“Pedestrian,” I stated emphatically. With a final flourish, I dropped the sad bundle on the floor and daintily stepped on them with my tiger slipper. As I felt the blooms smoosh and the stems snap, I stomped with greater force and a bigger smile. Thank you J. Lo! My inner diva had finally arrived.
“Oh, okay,” he paused. “I guess I should go?”
“Yes, please.” My mother would have been so proud of my graciousness and tact. One nonverbal blow-off deserved another. I tried to close the door in his surprised and confused face, but unlike in the movies, the door bounced back open and hit my elbow. The crushed roses were in the way of a dramatic finale. I kicked the mashed mess out of the way, slammed the door, and stalked back over to the couch where I flopped down on the cushions. As I reached for my ice cream, Macie began to clap. She leapt to her feet, whooping and hollering.
“Spoken like a true diva! Good for you! I am sooo proud.”
“Yep,” I sighed.
“Don't you feel good?”
“Nope.”
“Don't you feel vindicated?”
“Not at all.”
“Why not?”
“How does one crushed bunch of flowers make up for three weeks of mental anguish, days of staring at my cell phone, and hours of fingernail biting?”
“Not to mention a million minutes of roommate therapy,” she added.
“Are you trying to make me feel better?” I asked as tears began to flow down my face. Great, at least I was getting a cheap facial.
“Sorry.” Macie ate another spoonful of rainbow sherbet, broke open a pint of chocolate marshmallow swirl, and handed it to me. Just what the breakup doctor ordered.
I couldn't believe he would just show up. Why now? As I headed into a deep pit of wallowing, Macie got up from the couch, scooped up the petal mess on the floor, and disappeared. I slowly sucked on a spoonful of ice cream. Did he find himself alone on V-Day and start reminiscing? Did he remember that morning we'd woken up and couldn't even leave the bed? And when we did, we ended up on the floor and then on the kitchen counter? I couldn't make a peanut butter and Fluff sandwich for months without thinking about him. Why couldn't he have just called me once over the past few weeks? If he had only picked up the phone once I might have given in to his pedestrian red roses. Ugh!
“Macie! I don't think I'm ever going to get married. He doesn't want me, nobody will want me,” I sniffed. My nose began running at this point. “I'm going to be an old spinster with eight cats who will only feign love for me because I feed them canned food, and speaking of canned food, I am doomed to eat canned SpaghettiOs for the rest of my life since I can't even make a simple casserole!”
“Okay, it's all ready!” Macie's calm voice interrupted my panicked tirade.
“What's all ready? A life of eternal loneliness?”
“Come on. Come see.” She emerged from the bathroom and held her hand out like the mother hen that she was. Feeling about two years old, never mind two inches tall, I stood up, grabbed her hand and followed. She gave my hand a squeeze before opening the bathroom door. We were met by a cloud of fragrant steam and Macie had written “I am a princess!” across the foggy bathroom mirror. I smiled and then saw that the bathtub was filled with voluptuous suds. Floating on the bubbles was a smattering of red rose petals.
“A bath of rose petals, exotic rose petals, to smooth the skin and the ruffled feathers of my fair princess,” she grinned. Leave it to Macie to find a better use for cheap roses. I sat down on the toilet.
“Thanks,” I said. She bent down and removed my tiger slippers as if they were made of glass.
“And to make the picture complete …” she hit play on the old boom box we kept on the toilet tank. Suddenly Steve Perry's voice filled the air:
“Don't stop believing, hold on to the feeling … yeaahhhhh …”
I stopped for a moment to reflect on what a good friend she was. I had met Macie the first day of our freshman year. During orientation, we had been assigned to certain themed dinners depending on our schools. I had applied to the School of Medicine with grand aspirations of being a doctor like my grandfather. I had aced frog dissection in high school and was positive that I could handle any gory pre-med courses thrown my way. However, no one had warned me about organic chemistry. That night though, I made my way to the freshman orientation organ-themed dinner, Organ-tuous Organza, wondering what would be served as the main course. Everyone else on my hall was in the College of Arts and Sciences and was being treated to a buffet, fitting since they were the undecided majors. I ended up in line behind this short, stunning girl. As we wound our way toward the blood-red soup she suddenly turned to me, “I'm Macie. Wanna go grab some pizza?” That's all it took—Macie's spontaneity coupled with my dislike of red soup.
From that moment on Macie and I were best friends. She was my practical friend, but practical with a wild side. She could party with the best of them while getting top grades at school. She was never one to disgrace herself with silly late- night antics. She never blacked out. She never regretted anything, sexual or otherwise. She was my heroine! Especially now.
“Remember that breakup mix you made the second week of school?” she asked.
“The one I made after I was dumped by Billy the Toga King?” I asked.
“Remember, we warned you that he didn't look so gallant without his polka-dotted sheet.”
“So true, so true. But regardless of the fact that I didn't have your support, I did manage to survive the demise of my three-day romance with the help of ABBA.”
“Well I'm glad you said that because I've resurrected that mix for the occasion.”
With that perfect timing of hers, Macie turned up the radio and those sweet words that eased my pain so many times came blaring through the speakers.
You can change your mind, I'll be first in line.
Honey, I'm still free, take a chance on me …
You gotta love friends. Change is good and I decided to implement a whole slew of changes, especially when it came to you-know-who. Thank you, J. Lo and thank you, God, for friends.
Lying back against the tub pillow that Macie had somehow produced out of thin air, I felt my taut ligaments loosen. If Macie could rearrange a pathetic bunch of flowers into a bubble bath, I could rearrange my love life—I could! I drifted in and out of consciousness in between ABBA choruses. After about an hour, I wrestled the bathtub plug loose with my shriveled-up fingers. I sat naked and cross-legged in the tub and watched with the utmost satisfaction as the petals swirled down the drain. The drain made a satisfying sucking noise as it swallowed each petal with hungry vigor. I loved the idea of Mr. J. P. Morgan's roses wallowing in the New York City sewer system far away from my soon to be freer, happier self.
Give It to Me Guacamole
5 ripe (soft to the touch, but not too soft) avocados, peeled and pitted
½ cup hot salsa
¼ cup finely chopped red onion
¼ teaspoon chili powder
Finely chopped cilantro to taste
Dash of hot sauce
Garlic powder, to taste
Lemon juice, to taste
Mash up the avocados. Add the rest of the ingredients and mix. Serve immediately with tortilla chips and some ice-cold beers on a beautiful early spring day!
God, I am so frickin’ pale!” I happened to catch a glimpse of my pasty-white stomach in the bathroom mirror as I got out of the shower. At least I was manless at the moment. I wiped the steam off the mirror in order to get a better look at myself. But as the remainder of the condensation evaporated from the edges, it revealed something that was so ghastly, so horrible, that I couldn't even keep looking.
It had been four months—okay, maybe more like five months—since my body had seen the light of day. Ever since the leaves changed and the winds shifted in October, neither my thighs nor biceps, nor breasts nor butt had been exposed to direct sunlight. While long strolls along the snow-covered paths of Central Park and ice skating on the rink at Rockef
eller Center are fun, they don't melt away those extra pounds acquired from holiday Krispy Kremes. The transition between two seasons can be startling and downright unkind to your body image.
So here we were. It was March and my skin had hidden behind bulky sweaters and oversized coats for way too long. Overall, I would say that on a scale of one to ten, I was an eight—at least on the inside. Mentally, I was faring much better since the horrible V-Day incident. I was no longer crying randomly at those diamond engagement ring commercials set in Italy. Nope, I was much better. However, my outside self had taken a severe beating. On a scale of one to ten, I would have to be a two right now. Snow White may have been revered for her fairness, but what I was dealing with was not pretty.
As I continued to inspect my fair flesh, I happened to notice the light dappling my right thigh. Like sunlight on the water, a trail of dimples was forming interesting patterns on the back of my leg. I whirled my body around so that my backside was facing the mirror and shifted my head to get a better look. Up until this moment, I don't think I'd ever really, and I mean really, looked at the back of my thighs or butt in a mirror. Sure, I'd caught a glimpse or two in the Bloomie's mirrors from time to time, but everyone knows to dismiss those images since the mirrors are distorted and the fluorescent lights are misguiding. But today I saw them, and it wasn't pretty. Gone were the smooth buns and the ripped soccer legs from my teen years. Hello baby cellulite! So depressing. Sweet Jesus, was this what J. P. Morgan had been staring at during our sexual escapades? Those vile little puppies were not there a few mere months ago. At least, I don't think they were. Wouldn't I have noticed such a drastic change in my body's topography? I felt my neck for evidence of a chin wattle. As I got ready for work, I begrudgingly accepted my newfound friends, but also recognized that something needed to be done and it had to be done quickly.
Maybe it was due to the crisis in my bathroom or maybe because the train operators were in a good mood, but the subway gods were in my favor and I got to work early enough to do a little private research on my “dimple debacle.” First thing I decided to do was to Google the word “cellulite.” Ah Google, the search engine for all your needs. It is the most fantastic tool on earth. I felt an itch to Google Mr. J. P. Morgan but I suppressed it. Naturally, I had already Googled him months ago and found two sites extolling him: one about his high school soccer prowess and another with a small pic from his company Web site. I still had to fight the urge to check out the merchandise even though I wasn't really in the market anymore.
Instead, I was instantly inundated with links to everything from wacky creams to strap-on gadgets that promised to help the cellulite-crazed woman rid herself of those nasty little suckers. At first, it was overwhelming. Not only did every site claim to have the ultimate cure, but most of them also had a money- back guarantee. Thank goodness! It would be horrible to be dimpled and poor! Okay, so which one was it going to be? The cream claimed to sting a little after the initial application. I wouldn't mind a little burn for the cause. The strap-on thingy said it had to be worn for a minimum of two hours every day for a week in order to see the best results. Who the hells wants her ass jiggling for one hundred and twenty minutes a day? I definitely didn't. After fifteen minutes of searching, my head began to ache. There were just too many things out there and I had absolutely no idea which one would provide the best solution.
Just as I was about to throw in the towel, the answer to my prayers appeared. It came in the form of one of those annoying little pop-up advertisements. There it was in all its glory, smack dab in the middle of my screen. Typically, these things annoyed the crap out of me, but this one was intriguing.
BODY WOES GOT YOU DOWN?
NEED A LITTLE GETAWAY TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER?
FOR JUST $299, WE'VE GOT THE PERFECT CURE FOR YOU.
INTERESTED? CLICK HERE FOR MORE DETAILS!
The happy faces were a little cheesy but I was curious, so I proceeded to click for more details. What appeared on my screen was the saving light at the end of dimple tunnel.
To: T-Dog Tara, Sydrama, Macie-O-Gray, Wade. Brady, Sage The Rage
From: Snoopy
Subject: Die Dimples!!!
Get your bags packed hot mommas … we're going on a journey. I found this fantastic travel deal. For just $299, we get air travel, 3 nights hotel, meals & DRINKS at one of three possible destinations.
Oh, and by the way, today I noticed some cheese on my thighs and this is my version of a cure. What better way to get rid of those fat pockets than a little tanage? So no excuses … you gotta help me rid myself of my ailment. Are you all in? This is our first grownup girls' getaway! How could any of you resist such a weekend?
Love The Dimple Killer,
CB
To: Snoopy, Sydrama, Macie-O-Gray, Wade. Brady, Sage The Rage
From: T-Dog Tara
Subject: Re: Die Dimples!!!
Holy shit! Count me in! This is just what I need. I am so over NYC right now. I could use a little sun tan and a big piña colada! I'm totally bringing my big straw hat and my Jackie-O glasses. Get that puppy booked, Charlie!
Love the Dimple Killer Accomplice,
T
To: Snoopy, T-Dog Tara, Sydrama, Macie-O-Gray, Wade. Brady
From: Sage The Rage
Subject: Re: Re: Die Dimples!!!
Me too! I'm in. But I'm bringing the sun block—30+ for everyone! Perfect timing. But girls, think ahead. Lay off the diet soda starting now—it will bloat you for weeks!
XOXO,
Sage
To: Snoopy, T-Dog Tara, Sage The Rage, Macie-O-Gray, Wade. Brady
From: Sydrama
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Die Dimples!!!
Me too! Me too! I'm in! Where do I send the check?
To: Snoopy, T-Dog Tara, Sage The Rage, Sydrama, Wade. Brady
From: Macie-O-Gray
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Die Dimples!!!
Book it girl. You're the best. I'm going to have to finagle days from work somehow. We only get one vacation day for every month worked after a year of servitude. I think I feel the flu coming on … we could all use a little pick-me-up. Especially you C. J. P. Morgan who???
Love, Macie
The Cooking Club convened later that night. Sage had whipped up some sinful guacamole to get us in the mood for our tropical getaway. Consistent with the theme, Macie had concocted some of her equally sinful chili-nacho dip.
“This is my mother's good ole stand-by when she has guests coming over last minute,” she told us while mixing the bubbly concoction on the stove. “All it takes is a can of chili, with or without meat depending on what you like, and a jar of that queso dip you find in the chip section at the store.”
Now we could have been tough on Macie about the simplicity of her recipe, but all I'd managed to contribute was two six-packs of Coronas and two limes. Who was I to throw stones at glass houses? So March was officially the “Mexican Fiesta” month for our Cooking Club.
“Guacamole has the good fat, not the trans fat,” Sage lectured as she shoved a carrot-full into her mouth (no chips for her). We gathered around the kitchen table and began inhaling by the pound.
“God Sage, this guac is heavenly,” Syd chimed in with her mouth full. “Mmmmm, it must be the lemons. Oh yeah, gotta be the lemons. It's just so zesty. Fantastic!”
“What about the zesty nacho dip, girls?” Macie asked, sort of offended that no one was raving about her contribution.
“Um, it's tasty. A tad too spicy maybe?” suggested Tara. Macie glared, then smiled as she realized that Tara was actually conversing about seasonings—a big step for her.
“Okay, so let's talk trip. What about Miami?” suggested Macie.
“I want to go on a trip afar,” Sage whispered like a movie star.
“Miami is at least three hours away, but okay, what about Jamaica?” Wade asked.
“Been there, done that,” Macie said.
“Ditto,” Sage agreed. “Done that twice, although I
only remember one trip.” Sage's skinny little body could only handle so much alcohol. However, each and every blackout seemed to erase that fact from her long-term memory.
“Hold on for a second, girls,” I interrupted. “Before you get too excited about your destination, there's a catch with the package I found. We've got three lovely destinations to choose from and only three.” I could see their minds begin to wander. “You ready to hear your choices?” They all nodded their heads in unison.
“Okay, first up, there's the sunny island of Puerto Rico. It's close, warm, and clean. Or we can sunbathe on the exotic spring-break beaches of Cancun. But wait, there's more. How about what's behind door number three? We've got the gorgeous Florida panhandle destination of Destin.” There was dead silence in the room for a good ten seconds and then the girls begin to chime in one after another.
“Cancun?” I called out.
“Too college,” Macie sighed.
“You need a passport to go there, don't you?” Syd asked.
“Destin?”
“Too dirty.”
“Too old ladyish,” Tara whined.
“I think the Rico would be great!” Syd blurted out while double dipping in the guac for the tenth time.
“What?” we all asked in sync again.
“The Rico, you know, Puerto Rico,” she said mid-bite. “Choice numero uno. Plus, it could be a sign that we are eating Spanish/Mexican type food. Don't you think?” At that moment, we all knew. The Rico it was to be.
The next day at work, I booked everyone's travel on my credit card and coordinated the trip. So, it was official. Two weeks from today we would be sunning our bodies in the Rico. Watch out PR! Here come the Six Sinners to Be …
As I sent out the grand announcement, an IM popped up on my screen. They needed to make those thingees less obvious to nosey cubicle neighbors. I already had the audio turned down, but I swear those flashing boxes look like a nuclear alert from the Pentagon.
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