Spooning

by Darri Stephens

  As she shed her coat, I noticed she was wearing all white. From her head to her toe, she was a winter wonderland. Gone were the days of short shorts and gaudy headbands from her P. Diddy days. The two-piece, perfectly tailored suit must have been couture; it was stylish, sleek, and fit her body like a glove. It wasn't too tight, but was tight enough to flaunt that fabulous female figure. There was no loud jewelry (although I bet she missed that million-dollar pink diamond) and no low, plunging necklines. Yep, J. Lo, Ms. Jennifer Lopez, was a vision of taste and style when she stepped into the S&S offices.

  “The gardenias are out!” I whispered to the troops. “They won't show up well on camera against her outfit.”

  “Bring on the peonies,” Macie whispered. I left the girls with Julie and ran off to Set A to fluff the peonies. Two minutes later J. Lo walked in arm in arm with Jane, while the makeup artists waved brushes over their faces with last-minute strokes.

  “Oh my God, Jane!” J. Lo gushed. “These peonies are just absolutely extraordinary!” Little did she know what a pretty penny those peonies had cost the company. “How did you know that they are my absolute favorite?” she asked. Of course Jane just smiled and nodded. “Not many people understand the virtues of peonies,” J. Lo went on. “They appear delicate but they're actually quite hearty. Their simplicity is so beguiling. They have so much more to offer than the common rose.”

  “Did anyone get that? I mean did anyone get that!” Jane screeched in true diva fashion. To give her credit, she didn't put on that much of a façade. She glared toward the back of the set, toward the cameramen shielded in dark anonymity.

  “We may have to have you say that again when we're rolling,” Jane explained to J. Lo. Little did Jennifer know that Jane expected her to recite it word for word.

  “Got it!” called a lone cameraman. “I was getting some B-shots of the flower vases and picked it up then Jane. No problem.”

  “Wonderful,” sighed Jane (along with the rest of the crew). “You must know that Queen Elizabeth the First suffered from anthophobia.”

  “Oh? What's anthophobia?” J. Lo looked genuinely concerned about this long-lost member of the royal family.

  “It is an unusual psychological disorder—a fear of roses.”

  “Ahh. I also adore gardenias. They are my second favorite flower. I often have them put in my trailer when I'm filming. The scent is heavenly.” When I heard that comment, I was off like Flash Gordon. I ran to the potting shed and grabbed the extra gardenias we had on hand. Back in the craft room, I put Suzi to work creating a display that would bring tears to a socialite bride's eyes.

  J. Lo's segment with Jane was taped flawlessly. She admitted to not being the most divine cook (like she had time, I wanted to shout), but explained that over the years she had perfected her mother's cinnamon bun recipe. As she and Jane stirred, mixed, and whipped them up, they extolled the virtues of being a domestic goddess.

  “A wonderful person is a true hostess—always taking others' comfort into consideration before their own. My mother would have these buns piping hot at least once a week before we headed off to school, before she even had a chance to stir a spoonful of coffee crystals into a cup. Now that I'm a tad older—”

  “Wiser, Jennifer, not older,” corrected Jane.

  “So true,” she laughed. “I find that my houseguests enjoy waking up to the warm scent of cinnamon! They're licking their lips before they can rub the sleep out of their eyes! Now on Valentine's Day,” she smiled, “I plan to serve these to a loved one in bed. These are no ordinary cinnamon buns, Jane—wait till you taste my tongue-tickling icing. I'm sure your viewers, being crafty, can come up with a use for the extra icing. If you know what I mean, Jane?” She suggestively licked a dollop of icing off one of her fingers. Jane gave a slightly nasal laugh and switched the focus to the nonstick baking sheets available on her Web site. Gotta love network TV!

  “Now, Jennifer, would you ever buy that prepackaged cinnamon bun dough?” Jane prompted.

  “Jane, you could buy store bought—it's easy and predictable. But I think going that route is way too cookie-cutter. And who wants the basic standard in life? Life's too short for store shelf goods and I think there really is a difference. I encourage everyone to roll up their sleeves from time to time and bake from scratch. It's such a treat for the people you care about. Cooking is like love: don't go for what's easiest or expected if you want to end up with something genuine, flavorful, and unique.” My mouth dropped open in awe. She was speaking my lingo. She was speaking to me.

  “I'm very impressed,” Jane beamed in response. “You hear that ladies at home? Even Jennifer Lopez is a traditional woman at heart. She toils in the kitchen to keep her loved ones happy.”

  J. Lo's eyes lit up and she shook her head. “Oh no, Jane. You got me all wrong, girl. I've rewritten my own traditions. And while it's true that I do enjoy whipping up culinary treats for my man, in our household it's a two-way street. We have two cooks in the kitchen—my honey makes the best arroz con pollo, you know, and he gives the best foot massages. I've been burned before, and not just in the kitchen. I've finally realized that the best relationships are between equals—and it's not just about sharing domestic tasks like cooking. It's about equal emotion and devotion on both parts. That's the way it should be, Jane.” J. Lo turned directly into the camera and gave a sassy wink into the camera and turned back to her cinnamon buns. We all stared, love-struck—she was amazing.

  As I watched the two of them cook and chitchat on the monitors, it finally hit me. It hit me like a two-ton truck. J. Lo was absolutely right. What she had just said to Jane snapped me out of my romantic bubble and right back into reality. Here I was, chasing and pursuing Mr. J. P. Morgan like a lovesick puppy. I was the one initiating the calling, the cooking, the spooning, the private one-on-one time. I had bent over backward to win this man's heart, and what had I gotten in return? Sure the sex was good (okay, great even), but at the end of the day I'd wound up with an overdone burger and soggy fries in a dive bar in front of some basketball game. That and utter ingratitude for my nursing efforts. Good God, Charlie! It dawned on me right there, on the ice-cold set of S&S, just days before the most overrated, yet romantic, day of the year, that I was the one who needed to be pursued, wined, dined, loved, canoodled, romanced, snuggled, kissed. I deserved all the things I wasn't getting from him. I wanted individualized love, just like an à la carte dish. Time to put Mr. J. P. Morgan's prepackaged self back on the shelf! How could I have let my inner diva die like that? Bravo, J. Lo! Thank you, J. Lo! The master had awakened her eager apprentice, me, to her wise ways. And it was time for a change.

  After two hours, Jane announced that shooting was finished (as usual, she did so before the director had come to the same conclusion) and after a few photo shots of the two of them holding up the sticky buns for publicity, Jane and J. Lo walked off the set. I timed it perfectly to round the corner from the hallway at the same moment. My arms were filled with the artfully wrapped gardenia blossoms. I held my breath so as not to sneeze all over the bouquet.

  “Um, excuse me, Ms. Lopez, we thought you would enjoy these gardenias we had in the back,” I whispered. Who was I? Can you say, a three-year-old meeting Santa for the first time?

  “Um, I know that you really like gardenias …” my voice petered out as J. Lo focused her attention on me. At the same time, Jane was looking me up and down, up and down. She probably had no clue who I was. I had purposely tucked an S&S pencil behind my ear in case she should wonder if I was a studio intruder about to attack her prized guest.

  “Thank you!” J. Lo gushed. “What thoughtfulness. Jane, you have the most wonderful staff. What is your name?” she asked me.

  “Charlotte, Charlotte Brown. But most people call me Charlie.”

  “Well, Charlie, I'm Jennifer, and thank you for my first Valentine's gift of the year.” I swooned. I was officially on a first-name basis!

  “Yes, thank you, Charlotte,” smiled Jane. She a
ctually smiled, and not her fierce, fake, gummy version. She looked genuinely pleased, and pleased was what got one far here at Sunshine & Sensibility.

  “Very thoughtful,” she winked. A conversation with J. Lo, a wink from Jane; I flew like an angel on Ecstasy back to the girls. They were hidden away in an editing booth with Julie watching reruns of the taping. They squealed with delight when I shared my successful encounter. They squealed even more loudly when I pulled out a plate of J. Lo's handmade cinnamon buns from behind my back.

  “Should we really eat these?” asked Syd.

  “They're full of fat, I'm sure,” muttered Sage.

  “That's not what I meant,” replied Syd.

  “What do you mean?” asked Wade.

  “Well, we could auction them,” she suggested.

  “What?” we all asked in sync.

  “No, seriously. Some radio station here in NYC auctioned off Justin Timberlake's half-eaten waffles after he joined them for breakfast. They sold on eBay for oodles of money!”

  “Maybe we should just bronze them,” deadpanned Tara.

  “Can they do that with food?” inquired Syd. Macie just rolled her eyes, as she and Wade grabbed a gooey pile from the plate. Good thing no one from sound was around to record our moans and groans as we ate the glorified goodies; our sound clip would have been mistaken for a track from the late-night porno channel. We decided then and there to make J. Lo an honorary member of the Cooking Club and declared our clandestine snack our first ever Cooking Club meeting on the go. We girls do know how to get around.

  After an exhausting Tuesday, the following day—aka, Valentine's Day—was standard. I got off early and wandered home with my eyes watching the subway grates (there are actually true stories about women falling through, never mind ruining a pair of heels) in order to avoided glancing into the dimly lit windows of the restaurants along the way. Too depressing. Each window was a showcase for lovers galore. I mean, Bloomingdale's should try to make their windows so appealing. Okay, so I took one peek. Under a sconced light, two lovebirds sat gazing at each other, feeding each other, holding each other's hands, whispering sweet nothings … it was like Lady and the Tramp. I couldn't bear the agony. I deserved to be front and center in one of those cafe windows twirling chicken alfredo as my man twirled my long locks (minus the horrible black roots I was sporting). But no. Mr. J. P. Morgan had conveniently disappeared this month even after I'd brought him soup. No phone calls, no lovin’, no spooning. I wondered if men actually put a note on their calendars to remind them to cool things off before high-pressure holidays: “December 15: Must dump girlfriend now in order to avoid holiday gifts and Valentine's hoopla!”

  I'd known so many girls who were in a “loving” relationship, yet when the first of the year rolled around, they were suddenly single! And not because their respective boyfriends had found a new catch with the New Year. No, these boys romped around loving the single life until after February 14th, when they suddenly managed to find love once again. My problem was that with no boyfriend to keep me busy around Valentine's Day, I sat around eating the chocolates my parents had sent to me (by myself) and gorging on the half-price chocolates at CVS (by myself). I felt sure that when the dogs did come around sniffing, my butt would be too big for them to envision it in a bikini during a romantic mid-winter getaway.

  It was hard to keep up my new J. Lo–inspired burst of empowerment in the face of all this romantic bliss. Inevitably my thoughts wandered to Mr. J. P. Morgan, even though I knew the writing was on the wall. I hadn't “officially” been dumped. But then again, if I was honest, we hadn't ever been “officially” dating. He might have called me his girlfriend when I wasn't around, but I knew better. I had a sneaking suspicion that my attempts at cooking for him last month—the dinner, the soup—might have been the final straw. He probably saw how inadequate I was in the domestic department and realized that I wasn't relationship material.

  At least Doorman Juan blew me a kiss as I passed his building. I smiled but was too exhausted to return the love. I trudged up the flights of stairs bemoaning my fate with each step: not one loving card, not one loving phone call, no flowers, no spooning … ugh! I resolved to concentrate on the benefits of being single. No one to steal the pillows in the middle of the night! No one to commandeer the remote control! Best of all, my legs could go unshaven for weeks! This wooly mammoth pulled herself into the apartment and flopped on the couch.

  “Too trampy?” Tara flounced out of the bathroom. She had on a tube dress that looked as though it was supposed to be a top only.

  “What's that made out of?” I asked.

  “Lycra!” The top did look a bit shiny, like a scuba suit.

  “Oh, nice I guess.”

  “Not too much back fat showing?”

  “Go without underwear, then there won't be any lines, just curves.”

  “So true! Pure genius!” She ran back into the bathroom singing “I'm going to get some, I'm going to get some …” Great. I was a genius. I was going to be alone forever with my calculating brainy self. I kicked off my knee-high suede boots. No self-respecting brainiac wore such trendy footwear.

  “Want some ice cream?” Macie asked, poking her head out from behind the kitchen wall.

  “What kind?”

  “Beggars can't be choosers!”

  “Hey, if I can't pick a decent boyfriend, I can sure as hell be picky about my ice cream!” I snapped. I was about ready to burst into tears. Macie, God bless her, brought out a tray. She swooped down with the elegance of June Cleaver, and to my surprise put a smorgasbord of flavor options in front of me.

  “Vanilla if you are feeling bland, M&M if you want some diverse flava, Oreo if you need to be sweetened up, pecan pra- line if you need some sticky-finger licking, and rainbow sherbet should you need some childhood innocence.” She grinned at me. J. Lo's sticky buns may be the perfect way to tempt a man, but ice cream is the single girl's best friend.

  Just as we'd settled in with a clinking of our spoons, the door buzzer rang. I still hadn't gotten used to that harsh-sounding foghorn; I jumped every single time. Macie leapt up and buzzed them in.

  “You don't even ask who it is?” I asked.

  “You can't hear anybody on that thing. Everyone sounds like they have some foreign accent.”

  “Most people do in New York.”

  “True!” she agreed.

  “But I still always ask who it is.”

  “What, you figure potential bad guys will be warded off by your ferocious voice?” she laughed.

  “Yes. Well, no.”

  “Ha, but—” The bell rang. Whoever it was had actually climbed the stairs.

  “I got it,” I scoffed. “You know, since I have the vicious voice.” I made a pathetic attempt at a Zorro-type sword move as I removed the chain and flung open the door. In a full lunge with my arm poised in a defensive move, I came face to face with Mr. J. P. Morgan. In his hand was a bunch of red roses.

  “Whoa, hey,” he said taking two steps back and holding his hands up in a surrender stance. He gave me that adorable lopsided grin, “Don't kung fu me!” he laughed. My stomach dropped. I stood back up. I suddenly felt lightheaded. Bright spots appeared in front of my eyes like fireflies or paparazzi flashbulbs. But I wasn't in a fairy-filled forest nor was I posing on a red carpet. I was staring at my sort-of boyfriend. Who was standing smack dab in front of me with roses in his hand on Valentine's Day.

  “Hey,” I mumbled running my hand through my messy hair. I hadn't looked in a mirror since lunch and I was sure it must be a disaster.

  “Here,” he said thrusting the roses my way. All the tingling in my fingers stopped. Here? That was all he had to say after almost three weeks of nothing? Here? My eyes left his face and wandered down to his extended arm. In his left hand were the said red roses. They were a dull red and were even wilted around the edges. Obviously the man at the bodega on the corner had not done a good enough job pulling the rotting petals from the stem. He must ha
ve been really busy to sell this sorry looking bunch to J. P., or J. P. had simply not cared enough to pay attention to what he was buying. The buds were barely open on their short stems. Besides, every girl knows that true Valentine's Day roses are always long stemmed. Not only are they long stemmed, they are in full bloom. Not only are they long stemmed and fully bloomed, but their fragrance envelopes all those lucky enough to be standing near them. I took a deep breath. All I smelled was Ms. Fignucio's cooking from down the hall. I took another deep breath—this one to steady my nerves.

  “Huh,” I sighed. I could hear J. Lo in my head whispering, “Who wants the basic standard in life … the cookie cutter … life's too short for store shelf goods …”

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Actually, we're in the middle of something.”

  “We?” he asked, looking over my shoulder. I closed the door partway behind me.

  “Um, what do you want?”

  “These are for you!” he said with the eagerness of a schoolboy.

  “Thanks. But actually, no thanks.”

  “No what?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Oh, just take them, Charlie. Don't be this way.”

  “Are they a peace offering?”

  “A piece … no, I want more than just a piece,” he chuckled, giving me that flirtatious grin again. I took the roses and leaned forward for a sniff. Nope, no scent at all.

  “You know,” I began, looking toward the ceiling for divine inspiration and to keep from crying, “Roses are so, so unoriginal. They're cliché, trite, uninspiring. And even worse, they're pedestrian.”

  “Pedestrian …?” he questioned.