Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  I take a deep breath before I go on. “You don’t sound like you think it’s great.”

  “No, I do,” Jordan says quickly. “I’m just in the middle of something. Can I call you back tonight?”

  “Yeah. I guess,” I say sheepishly, trying not to let the hurt creep into my voice.

  “Are you mad?” Jordan asks me, sounding concerned. “You sound mad.”

  “No. It’s just . . . I thought you’d be excited.”

  “I am,” Jordan assures me. “I meant to call you yesterday. I have some news of my own I want to talk about. Can I call you later?”

  My lungs are feeling constricted. I’m getting nauseated. My mind races with all the news he might give me, and all of it leads to our permanent breakup.

  “Can’t you just tell me the news now?” I beg.

  Jordan sighs. “I really should be back on set. I shouldn’t have taken the call, but when I saw it was you, I decided to pick up.”

  “Hey, sweetie,” I hear behind me as Liam’s hands wrap around my shoulders. “You know, in all the excitement, I forgot to ask how your ankle is doing.”

  I turn to face Liam, and force a smile. “Great,” I mouth silently, giving him a thumbs-up.

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t see you were on the phone,” Liam whispers, smiling brightly as he pulls away from me. “I’ll see you back inside.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I say cheerfully. Then I turn my back to him so he won’t hear how pathetic I sound talking to Jordan.

  “Who was that?” Jordan asks, with what I think might be a tinge of jealousy.

  “One of the producers,” I say a little too quickly, hoping to God he can’t tell in my voice how much lust I have in my heart (or another part of my body anyway). “Why?”

  There’s a pause on Jordan’s end. “No reason. Listen, I really have to go. Can I call you later?”

  “Look, if you’re going to dump me, please just do it now,” I say sadly. “Otherwise, I’m just going to spend all afternoon waiting for the other shoe to drop, and dreading your phone call.”

  There’s another pause on his end. “Charlie, I can’t really dump you. I’ve been trying to stay a nice guy about this, but you do remember breaking up with me, don’t you?”

  There it is. I force myself to breathe, “I didn’t break up with you. I said we should see how things go when you’re away, and then decide what we’re going to do once you get back.”

  “All right. Well, first of all, to a guy, that’s a breakup.”

  “It’s not really a breakup—”

  “Yes, it is,” he says a bit angrily. “And that’s fine. I probably deserved it for all I put you through before. But don’t act like you weren’t just keeping your options open. The minute I left, I’m sure all of your doe-eyed suitors came back out to sniff around.”

  “Options?!” I say, completely flummoxed. “I don’t have doe-eyed suitors. Name one doe-eyed suitor.”

  His voice is sarcastic. “Um . . . the guy who just asked how your ankle is doing. Should I even ask what that was all about?”

  “Liam is a friend. You accusing him of liking me is right up there with my accusing Genevieve of liking you.”

  There’s silence on the other end. Uh-oh.

  “She likes you?” I ask sadly.

  Jordan laughs a little. “No. Genevieve is gay.”

  A weight has been lifted from my lungs long enough to let me breathe.

  Then Jordan hits me with his news. “But I’ve been offered another job. Starting in February. For a film shooting in Germany.”

  And the weight is back. “Oh,” I manage to stammer out. “So . . . what did you tell the people who offered you the job?”

  “I told them I’d think about it.”

  I think I’m going to throw up. “Oh.” I take a deep breath, and try to barrel through the rest of the conversation as quickly as possible. “Okay. Well, um . . . I should let you get back to work.”

  “This is why I didn’t want to tell you while we were both at work. I want to talk to you about this.”

  “No. It’s fine,” I say quickly, hoping to get off the phone before my eyes start watering. “Take the job. I get it.”

  “Charlie . . .”

  I hear Drew behind me. “Charlie, what do you think of me turning my dressing room into a space station? I found this catalog that sells freeze-dried ice cream . . .”

  I turn around to face Drew, and I must look pretty bad, because he stops talking.

  “Oh shoot, that’s Drew,” I say into the phone, as I look right at Drew. “I gotta go.”

  Jordan sighs. “Okay. But can we talk about this later?”

  “Sure,” I lie. “But I gotta go.”

  There’s more dead air between us before Jordan finally says, “Go to it then. Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

  “Yeah. You, too. Bye.”

  I click off the phone. I force a smile as I say to Drew, “So, freeze-dried ice cream. I’m on it. What flavor?”

  Drew cocks his head, and looks at me oddly. “Was that Jordan?”

  I avoid the question. “Because I know where I can get Mint Chip or Ice Cream Sandwich. Any other flavor requires I get on the Internet and . . .”

  Drew pulls me into a hug. He pats my back, and says, “It’s okay, baby. Let it all out.”

  Ick. I don’t want to get into this with my boss. I let my arms dangle to the sides, refusing to hug him back.

  “I don’t want to let it all out,” I say, my voice muffled deep in his chest. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” he says in a voice dripping in sympathy. “You’re thirty, you’re alone, you have a dead-end job, and your biological clock is ticking like a time bomb in the middle of Manhattan.”

  I pull away from him and glare. “That’d better be a line from your script.”

  Twelve

  Men send confusing messages. Don’t waste your money on books trying to simplify or decode the messages. Sometimes, even other men don’t know how to translate the mixed messages. The only authors in my day and age who claimed to know what men really wanted were usually unattractive, wimpy, or both.

  By late that afternoon, Jordan had already sent me two messages telling me he missed me, and that he’d really like to talk to me. The first one, a text, was brief:

  Are we still friends?

  To which I responded:

  Of course.

  Even though I think he made it very clear in those four words that we were no longer dating.

  The second one, an e-mail, was more confusing:

  Can I call you tonight? I miss you.

  xoxo

  J

  Argh . . . I didn’t respond to that one. I mean, I am completely within my rights to hate him now, right?

  After driving Drew home, I head back into hideous Los Angeles traffic, and debate my options.

  Well, there are the obvious ones: Ice cream. A bottle of wine. Enough cigarettes to fill a petting zoo.

  Or, there is a more proactive approach. Go out and find a nice guy to flirt with.

  But where does one find a truly nice guy in his natural habitat on a Monday night? Okay, we all know:

  Karaoke is never a good idea.

  But here’s a thought: a sports bar.

  I call Jamie.

  He picks up on the first ring. “I do, too, have a girlfriend.”

  “You do not,” I insist.

  “Do, too—”

  “Do not—”

  “Do—”

  “Okay, fine!” I interrupt, knowing my brother well enough to know we’ll go twelve more rounds otherwise. “How long have you had this girlfriend?”

  “Since the Halloween party.”

  “That’s two days. You mean to say that after a two-day relationship she’s already invited you to Thanksgiving?”

  “Well, she has abandonment issues.”

  “Don’t they all?” I say dryly.

  “Yes. But I’m not gay, so I’ll just
have to deal with that. By the way, I’m writing my next article for Metro. Is it funny or offensive if I say I could hear a girl’s knees snap shut over the phone?”

  I sigh loudly. “Both, I suppose.”

  “Excellent!” Jamie says, audibly typing on his computer keyboard. “So, why are you calling? Obsessing about Jordan again?”

  “Actually, no,” I say firmly. “But I talked to him this morning. He’s been offered a job in Germany this February, and I suspect he’ll take it.”

  “Oh, that sucks,” Jamie says sympathetically. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “I will be,” I say, and I mean it. “And part of my recovery is to go out and be social tonight. Do people still play Monday Night Football?”

  “People?” Jamie repeats. “Well, twenty-two men play. The rest of us watch them.”

  “Good. I want you to come with me to Tonight Let’s Score!”

  “The fake sports bar?” Jamie says with a tone of disgust.

  “It’s not fake. You just hate it because it’s trendy, and it has a decent wine list.”

  “Sweetheart, if you knew anything about men, you’d know we don’t care about a sports bar having a decent wine list. We care about lots of large plasma TVs, cute little waitresses in tight little outfits, buffalo wings, and beer.”

  “There are also twenty-seven beers on tap,” I tell him.

  “I’m in.”

  I call Andy, Dawn, and Kate to invite them to join us at Tonight Let’s Score! at 7:00 P.M., just in time for the second game of the night to begin. Andy and Dawn can come, but Kate can’t make it: She and Will are going out to register for gifts tonight. After a momentary bout of jealousy (followed by the standard, “What’s wrong with me that nobody wants to register for gifts with me?” self-hatred I’ve come to know and love), I decide it’s time to focus on sports.

  Or, at least the men who love them.

  When I get home, I throw on some nice jeans, a yellow fitted T-shirt with the word LAKERS written in faux amethysts, and a matching baseball cap. (Why do they make baseball caps with basketball logos on them? And why do I even own such a thing?) Then I head out to Hollywood.

  Beauty is only a light switch away.

  Tonight Let’s Score! (nicknamed Score by the locals) recently opened in Hollywood to become the trendiest local sports bar in town. Well, okay, other than the fake sports bar at Staples Center, this place is probably the only sports bar in town. For whatever reason (maybe our lack of a football team, maybe our lack of caring), Los Angeles does not have that many sports bars. Oh, we have bars all right: trendy bars to be seen in (think Hyde a few years ago), classic hotel bars that have become trendy, (like Stone Rose, or the Polo Lounge). We’ve got funky urban bars in downtown for the new condo set living there, and we’ve got divey bars on the Westside with a beach theme. But we don’t have a local sports bar on every corner, like they do in San Francisco, Boston, or New York. Which is a shame, because we also don’t have any kind of decent public transportation in L.A., so if a sports bar opened in Silverlake, I’d go some nights just so that I could walk home.

  But I digress.

  I valet my car, show my ID to Score’s doorman, and walk in to find Jamie, who has snagged us a table in the middle of the room, and has already ordered a pitcher of beer, buffalo wings, nachos, and curly fries.

  I look around the room. There are at least fifteen giant TVs showing everything from professional basketball and hockey to what I think might be a national cheerleader tournament. The waitresses are dressed in tight little referee uniforms.

  I hate them. But I take a cleansing breath, throw my shoulders back, and walk confidently up to Jamie.

  He looks at me disapprovingly. “The Lakers aren’t playing tonight.”

  “I know,” I say, taking a seat. “I did this on purpose. I don’t want any guy hating me just because he thinks I’m rooting for the . . .” I grasp at straws to try and finish my sentence. “For the . . .” Finally, I have to admit my ignorance and ask, “Okay, who’s playing?”

  “The 49ers and the Chargers,” Jamie says, pouring me a beer. “It was supposed to be a more interesting game, but since the Chargers’ quarterback is out with bruised ribs, and the 49ers’ top receiver broke his hand last week, I just don’t know how much action we’re going to see.”

  “None for me. I’m going to get some wine,” I say.

  Jamie continues to pour. “Rule number one in trying to get a man’s attention tonight: have a beer. It implies you’re low maintenance although . . .” The thought makes Jamie burst out laughing. “I can’t imagine.”

  “The ratio of men to women here is eight to one. I’ll take my chances,” I insist.

  “No, you won’t,” Jamie says, sounding authoritative, as though he’s imitating some old coach talking to his players in a locker room. “Tonight you are in my house. I’m the coach. I’ve got the game plan. And you need to follow it to the letter.”

  I look at him blankly.

  He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, then leans in toward me and whispers, “I know how these places work. You don’t. This is my turf. You want a guy, fine, but do as I say, and don’t embarrass me.”

  I nod. That seems fair.

  Before Jamie can continue with his game plan, Dawn comes in, wearing a 49ers jersey and a look of contempt. She takes a seat next to me, and throws down a bridal magazine, which I immediately pick up. “In the past twenty-four hours, I have concluded that the three words, ‘maid of honor,’ are about as incongruous together as the words, ‘great Bavarian food.’ ”

  “Rule number two,” Jamie instructs me sternly. “Do not read a bridal magazine in a sports bar.”

  Dawn waves him off. “Look up page one hundred and forty-eight,” she says to me.

  I turn the pages to 148, and see what might be the most hideous bridesmaid’s dress ever: a neon pink satin ball gown, complete with hoops.

  Jamie leans over to check out the dress. “Who would wear that?”

  “Scarlett O’Hara’s trailer-trash cousin,” Dawn practically spits out.

  “Wow,” Jamie says, squinting his eyes, and moving his head in for a better look. “I think that might be the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen.”

  “Turn to page two sixty-four,” Dawn says, pouring herself a beer.

  I do.

  Jamie actually shudders as his body involuntarily pulls away from the magazine. “Wait, no, that’s the ugliest—”

  “Turn to page three twelve,” Dawn interrupts, shaking her head.

  This reminds me to write in my book of advice later:

  One day you will get married. There will never be a time when bubblegum pink will be a fashionable bridal color. Ever.

  “And that’s just the beginning of her whole bridal craziness,” Dawn chastises. “She demands that I read this article on guest list etiquette because her future MIL, whatever the fuck that means—”

  Suddenly, Andy appears at our table, carrying a baby book in one hand, and several pregnancy and parenting magazines in the other. “What do you think of the name Dalton?” she says, throwing down her magazines.

  “Addendum to Rule number two,” Jamie says. “Do not read baby magazines in a bar.”

  “Oh, I love that little outfit,” Dawn says, referring to a cute little sweater set worn by the cover baby of one of the magazines. She picks up the magazine and asks Andy, “Do you think that’s Baby Gap?”

  “Actually, it’s Target,” Andy tells her.

  “Get out,” Dawn says.

  “Apparently, they do a lot of baby stuff now,” Andy informs her. “I have been learning so much.” She turns to me proudly. “Hey, did I tell you, I figured out what age-appropriate nipples are.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Jamie says, nearly choking on his beer. “Don’t say things like that in front of your little brother.”

  “It’s not dirty, you moron. It has to do with baby bottles.”

  “Oh,” Jamie says sheepishly. “Well, anyway, morato
rium on the wedding and baby talk. We’ve only got a few minutes until kick off. I need to give you your game plan.”

  Dawn looks at me for translation. I enlighten her as I continue to leaf through the wedding magazine. “Jamie has a bunch of stupid theories about how to catch a man at a sports bar, and we’re indulging him.”

  Dawn shrugs. “I suppose knowledge is power.” She points to Jamie. “Go.”

  “Okay, to start with, don’t spout off about hating this team or that team until you know where his team loyalties stand. Same goes with players. You might hate Reggie Bush, but if he just got traded to your guy’s team, you’ve already got a strike against you.”

  “You’re implying I know or care who Reggie Bush is.”

  Jamie pays no attention to my remark, and continues, “You don’t have to agree with everything your target says, but guys are sensitive if they think their allegiances are being impugned by someone they don’t know well. This would be the same if the insults came from another guy, but presumably that other guy wouldn’t be hoping to hook up later.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you just say impugned?” I ask Jamie. “At a sports bar?”

  Dawn cracks up. “You know, that would be a good test for the guys here. Don’t tell me Kobe Bryant’s stats. Just use impugne in a sentence.”

  Jamie ignores us, and pushes on. “Next, don’t act overly flirtatious or romantic right in the middle of an important play. At best, you’ll be wasting your time, and at worst, annoying him. Make yourself known during the game, do the eye contact thing, but don’t make your move until afterward.

  “It’ll be a breeze to approach him if his team has won the game. He’ll be in a good mood and everyone around him will seem like great people. If his team has lost, his mood, and your romantic prospects, won’t be as good. Unless it was a particularly devastating loss, in which case, you can console him over numerous Jägermeister shots and you’re in if you want to be.”