You and your roommate can’t stop laughing.
“Party Girls will be right back after these messages.”
Switch.
Sunny is walking to the bathroom, a sweater tied around her waist.
“Don’t let this happen to you,” a high-pitched teenager’s voice says. “Wear Purity tampons.”
Your roommate suddenly brightens. “Hey, I just remembered. I have a bottle of Zinfandel. Maybe we should get in the spirit.”
“Sounds good,” you say. “Wanna play a drinking game?”
She pulls an oversized bottle out of the fridge (obviously purchased with a romantic encounter in mind) and places it and two Hard Rock Café shot glasses onto the coffee table.
“We should each pick a team,” you say.
“I call Brittany and Erin! I want to support my bigger-breasted sisters.”
“Fine. Okay, every time Sunny and Michelle screw up—fall, puke, swear, whatever—I have to drink. And every time Erin and Brittany screw up, you drink.”
“Sounds fun.” She fills your shot glasses with the pink liquid. “Hey, no fair, we’re drinking your team colors.”
Switch.
The girls are in position, hovering above their respective cocktail glasses, hands behind their backs. “On your mark,” Howard says, “get set, go!” Sunny and Erin dunk their heads in the giant glasses.
You scream, “Come on, Sunny!”
Your roommate screams, “Find that gum, Erin!”
The camera zooms up against Sunny’s martini glass. Her eyes are shut tight and her tongue is rolling like a French kiss gone mad.
“What’s wrong with her? The two pieces are right there!” you scream. “Why doesn’t she just grab one of them with her teeth?”
Sunny swallows a mouthful, appears to be choking, jerks her head out of the liquid and starts coughing, Cosmopolitan spluttering like volcano lava.
Your roommate jabs your shoulder. “Drink up.”
You grumble and drink. Erin and Brittany are going to win. Big-breasted women get everything, don’t they?
Sunny plunges back in.
Switch.
Erin, eyes shut and mouth open like she’s screaming, bites into a piece of gum. Jaw clenched, she springs from the Cosmo, hair flapping backward like she’s on Baywatch, sending a spray of pink in an arc behind her. She starts chewing. Brittany lurches toward the martini glass, hands behind her back, ready to dive in.
Your roommate and the crowd shout, “WOHOO!”
What’s Sunny’s problem? Dammit, find the gum! “The glass is in a V-shape, what’s so difficult? She just has to go straight to the bottom!”
Switch.
Erin is chewing, chewing…bubble attempt, no, too wet, chewing, chewing…
Yikes. Erin has terrible skin. Why didn’t she use waterproof foundation? What was formerly known as black mascara now looks like smeared crayon under her eyes.
Switch.
And…she has it! Sunny has the gum! She’s swallowed half the glass of Cosmopolitan, but she has the gum. She sweeps her head out of the alcohol and starts chewing. Her hair is in a tight bun, and the top half of her shirt is soaked. Chewing, chewing, chewing. Her cheeks are filling with air. She’s getting ready to blow…
Switch.
A bubble emerges from Erin’s lips.
The crowd screams, “TWO…THREE…FOUR…FIVE!”
Pop.
The crowd and your roommate cheer.
Brittany plunges into the martini glass.
Switch.
Sunny blows a bubble.
“ONE…TWO…”
Pop.
Your roommate laughs. “Drink again.”
You down another shot.
Switch.
Brittany bites into her piece of gum.
Switch.
Sunny blows and blows. Michelle is perched over the glass, waiting, watching.
“TWO…THREE…FOUR…FIVE!” You and the crowd scream.
Michelle dives in.
Switch.
Brittany chomps on her gum.
Switch.
Michelle smacks her forehead against the side of the glass.
Ouch. You take another drink.
Switch.
Brittany blows and blows, and holds a bubble above her head like a lightbulb. Erin has the bat in hand, ready to spin.
“TWO…THREE…FOUR…FIVE!”
The crowd and your roommate cheer.
Erin starts spinning.
Switch.
Michelle has the gum, and she’s blowing! Sunny’s baseball bat is up, ready to go. And there it is! There’s the bubble!
“ONE…TWO…THREE…FOUR…FIVE!” Yes!
Sunny starts spinning.
Switch.
“…NINETEEN…TWENTY!” Erin drops the bat and attempts to walk forward, toward the bar. Instead of walking straight, she swerves all the way right toward the crowd.
Your roommate screams, “What’s wrong with her? What’s she doing?”
Erin looks confused. She can’t figure out why her body isn’t working the way it’s supposed to. She tries to walk straight, but keeps veering right. She stumbles on her heels and falls on her behind.
Your roommate’s turn to drink. “Shoot it, baby.” She swallows and slams the glass onto the table. “Finally.”
“Why finally? You were winning.”
“I want to get drunk, too, you know.”
Switch.
Sunny’s still rotating counterclockwise, but then suddenly she stops, pauses, and then spins four times clockwise.
Brilliant. Just brilliant. She’s stabilizing herself.
Switch.
Erin’s up and standing and…down again.
Your roommate drinks.
Switch.
Dropping the bat, Sunny sprints straight to the bar. She grabs her shot and downs it in one gulp.
“Take it home, Michelle!” you scream. Michelle starts spinning.
The pink team is in the lead.
Switch.
Face creased in determination, Erin lifts herself up and sprints toward the bar. She seizes her shot and downs it. Then she topples over. Brittany starts revolving, but she’s moving very slowly.
“ONE…TWO…THREEEEEEEEEEEEE…”
“It’s not fair!” your roommate whines. “She’s too tall. She has to bend more than the other girls do. Someone should give her a taller bat.”
Switch.
“…SIXTEEN…”
Michelle uses Sunny’s clockwise/counterclockwise trick and finishes off her last four spins. She discards the bat, veers a bit to the right but manages to make it to the bar without falling. She downs the shot.
Switch.
“…NINETEEN…TWENTY!” Brittany drops her bat and makes a run for the bar. Unfortunately she didn’t use the pink team’s anti-dizzying technique and staggers, then falls face-first onto the shiny floor, after sliding about two feet.
Switch.
Michelle gets on her hands and knees. Sunny stands behind her and picks up her legs. Good thing she’s wearing sneakers. Michelle and Sunny are now in wheelbarrow position, jostling toward the finish line.
Switch.
After a few spills Brittany reaches the bar and drinks. Then she assumes the push-up position and Erin secures her teammate’s legs by the ankles. They’ve only taken two steps when Brittany falls, splat, right on her chest.
“It’s not fair, her boobs are a disability. They’re weighing her down. They’re weighing my whole team down.”
Wah, wah, wah.
Switch.
Sunny and Michelle trip.
“Drink up!”
Switch.
Erin and Brittany wheelbarrowing.
Switch.
Michelle and Sunny scrambling back into position.
The screen is split in half by a thick white line, showing the determined faces of both teams: eyes intense and squinting, jaws clenched and tight. You can’t tell who’s ahead.
You and
your roommate are on your feet, cheering, hands waving. Pink, pink, pink, pink! Yellow, yellow, yellow!
Switch.
Ad for Stark’s Department Store.
You both take a seat. Commercials totally ruin the tension. Why do they always put them at the best parts?
Your roommate burps. “I think I’m drunk.”
The massive bottle is more than half empty. “I think I am, too. Do you want dessert?”
“What do we have?”
“I have some cookie dough ice cream.”
“But I’m not depressed,” she says. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Maybe I’m depressed. I still can’t believe Fuckhead didn’t call. Is there even a minute possibility that he lost my number?”
“No.”
Shrugging, you heave yourself toward the kitchen. “Looks like we’ll have to use coffee mugs. And we’ll have to dish out the ice cream with a teaspoon.”
“We should really get an ice cream scooper,” she says.
“Or wash the dishes.” The sink is overflowing. Tomorrow. When you’re not so dizzy.
Switch. It’s back.
The two teams are moving fast, both hurling themselves toward the finish line. Sunny and Michelle are ahead by only a foot.
Almost there, almost there.
Erin’s a bit wobbly on her stilettos.
The pink team breaks through the white-ribboned finish line.
“Oh, yeah!” You make a V with your arms for victory, a V that looks a lot like your Y during a drunken rendition of the Village People’s “YMCA.”
Sunny drops Michelle’s feet and helps her up. They start jumping and hugging.
Still a few feet behind, Erin drops Brittany’s legs as if they’re covered in poison ivy. Brittany’s chest smashes into the ground.
“BEEEP!” Erin screams.
“That’s two drinks,” you say. “One for losing and one for swearing.”
“BEEEP! BEEEP! Stupid BEEEP!”
After downing the two shots, your roommate pours herself three more. “She’s certainly a potty mouth.”
“Did you just say ‘potty mouth’? Who says that?”
Erin’s scarred cheeks are now flaming red. “I BEEEP hate those BEEEP whores!”
“Two more,” you say.
Two shots later, your roommate is beginning to look a bit woozy. She lifts a spoon of ice cream and misses her mouth.
Only an inch of wine remains in the bottle.
Switch.
Howard has reclaimed the microphone, and his goofy smile takes up most of your screen. “Congratulations to the pink team! Now, Michelle and Sunny, you have the unfortunate responsibility of deciding who has to leave the show, Erin or Brittany. Please retreat to the private VIP room to come to a decision. Let us know when you’re ready.”
“Who is that guy again?”
“The producer,” you say.
“I bet Brittany gets the axe,” she says, gripping her cup of ice cream.
Brittany’s useless. Why would they axe her first? If they’re smart they’ll get rid of Erin. She’s the real competition. “I’ll take that bet.”
“Loser downs the rest of the bottle.”
“Deal.”
Switch.
Sunny and Erin sitting at a wooden table, door closed.
“If it’s a drinking competition, Brittany will demolish us,” Michelle says.
Sunny nods.
Oh. You hadn’t thought of that. Brittany can drink anyone under the table, since nothing short of passing out will stop her.
Your roommate claps. “See? Get ready to chug.” Some of her now melted ice cream spills over the mug, onto her shirt. She’s a mess. And she’s plastered. Another shot of alcohol and she might pass out.
Another shot of alcohol and you might pass out.
Switch.
Erin’s lips are pursed and she looks ticked off. She’s going to be even more ticked off when she sees this footage. Her makeup/lack of makeup is a disaster.
Switch.
Brittany is rubbing her breasts, which must sting from slamming them onto the floor. They must be real, or wouldn’t the silicone have erupted or something?
Switch.
Poker-faced, Sunny and Michelle stride from the opened doors of the VIP room to the giant refilled martini glasses, which have been moved to the ministage. No one speaks. Erin and Brittany are below the stage, directly in front of Michelle and Sunny respectively.
“On the count of five, one member of the yellow team will be doused in Cosmopolitan,” Howard says solemnly. “Regrettably, that girl will have to leave the show.”
Erin looks defiant. Brittany looks terrified.
“Five…four…three…two…one…”
Switch.
A woman is working out on a Hardbody treadmill.
Your roommate punches the couch and slurs, “Shitty fucking commercials,” and then, “I don’t feel so well.”
You’re not feeling so well either. You’re a bit dizzy. And a little lonely. Maybe Fuckhead did lose your number. It’s possible. You have his number on your caller ID. You should call him. To see how he’s doing. He’s probably been meaning to get in touch with you. You’re not going to sleep with him again. Of course not. You just want to say hello.
19
Mad About You
“I love your sweater,” I say to the tall, long-nosed woman standing next to me in the elevator. It’s a gray three-quarter-length Nicole Miller knit. I just bought the exact same one last week. She’s wearing hers buttoned, but I prefer mine undone.
“Yeah? Wanna hear a secret?” She leans toward me. “I found it in the lost and found. There was a ton of fantastic stuff in there yesterday. It’s cute, huh?”
As soon as she says “lost and found,” I have an epiphany.
I’m going to kill him.
When Pinocchio gets off the elevator, I watch to see what apartment she gets into so I can track her down later. 4D.
Irate, I unlock the door to the apartment. “Steven? Steven?”
He might have already left for work. Even though it’s only noon, on Friday his schedule is completely erratic. Sometimes he goes in early, and sometimes he stays even after the restaurant closes for Shabbat when he has some peace and quiet.
I’m just getting home from meeting Carrie for a quick strategy-discussing lunch. She wouldn’t tell me what the upcoming events are, but she congratulated me on the excellent relay skills I displayed last week.
“What did you expect? I knew every one of those events from camp.”
Carrie raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”
Without going into detail, she advised me to focus on being extra nice for the camera so that if I make this week’s cut, the viewers would prefer me over my opponent in the final episode. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem,” she said and then took another bite of her delicious lox-and-oozing-cream-cheese sandwich.
Why did she have to eat that in front of me? Haven’t I told her I’m watching my weight? How was I supposed to enjoy my dry lettuce while she was practically moaning with pleasure?
She chewed, swallowed, then said, “The viewer identifies with you. Michelle is too high up on her pedestal, and Brittany is too much of an alcoholic. Just keep being your everyday average fabulous self and you won’t have a problem. And your single self.” She leans into the table and whispers, “Did you go shopping with Steve this week?”
My empty stomach dropped to the bottom of my body like a falling elevator. “Yeah. Why?”
“Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal, but you almost got nailed.” She reached into her purse, and pulled out a folded piece of newspaper.
“Listen: ‘Sunny Lang, one of the remaining competitors on TRS’s Party Girls was spotted modeling bathing suits for an unidentified male companion. Has Sunny, who was recently linked to Matt Rowler, found a new boyfriend?’ It’s from Page Six.”
My first thought was: I made the gossip column? My second: new boy
friend? “Oh-oh.”
“It’s okay, I spoke to Howard already, and promised it was just a male friend, a gay male friend who helps you shop. He doesn’t want to hear about any boyfriend, got it?”
Yikes. Steve’ll love that. “Thanks.”
“No problem. But no more public outings with Steve until this is all done, okay?”
Relieved, my stomach ascended back to its previous upright but still starving position.
“So,” she asked. “Have you spoken to your dad lately? He’s been a little out of touch.”
When I uncomfortably shook my head, she shoved her three-thousand-grams-of-fat sandwich at me in an attempt to ease the awkwardness. “Want a bite? It’s heavenly.”
I shook my head, pissed that she could be so insensitive about my diet, and stuffed my mouth with lettuce.
And now here I am, still hungry and still pissed. “Steven, where are you? Steven!”
“In the kitchen, making breakfast. By myself. Because my girlfriend who claims to love me keeps deserting me.”
My clothes had better be in the bedroom closet. I rummage through my carefully hung-up pants and shirts. Nope. Behind the door. Nope. My favorite black pants are missing. My Helmut Lang pants from Stark’s! I storm into the kitchen. “Steven, what happened to the dry cleaning I asked you to pick up?”
He cracks an egg onto the frying pan, then kisses me on the cheek. “I picked it up.” He cracks another egg.
He’s dead. So dead. “Yeah? Where is it?”
“It’s…” In midcrack his face turns white. “Oops.”
“What oops? Where are my clothes?”
The egg yolk drips onto the counter from its half-broken shell. “You’re going to hate this.”
“Where are they?”
“I picked your clothes up yesterday, just like you said.”
“Yes, but what happened to them between the cleaners and the apartment?”
He grins, sheepishly. “I think I left them in the elevator.”
What’s wrong with this man? I shake my head in disgust. “You left my clothes in the elevator?”
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
“It’s never on purpose, is it?”
He cracks yet another egg and continues making his breakfast. “I’m sure nothing happened to your stuff. I bet the bags are in the lost and found.”
“They were in the lost and found, Steve. I just saw a woman wearing my Nicole Miller sweater.”
As Seen on TV Page 27