven’t set foot in a gym outside winter months since I lost the depression weight.
I fold the costume gingerly, wince, hold it at arm’s length and toss it onto the dresser where Prospero can’t lay on it. I may not like the costume, but Lindsey would be hurt if I told her it “accidentally” fell on the floor and Prospero “unintentionally” chewed the sequins off. She’s shelled out a lot of money for me this year: the dating site, my ill-fated bike, and now this barely-there costume. How can something so tiny cost so much? The beadwork isn’t even that great.
Email: [email protected] to [email protected]
Date Eight Information:
Kenny Castlereigh, 28 years old, is a private business owner. He buys and sells rare antiques and has five stores in the Midwest. He hasn’t attempted to sell us anything, so thumbs up! He likes comic books, especially illustrated classics like Treasure Island, which is also his favorite book. He reads! Hurray!
Destination: meet at his store downtown at noon and go for a walk through Nicollette Mall. Maybe stop for lunch in the area. It’s a month for surprises and being open-minded. Kenny sounds unique but well-rounded in his emails. And here’s your profile. We never told Greg you’re a vegetarian, so I have no idea
where he got that idea. Delusional? Possible deranged narcissist? It’s definitely one or the other.
Love, Alicia
Username: CitiesOracle
I am a hardworking, spunky, stubborn redhead who’s tired of trying to meet people in bars. I’m using this website to date casually, not necessarily to find a relationship, but you never know what can happen. If I find the right person, I’d be ready to settle down.
I drink occasionally and enjoy beer and wine in particular. Smokers need not email me; it’s a major deal-breaker. Also, no lawyers.
I have a large extended family and one cat, Prospero.
I like running and staying healthy, reading, writing, dancing, dining out, baking, and traveling. I lived in Europe for a time, mostly around France and England.
My ideal first date includes dinner at an interesting restaurant. I’m pretty adventurous when it comes to food, and I expect my partner to share this interest. Ordering chicken fingers off the kid’s menu at an Indian restaurant is a huge no-no.
I hope to meet some nice people and perhaps form some great friendships. I hope to hear from you soon!
The profile is good if a bit trite. I sound slightly like an aged Girl Scout, but guys like uniforms, right? The profile doesn’t reveal too much, which I appreciate. I wish Alicia had slipped and revealed what website they signed me up for. I suppose I could go through each one and type in the username, hoping I picked the right password. That would take ages, so the thought leaves quickly. I also wonder why Greg thought I’m a vegetarian. Maybe he was trying to catch me lying. He seemed suspicious on our first date when I didn’t take off on my bike like Lance Armstrong, but the girls would never embellish my accomplishments. Unless they really wanted to seal the deal with Greg. His profile must have been impressive, mountain climber and all-around douche bag aside. Sigh. I’d better choose my eighth date outfit. It’s getting a lot easier now that I’m not expecting much. I don’t think this is going to work. How can I possibly find my perfect match if I don’t even know who I’m meeting?
I’m skeptical about October’s match. When I picture someone who owns an antique store, I see a Max Von Sydow character: tall, gaunt, white hair, sly knowing smile. Old. The only people I’ve met that ran antique stores were ancient, able to appreciate their wares. How can someone my age enjoy collecting and admiring stuff from the 1900s?
But I’m one hundred percent wrong.
The “antique” shop is more of a vintage swap meet, but elegant. When I arrive to survey the sight, the large windows display mannequins wearing fashions from the 1960s, 70s, and 80s; a flash of Jackie-O sunglasses, neon colors, and bell-bottomed blue jeans. Although the styles clash, the set-up meshes them together effortlessly, as if each decade is fusing into the next to make new statements. Whoever designed the displays has a keen eye for what was best about the last few decades’ fashions. Each mannequin stands amidst items of interest from the last few decades. The A-line two toned mini-dress frolics with a 60s mod television, Beatles records on an old turntable, some tall white go-go boots, and vivid tulips. The head-scarfed, bluejeaned model sits next to sunflowers, pictures of Jimmy Hendrix and Janis Joplin, a pale pink guitar, and kitschy porcelain figurines. The flashy 80s ensemble (model complete with leg warmers) looks like Olivia Newton John’s apartment exploded: the white backdrop sets off intense neon blue, pink, and yellow splatter paint as well as a puppet from the movie Labyrinth, Madonna-style beads and crosses, and an ancient eight track player and a BetaMax player whose slot pops open. We used to have one of those in our old house. I wonder where it went. Dad probably sold it long ago, but knowing his magpie tendencies, he might still have it.
Wow. I might get along with this guy, especially if he engineered these displays.
The inside is just as miraculous. It’s filled with oddities such as metal movie posters, western novels with browning covers, and feather boas made with actual feathers. Most of the counters are glass-covered, so the merchandise must be expensive. There are a lot of browsers. People wander from corner to corner and caress the items with their eyes. One appreciative man stands in front of a gorgeous black and white piano with his chin in one hand and the other hand tapping his thigh. There are no price tags.
“Cassandra!” shouts a voice across the shop. The customers turn and stare, but when they see who is striding through them, they all return to the antiques. Kenny Castlereigh is enormous. My grandpa’s phrase “built like a brick shithouse comes to mind.” He stands well over six feet and reminds me of a Vikings linebacker. Did the girls say he played college football? He is muscular, not flabby, and has a pleasant, round face.
“Kenny?” He reaches out and grabs my hand, shaking it roughly.
“Ken Castlereigh at your service, ma’am. It’s nice to finally meet you!” His voice booms through the store, but no one minds or looks at him after their initial glances. He must be this exuberant all the time. His two spectacled clerks go about their business chatting with customers, none of whom approach Kenny. His apparel is slightly off-putting as well: a tailored, double-breasted pinstriped suit with black wingtips and crisp silk tie. The tie has a scene from an X-Men comic on it. Wolverine’s yellow head peeks out from the closed suit jacket.
“It’s great to meet you too,” I say. “Your store is extraordinary.”
“Thank you!” He beams down at me, and I wish I had worn heels instead of flats. “It’s taken me years to get it just the way I want it, and I rotate the window displays monthly. I was going to put up something for Halloween, but the set-up just didn’t speak to me. I’m not into fake ghosts and witches.”
“It looks great. Very creative.”
“That’s me to a T! Shall we walk a bit? Around lunch I always leave the store for a few hours to take in the city. I’m stuck inside so much; the boys say I need to get out more.” He nods toward his clerks who glance in our direction and wave.
“Sounds good to me,” I say and move toward the door.
We walk outside toward Nicollet Mall, which is a large indoor high-end shopping center. He talks constantly, about many different subjects from his store, to his family, and interests.
“Do you think I’d make a good super villain?” he asks when we stop for an iced coffee.
“A what?”
“A super villain! Like Lex Luthor or Magneto? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be an evil mastermind!” He twitches his fingers together and tries to look sinister, but his toothy grin betrays him.
“I suppose,” I offer, not sure what he wants to hear.
“My name’s already alliterative, so I’ve got that going for me.”
“Kenny Castlereigh doesn’t sound too threatening,” I laugh, and his face lights up.
“I would go by Kenneth Castlereigh until I found a decent pseudonym. And you could be my sidekick!” Sidekick? Right. Like I’d play second banana to anyone.
“I think I’d branch out and create my own evil empire.” Kenny booms with mirth, and I’m reminded of Tree Beard from the Lord of the Rings. I wonder what makes people so jolly then remember when my uncle played Santa Claus at the Maplewood Mall years and years ago. He told my mom—(he didn’t see me listening around the corner)—that he hated being nice to so many people, that it was really hard to keep up that kind of energy. His face hurt each night from smiling.
“A female super villain would be interesting! I suppose Poison Ivy is the most able in the DC universe. Cat Woman doesn’t really count since she’s a fence sitter.” He raises his eyebrows up and down and few times and leers at me, as if he’s imagining me as the botany-obsessed villainess. Weird, my costume has come back to haunt me, and I picture myself adorned in green sequins and leather.
“I think I’d be more of a power suit girl and run a corrupt corporation.”
“Sure! That would be interesting! Say, would you like to meet this comic book artist I know? He could draw you in character!”
“Umm…”
“He’s a
lready done mine! It looks great! I don’t have a costume either. It’s more like what I wear now, a suit and tie.” I’m not sure where he’s coming from now. It’s a bit strange. Not the usual first date talk.
“Maybe some other time,” I say and pick up speed. “Where should we stop for lunch?”
“We can go back to the store. I sometimes go out, but I brought lunch today.” He put his pointer finger in front of his lips. “Don’t tell the clerks. They’ll scold me!”
I thought we were going to lunch, or that’s what I took from our conversation in the shop. Weren’t we supposed to go to lunch after walking around?
“I suppose that would be fine.”
“Good! We can eat in my office! I made couscous and homemade hummus!” I didn’t know you could make hummus by yourself. I suppose it’s possible; just get a bunch of chickpeas and go to town.
“Let’s get back then. I have to meet my Mom later this afternoon.” A lie, but Mom won’t mind. She’ll never know. I use her as an excuse to get out of a lot of things.
“Oh. I thought you were hanging out in the shop for a while.” He sounds put out, but the email said nothing about “hanging out” at his work. What would I do if I stayed at the shop besides browse the aisles? I would never bring a date to my workplace. It would be really boring. I never understood bring-your-daughter-to-work days, because what kid wants to be stuck in an accountant’s office or box factory all morning and afternoon? Sure, if your dad was a firefighter or a cop…but I doubt they let the kids see anything cool.
“I can’t. I promised Mom I’d take her for coffee and chat.” I shrug as if saying, “What can you do? It’s my mom.”
“Okay. But you will stay for lunch.” It’s not a question, but I treat it as such.
“Of course. It sounds good.”
“Great!” he says and tries to put his arm around me. I angle away, but I don’t think he noticed. “You’re going to love it.” He sounds so sure of himself.
Dad wants me to meet Sandy, his girlfriend, today. I’m not sure what to do or say. He’s never been with anyone but Mom, or anyone I’ve met at least. What conversations could we have? Two grown women with nothing but my Dad in common. He’s not the best talker either, especially when he’s in an uncomfortable situation. My dad likes predictability. The easiest things for him to hang onto are traditions, nothing spontaneous. But he has the blog, and he’s met this woman, so my perceptions of Dad are thrown.
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