Sorry that I can't make it girls. Would love to see all of you again and thank God it's not on a busy street. Big sis is getting married … and her little brother must attend. Have a fantastic Fourth, and Charlie, maybe we can see each other next week? Sorry to keep pushing back our “date.” If you don't hate me for embarrassing you on a mass Evite … I will see you soon!
“So he is into you,” Macie cheered after reading his response over my shoulder. “I take back everything I just said about Dan. He could be a total keeper.”
“I agree,” Tara said, nodding her head. “Looks like I haven't lost my touch.”
“So I have to wait one more week to see him. Big deal,” I said with a relieved grin on my face. “I think it could be worth the wait. And you have to admit that that is the most adorable response ever. No games with this guy.” Plus, he was clearly a family guy—big points for that.
The rooftop setting meant the party would take place above the city's mugginess and within reach of the gentle breeze from the Hudson River that sent my star-spangled pinwheels spinning. It also kept rustling my hair in all directions—not good for the camera. When the cameramen arrived, Macie was busy repowdering while Tara was busy readjusting the keg pump. Immediately Tara abandoned the keg in favor of the key grip.
In true New York fashion, our guests arrived about half an hour late. The cameramen caught us all mingling and gossiping, but they didn't get their juice until Juan showed up with his boom box filled with salsa music. The keg flowed and the boxes of wine were poured as our friends laughed and danced the night away. As Syd and Juan took center stage, the New York fireworks display began overhead. Never a city to be out- done, the fireworks were garish, gaudy, just friggin’ gorgeous. As they splintered into brilliant colors above, Juan and Syd swung in concentric circles below. They were doing some sort of tango or rumba: one, two, cha-cha-cha, boom, boom! Juan reached around Syd's back to dip her low. It was their final dip together in New York City. How romantic! And just as the camera man zoomed in closer and we all prepared to cheer “bravo,” the two of them collided with the plastic table that held the red, white, and blue American flag cupcake display. They landed smack dab on top of the sweet, sticky mess. As the flag fell apart, my AP career begin to unravel before my eyes. But to my surprise, the entire S&S crew loved it. They were in fits of laughter behind the camera guys and were cheering wildly for the happy couple. I think even Donna was holding up ten fingers to symbolize their dance score. Snap!
“Booze is my friend,” slurred Syd as we helped her to her feet.
“We're all your friends too,” Sage reassured her.
“No, no. Booze is my friend. I feel no pain! Life is great!” Syd announced with a last pirouette.
All the independent women in attendance toasted to living in the moment. We all kept dancing as the cameramen moved to film another cute partygoer standing in a stiff salute with a suction cupped flag stuck to her forehead. (Note to self: Suction cup scars are B-A-D.) As the party wrapped up several hours later, the cameramen headed home, leaving the six of us cuddled together in the chilly night air and savoring the last morsels of our “Fourth of July Flank Steaks.”
“Charlie, you have to let me know how to make this marinade,” Tara gushed as she sucked on her fingers.
“Y'all? Do you realize what this means?” Wade asked, glowing like a proud mother hen. “Our Cooking Club has been a success! Charlie has cooked. Your mom would be sooo proud! I mean, this steak sauce is to die for. It has really marinated the meat. C, it's sooooo delicious.”
“You know, it's all about the soy sauce and the lemons, oh and a smidge of Worches … oh my God! Listen to me. I sound just like my mother when she talks to her friends about recipes. Are you kidding me? Here's to my mom. And here's to me!” I cheered, raising my glass. “Happy Independence Day!” Laughing and crying, we realized that over the year, we had become some sort of younger, hipper version of domestic divas, or, better yet, delicious divas!
“You are ready now,” concluded Wade. “Go get your man, honey! You've definitely got the burned kitchen mitts to prove it, girl!”
The following Friday marked the big night—Dan the Man and I were finally going out on a date. Over the past week, we had traded voice mails, text messages, and e-mails several times while trying to finalize our plans. At last we had nailed them down.
Dan sounded like a better and better catch each time we had an exchange. He had an easygoing, unpretentious way of speaking, and he always called or e-mailed back within twenty-four hours—not your standard two-day dating-game bullshit. He and I had a connection, I could feel it in my bones, even though we had yet to meet face-to-face. He was the man of mystery, but that mystery intrigued me. And frankly, I had tired of the standard criteria checklist. So far I'd gleaned a couple of nibblets, all good: He had in fact attended and graduated from Yale. He spent his Tuesday nights in Harlem as a Big Brother. He had created some sort of antivirus software for computers. He lost one sock each time he did laundry. He had traveled in Tibet. He loved Mickey Mouse. He now worked for some nonprofit organization.
I'd been trying not to analyze every phone message or e- mail exchange we'd had that week, but it was hard not to. I was like all the poor heroines in those fluff novels: scarred, weighted down by soured dating experiences. I was determined that no matter what happened with Dan, I was going to transform from codependent zombie into independent woman. I knew that just going after “the one” couldn't be my only pursuit in New York City.
I had planned to meet Dan the Man on the corner outside of work. Originally he had planned to pick me up at home, but somehow S&S had become my real home these days and I e- mailed at the last minute to see if we could change it. Dan, ever the gentleman, cheerfully agreed. So accommodating! After setting up the shoot schedule, checking in with the floral department, and writing the last questions for the Diva's guest for tomorrow's beach show, I left the building five minutes late and darted past a gaggle of laughing teens taking over the sidewalk. Peering through the throngs of pedestrians, I caught a glimpse of Dan in profile, standing exactly where he said he would be. He was just like I remembered him. Light brown hair, about five-elevenish, tan, but not too tan. He was wearing nonpleated khaki pants (good call on his part), a blue and white buttondown shirt, and Reef canvas flip-flops. He looked casual, yet stylish. Oh, and might I add adorable. But the best part of his summer ensemble was the Nantucket–type belt he sported, you know the ones with the tiny little red lobsters stitched all around. I was melting and it wasn't because of the heat. I slowed my pace down a tad so as not to be too out of breath then I sprang inside the deli on the corner to do a quick once over in the mirror over the ATM (so handy). Hair straight? Check! Lipstick glossy? Check! Skirt smooth? Check! Okay Charlie, this is make it or break it time.
I sauntered up behind him and lightly tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey you!” I said with my most inviting smile.
“Wow, you look great!” he said as he leaned in for a kiss on the cheek. I'll take it on the cheek. Not a bad sign! He had leaned in slightly awkwardly since his hands were holding two sizable ice cream cones. The ice cream was dripping all over his feet. He didn't seem to mind though.
“Chocolate chip or passion fruit swirl?” he asked. Was this some kind of first date test? I loved choices. Brunette or blond? Blue eyes or brown? Hopefully, before me stood the flavor of the year. As I pretended to ponder the ice cream choice, I let my eyes slide from his now-creamy wrists to the rest of him and felt the first sizzle of chemistry. I had only caught the most fleeting glimpse of him through the cab window back in May, but the first few weeks of summer had clearly been kind to him. Think Pierce Brosnan meets Matt Lauer with horn- rimmed glasses. Very good looking in a boy-next-door, I-could- actually-know-you kind of way. I noticed that he had a smattering of freckles across his nose with a ruddiness in his cheeks that indicated he'd been outdoors. I hid a smile as I noticed a white line near his ears indicatin
g a very recent haircut. And he was tall; I had even worn my clunky heeled test sandals to assess the situation accurately. If I could wear these and not dwarf him, then stilettos were a go.
I reached for the passion fruit and faltered briefly when he locked his steely gray eyes with mine. They were a dusty gray—the gray of Tiffany's sterling silver anything. Stunning! Then I noticed that my passion fruit ice cream had inadvertently smooshed against his chocolate chip, and visa versa. His quick moves averted ice cream disaster, but the two scoops were now sharing flavors.
“Sorry!” he laughed.
“No, that's fine. I like both. Plus, I like to mix things up. You know, combine ingredients.”
“Really?” he prompted.
“Sure. Last night I marinated a steak in this concoction I just happened upon—by mistake actually! And it turned out really well.” Wait! Hold up. Was I, Charlotte Brown, actually bragging about my cooking skills? Was I talking about a recipe I'd invented? Snap!
“Some of the best things happen by chance or by mistake,” he grinned.
“So what are we doing?” I asked, licking around the bottom of my cone.
“Now you mean?” The way he said it made me wonder if he was questioning the ludicrousness of our situation—meeting in a cab and now attempting to date? Or was he really saying that we were wasting time and should just elope? Mom and Dad would be pissed but they would get over it when they saw the goods.
“Yes,” I laughed, “Now. What are we doing tonight?”
“It's a surprise.”
“Drinks?”
“No,” he scoffed. “I am going to feed you at least.” His eyes danced as he reached for my hand. We chatted our way up Sixth Avenue toward the park.
The commitment of going to dinner was a big deal. Huge! If you asked any New Yorker, they'll tell you that getting drinks was pretty much status quo in the dating world, but going to an actual sit-down dinner (casual or formal) was a whole other ball game. If you had drinks, you basically fielded a couple of grounders, threw a few fly balls, and then decided whether your new opponent was worthy of a game or not. At most, these dates lasted thirty minutes, tops. There are some who will always start with drinks, but then offer up a full fledged game if they think they are ready to hit the field. Others, who are sure of a home run, will woo their opponent with a fancy dinner and some delish dessert mainly as a pregame warmup of sorts; then, the real playoffs take place in the bedroom later on. But after almost a year, I'd come to the harsh realization that most men are afraid of the big leagues. Dan seemed a formidable player though, not one to shy away from a challenge. At this point, it was promising—but the ball game could go either way.
Eight hundred and twenty-four acres of lush green foliage (and thousands of people and, once, a stray alligator) lay before us. As we walked into Central Park, the trees enveloped us, shutting out the city grime. Once in a while, you could glimpse the peaks of skyscrapers picturesquely rising from the treetops. We artfully dodged a runner (going against the flow), three baby carriages (a fierce front all in a row), and a wobbly bike rider (singing at the top of his lungs) with dog in tow.
We wound our way along the paths until Dan led me to a hidden, grassy knoll awash in late afternoon sunlight. There he proceeded to unpack a blanket and a bottle of wine from a backpack. I hadn't even noticed he was carrying a backpack (just didn't get past those broad shoulders, I guess). He laid out real utensils—not plastic—and tall wine glasses, which balanced precariously on the budding summer grass. My smile grew wider. Then from the bottom of the backpack, he pulled out several small cardboard boxes.
“Plain, pepperoni, veggie, meat lover's—” he grinned.
“What is all this?”
“Pizza! Come on, New Yorker, pick your passion!” He had brought me pizza. Not dead roses, but pizza. This guy was perfect!
“I wasn't sure what your favorite was. I figured you weren't a plain Jane girl, but I wasn't sure, and I knew I couldn't live with myself if you settled for second best.” Was he for real? I shook my head to clear the violin music flooding my eardrums.
“Do you not want any?”
“Oh no, I mean, yes. I'd love meat lover's, please,” I answered with the propriety of a schoolgirl.
“Next time I'll cook you a real meal,” he said. Next time? There was going to be a next time? And … he could cook?
“Here are some napkins if you need to blot the grease,” he offered. He'd thought of everything!
“Oh, I don't really mind the grease, actually,” I said guiltily.
“My kind of woman!” he cheered.
After some sips, slices, some great conversation, and a quick clean up (because he was all about keeping the park eco- friendly), Dan led me across the road and over to the famous Boathouse. He sidled up to the boat master and slipped him a ten. At that moment, the boat master stepped back to reveal a dilapidated rowboat. Chipped blue paint covered the hull. Inside, two different-sized oars rested on weathered green boards. With an outstretched hand, Dan helped me into the waiting rowboat. I was going to be rowed! What a New York experience! As we pushed out onto the pond, the city fell strangely silent. I could see the pathway masseuses waving and calling to the runners, the drinkers reveling and laughing on the Boathouse porch, camera-happy tourists clicking and saying “cheese” by the fountain … but all I could hear were the pigeons cooing, the crickets singing, and our paddles dipping into the green waters as we pushed off.
At first we careened around in a circle. Dan blamed his overthrown college pitching arm for the uneven distribution of power. I dragged my finger lazily through the still waters until visions of mutant creatures lurking below the opaque surface got the better of me.
The water was a particularly odd shade of green. It wasn't the aquamarine color of the Caribbean or the sublime dark green of the East Coast's Atlantic. No, it was Emerald City green. Bright, strong, and unnatural. Unnatural yet fantastic! It was just so pretty, especially in those photos lined up along the sidewalk for tourists. I leaned to the side hoping that the green would reflect softly in my eyes. Everything around us seemed to pop in contrast.
And did I mention? I was being rowed! The butterflies in my stomach were on some ecstasy spree. Did I mention? I was being rowed! Was I supposed to lounge, recline, offer to grab an oar? I could hear Tara's sexually charged suggestion: “Stroke, stroke, stroke, and stroke!”
“Oh, I almost forgot—” He let the oars idle at his sides.
“There's more?”
“Yep.” He bent down and reached inside his backpack, which was now seeming reminiscent of Mary Poppins's magic carpetbag, and pulled out an awkward object sheathed in plastic. Inside was a small delicate plant. And on one branch was perched a beautiful, solitairy, perfect gardenia bloom.
“Oh, my …” I said, holding my hand over my mouth in complete shock. Could someone please pinch me? Not only was he holding J. Lo's favorite flower, but it was mine as well. How the heck did he know?
“Is it too much for a first date?” he asked shyly. “Too cheesy? God, I don't want to be cheesy. But I got you a whole plant, pot and all, because I thought it would last longer than a bunch of flowers.” I couldn't help but smile.
“I seem to ruin everything though,” I murmured, not even sure of what I was saying. Was I referring to our tortured house- plants or to some deep-seated insecurity about relationships?
“Then I'll help you take care of it when I see you. Easier than a pet! You're going to love the scent. These things can last forever!” All I had caught out of his last few sentences were the words, “First date … last longer … help you … care … easier … love … forever.”
It was too good to be true, but I wasn't going to question it. And before he could say another word, I leaned in closer to him. Little did he know that the gardenia was more than just a flower, it was a sign. It was a sign from up above, from the Goddess J. Lo herself.
I had come a long way over the past year and now another c
hapter in my life was waiting to be penned. New York City could have eaten me alive. I had lived in an apartment the size of my big toe and eaten nothing but canned soup until my paycheck went through. We had all cried over the boy that got away, the job that made us feel stupid, the cab driver who took us to the wrong part of town. We had all stood at the bar pretending to wait for someone or be someone. Yet, we, the Dirty Half-Dozen, had decided to combine all that drama with a splash of happiness and resourcefulness to turn the tables and serve it up with a cherry on top. And look at me now! I was being rowed, I had been given a nonpedestrian flower, I had received a promotion at work, I had come to admit that black was indeed a color (not the mere absence of), and I now knew how many ounces were in a quart. I looked up at the dusky sky and sighed. New York magazine was full of ideas just for me, a New Yorker; the New York Times Metro section was just for me, a New Yorker; the T-shirts and sweatshirts emblazoned with the city's fine name were just for me … and all the other 13,999,999 urbanites. I didn't just love NY, I was NY!
I am NY! I wanted to scream from the top of my lungs in the middle of Central Park. Instead I just let the high-wattage happiness beam from my smile.
The sun began to set as Dan the Man rowed, not showing any sign of slowing down. Even as the natural light escaped the city's skyline, I felt a warm glow radiate all around me. I felt bathed in sunshine despite the evening sky above us.
So ladies all around the world, listen up! We've all encountered burnt meals, wicked exes, bitchy bosses, and bad hangovers. But really, life is a dish to be savored. And no matter what your own personal recipe entails, you can't lose if you include three simple ingredients: good friends, sunshine, and orgasms.
Bon appétit!
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