There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  My drink is ready. I hand the bartender my free drink coin, along with a one-dollar tip, then sit down on one of the plush chairs.

  Absolutely no one approaches me. I make eye contact with the cute half-Asian guy in the gray wool suit. Nothing. He either doesn’t think I’m looking at him, or finds me so repulsive that I don’t even warrant a polite smile. I give the five-second stare (you know, when you look at a guy for one, two, three, four, five seconds straight) to a redhead in a button-up shirt and jeans. I do get a polite smile back, but then he turns to his friends and continues conversing with them.

  Damn. Zero for two.

  Next, I try a ten-second stare on a tall, dark, and handsome stranger who just invokes the word “delicious.”

  Zilch. He almost looks confused by my interest. Although his girlfriend, a ridiculously hot redhead wearing a black minidress and black knee-high boots to show off her perfect legs, did suddenly appear next to him with two drinks in her hands.

  Damn it. I look over at a group of older guys. Oh fuck it—maybe I should just flirt with one of them.

  “Excuse me. Girl in the sexy red dress,” I hear a girl say to my left.

  I look over to see the hot redhead walk up to me. “Hi! I’m Candy,” she says brightly to me.

  “Hi, I’m Mel,” I say back, a little confused.

  “That’s Dave over there,” she says, jutting her head toward the cute guy with her. “So what do you think? Cute, right?”

  “Delicious,” I say out loud.

  Oh God! You dork. You are not nearly cool enough to pull off “Delicious.” Knock it off.

  “Perfect!” Candy declares. “Because he’d like to know if you’re single.”

  “Really?” I ask, surprised a guy like that would even notice me, much less send his friend over to go bond with me.

  Dave raises his drink and smiles at me as Candy says, “Would you like to join us for a drink?”

  “Sure,” I say, standing up.

  “Great. Because we both think you’re really cute…”

  I put up the palm of my hand. “Wait. We? What do you mean we?”

  “Oh come on,” Candy says playfully. “He is an amazing lover, and all I do is stand by with the camera.”

  Eek!

  “Wow,” I blurt out as the man starts to walk toward us. “No, no, no,” I warn him over and over again as I wave my hands around like I’m trying to swat flies away from a picnic. “You go away. Shoo!”

  “Honey, this is a perfect opportunity to expand your microcosm,” Candy tells me. “When was the last time someone completely catered to your fantasies?”

  “About ten years ago, when Häagen-Dazs came out with their dulce de leche ice cream,” I answer.

  Candy smiles at my joke. She seems to really like me. “No worries,” she tells me genuinely, then pulls out her business card. “If you change your mind, just call or text me. I think the three of us could have a lot of fun.”

  “Thank you,” I respond awkwardly, taking her card and reading it.

  Wow. Her name really is Candy. Dr. Candy Horowitz. And she’s a dentist.

  A dentist?!

  I’m not sure which throws me more: that dentists look like that, or that they have sex lives like hers.

  Ten minutes later, the hostesses announce that the Scotch tasting will begin, and to please segue into the next room.

  I slowly walk in with the crowd to a large room that looks like a weird combination wedding reception/high school laboratory: throughout the large room are circular banquet tables that each seat eight. In front of each of the eight chairs is a collection of test tubes: five tubes hold Scotch, five hold other ingredients. In front of the ten test tubes are three glass snifters. Two of the snifters have Scotch in them, one is empty. Behind the test tubes is another glass containing what I assume is water.

  Huh.

  A hostess at the door asks me how many are in my party.

  “One,” I say, proud of myself for heeding the advice of the dating guru who insists that men hunt in packs, but they don’t hunt them.

  The hostess seats me at a table near the front. Seven men, ranging in age from about thirty to about sixty, are already seated. One of the men, a white-haired gentleman who looks like a college professor, stands up as I approach. “Finally, a lady in our presence.”

  “Thank you,” I say, as I sit between the white-haired guy and a cute thirty-something I hadn’t noticed before while scanning the bar area.

  Thirty-something is nerd cute: something about him seems so approachable. Like a young Jon Stewart—good looking, but not so much that you say stupid things and look at the ground the entire time you’re with him. A man who might not fill me with self-loathing for the next few hours.

  “Jimbo, didn’t I tell you?” the white-haired guy says to the Jon Stewart look-alike. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Mel,” I say, quickly flitting my eyes back and forth between white-haired guy, who looks victorious, and approachable guy, who seems a bit embarrassed. “What? What did you tell him?”

  “I’m George,” white-haired guy tells me. “And I told Jim that we should sit a seat apart from each other, just in case Angelina Jolie comes in alone looking for a drink. And, instead, we got her much prettier sister.”

  This guy is so charming that his statement didn’t sound like a pickup line: it sounded like one of those things dads say when they’re trying to boost your ego.

  “Take it down a notch,” young Jim tells George as he gives him an indulgent smile. “Obviously, a woman like this is taken.”

  “Are you taken, Mel?” George asks me without hesitation.

  “Um … no, actually,” I say. Then I give both of them the line I have rehearsed in my head a hundred times just on the car ride over. “I recently dumped my boyfriend of six years. And I’m excited to get back out in the world and try some fun things on my own.”

  Then I decide to throw in for good measure, “I thought it was time to expand my microcosm.”

  “Really?” Jim says, visibly impressed. “I just broke up too. Well, actually she broke up with me. But I gotta say, that is the attitude to take. Just get back out there. Have fun. Meet some new people.”

  I smile at Jim, glowing a bit from his approval. Not that I should care what a total stranger thinks, but it’s nice to hear someone say aloud that they think I’m on a good path.

  The perky blonde who checked us in takes a microphone and introduces us to the company’s “ambassador,” a delightful Scotsman who tells us about the history of Scotch in general, and his company in particular.

  I spend the next twenty minutes sneaking glances at Jim, who smiles easily and effortlessly, and learning a bit about Scotch.

  Actually, learning about Scotch is a little like learning chess. You can spend an eternity learning, but all you really need to know to get started are some basics. For chess, it’s that the rook only moves horizontally and vertically, the bishop only goes diagonally, and the queen can go almost anywhere. You don’t need to start off knowing Bobby Fischer’s favorite moves.

  For Scotch, we learned that a single malt is a Scotch that is distilled in a single distillery. Blended Scotch, on the other hand, can be a mix of forty or more different types of single-malt Scotch. We also learned that Scotch has been around for hundreds of years, and that based on where and how it’s made, it can smell and taste like a variety of things.

  Our ambassador tells us that we have five single-malt Scotches in the test tubes in front of us. Each one has a unique scent and flavor to it. The trick is to only smell the Scotches, not drink them (not drink them?!), to see which one we like the best.

  We are instructed to open the first test tube, and sniff.

  It smells like honey. Not surprising—there’s an amber goo on the bottom that I assume is actual honey. Then we smell the first test tube of Scotch. I’ll be damned, the Scotch smells like honey. Who knew?

  We open the next test tube, which smells like orang
es. Also not a shock, as there is an orange peel at the bottom of the tube. I smell the corresponding Scotch, and it does indeed smell citrusy. I wouldn’t say it smelled exactly like oranges, but it smells of fruit.

  Next we were onto the lavender test tube. “What do you think?” Jim asks me as we smell the corresponding Scotch.

  “Smells like bubble bath,” I say happily (and a bit flirtatiously).

  The next test tube is easy, since I can see the vanilla bean inside. But I open the tube and take a giant whiff of my favorite scent. Smells like ice cream.

  Finally, we open and inhale the scent of the peat test tube.

  Ick. Ew. This is supposed to smell “smoky,” but I think that’s a Scotch drinker’s version of what wine tasters call “dung.”

  I brace myself, then open the last test tube of Scotch. Ick. Ew. Repeat.

  “I think that one’s my favorite,” Jim tells me. “What do you think?”

  “I think I don’t want to be licking the bottom of a fireplace anytime soon,” I say, then stick out my tongue for emphasis. “Ew. Ew. Ew. You like that one?”

  “I do.”

  “You have no taste,” I jokingly argue.

  “Maybe not in booze,” Jim admits. “But my taste in women is excellent.”

  I smile at him, not knowing how to take that. “Really?” I say, almost giggling. (Is it okay to giggle when you’ve just met someone?)

  “Well, if the last half hour is any indication, then absolutely,” he assures me, flashing me a masculine yet subtle smile.

  For the next part of the class, the ambassador encourages us to become master blenders, like the guys in Scotland who blend forty different kinds of whiskey to make the blend this company is most famous for.

  We are instructed to take our favorite scented Scotch and pour it in the first glass, thereby making it the base for our personal blend.

  I immediately dump all of the vanilla Scotch test tube into my glass, and sniff.

  “What do you think?” Jim asks me as he pours the honey Scotch test tube into his first glass and puts his nose to the top of the glass.

  “I think it’s perfect,” I say, sniffing happily.

  “Next,” the ambassador says with this thick Scottish brogue, “add a bit of any of the other flavors you liked, swirl it around in your glass, and have another sniff.”

  “What are you going to add to yours?” Jim asks as he opens his smoky test tube.

  “Nothing. This is perfect. Are you using your vanilla test tube?” I ask him.

  As Jim starts to say, “I’m not sure because…” I quickly reach over him, take his vanilla Scotch test tube, and dump it into my glass. Jim gives me another sexy smile. “You know how a guy knows a woman is comfortable enough with him to sleep with him?” he asks me.

  “No,” I say, smiling back.

  “She takes food off of his plate.”

  I turn away, blushing a bit.

  Then I continue the mating dance. “What if she takes his test tube?”

  “Oh, well, I think that at least means she’ll give him her phone number.”

  We spend the next half hour or so drinking our blends, then comparing them to blends from the company. I’ll admit, their twelve-year-old blend was smoother than mine.

  Jim couldn’t get any smoother, but he got even more charming and fun.

  When the tasting is over, George, Jim, and I walk out of Sound Stage Nine and into the night air.

  “So, now that we’ve had our booze, who’s up for dinner?” George asks us as he pulls out his phone. “There’s an amazing steakhouse just down the street. Let me make a call.”

  Jim smiles at me as he says to his friend, “That sounds great.” He turns to me, “Are you free? Or have we already taken up too much of your evening?”

  “No, that sounds wonderful,” I say shyly. The truth is, I would have preferred having dinner with just Jim. But one man in my hand is worth more than two men in a bush without me.

  “Perfect,” George says, then calls his favorite steakhouse for a reservation. Jim and I continue to make “I want to kiss you” eye contact while George gets off the phone. “We have a reservation for three as soon as we can get over there,” George says. I notice he types in a text as we walk toward the exit of the studio. “So Mel, what do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a physics and math teacher at Cornwell High School. How about you?”

  “Oh, I own this place,” George tells me as he gestures around the studio with his hand.

  “Good night, Mr. Gideon,” a security guard calls out politely to George as we walk out of the main gate.

  Both George and Jim respond, “Good night Hank.”

  Several pieces of information just zipped past me. I do a slight double take. “Wait, are you guys related?” I ask them.

  “That’s my dad,” Jim says.

  “Oh,” I say, now wildly embarrassed. A girl is normally on her best behavior when it comes to meeting the parents. Instead, I have already shown this man both that I’m a drunk and a slut who flirts with men by suggesting a bubble bath of Scotch. Damn it.

  The other bit of info that hits me—this is George Gideon. The George Gideon. The guy who owns a movie studio, a baseball team, and probably half of the LAPD. (Just kidding.) And I’m flirting with his son. How the Hell am I going to impress George Gideon enough for him to approve of me for his son?

  George’s text beeps. He checks his phone. “It’s your mother,” he says to Jim as he reads the screen. “I’m going to have to take a rain check.” He looks up at us. “You guys will still go, though, right?”

  “Um … sure,” we both say, rather awkwardly.

  “Wonderful,” George says, suddenly pulling away from us and heading toward a Mercedes just pulling up to the curb. “Mel, it was lovely to meet you. Jim, we’ll see you tomorrow morning for brunch.”

  I say, “Nice to meet you as well.” At the same time, Jim flashes George a suspicious look and says, “Okay, Dad.”

  And George opens the door to the Mercedes, where I see a beautiful blond woman who doesn’t look a day over forty driving. She smiles and waves at Jim, who forces what can only be called a smirk, and waves back. The two pull away.

  “Was that your mom?”

  Jim nods. “Indeed.”

  “Wow,” I say, audibly impressed. “She looks good for her age.”

  “She had me at sixteen.”

  “Really?”

  Jim snorts a small laugh. “No. She just has a good dermatologist.” Jim turns to me. “So … that was my ride home. Subtle, aren’t they?”

  I smile. “Well, I could give you a ride home.”

  Twenty-eight

  Nicole

  There are currently over seven billion people on the planet, and they all have one thing in common.

  They are all at Disney World today.

  I am so tired, I think as a writer I need a new word for tired.

  Exhausted, drained, worn out, bushed.

  Nope. I got it: motherhood.

  Seriously, at one point in the day, between the thirty-minute line to take a picture with Cinderella and the ninety-minute line for the “It’s a Small World” ride, I almost stopped a pregnant woman who was pushing a stroller, being tugged by a toddler on a kid leash, and telling a manic three-year-old to quit tackling her hyper five-year-old brother so that I could ask her “Why?”

  And if she didn’t answer immediately, I planned to grab her by the collar, look at her with crazy eyes, and reiterate my question with a very desperate “Seriously! Why?!”

  What the Hell am I doing in Orlando today?

  Paying for something bad I did in a past life. I mean, I don’t think I was Hitler or anything, but maybe I jumped the line early during the Oklahoma land rush. Or invented the stiletto heel.

  What no one tells you on these cruises is that six nights means just that—six nights. Not seven days and six nights, like a normal vacation. Six days and six nights. As in, we did get a sixth ni
ght: our departure time from the boat was at 8:00 fucking A.M.

  And no, I did not use that expression in front of my lovely new bonus daughters. But honestly, on your honeymoon, anything that happens at 8:00 A.M. that doesn’t involve the horizontal hokeypokey is just wrong. (Oh, God. Did I just use the word hokeypokey?)

  Our flight home to Los Angeles isn’t until late Sunday night. This was done intentionally: we thought we’d give the girls a day at Disney World and Epcot, so that we could see both Disney World and a fake rendition of Italy. Only now we’re giving them two days.

  Yup. I get to spend the last few days of my honeymoon at Disney World. On Labor Day weekend. You can imagine my unbridled excitement.

  Cost of two adult and two child tickets for two days: over seven hundred dollars.

  Cost of two adjoining hotel rooms, with reservations made last minute, on Labor Day weekend: at least two pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes. And a lunch at Le Cirque.

  Total time spent on first day at the first park: twelve hours.

  Total time waiting in line in ninety-four-degree heat and a billion percent humidity: I’m guessing ten hours.

  Seeing your two bonus daughters happy and (much more importantly) asleep after a ridiculously long day: priceless.

  Taking advantage of your first night alone as a married couple, only to emerge from your bathroom in a sexy red lace bustier to see your new husband out cold and snoring (snoring!) on the bed: ridiculous.

  He didn’t even get naked to wait for me: he’s still in his clothes from today.

  So much for my magical kingdom.

  I sigh, walk over to the silver champagne bucket, and open the bottle of Dom Perignon I ordered from room service while he read the girls their bedtime stories. The loud pop of the cork makes Jason stir. Hoping he’ll get a second wind, I immediately pose in my negligee.

  Nope. Nothing. Slightly angry yet resigned, I pour myself a glass of champagne. I take a sip and stare at my lump of a husband.