Crazygirl Falls in Love

by Alexandra Wnuk

  I spot Arianna walking towards me. She’s dressed as Wonder Woman. When she spots me her eyes widen in shock, then she starts laughing and gives me a hug,

  “You look great Penny. Very cool.”

  “Ha! Thanks. What fun is it being cool if you can’t wear an M&M costume every once in a while? Where were you today, I was over at your pad before?”

  “I came straight from work. Do you like my costume?”

  She does a pretty twirl and starts laughing again. We start talking about the party her and Emma are throwing Friday night. It should be a good one, I’ve been looking forward to it for a while. A few years ago the two of them held what can only be described as a ridiculously epic housewarming (and I’m well aware that the word ‘epic’ is overused these days, but in this case it’s very much appropriate). The following year Em and Arianna celebrated Epic Housewarming anniversary with a housewarming reunion. This Friday will be the third year in a row, titled the Re-Reunion. As much as I hate my sister at the moment, there’s one thing I can’t take away from her – she throws a mean bash.

  As Arianna and I talk I begin to relax a little. I momentarily stop worrying about seeing the Stranger. And of course, the moment I stop thinking about him there he appears. All the women stare (they may as well be drooling) as he walks towards us. I consider turning and running in the opposite direction, as fast as my floppy yellow sponge legs can carry me, but he’s already seen me. Plus, if he really wanted he could catch up with me in under five seconds, I’m not exactly in my most mobile of states. Notwithstanding the impracticalities, I continue to fantasise about a great escape, right up to the moment he’s standing in front of me, in all his Oscar de la Renta glory.

  Oh Mother Earth swallow me now.

  “Hello.” He says.

  “Hey, how are you!” I chirp, faking as much confidence as I can muster.

  Pretending to be super poised and nonchalant might help this dire situation. Yeah, I’m in an M&M costume, what of it? It’s called bringing sexy back.

  “Where’s your costume?” I ask him.

  “I no bring one. Is not my thing. You look… nice. Like Grimace, from the McDonalds.”

  I’m going to KILL Emma. Then again, was it an insult or a compliment? It could have been a compliment, he did use the word ‘nice’. Nice is good, right?

  Arianna replies while I ponder,

  “No she doesn’t! She looks more like a… yellow something.” She defends.

  “I’m actually supposed to be a peanut M&M. I don’t know about you two, but I think I look rather spiff.”

  I try to mimic the twirl Arianna did, but my spongey bum ends up bumping a guy standing behind me and spilling his drink.

  “Hey, watch it!” he turns to bark.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.”

  I try to mop up the beer on his jacket with my giant white gloved hand, but he shrugs me off and his wife gives me death stares. He grunts and turns back to his group. Oh get over yourself, ya knob. Arianna takes the moment to excuse herself, saying she needs to find Emma. The Stranger and I stand in awkward silence for a moment,

  “You know, I was only joking. I don’t think I look spiff. This is the most atrocious costume I’ve worn since I tried to pull an Olivia Newton John, the Xanadu years.”

  “What is this?” he asks.

  “It’s a movie from the 80s. Flashy costumes, neon lights, lots of roller skating?”

  He’s looking at me blankly.

  “Never mind.”

  Silence again.

  “I get drinks?” He finally offers.

  I nod and watch him walk to the bar. I’m not sure whether I like his lack of conversational abilities or not. I mean, He Who Shall Not Be Named was a dazzling orator. Sometimes I liken him to Russell Brand. Both have that je ne sais quoi, that elusive ability to keep a roomful of people in stitches whilst simultaneously holding them captive with stimulating intellectual discussion. But that doesn’t make my ex (or Russell Brand for that matter) good people, does it? No siree Bob. Then again I’ve never met Russell, for all I know he’s a wonderful person.

  And besides, if there was one thing I took away from that whole He Who Shall Not Be Named mess, it’s this: someone can have brilliant people skills, perfect manners and seem nice, but be completely devoid of values and morality. I would much rather a boyfriend with solid principles who is a tad dry, than a great entertainer who ends up ripping my still-beating heart out of my chest. Then waving it in my face over a plate of steak and chips.

  As I ponder away I start to feel a little conspicuous with no one to speak to, no drink to sip and no phone to check (the only thing worse than a giant peanut M&M is a giant peanut M&M slinging a handbag over its shoulder). I wait five minutes. Then another five.

  Fifteen minutes later and I’m still waiting. Where is he? It doesn’t take this long to get a couple of glasses of wine. My worry is interrupted by a tap on my padded shoulder,

  “Hi Penny.”

  I turn to see the guy dressed as a bucket of chicken. Well now, maybe this night isn’t turning out so bad after all.

  “Do I know you?”

  I mimic confusion but can’t help but smile. It’s Blue, and he looks ridiculous.

  “It’s me. Remember? The Loft, Hyde Park?”

  “Oh yes of course! How silly of me,” I feign recognition, “Well, I was just leaving so… ”

  “Off to find that guy?”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy over at the bar?” He gestures in the direction of the Stranger.

  I don’t answer for a long moment. I feel like I’ve been hit with a stun gun. There he is, my crush, chatting up another woman! She’s wearing a black, sleek, strapless, floor length number. Her hair is dark and long. Her lips and nails are bright red.

  What a fucking cliché.

  He’s leaning down towards her, smiling and laughing and gazing into her perfect eyes with their perfectly long lashes with their perfectly applied mascara. She’s pushing strands of those wavy dark locks behind her ears, and I notice her ever so slowly edging her way towards him.

  Vile seductress!

  “You right, partner?” Blue punches my shoulder lightly.

  “Yes.” No. “I should probably go now, I’m sorry.”

  “Is he your boyfriend?”

  I don’t know why but his question really irks me. Why are you even asking, can’t you see he obviously isn’t? Do boyfriends leave their girlfriends in public places to go chat up anything and everything with a skirt?

  How could the Stranger do this? I mean, I’m standing right here! What about Friday night? It was only a few days ago for crying out loud. What about salsa night, when he said he respected me? Is this something you do to a girl you respect?

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, he’s not.”

  “Not that it’s any of my business, but maybe it’s because you’ve put on about two hundred kilos since Friday,” Blue grins.

  “You can talk. Besides, everybody likes chocolate,” I say.

  “Not everyone.”

  “It’s a helluva lot better than a bucket of bowel liquefying chicken.”

  “One day you’ll learn, Young Peanut. The ladies love the fried chicken.”

  “Personally, KFC makes me feel fat and bloated.”

  “You? Fat? How can you possibly feel fat wearing such a sexy, svelte costume?”

  He has that smarmy smile again, and at that moment I am a hair’s breath away from punching it right off his face. But I just stand there, feeling more like an ugly Easter egg than ever before. With literally no comeback coming to mind I resort to my other get out of jail free card. I summon my last shred of dignity to conjure the trusty bathroom trick,

  “Excuse me, but I need to go to the ladies,” I turn to leave, bump his waist with my protruding butt for good measure, and under my breathe whisper, “twat.”

  He starts laughing (he must have somehow overheard my not-so-subtle stage whisper)
and shouts loudly,

  “The force is strong with you, Young Peanut!”

  People around us pause to see what the commotion is about. The spilt beer guy and his wife are looking amused. I swivel around to face Blue again, face blushing a deep crimson,

  “Stop calling me that!”

  “Chill out babe, it’s just a joke.”

  And he turns to walk away.

  “I’m not your babe!” I yell at his back, but I doubt he’s heard me over the din.

  With as much self respect as my costume allows I march up towards the bar. There they are, the Stranger and the Bimbo. I’m not sure what to do, but I can’t just leave and go home. I’m no doormat. I mean, I know I ain’t got the looks of Kerr or the funny of Silverman, but by golly I deserve to be treated better than this. This is bullshit!

  I walk behind bimbo girl and try to catch the Stranger’s eye. He sees me and smiles. Even better, he moves around Bimbo and puts his arms around my yellow, padded shoulders.

  “Hello florecita.”

  “Hey, what’s up?” I narrow my eyes at my competition, trying to give her the hint to get lost.

  “I speak to Giselle. And you? You speak to your boyfriend again?” He says it jokingly, nodding in the direction of the KFC bucket.

  I see Blue looking at us from the other side of the room.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I snap.

  This joke is getting kinda old.

  “You two make a great couple!” Bimbo starts giggling.

  Her laugh is like a pencil sharpener. The Stranger takes his arm off my shoulder and to my horror puts it around her waist.

  I suddenly take in the situation. Here I stand, a naïve idiot dressed as a peanut M&M, next to a guy who is way out of my league who I still for some reason think might be interested in me. How can you be so stupid? This bird is way more his league. As much as I hate to admit it, she is truly beautiful. The facts are plain, simple and staring me straight in the face. I am a 7. He is a 9, she is a 9. He is obviously going to go for her, and I’m just his lay from last Friday.

  I feel like crying for the second time today.

  What is this, high school? I may as well have a face covered in zits and a multi-coloured retainer in my mouth again.

  “I have to go,” I manage.

  How I leave the venue is a bit of a blur. My eyes are watery but I don’t let them overflow. Not now, not ever. Crying is for the weak. I notice Emma in the far corner of the gardens. She’s standing next to that guy with the vibrant head of orange hair from Rumba (another side note, what do you think of ginger on a guy? I gotta be honest, it isn’t my favourite. Except Harry and Ed Sheeran, two fine examples of Ginge Gone Good).

  Emma spots me and waves me over, but I look down and hurry along outside to the taxi rank.

  Thursday – Choda Boy

  “Hilary, you forgot to spell check again?”

  Unlike Chloe’s Majnoon I don’t like my underlings sending me flawed work. The word ‘prooves’ glares at me from the front page of the contract. I look up at my poor graduate and try to control the nuances of irritation in my voice. The poor thing looks petrified.

  “I forgot again, I’m sorry,” she stutters.

  “It’s alright don’t stress, but make sure you spell and grammar check any work before sending it for review, the Tesco guys are very pedantic about this sort of stuff.”

  If Hilary wasn’t such a sweetheart I would probably have come down a little harder. She’s been with the firm nine months yet every single fucking time she sends me work there are spelling mistakes all over the shop. I mean, we’re lawyers. In our highly educated, outrageously overpaid profession the one thing that can be reasonably expected from us is that we can spell. Or spell check, whichever is easier.

  Usually I wouldn’t care so much (she’ll learn eventually when Angrypants comes down on her like a tonne of lead potatoes) but I’m feeling snappy today. I’m still fuming from last night. Cannot get over the Stranger’s behaviour. Who the hell does he think he is? I’ve gotten so worked up today that I’ve bumped him from a 9 to an 8.

  Hilary apologises again and walks back to her desk. I see my phone flash. I’m hoping it’s not Emma again. She’s well peeved that I left the benefit before the costumes were judged. To add salt to my various male-inflicted wounds she sent me an angry message earlier saying that Mr KFC got first prize, while she got second. Fucking Blue.

  Thankfully, the message is just Chloe. I’m relieved, but to my extreme annoyance I’m also disappointed. Every time that light flashes I still guiltily hope it’s Mr 8, formerly known as the Stranger. Trust me, I do actually know how pathetic that sounds. I was stone cold rejected last night yet I still want him to get in touch? There’s only one word for that: loser.

  I check Chloe’s message,

  Hey, fancy dinner tonight? There’s a quiz at the Charring Cross Hotel I wouldn’t mind trying. Oh and the Stranger is a twat, don’t waste any more energy on him.

  (I had messaged her earlier with the saga of last night).

  I respond immediately.

  Thanks sweetie. About tonight, I’m a bit shattered, I just want to go home to bed if that’s okay? I’ll call you tomorrow, so excited about your Big Date with Antonio! How does it feel to be loved by someone so beautiful? Then again, after last night I’m starting to think you have a point, avoiding men and all. I’d rather donate a kidney then deal with any more of this bullshit. It really hurts, Chlo, and I feel so shitty. But ignore me. Antonio is way more decent than the Stranger. You’ll have fun. And your children will be so beautiful they’d make people on the street cry. Because of their beauty. Because no one will be as beautiful as them.

  I read over my message, noticing how schizophrenic it sounds. My body is an angry bubbling toffee pot of lascivious desire for the Stranger mixed with unabashed fury at his conduct towards women (i.e. me). Merged with renewed feelings of palpable abhorrence of Voldemort and frustration with overconfident douchebags like Blue, I'm a wreck. I spend the rest of the afternoon munching a packet of Doritos (the big size) and furiously typing my report. Eventually I notice I’ve created a layer of crisp cheese-crust on my keyboard. I disconnect it and carry it over to Angrypants’ desk (she’s out at Phoenix again today) and switch my keyboard with hers. That’ll teach her. That’ll teach ‘em all. Ha. Mwahaha.

  In stark contrast to my dark and stormy mood (which is rapidly spiralling into out and out insanity), Stalker flits about the office all day, chipper as a jaybird. He’s counting down the hours until his and Mags’ second date tomorrow (coincidentally the same date and time as Chloe and Antonio’s).

  Just as an aside, aren’t date nights supposed to be Saturdays? Fridays are for work drinks, Saturday are spent with that special someone. If you have a special someone. Which so many of us don’t. Because life sucks.

  Being the Stalker that he is, Sam keeps coming over to my desk talking about how he’s going to make his Friday night date with Mags perfect.

  I hate to say this… And please don’t judge me too harshly… but I’m a tad jealous. Stalker may be an idiot, but it he is so excited about seeing Mags it’s almost cute. Antonio is just as beautiful as the Stranger and it looks like he’s fallen for Chloe. Then there’s Emma who has two guys chasing her. Sure they’re married, but hell she gets treated to the loveliest restaurants and most extravagant presents. Her messages from earlier revealed that Ginger Guy from last night was actually Married Guy Number Two, Rusty (with a nickname like that I should’ve guessed, right?). He had unexpectedly rocked up to the benefit and surprised her with a Cartier watch. I still haven't formally met either Rusty or Dublin, but apparently Dublin is coming to the Re-Re-Housewarming tomorrow night.

  Don’t get me wrong, I am one hundred percent opposed to Emma succumbing to the lure of desperate blue balled married scum. One thousand million squillion percent. But Emma has the most tragic of dating history out of me, Chloe and Mags combined, and that’s really saying something.
>
  We Jones girls seem to attract douchebags like honey to the bee. First, there was Emma’s high school sweetheart who cheated on her with her ‘best friend’ (some friend). In a sauna. In a ski chalet. While Emma and their other mates were in the lounge room sipping mulled wine.

  Then there was the guy who broke up with her via a Facebook message. His words were,

  I don’t do awkward conversations. I don’t think we should see each other anymore. Goodbye.

  Then the other guy who broke up with her via a Facebook message,

  In the words of the Doobie Brothers ‘whoa whoa listen to the music.’

  (Note to men – it is not okay to break up with anyone, ever, over Facebook)

  Then the time she was on a date, fell over a poorly positioned fire extinguisher and tore and fractured her ankle. The guy said he ‘didn’t like blood’, and left her to wait for the ambulance on her own.

  Then the other boyfriend who cheated on her. Then the guy who broke up with her via song. He sent her a CD with one track on it, NSync’s Bye Bye Bye, and a post-it note on the cover that said, ‘Listen to the song’.

  Emma wanted to escape the hell of the Dating World so desperately (and who could blame her?) that she married at quite a young age. She was only 23 when he got down on one knee. By then they had been dating for two years and we all thought he was a decent enough guy. He even had cynical me fooled. He was attentive, loyal, hard-working, cute-ish, treated her like a princess. He was very short and sort of balding (which coined him the nickname Choda Boy a la Orgazmo), but his personality bumped him from a 4 to a 6. Emma is at least an 8, if not an 8.5. She has the most perfect figure, a lovely face, a Julia Roberts smile, and such a sweet and optimistic temperament. She was always the kind, placid one in the family, a stark contrast to me, the bossy tomboy.

  Long story short, he married Emma then disappeared. He disappeared. Poof! Like a puff of smoke. Who disappears after a wedding? A week after they returned from their honeymoon he announced he had taken a job in the States. He assured her it was only for a few months. A few months turned into six months. Emma kept asking him when he’d come back. He kept promising soon, but soon never happened. Eventually she flew to Philadelphia and surprised him at his lavish serviced apartment, where he was having a lavish time with a lavish American beauty.