Cherry on Top

by Bobbie Brown

  It meant so much that she believed in me. That my whole family had been there, cheering on my ridic-ulousness. For the first time in years, my mom and daughter were able to enjoy my life choices. Finally, why I had to be in LA made sense to them. LA was no longer just a place where Bobbie went to take care of some man. LA was now a place where Bobbie was finally growing into her best self.

  •••

  Tilky had stayed in LA while I was gone and then spent Christmas with some friends on the East Coast. Every time I started to worry about him, I checked myself. I wasn’t his girlfriend, and I wasn’t his mom—I was his friend. All I could do was believe in him. Nothing more, nothing less.

  When he called and said he missed me, my mom chimed in. “Tell him he’s welcome to come here.”

  So on his way back to LA, Tilky stopped by Baton Rouge.

  The night he arrived we all went to dinner.

  “He used to be in a boy band,” I explained to my mom before we sat down.

  “Doesn’t mean jack to me,” she said, on point as always. “All I want to know is, is he a good person, Bobbie? Does he pull his weight? You’ve been waiting on him hand and foot.”

  “I’ve been treating him as I would any other guest in our home!”

  Mom was, naturally, protective of me, and that’s why she’d invited Tilky to Baton Rouge. She’d seen too often what can happen when I let someone new into my life. Someone who’s younger, needs help and love.

  “You know how you are, Bobbie. Sometimes people use you, sometimes they are cruel.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Mom! We’re just friends!”

  “Yes, and sometimes you fall in love with them anyway, without even noticing that’s what you’re doing. You’ve got a huge heart and it’s easy to get in there.”

  We went to dinner in town, and my half-sister, Amy, went absolutely gaga over Tilky, as all women do.

  “Well, God, son,” my mom said. “Bobbie’s gonna get jealous that you’re giving all your attention to her sister.”

  My mouth gaped. “Mom, shut up!”

  My mom looked at my stepdad. “It’s so obvious Bobbie’s into him, isn’t it? He’s a real pussy charmer!”

  “Mom, with all respect, BE QUIET.”

  “Oh, I’m just pickin’ at him,” she said.

  “You’re not pickin’ at him, you’re pickin’ at me!”

  When I looked at Tilky, he was laughing. Harder than he had in months.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “I’m the pussy charmer!”

  My mom turned to me and winked. “This one’s all right, Bobbie. I like him.”

  This is s Mam’s World

  Finally, I had stability at home. Great friends around me. Josh was totally out of my life. And I had found my raison d’être in comedy. It’s amazing how quickly things can shift. Three months ago, I was bottoming out, questioning my existence, rudderless. Now life felt hopeful. Exciting, even. I had a path. The only piece missing from the puzzle was a man.

  My phone pinged with a message from a guy I had a date with that night. He was older (meaning my age) and an entertainment attorney (meaning not broke), so I had high hopes. It couldn’t be any worse than the last couple of dates I’d been on. There was the guy from Bumble who worked at Disney and couldn’t stop talking about his ex.

  “My ex, we just had an instant connection.”

  I nodded, chewing on a rib. “Uh huh.”

  “We really loved each other right off the bat. It happened so fast.”

  “Cool.”

  “Then, out of nowhere, she broke up with me. Can you believe that, Bobbie? She thought things were moving too fast, but she was the one who said ‘I love you’ first.”

  I wished I could shove a rib into his mouth to shut him up.

  The next Bumble disaster was a full two inches shorter than me. He also spent most of the evening talking about the ex-girlfriend who broke his heart. “She was so beautiful, just like you,” he said. “Do you want to see her picture?”

  “That’s okay,” I said, mouth full of sushi.

  “Bobbie, oh, my God, you have such great skin! Let’s take a selfie.” We took a selfie. Then he continued to grill me for advice on how to win back his ex.

  “Just stop being a pushover, bro,” I said, waving for the check.

  The next day, he texted me.

  “Thank you sooo much for being my friend! I’m going to take all the advice you gave me! And I’m going to Photoshop our photos so you look PERFECT!!! Drink soon?”

  I blame Sharise for getting me back on the dating apps. In her opinion, modern love is a numbers game. She says if you go out with ten guys, you’re bound to like one of them. But I found the whole rigmarole exhausting. I really, really hoped tonight’s date with the entertainment attorney would suck less than the last two. I read his message:

  “Hey, instead of dinner, let’s see this live show my friend is putting on…starts at 9.”

  A show? On a first date? I was hoping for something more intimate.

  “I’m not really up for a late night tonight. I’m flying to Minnesota early tomorrow. Do you mind if we just stick to dinner?”

  “Let’s just reschedule then. I don’t like early nights…”

  And I don’t like assholes. I didn’t even bother replying.

  I showed Tilky the messages and he shook his head, disappointed. “What a tool! Why don’t you come to the party with me and Juliette tonight instead?”

  Juliette was the twenty-year-old actress he’d been seeing for a few weeks. I’d already pranked her a few times and she’d taken it well, so I knew she was cool. The first night she stayed over, I planted a remote-control turd in Tilky’s bedroom while they were downstairs cooking, and in the middle of the night, I started driving the turd around his room. In the morning, when she was in the shower, I took my airhorn, stuck it around the bathroom door, and blasted it. From then on she was officially part of the family. I liked her for Tilky; he seemed happy, and that made me happy too.

  We went to her roommate’s birthday party that night, which was much more fun than feeling sorry for myself at home. I gave the birthday girl a little present and chatted with Tilky.

  “I think I’m ready to meet my guy now,” I told him.

  “He’s not here, is he?” Tilky said, looking around.

  “No. But I’m glad I came.” I left the party early, in much better spirits than before.

  On my way back to Arleta, I noticed I was low on gas, so I pulled into a gas station and started filling up. A man standing by his Range Rover was looking at me. He was tall and well built, like a slimline version of The Rock, and I wasn’t mad when he walked over and started chatting me up.

  “Pardon me, but I don’t think I’ve seen anything so beautiful in all my life,” he said with a British accent.

  I looked behind me and said coyly, “Do you mean me?”

  “Have we met before? Were you on television?”

  “Yes, a few years ago. I was on a show called Ex Wives of Rock.”

  He smiled. “Oh. I know Lorraine.” Lorraine Lewis was my friend, and the show’s producer. Small world…

  “Are you single?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you like not to be?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Can I have your number?”

  “Can I ask what your name is?”

  “It’s Mams. Mams Taylor.”

  Mams Taylor…what a name. What a dream boat.… The universe must have been listening! That’s why my stupid date with the jerky entertainment attorney had fallen through. If I hadn’t been here at this gas station, I would never have met him…Mams.

  I went home and immediately Googled Mams. According to TMZ.com, Mams is a little bit of a bad boy, which as we all know is my
preferred genre. He knocked out Jesse Metcalfe with one punch. He wrote a song for Carmen Electra called “Bigger Dick.” He’s also associated with the musical genre “runk.” I had never heard of “runk,” but it sounded like a mix of punk and drunk, which was fine by me.

  I called Sharise and told her the good news about Mams. Her reaction, though, was surprising. As soon as I told her his name, she started screaming.

  “NOO!!!! NOOO!!!!”

  “Sharise, what is it? What’s wrong?

  “NOOOOO!”

  “TELL ME!”

  “NOOOOOOO!”

  “He’s rich, he’s famous, he dates hot chicks. How does that make him a ‘no’?”

  “Bobbie, he was on the first season of Ex Wives, don’t you remember?”

  “He was?”

  “He’s my baby daddy’s piece-of-shit best friend. He’s a nightmare. A total player. YOU CANNOT DATE HIM.”

  “Oh.”

  I promised Sharise I wouldn’t go out with Mams, but when he slid into my DMs later that night, I have to admit, I felt a little tingle of excitement in my belly.

  “I want to see you.”

  He was direct. To the point. I liked that. No endless texting back and forth. No mixed signals, no breadcrumbs here. I typed back:

  “Me too.”

  He seemed like a smooth kind of guy. I imagined him picking me up in his Range Rover, taking me to a beautiful restaurant. In Malibu. Maybe my hair would blow in the wind on the PCH as we drove up there. I better start planning my outfit.

  “When?”

  I bit my lip with anticipation as the little bubbles showed him typing his response. There would be champagne. Lingering eye contact as we clinked our glasses, looks that hinted at romance. Then his answer arrived.

  “Now.”

  Now? Was this a booty call? The veil lifted on my short-lived fantasy of finding true love with a dashing Brit. I realized that I wasn’t messaging with Mams. I was actually messaging with his boner. And when conversing with boners, I’ve found it’s best to be very clear and direct.

  “I don’t do ‘now.’”

  And that was the last I heard from Mams.

  Sharise was right about him. Go figure.

  Bobbie Brown’s Killer Set

  There aren’t many firsts left for me, but until I flew to Minnesota to visit my brother in his new home, I’d never been in the snow before. I’d seen snow. But I’d never been in it. I’d never made a snowman, or thrown a snowball, or touched it with my bare hands. Neither had my nephew, Ollie, and together, we made a snowman, threw real snowballs, and made an igloo and snow angels too. Laughing while lying on my back and waving my arms and legs up and down to make the first snow angel of my life, I couldn’t help but feel that my brother had made the right decision. They were much better off out here than in LA.

  We sat at the dinner table with his parents, and Ollie whispered to me, “You’re my favorite aunt,” and I just wanted to eat him up. Then he glanced over at his mom and dad, who were flirting with one another across the table, still very much in love.

  “Um, hey, you guys are starting to get gross,” he said, and we all laughed.

  “He’s got your sense of humor, Bobbie,” Adam said.

  I was sad to leave Minnesota, especially because there was a little tension at home in Arleta. Just a few little red flags here and there with Chloe. Sometimes we’d rub each other the wrong way. And I was having a little bit of an issue with her dog, Piaf. Don’t get me wrong, I love dogs. Believe it or not, before Dirty Rocker Boys came out, I worked as a personal assistant at a talent agency for dogs, and it was one of the most fun jobs I’ve ever had. But Piaf, handsome and charming a young man as he was, had some issues.

  He wasn’t really house-trained even though Chloe had sworn he was, and for some reason he had decided that my room was the toilet. Each time he marked my carpet with a number one or two, Nupa would do the polite thing and match it with a gift of her own. It was getting gross, and I was sick of shampooing the carpet three times a day. Piaf and Nupa also seemed to be developing feelings for one another. Despite the pronounced age difference—he was one, she was ten—he was acting like she was his bitch, and frankly, she seemed into it. He’d started humping her. Because he wasn’t fixed and neither was Nupa, it was really becoming an issue. The relationship unfolding in my bedroom was a strange, smelly, dangerous affair, and it had to stop.

  Things hit a low point when Jay invited me to an Orgy show and I made the mistake of mentioning it to ultra-fan Chloe. Jay never confirmed the passes, and I’d developed a raging migraine in the meantime, so I just decided not to go. But Chloe, who’d gotten it in her head that she was going to rage backstage with her heroes, was furious and yelled at me for letting her down. The next day, when Piaf shat in my room again, I decided it was time to have a proper talk. Redraw some boundaries. Clear the shit-scented air.

  I knocked on Chloe’s door, and the second she opened it, it became clear she had no interest in having an adult conversation.

  “You’re MEAN,” she said. “You’ve been MEAN to me since the SECOND I moved in! You treat me like a tenant, not a friend.”

  “Well, you are my tenant. And I was hoping we could become friends…”

  “YOU’RE FUCKING EVIL, BOBBIE! YOU’VE NEVER BEEN NICE TO ME!”

  Her ferocity took me by surprise.

  “Chloe, this has got to be the most ungrateful thing I have ever heard. And you know, ingratitude is what holds people back in life.”

  She folded her arms, glowering. “You promised me we were going to the Orgy show.”

  “I never promised you anything.”

  “And you’re mean to Piaf.”

  “I love Piaf, but you weren’t very honest when you said he was totally house-trained. Every time he comes in my room, he shits or pees or both, and then Nupa has to remark his markings. It’s gross.”

  “You’re gross. Look at you. Fifty years old and renting out rooms to people half your age. I feel sorry for you.”

  And there they were: her true colors. The ones Sharise had seen from day one. I made a mental note to stop ignoring Sharise’s advice. And I wasn’t going to let myself lose my temper. Not today, Satan. Not today.

  “Whatever, I’ve found a new apartment anyway,” she spat.

  “Well, thanks for the notice, and good for you! You broke my washing machine and dryer by the way. Are you going to pay to get those fixed?”

  “Get the fuck out of my face, Bobbie.”

  Then she put her hands on me, shoved me into the hallway, and slammed the door shut in my face.

  For a few seconds I couldn’t move. Then, a strange sound, a yelping, began emanating from my room. I ran in to the horrifying sight of Piaf having full, consensual sex with my Nupa.

  “NO!” I screamed, trying to separate them. “BAD DOGS!”

  But their bodies were locked together in some diabolical tango. Nupa looked at me with the “sorry not sorry” face that she usually reserved for after she’d shat on my rugs.

  I called Taylar, thinking that her job at the dog boarding and grooming facility would mean she could give me some advice. “What do I do? How do I get them apart? Is there a morning after pill for dogs?”

  “Mom, listen to me,” said Taylar. “When dogs mate, the male’s penis swells up inside the female’s vagina, so it’s totally normal for them to get stuck together. Do NOT try to divide them, you could hurt them both.”

  I watched Nupa standing there, attached butt to butt with Piaf like it was no big deal. I had to give it to Mother Nature, she sure has a weird sense of humor.

  “How long are they locked together like this?

  “Like fifteen, twenty minutes. He’s ejaculating inside her right now, see?”

  “EW! Taylar, what if she gets pregnant? She’s too old for this shit!�
�

  A beep indicated I had a call waiting—it was Caroline.

  “Shit, Taylar, I have to get this.” I switched the calls over. “Caroline, you are not going to believe what’s happening…” I told her about Chloe, and could hear Caroline’s little fingers typing while she took notes on the other end.

  “Bobbie, this is wonderful. You really are the gift that keeps on giving!”

  “I thought I had stability in my home life, Caroline. And now it’s just the same old bullshit. I can’t stand this drama. It just follows me wherever I go!”

  “Bobbie, listen to me, if anything else completely dramatic and hilarious happens to you in the next twenty-four hours, you tell me straight away, okay? Really, this is all great!”

  “Great? It doesn’t feel that way.”

  “Depends how you look at it, Bobbie. From a comedic perspective, it’s gold.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at Nupa, who looked happier than I’d ever seen her, walking around with her boy toy attached to her like a backpack. Like mother like daughter. Ugh.

  •••

  A few weeks later, I was at home working on my set when I heard Tilky come in the door from his film shoot. He’d been gone a couple of days, and so far I’d spared him news of the drama that had been unfolding with our roommate.

  Tilky came upstairs and knocked on my door.

  “Sit down, I have some news,” I told him.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, next to me.

  “Chloe’s moving out. It got ugly.”

  “What?”

  “And there’s something else.”

  Nupa was lying in my lap. She’d been pining for Piaf all day. I picked her up and handed her to Tilky. He cradled her gently.

  “What is it, Bobbie?”

  “We went to the vet.

  “Oh, my God, she’s not sick is she?”

  “No. She’s pregnant, Tilky. We’re having a baby.”

  Earlier that day, Nupa’s vet had confirmed that following her night of passion with Piaf, Nupa was with child. I had assumed that because of Nupa’s advanced age—she’s around eighty-five in dog years—she’d be unable to carry a pregnancy to term. But the vet told me otherwise. Apparently Nupa was perfectly capable of bearing a litter, so long as I had the commitment and responsibility required to become a grandmother. I looked at Nupa, who had been crying for Piaf nonstop. As a woman, a mother, and a certified codependent, I knew exactly what she was going through. She loved her hot young man. And she wanted his puppies.