Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  I silently close the front door as the model quickly buttons up her shirt and shimmies into a pair of underwear.

  “That’s it! I give up!” Scott exclaims, looking as if his head is about to explode. “You want me to give up my loft, but you don’t want me to actually do my work here. How the hell am I supposed to win, Seema? Huh?” He looks up at me, takes a millisecond to calm down, then turns to Seema to assert himself. “And by the way—I hate the sheets.”

  Seema, now resembling Cinderella scrubbing the floor so she can go to the ball, looks up from the smeared mess. “What are you talking about?”

  “The sheets you wanted to register for?” Scott begins, a teakettle about to blow. “I hate them. They’re beige.”

  Seema stands up, ready for a fight. “They’re off-white.”

  “Which means they’re beige!” Scott shouts. “And by the way, no sheet color should be called linen. You know what linen is? It’s a sheet!”

  I turn to the model, now squeezing into a size-zero pair of jeans. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I’d love some,” she says nervously, and the two of us skedaddle to the kitchen to give them privacy while the fight continues.

  “Are you really trying to turn a fight about your sloppiness into a fight about what we registered for?” Seema challenges.

  “It’s beige! Which is brown, and I hate brown with the fire of a thousand suns!”

  “Oh my God. ‘The fire of…’ Who actually says that?”

  “You know I hate beige! You don’t care! You know I don’t go to Burbank! You don’t care!” Scott yells over her. “And listen, lady, if you can’t deal with the mess, maybe I should keep my loft!”

  Model girl and I stare at each other in the kitchen while the living room goes dead silent. I try to lean around the doorway to see what’s going on. But before I can, I hear a door slam.

  I peek through the doorway. Scott is standing by himself in the middle of the room, trying to figure out what to do next. He takes his palette and throws it down in frustration, but on a drop cloth. I see him walk over to Seema’s door. “Okay, I didn’t mean that. I’m willing to get rid of the loft. But you can’t complain when I make a mess. You’re marrying an artist. I’m not gonna change, and I’m not gonna suddenly like brown. This is who you’re marrying. For better or worse.”

  Silence from the other side of the door.

  Eventually, Seema slowly opens her door. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, almost timidly. “You’re completely right, and I totally overreacted.”

  She pulls him into a hug, and the two hug in silence for a bit.

  “I’m really sorry,” Seema repeats. “Planning this wedding and dealing with our families has been way more stressful than I thought it would be, and I’ve been taking it out on you and I’m sorry.”

  I watch Scott kiss her forehead. “Well, you’re pretty cute, so I guess you’re forgiven.”

  Seema smiles, looks at her ring finger, and twirls around her engagement ring nervously. “So you wanna get the eggplant sheets instead?”

  “The dark purple ones? God, yes,” Scott says, his shoulders visibly relaxing.

  And the two of them get back to their Happily Ever After.

  Which, overall, is a very good thing.

  I just wish I hadn’t bought them those beige sheets. Now I have to go back to the store.

  FIFTEEN

  It’s three o’clock in the morning, and I’m now officially in my clingy phase. Some women deny the clingy phase—insisting that it turns men off. Yes, well, of course it does. So does nipple hair—which is why we do our best to try to hide it from them at all costs. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Any woman who says she hasn’t gone through the clingy phase is either lying through her teeth or completely delusional. For me, the phase starts the second a guy doesn’t respond to my phone calls, texts, or e-mails fast enough. The phase is an inescapable step in the natural progression of dating for me, and it took me all of two days to become a freakin’ lunatic over Jay.

  Monday went great. We texted each other throughout the day. He called me from his hotel room before bed that night, we talked until both of our eyes were heavy, and I nodded off to sleep feeling wildly content and wanted.

  Then Tuesday hit. Tuesday morning, before I even brushed my teeth, I texted him a quick Good morning!. Two minutes later, I regretted writing it, as I didn’t want to look too available.

  Then again, I reasoned, didn’t I clue him in that I’m available the minute I got naked with him?

  I checked my iPhone and e-mails compulsively all morning. All for naught. He finally wrote back around lunchtime, but then only to say:

  SF beautiful. Wish you were here.

  A nice sentiment, to be sure, but that’s it??? All that talking back and forth yesterday, and now I’m downgraded to a sentence? My local bakery sent me a longer text this morning, and they offered me a dollar off cupcakes.

  I spent an hour constantly checking my phone screen for more, and worrying about what to write back to his one sentence. I debated: I couldn’t write too much, as that would show too much interest. But if I wrote nothing, would that imply I’m not really interested and encourage him to go find another girl to write texts to? One sentence back was probably my best bet.

  After a mental debate that proved to me that I need a job without so much summer vacation, I settled on the following:

  Me too.

  Then I waited five more hours for a response.

  At six, I shot him another text:

  Off to dinner. Are you around later so I can whisper sweet nothings …

  Delete, delete, delete.

  So we can have phone sex?

  Ugh—no. Delete. I settle on:

  Are you around later?

  Two hours later (!) I get this back from him:

  I don’t know. Let me call you later. Work not going well—been tied up in stressful meetings all day, now off to a stressful dinner, followed by stressful drinks. I’m exhausted, and wish I could just climb into bed with you and sleep.

  And sleep? What on earth did I say in my texts that ever implied sleep?

  So that was at eight. It is now five hours, three glasses of wine, two red-velvet cupcakes, a bag of M&M’s, and one personal pan pizza with pepperoni and extra cheese later.

  And I am in my room, staring at his last message on my phone.

  Damn it! I played it wrong again. I have been dating for almost two decades, and I’m still just as clueless as when I asked Kent Rogers out to the Sadie Hawkins dance via a note confiscated by my English teacher, who then read it aloud to the class.

  I hear the TV go on in the living room. I tiptoe over to see if it’s Scott or Seema watching.

  I push my door open slightly to see Seema, curled up on the couch dressed in Grinch pajama bottoms and a matching Grinch T-shirt. I can’t help but notice the box of Entenmann’s cheesecake on the coffee table in front of her. No plate for a slice, just a box full of cake and her fork. I open my door completely. “Whatcha watching?”

  She presses the buttons on the remote control. “I have no idea.”

  I walk out and take a seat next to her. “Is that Entenmann’s up for grabs?”

  She hands me her fork. “Go for it.”

  As I dig in for a giant forkful, Seema asks, “So, are you obsessing over my brother?”

  “No!” I say immediately, trying to sound insulted. She hikes one eyebrow up at me. “Yes,” I admit, deflating my shoulders. “But I know I shouldn’t.” I stuff a chunk of cheesecake into my mouth, then say through the midnight snack, “Speaking of family, how did the big dinner with both sets of parents go tonight?”

  Seema squints her eyes, thinking. “Mom asked Scott when they’d be hearing news about the annaprashana.”

  I can tell from her tone of voice, she’s irked. But for the life of me, I have no idea why. I can’t remember what an annaprashana is. “Which would be the…?”

  “It’s th
e ceremony when a baby eats his first rice. Sort of like a christening or a bris in terms of inviting everyone to welcome the baby into the world. You light incense, say a prayer to the gods, the baby eats a little rice pudding, and you do this thing where he or she picks from a variety of objects to determine his or her future. It’s basically a big party. It’s pretty cool actually.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, if it’s fun, then why are you upset?”

  “Because I’m not actually pregnant yet, so my mother’s comment was annoying as shit. Heaven forbid she just get excited about the wedding. Nope. Instead, let’s jump ahead and make her daughter feel bad about not giving her grandchildren yet.”

  I rub Seema’s shoulder sympathetically. “Parents do that. They don’t mean to.”

  “I know,” Seema says, rolling her eyes. “Also, she’s hideously worried about the snake charm I pulled and assured me in front of the entire table that if anything goes wrong with the wedding, she’ll smother Nic with a pillow.”

  “So, at least everyone’s staying calm,” I say dryly.

  “Yeah. Oh, and after she explained what an annaprashana was to Scott’s mother, Janet, Janet decided to smile exuberantly and declare how wonderful it was to be in LA, where everyone’s so exotic.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound—”

  “Exotic seems to be Protestant code for ‘weird.’”

  “Ah. See, I did not know that.”

  “Then she announces that she”—with this, Seema’s voice changes, going up two octaves while her face lights up with false cheer—“absolutely insists that before we do the first rice, we go back to the church where Scott was christened after we have each baby. Oh, it will be such fun.”

  I wince in sympathy. “Each?”

  “Each,” Seema repeats in her normal voice. “At which time Scott’s father bellows and says we need to have at least one boy, hopefully three, to carry on the James name. Because you know that name will die out if we don’t breed immediately. Just ask Etta James, Henry James, Harry James…”

  “Who?”

  “Bandleader. Married to Betty Grable. Jesse James, LeBron James.”

  “Okay, I get it,” I say, shaking my head. I hand the fork back to Seema. “You need this more than me.”

  Seema takes the fork from me, breaks off a big piece of cheesecake, and eats it. “Enough about me. What’s going on with my idiot brother?”

  Gulp. “Oh, I don’t want to bore you,” I say nervously. “This is your week.”

  She tells me through a mouthful of cheesecake, “I can’t tell if you’re saying that because you’re still all sexed up and happy, or you’re entering stage one of the clingy phase. Spill.”

  Seema eyes me knowingly. Damn, am I that transparent? Finally I confess, “He didn’t call or e-mail me tonight.”

  I figure that is enough sharing, but Seema looks at me expectantly, waiting for more.

  So I continue, “And now I’m getting all weird. And I shouldn’t, and I promise not to mess up your wedding in any way. I just wish … I wish I knew where I stood with him.”

  “You want me to call him?”

  “God, no! Then he’ll know I’m getting obsessed.”

  “Good point. You want to show me what you last wrote?”

  “God, yes!” I say in the exact same tone.

  By the time Seema blinks, I am already in my room, grabbing my phone.

  I return to the couch and show her my last text, and his last response. Seema thinks for a moment. “Knowing Jay, he’s been burning the candle on both ends since the night before he left Paris, hasn’t slept in days, got back to the hotel after a work dinner, in his mind thought he’d ‘lie down for a minute,’ then promptly passed out.”

  “You think?” I ask hopefully.

  “I know. That boy could sleep through incoming. But just to make sure, write to him, saying you’re going to bed. If he’s with a woman, he’ll quickly text you back something noncommittal. If he’s awake and by himself, he’ll call. If he’s passed out, you won’t hear from him.”

  I stare at my phone, then look up at Seema. “Have you always been able to read men so well?”

  “What? No. God, no. Just my brother. But seriously, give me your phone.”

  Seema yanks the phone out of my hand. She types on the keypad, then shows me the screen:

  Don’t want to call, since it’s so late. Just going to bed—your mom made Seema a little nuts this evening, so I was a dutiful maid of honor and provided champagne, Entenmann’s, and her favorite Cary Grant movie. XOXO

  “This okay?” Seema asks me.

  Just as I start to say “I’m not sure I would use the word—,” Seema has already hit the send button. My shoulders slump, “Why did you even ask?”

  “It was just a courtesy. I didn’t mean it,” she tells me, then tosses my phone on the coffee table. “Now, about that Cary Grant movie you just texted him about? Do we have An Affair to Remember?”

  “Are you mental, woman? I’m in clingy mode—the last thing I need is a super-romantic movie. How about Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House or I Was a Male War Bride?”

  “Both comedies. Charade?”

  “You want to show me Paris right now?”

  “North by Northwest?”

  “Done.” I pop off the couch to get the Blu-ray.

  “And about that champagne you texted him…?”

  I laugh, head to the kitchen, and get us our millionth bottle of champagne for the week, two flutes, and another fork.

  We spend the next ten or twenty minutes inhaling cake and champagne, watching the Sexiest Man Dead get framed as a CIA agent and waiting for a text or call from one of the Sexiest Men Alive. Nothing from Jay. Seema smiles at me. “See?”

  I smile and tell her she made me feel much better. Which is a lie, of course. She did make me a feel a little better, yes. But, sometimes hanging out with your best girlfriend watching old movies is merely a place marker to kill time until a girl can speak to him again.

  Or as I like to call it, the clingy phase, stage two.

  * * *

  The following morning put my mind at ease. Around 6:00 A.M., my phone begins ringing its newest ringtone—Eric Clapton.

  I pull the phone from my nightstand and answer groggily, “Hello?”

  “Did I wake you?” Jay asks me softly.

  “No, I always sound like Elmer Fudd after two packs of cigarettes,” I joke. I sit up in bed and try to wake up. “How are you?”

  “Good.” He sounds sleepy. “Tired. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  “We went to this restaurant last night, and it had an amazing view of the city. I wish you could be up here with me—you’d have loved it.”

  I smile. “I’m sure I would have.” Then I ask awkwardly, “So how late were you up?”

  “Not sure. I got here and thought I’d rest for a minute before I took a shower, and then I just zonked out.” I smile wider. Seema was right. “Anyway, I better get to that shower and start my day. Just wanted to say good morning.”

  “Good morning,” I repeat, more brightly now.

  His voice sounds brighter too as he says, “All right. I’ll call you later.”

  “Great.”

  “Great.”

  Neither of us gets off the phone.

  “We’re not going to be one of those couples who…”

  “No, I’m going. Bye,” I blather, then practically slam down the phone.

  Then I snuggle back into my covers, grinning like a teenage girl.

  SIXTEEN

  That afternoon, I am waiting in the luggage area, my knees bouncing slightly up and down, thinking, He’s here! He’s here! He’s here! I can see him walking down the LAX people mover. I stand at the glass revolving doors keeping out the riffraff like me from the people with airline tickets. I’m so excited, I continue to bounce up and down ever so slightly.

  No, I’m not waiting for Jay (although he might inspire such a reaction from me
too). I am waiting for Jeff. My college sweetheart. Up until a few days ago, the best-looking man I ever dated (Jay might be able to give him a run for his money, not sure). Definitely the nicest, most loving man I ever dated. When Jeff sees me, his face lights up and he picks up his pace. He pushes his way through the revolving doors, holds up a beautiful lei of purple and white flowers, and brightly says to me, “Aloha!”

  I burst into a giant smile as I run into his arms. “Aloha!” I yell, wrapping my arms around him, then jumping up to wrap my legs around him too. “My God! You look fantastic.”

  “Oh, please, sweetie,” Jeff retorts. “I’ve gained at least ten pounds since I moved to Maui, and my hairline’s receding so quickly you’d think it was Napoléon’s army at Waterloo.”

  I make a show of rolling my eyes as I jump off him. “Shut up. Your hair’s perfect, your eyes are still as electric blue as a Siberian husky’s, and you look exactly the same as you did in college. Which I hate you for, by the way. I’m the one with gray hairs and a food-baby belly that looks like I’m three months along.”

  Jeff steps back to give me the once-over with his eyes. “Please. You’re perfect. If anything, you need a sandwich.” He puts the lei over my head, then kisses me once on each cheek. I pull the lei up to my nose and inhale. “That smells amazing. What kinds of flowers are these?”

  “Orchids.”

  I’m so touched. Why can’t I find a straight man who treats me so nicely? “You brought orchids all the way from Hawaii?”

  He smiles. “I want to take credit for being awesome, but the truth is I bought them at the Costco near the airport. Now, tell me about the guy.”

  I give him a look. “What guy? There’s no guy.”

  He smirks. “Wow. Coy. That means you’ve had sex.”

  My jaw drops. “How did you…”

  “Ha! I totally didn’t!” he exclaims, proud of himself for psyching me out. “But you did! You did have sex!” He grabs my hand, kisses it quickly, then asks, “So who is he? And do we hear wedding bells?”

  “Do you remember Jay? Seema’s brother?”