And now, here I am sitting at a prime table, all by myself. Okay, I know I’ll probably get attitude from Amber the Tooth Fairy, but I am not going to sit here alone for three hours. The bar is not quite as crowded at this hour, so I only have to elbow my way through, without the squeeze.
“Hey,” I say to Natalie, who is standing by the bar with Ben.
“Hi,” she says. “Did you have a nice chat with Damon? You guys do the same thing, sort of.”
“Yeah. He seems nice. He asked me out.”
“Really? I thought he was still with Suzanne.”
“I guess not. Who’s Suzanne?”
“He had this older girlfriend for a while.”
“Guess that’s over. Is he nice?”
“As a matter of fact, he’s supernice.”
Yay! Go me. My soul mate is supernice!
“Who’s supernice? Me?” Ben asks, exhaling a puff of vinegary Scotch breath.
“Damon.”
“Damon who?”
“Damon…” Damn. That’s probably one of those things I’m supposed to remember. Did he even tell me his last name? I can’t recall. I’ve never been very good at remembering details like that, or birthdays, or where I put plane tickets. But the plane ticket thing only happened once, I swear. And I’m still pretty sure the return portion fell down under my seat on the plane. Stuff does fall down. Just ask Janie. She’s always complaining that her butt has fallen down. And her face. Last night she called me up, hysterical, complaining that her size three pants don’t fit anymore—she had to buy a size five. Cry me a river, won’t you. In any case, the very fact that I’ve only lost one plane ticket in my entire flying career is actually pretty impressive when you think about it. Twice, maybe, if you count the time Janie told me she had sent me a ticket for June 6, 7:00 p.m., but was actually for June 7, 6:00 p.m. If she hadn’t sounded so sure of herself, I would have checked the date. Really.
“Damon Strenner.” Natalie saves the day.
Jackie Strenner has a nice, smooth ring to it.
Ben snorts. “You’re going out with Damon Strenner? That guy is such a loser.”
Natalie rolls her eyes. “In the past twenty minutes you’ve called three guys losers. Tell me, is there any guy in this bar, besides you of course, who is not a loser?”
Ben tilts his head as if he’s just been asked a trick question. “Yeah,” he says, finally. “Andrew.”
“You’ve got to name a guy you haven’t been best friends with since you were two.”
Since they were two? Tell me more! “How did you know Andrew when he was two?”
“Our parents are (hiccup) friends.”
Uh-oh. He’s starting to slur. Is that a hand on my back? Is that his hand on my back? Is that his hand reaching lower and lower down my back?
“Where is Andrew?” I ask, trying to squirm my way away from his hand.
“Don’t know,” Ben answers, swerving slightly. “I saw Jess. I guess they took off.”
“Who’s Jess?” Natalie says, her interest suddenly peaked.
“His lady-friend.”
Jessica the Sweet Valley Twin. Does lady friend mean girlfriend? Almost-girlfriend? Sex buddy?
Ben’s hand is now on my butt. I tell Natalie it’s time to go.
Back at the apartment forty-five minutes later, I find Sam sitting on the couch, wrapped in her afghan. The TV is blaring an episode of Beautiful Bride, and Sam is in a trancelike state.
“Hello?” I call. “You alive?”
She mumbles some sort of response.
I peel off the pinching boots. “Do we have anything to eat?”
“Cereal.”
That’ll do. I pour a small amount into a bowl with milk. Cereal is seriously underrated. Why should it be only eaten in the morning? It’s tasty, low fat, and with milk represents two major food groups. The trick is getting the ratio just right so that the cereal doesn’t get soggy.
I crawl onto the couch beside her. “What happened?”
“I hate him.”
What’s this? Trouble in Sessy land? Uh-oh, here come the tears. “Talk to me,” I say, reaching to the coffee table for a tissue. “This is what roommates are for. To listen to boyfriend complaints.” Never mind that I am currently between boyfriends (not literally, unfortunately) and that I have no one to complain about. It does occur to me, however, that I’ve never heard Sam mention another girlfriend. “Who do you normally talk to when you’re pissed at Marc?”
“What do you mean? I talk to Marc.”
Wow. This girl needs some serious go-girl therapy. “No one else?”
“My mom.”
Dear God. “You haven’t had any girlfriends since you and Marc started dating, have you? When was that?”
“Five years ago.” She is still staring at the television. A brunette is having her horrifically ugly dress shortened. “Natalie’s my friend.”
“And the last time you spoke to Natalie was…”
Sam suddenly looks at me in shock. “You’re right. You’re one hundred percent right. I have no friends, and I have a boyfriend who’s never going to marry me.”
Marry you? Who’s talking about marriage?
“I’m already twenty-five and I’m going to be an old maid.”
“I have news for you, unless they find a way to rebuild your hymen, you can never be an old maid. Besides, you’re far closer to getting married than anyone else I know.”
“My mother had me when she was twenty-four. That’s a whole year younger than I am now! She got married when she was twenty-one.”
“Yeah, so did mine, and look how well that turned out.”
Sam rambles on as if she doesn’t hear a word I say. “Don’t you see? I’ll date Marc until I’m twenty-nine and he still won’t want to get married and my biological clock will be ticking and I’ll have to break up with him and no one else will want me.”
Biological clock? I don’t even own a watch. This type of issue is way beyond the range of my radar system.
“Okay. First you’ve got to stop watching Beautiful Bride.” I click off the remote. “Second, give me the CliffsNotes version of your relationship so that I can understand the problem. From the beginning. How you met.”
“Okay.” Sob. “I met Marc at the library. He always studied across the table from me. One day he slipped a note in my child psychology textbook—”
“Why’d you take child psychology? To understand men?”
“No, to understand children.”
“Makes sense.”
“Anyway, the note said, ‘Hi, do you want to take a dinner break?’ Of course I said yes and—”
“You wrote back yes or you told him yes?”
“I told him yes.”
“How did you know who he was?”
“Because he sat across the table from me at the library.”
“But you knew he had written the letter?”
“Of course I knew.”
“What did you say?”
“I looked up and he was staring at me and I said, ‘I’d love to have dinner with you,’ and he said great.”
“Technically he might not have written the note.”
“Of course he wrote the note!”
“But how do you know?”
“I just do. You’re being ridiculous. Do you want to hear or not?”
“Fine. Sorry. Continue.”
“We went out for dinner and then he asked me out again for that weekend, and we’ve dated ever since.”
“That’s the story?”
“That’s the story.”
“It would have been much more interesting if someone else had written the note.”
“Get over it. Now the problem is it’s time to move things to the next level.”
Huh? Next level? “Are you telling me you guys haven’t slept together yet?” Maybe her old maid theory isn’t so farfetched after all.
“Of course we’ve slept together. There are other next levels, you know.”
Other next levels? “Sorry, no guy has ever mentioned any other next levels to me.”
“We’ve been together for five years now, and I think it’s time to move in together.”
Is she crazy? Has she completely lost her mind? “That’s a terrible plan.”
“Why?” she asks nervously. “You don’t believe in living with a guy before marriage?”
“Of course I do. I just don’t believe in leaving your roommate in the middle of the year with a two-bedroom apartment lease.” I look down at my bowl and sigh.
“What?”
“I have too much milk left. I need more cereal.”
She ignores me as I get up to reconfigure the bowl’s ratio. “I wouldn’t stick you with the rent. We’d look for someone else to room with you, or I’d wait until September first when our year lease is up.”
Technically it was a thirteen month lease and not only a year since I had sublet her former roommate’s final month, and then started my own at the beginning of September, but Sam was obviously trying to downplay our relationship to alleviate her guilty conscience.
What does she expect me to do? I don’t know anyone else who I want to live with who is looking for a place to live. I barely know anyone I don’t want to live with who isn’t looking for a place to live.
“I haven’t asked him yet,” Sam continues after a noisy honk into the tissue. “But I drop about a million hints a day.”
“What kind of hints?”
“Like last year when Angie was moving out, I asked Marc what I should do, and he said, ‘Why don’t you put an ad in the classifieds?’ He was supposed to say, ‘It’s time for us to move in together.’”
“You’re upset about something he said a year ago?”
“No, I’m upset about something he said tonight. I met him for Chinese food after work. He said, ‘Why don’t you sleep over?’ and I said, ‘Okay, I just need to get some stuff from my apartment,’ and he said, ‘You know, you should really keep a toothbrush and some extra stuff…in your car.’ In my car!”
“In your car!”
“In my car! Not in his apartment, but in my car. I ask you, is this normal? As if I’m some kind of nomad. I wasn’t about to stay over at his place after that kind of comment.”
“But why is Beautiful Bride on at two in the morning?”
“It’s a tape.”
“Maybe he’s a commitment-phobe.”
“Just my luck. How do I know?”
Luckily I have the answer to that question at my fingertips. Diagnosing commitment-phobia is one of my specialties. “What does he put in his mouth?”
“Why?”
“This month’s City Girls says you can tell if a guy’s a commitment-phobe by what he puts in his mouth. Hold on, I’ll get it.” I run into my room and grab the magazine. “So what type of breath freshener does he use?”
“Breath freshener?”
“Yeah—gum, mints or those dissolving squares?”
“He loves those dissolving things. What does that say about him?”
Uh-oh. “It says he’s bound to pull a disappearing act.”
“Oh, come on!”
“What is your man more likely to order as an entrée? Lemon chicken, ravioli, or rib eye.”
“Um…ravioli.”
I shake my head. “No good. That means that, ‘One is never enough.’”
“Meaning?”
Isn’t it obvious? “Meaning he can’t commit to one girl.”
Desperation is clouding over Sam’s normally cheerful brown eyes. “What should he eat then?”
“Rib eye.”
I continue reading. “‘A man who orders rib eye is willing to invest in your relationship. And when the going gets tough, he sticks around.’”
“Who eats rib eye?”
“Obviously not Marc.”
“What is rib eye?”
“It’s the prime cut of the rib steak. You should buy him some.”
“I don’t want to feed him, I just want him to want to move in with me.”
“Good luck. But wait ’til September, okay?”
When I finally crawl into bed, it’s 3:30. Good Lord, I have to wake up at 9:30 to go to Tae Kwon Do! I am determined to go to Tae Kwon Do. Okay, maybe I’ll skip breakfast and get up at ten. No, I’ve got to eat something. Maybe I can pick up something on the way there. Something fast.
Rib eye, anyone?
8
Ball of Crap
I TRY NOT TO INHALE THE STALE STENCH of feet emanating from the blue floor mats. Glancing over at the cluster of shoes near the door, I begin to make my way toward a group of people stretching in white uniforms and colored belts. “Don’t move!” a deep male voice resonates, freezing me to my spot.
“Why not?” I look up at a very built, very sexy, very Italian-looking stud whose deep tan/naturally golden skin contrasts brilliantly with his white Tae Kwon Do uniform and black belt. My knees feel kind of on the weak side. I might need him to carry me to the dressing room.
“You can’t come into the dojo with your shoes on,” this perfect specimen says.
Now look what I’ve gone and done. I’ve only been here two and a half minutes and already I’ve insulted the sex-god. “Sorry.”
He smiles. Uh-oh. Is that a crooked tooth? Does a crooked tooth give a man character and increase his sex appeal?
No, it does not. He’s definitely sexier with his mouth closed.
“No problem. I just thought I’d show you the ropes. I’m Lorenzo.”
Shh…don’t talk, sweet pea. “I’m Jackie. I really appreciate your help.” I’m feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. He looks familiar. Maybe he’s from Connecticut? No, he’s got way too much sex appeal for Connecticut. Maybe he’s an actor? I know that face…those pectorals…
“Jackie?”
“Yes?”
“Your shoes are still on.”
“Right.” Penn? No, he looks at least thirty. Orgasm? No, I repeat, he looks at least thirty…
“When you’re ready, go to the Master’s office. He’s expecting you.”
Master NanChu is a six-foot, sixty something Korean man. He bows a bald head to me as I enter. I bow back.
“Sit, sit,” he says. Is that a photograph of Master NanChu and Sylvester Stallone framed on the wall? Is that Chris O’Donnell? Master NanChu watches me ogle. “You like Chris? He’s a good boy. I train stars for movies in Hollywood.”
Is that Tom Cruise? That’s Tom Cruise! He knows Tom Cruise? Can he introduce me to Tom Cruise? Maybe he trained him for Mission: Impossible. Maybe if I’m really good, I mean really, really good, Master NanChu will recommend me for a stunt woman’s role. I can learn the short girl’s killer karate chop in no time. Look how fast I learned to punctuate, and Helen always says my commas have a lot of punch.
“So, why are you interested in Tae Kwon Do?”
Back to business. “I’d like to learn a martial art so I can protect myself.”
“Good. Very good.”
“And get into shape, of course.”
“Good. Very good.”
And meet hot men.
We talk for a few minutes about Boston, and he sends me back to the dojo. “We will talk again after class. If you enjoy class, you will sign up, right?”
A little pushy, aren’t we? But am I really going to argue with someone who knows Tom Cruise? I don’t think so.
“Just leave your socks in the changing room.”
Here I go. Off to a whole new me. I thank him and head to the changing room, closing his door behind me. Off to take off my socks. Take off my socks? He never said anything on the phone about taking off my socks. I can’t take off my socks—I haven’t had a pedicure since June. This is catastrophic. I knock on Master NanChu’s office door.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Can I leave my socks on?”
“Too dangerous. You’ll slip.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Damn.
I spend the next
sixty minutes trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Korean numbers and punches are being thrown all over the place. But even though I’m pretty sure my stomach is going to explode from running (the Starbucks mochaccino before class was not one of my better ideas) and I’m completely incapable of using the proper arm (“Your left arm, ma’am, left! Not that left arm, your other left arm!”), I am too busy loving the gender ratio here to care. Twenty hot, muscled men versus two three-hundred-pound women. And me. Yay! I’m not sure why other single, attractive girls haven’t come up with this plan, but…who cares? More men for me. This place just drips with testosterone. I tried to convince Nat to join me, since it was kind of her idea to begin with, but she said her personal trainer didn’t allow her to work out anywhere else.
Lorenzo leads the workout. “Hanna, twul, zed, ned, dasso… horse stance jekiah!” I’m not sure what he’s saying, but it sure sounds sexy.
I must be doing something ridiculous-looking, because Lorenzo keeps coming over to fix my positioning. Or maybe he just wants to come over and fix my positioning, if you get my drift. Such dark, thick hair. Such tanned, soft skin. Such…what is that? It’s…it’s…B.O.! Ew.
I’m being unfair. I can’t want a guy who’s going to sweat, and expect him to smell like aftershave. He’s still a hottie. Or he will be, post shower. But now I’d much prefer if he moved a little over…just a little more…to the other side of the room. There we go. Okay, now he’s hot again.
Hmm. I can see the navy under wear through the white uniform of the man in front. Note to self: must buy more white underwear.
Punch. Snap-kick. Twist. Oddly, all the grown men can bend lower than I can.
“Okay, watch Lorenzo do proper push-ups,” Master NanChu says. Lorenzo drops to the floor. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. “Watch how his pelvis tilts toward the floor.”
Up shoulders. Up big, manly, shapely shoulders. Up pelvis. Up big, manly shapely pelvis.
Oh, to be the floor.
Post shower.
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