How to Meet Cute Boys

by Deanna Kizis

  Nina said, “It must feel terrible to have your younger sister get married before you’ve even found a decent boyfriend.”

  “Please shut up,” I said, only half joking. “I’m happy for Audrey.”

  Nina raised her eyebrows at me. I noticed she’d recently had them tweezed into fine little arches—Drew Barrymore, but full of scorn and surprise.

  “You could hurt someone with those things,” I said.

  I stood, found my balance, and said I had to go to the bathroom. But what I really did was sneak to the pay phone in back to check my voicemail. It was pathetic. But I figured as long as I knew it was pathetic, then it wasn’t really pathetic, right? Right?

  I had … Two … Messages. The first was sent … today … at … eight … twenty-two … P.M. … Damn, it was from the Mother. “Have you given any thought to what you want to do for the bridal shower? Martha says that starting to plan right away is crucial …” I pressed 3 and erased. The second message was sent … today … at … nine … forty-seven … P.M. “Hey, it’s Max.”

  No way.

  “What’s up with you? I’m about to head out to some club thing …

  Hey, Stu? Where’s it at?” I heard someone shout back an answer. “It’s at Deluxe,” Max said.

  Where is Deluxe? I thought. What is Deluxe? Why didn’t we go to Deluxe?

  “Okay. Whatever. Want to get dinner or something one night this week? I’ll try you from work tomorrow.”

  “He called?” Kiki asked when I returned to the table with a grin. “See?” she said. “I knew he was going to call. I just knew it.”

  “It must feel good to be validated with a phone call,” Nina said with a nod. Then she looked at her watch. “Oh my, it’s past eleven.” She stood up, and said, “We’re going to have to stop.”

  Like she was my therapist, and our time was up.

  FILLYQUIZ

  ARE YOU, OR ARE YOU NOT, A STALKER?

  That is the question.

  BY BENJAMINA FRANKLIN

  So you think he could be The One, but then the questions start. Why hasn’t he called? Maybe you should do a drive-by and see if he’s home? Should you call from your cell and ask if he wants to have lunch? If you get the voicemail, should you hang up? Here’s the real question you should be asking: Are you a stalker who’s bound to drive him away because you can’t stop obsessing? Take our quiz!

  1.On your monthly phone bill, you pay:

  a.$132 for caller ID, voicemail, and long-distance calls to your best friend from high school, who usually wants to discuss why some guy hasn’t answered her last Instant Message.

  b.$102 for voicemail, charges for the obligatory Sunday-night calls to Mom, and that’s about it. You don’t chitchat on the phone much because you’re way too busy.

  c.$167 for voicemail, caller ID (so you know if that hang-up on your voicemail was him), call waiting caller ID (in case that’s him on the other line), caller ID block (so he won’t know when you call him seven times in a row), and 1-900-2morrow calls, during which you ask a clairvoyant whether or not he’ll marry you.

  2.When you call your best friend you:

  a.Get her voicemail, again. She’s sick of listening to you talk about him morning, noon, and night, but this doesn’t stop you from leaving a message that says, “Mayday! Mayday! I just drove by his house and there was this strange car in the drive-way. Do you think it’s another woman?”

  b.Ask her how she is, then say you need advice because he hasn’t called back in forty-eight hours and you’re wondering if you should leave another message with his pot-smoking roommate.

  c.Tell her you can’t go out on Friday night because you forgot you had plans with the new guy to meet his parents. (Which is weird—it’s not like you’re his girlfriend or anything.)→

  3.When you throw a party you:

  a.Send an e-mail to your friends, plus the guy you’re dating, plus a guy who has a crush on you, plus an ex who’ll do in a pinch, and prepare yourself to have one hell of a good time.

  b.Make up an excuse to have a party in the first place. (“Of course I can have a housewarming even though I’ve been living here for a year.”) Casually ask him if he’ll come, then call your friends and tell them they have to come because he’s coming. Drop $950 on a designer dress from the Colette Web site. Then spend the day of the party desperately trying to whip up spanakopita and lobster spring rolls.

  c.Send an Evite to all your friends, including the guy you like, telling them what time and when. Then buy hummus, pita bread, beer, and wine, and make sure you have enough toilet paper in the bathroom.

  4.The morning after a first date you’re most likely to:

  a.Wake him for another quickie, then bid him adieu by saying, “I’ll give you a call,” even though you secretly suspect you won’t bother—he didn’t exactly flip your switch.

  b.Go to brunch with the girls, where you happily dish on what he was wearing, what he ordered, what he said when he kissed you good night.

  c.Skip brunch to stay home by the phone in case he calls, getting so frustrated by 5 P.M. that you call him to say, “So, what? You’re never going to call again, is that it?”

  5.He takes you out to dinner with a group of his friends, and they all start talking about a rock show they’re going to that weekend (and you haven’t been invited). You:

  a.Spend the next day frantically trying to get tickets, and when you do, pretend bumping into him at the show is some kind of crazy coincidence.

  b.Don’t care. You have a date that night with someone else anyway.

  c.Feel hurt but figure it’s fair—truth is you sometimes go out with your friends and don’t invite him.

  →THE FILLY ANSWER KEY

  Give yourself points as indicated:

  1. a=2 b=1 c=3

  2. a=3 b=2 c=1

  3. a=1 b=3 c=2

  4. a=1 b=2 c=3

  5. a=3 b=1 c=2

  12 to 15: You couldn’t be a stalker more. You’ll do anything—break plans with your best friend, throw a party for no reason—to have access to this guy, and he’s probably going to file a restraining order. How about focusing on why you think you need him so desperately? You may realize you don’t need guys that much, especially since, if you’re always this boy crazy, you probably spend a lot of time alone.

  9 to 11: Nobody is normal, but you’re in range. Sometimes you get a mad crush that inspires you to buy a dress you can’t afford; other times you meet a guy you think could be likable, but eventually decide isn’t worth the wear he’ll put on the bottoms of your shoes. At least your friends don’t think you’re psycho—you still have time to listen to their problems—and their assurances that you just haven’t met the right guy yet are probably true.

  5 to 8: You’re so unavailable, every guy you meet probably wants you. But only because they can’t have you. You use them for sex, you use them for entertainment, and you use them to make you feel strong. Sound good? Actually, no. Open up a little. You might get hurt, but at least you’ll have a shot at being happy.

  I called Max back the next day, and he asked if I was free for dinner that night. Now, I should have said I was busy to sound more in-demand, but I couldn’t help myself. (Okay, I muttered something about having had dinner plans, but said they were canceled. Like he fell for that.) He asked me what I was working on. I didn’t feel like I could tell him I was sitting on my couch eating Cheetos, watching The Princess Bride on DVD for the umpteenth time, and nursing a killer hangover. So I said I was finishing a story. He said what story, so I lied again and said it was a profile I’d already turned in on an actress who’s famous for wearing skimpy bikinis in all her films.

  Naturally, he asked me what she was really like. I hate this question. Not because I don’t understand why people ask it; I do. But if I really told the world how badly their beloved celebrities behave sometimes, their publicists would never let me interview their clients again. Which would be bad. This particular star was so snooty—a
cted as though my interviewing her was some sort of assault on her dignity, refusing to tell me why she broke up with her last boyfriend (“I don’t talk about my personal life”) even though she was the one who brought it up … I told Kiki I wanted the headline to be “Swimming in the Shallow End.” She said no. I guess that’s why she’s the editor. It’s called diplomacy.

  But you know that sinking feeling when you realize the only voice you’ve heard for, oh, the last ten or fifteen minutes is your own? I couldn’t stop talking. I just went on and on, and on and on, and on and on, about this actress. And nobody cares that much, not even me. When I finally came up for air, Max jumped in to say he had to get back to work.

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Me, too!”

  As I see it, first dates are extremely important, fashion-wise. One can’t try too hard. One mustn’t overdress. The idea is to look your best, but the kind of best where it appears that you look that good every day—that you didn’t make any special effort. I wanted to wear something intriguing, but not overstated. Sexy, but not skanky. I stood in the doorway of my closet for a full fifteen minutes, wondering, What is this something? When I’d spoken to Max, he said we’d “grab something to eat.” This meant he wasn’t going to make a reservation, and that meant I didn’t know where we were going. I’d have to wing my outfit.

  I put on a dress. Too prissy. I put on a pair of pants with a skimpy top. Too body-conscious. I emptied my closet of everything I owned, tried on every shoe, and still couldn’t find anything to wear. My clothing crisis was like a tsunami—it swept from my mind any sense of perspective. I actually felt like I was going to cry. Still not sure what to wear, I decided I should at least start on my makeup—I could pick my outfit when I calmed down—but my hands were shaking and I smeared eye shadow all over my face and had to wash it off and redo it. Everything was taking too long—I was supposed to be there in twenty minutes, and I hadn’t even dried my hair yet. I didn’t think I had enough time to tweeze. I needed King Solomon, reincarnated as a beauty editor, to help me decide which part of my beauty regimen I should skip. Tweeze or dry? I wondered. Tweeze or dry? TWEEZE OR DRY? I didn’t shave my legs but that, at least, was on purpose—I’m a firm believer that if you shaved your legs you jinxed the date. Desperate not to be late, I finally threw my hair in a ponytail and frantically tweezed. I put on an old, standby pair of Levi’s that I hoped accentuated the positives and hid the negatives. Next I added a camisole that Kiki once said she thought made my boobs look bigger, and threw on a blazer, a knit scarf, and sneakers. Funky casual—that’s what I was hoping for. Too bad I didn’t notice until dinner with Max was half over and I made a trip to the ladies room that I was only wearing one earring and my camisole was on inside out.

  Anyway. Once I was dressed I made a mad dash for my car. I was going to overlook the fact that Max hadn’t offered to pick me up because I was curious to see where he lived. Besides, his place was only a few minutes away.

  I wasn’t disappointed. It was a large, contemporary house, built in the midfifties, complete with a huge redwood deck, glass all around, and a view of Griffith Park Observatory. Max may be even more than boyfriend material, I thought while I parked my car out front. Max is Move-In-Together material …

  He greeted me at the door and gave me a quick tour. The house was filled with a mix of postwar furniture (Saarinen chairs, Nelson lamps) and I-found-this-on-the-street-corner cool. It was perfect. But I didn’t say much—I was trying not to talk his ear off after my performance on the phone.

  “Okay,” Max said, pausing in his bedroom to put his wallet, cigarettes, and keys in his pocket. “I guess we better hit it.”

  He offered to drive. (Good.) And opened my door for me. (Better.)

  In the car, he said we were going for shabu shabu in Little Tokyo, and I nodded like I knew what he was talking about. When we got there, the restaurant looked a little like a diner—white Formica, no-nonsense metal-and-vinyl chairs—except it had gas burners with huge pots on them on each table, in which customers were cooking their own steak and vegetables. Max, who had obviously figured out that I had no idea what was going on, explained how shabu shabu means “swish swish” in Japanese and gave me a little tutorial on how to do it, stirring long strips of beef in the boiling water and then dipping them in sauce. I was having a pretty good time. The food was good, even though the hot pot between us made me feel like I was being steam-cleaned. The other problem was suddenly I couldn’t think of anything to say. My brain was completely blank—I’d open my mouth and out would come … nothing. I pretty much just sat there, smiling at everything he said, boiling my meat, and nodding like the village idiot. It was just that he was so cute. He made me feel like a troll. Every time I looked at him, I wanted to die. I really did.

  On the drive back to his house, I thought, You blew it. He didn’t even ask if you wanted to go for a drink. He parked his car outside his house and we both got out. I stood there for a minute, struck dumb, not knowing what to do. But then he said, “Do you want to come in for a minute? I think my roommates are out …”

  “Really?” I said. (I hoped I didn’t sound too eager.)

  “Yeah, I got a bottle of wine somewhere.”

  “I like wine.”

  “Yeah, well”—he grinned—“most people do.”

  Inside, Max turned on a couple of lamps. But not, I noticed, all of them. Maybe dinner didn’t go so bad after all, I thought. Now if I could just relax.

  “I have Radiohead,” he said, shaking a vinyl import and doing a funny little dance.

  “Nice dance,” I said. “Do it again.”

  “Noooo way.” He put the record on the turntable. “Actually, I’m a really bad dancer.”

  “You don’t say,” I teased. I sat on the couch with my feet under me and hoped I looked coquettish.

  “Oh, come on now.” Max went into the kitchen, and I could hear him rummaging around. He returned with the wine and a corkscrew. “Is there anything you’re particularly bad at, besides picking up guys?”

  “And look at how bad—I got stuck with you.”

  “Oh, ‘Ha.’ ” He balanced the bottle on the end of the couch and fiddled with the opener. “No, seriously. What are you bad at?”

  I pretended to ponder his question for a moment. A long list popped into my head. Bad at: parking, driving, watching what I eat, quitting smoking, keeping boyfriends, hiding my feelings, spelling, not worrying, not picking at my face, sticking to an exercise regimen, getting up early, driving within the speed limit, thinking before I speak, keeping doctors’ appointments, cleaning … But I didn’t think he was ready for this much sharing. So I said, “I’m sure I’m bad at something, but I don’t really know. Bad at thinking up things I’m bad at?”

  “Nice try.” The cork popped out.

  He poured me a glass of wine and sat next to me on the couch. Draped his arm over the backrest, rested his head on his hand. His face was close, but not superclose. I tried not to lose my cool. I had to concentrate.

  “Can it be a TK?” I said.

  “A what?”

  “Oh, right, sorry, a TK. It’s a phrase journalists use. When you don’t know a fact yet—like, um, ‘A Clockwork Orange was released in nineteen-TK’—it means you’re going to fill it in later. TK stands for ‘to come.’ ”

  “Then why isn’t it TC?” He clinked my glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers. Um, I don’t know.” I’m so clever, I thought. Max forgot his question. “Like, lead, as in the first thing in a story, is spelled l-e-d-e. Head, as in headline, is h-e-d.”

  “Well, I think that’s kinda weird, Ben, because, like, in my business, T-shirt is spelled T-s-h-i-r-t.”

  “Omigod, yer sew funny.”

  I wondered if he would ever kiss me.

  “What about something about yourself you don’t like,” he said. “Give me that, and I’ll let it go.”

  “I hate my stomach.” I blurted this out before I even had time to think, and I quickly realized
this was not something I wanted to share this early on.

  “Because …”

  “No. I mean. No. Because. I don’t know. It’s um …”

  There was really no way out of it, so I finally just told him the truth. “Because no matter how skinny I get, it’s never flat. I know that’s scary but it’s true. It’s a Buddha belly. I hate it.”

  “Lemme see.”

  “No way.”

  “Lemme see.”

  “No way.”

  A tickling match ensued. Max tickling me and screaming, “I wanna see your Buddha belly!” Me, laughing hysterically and trying like crazy to fight him off.

  Do I really have to tell you how it ends?

  “Yeah! Fuck you! How did it end?”

  I was curled up on the decrepit old wicker chair that I kept on the patio outside my apartment. There are few times when things have gone so well that I can just savor it and leave Kiki squirming in anticipation. I switched the phone to the other ear.

  “Okay, so basically he kept tickling me until I kicked him in the face by mistake and gave him a bloody nose.”

  “You didn’t,” she said.

  “I did. Yeah, I really did.”

  “You’re such a spaz.”

  “But it was okay. I mean, it wasn’t okay, but he put some ice on it and was pretty nice about the whole thing. And then, well, I kind of kissed his nose, to make it feel better …”

  “And then?”

  “And then he kind of kissed me to make me feel better …”

  “And then?”

  “And then he kind of asked me if I wanted to spend the night …”

  “No!”

  Yes. Here’s what happened: After kissing for a bit, Max popped the question. At first I was taken aback. He was gracious enough to offer me boxers and a T-shirt, and said he didn’t care whether or not anything happened. Yeah, right, I thought. Of course something would happen. And that would lead to that horrible, too-much-information feeling when you know you’ve gone too far for a first date. Like this one time—I was with this guy, first-date situation, and we started messing around. Everything was going fine until he leaned over right in the middle of things, grabbed a tube of K-Y out of his nightstand, and squirted a huge glop into my hand. And it wasn’t even a fresh tube. Icky moments like this, I decided, were not going to be a major part of my new single life. But Max laid the best line on me (if, indeed, it was a line) that I’d ever heard. He said, “I just want to spend the night with you, sweet girl.”