“Nice poster,” he said, looking up at my massive poster of The Who, with sexy Roger Daltry front and center.
“Thanks,” I said, while oh so elegantly sweeping the accumulation of junk off my purple bedspread. “Have a seat.”
He did. Then he glanced around. “Nice room.”
I looked at my white walls and linoleum floor and figured he was just being polite. “When I’m a big-time DJ, I’m gonna have shag carpeting,” I said.
“Cool,” Barry said. That one word seemed to have tapped out his conversational abilities and he went silent after that.
Then I lit the candle by my bed—the one I’d stuck in a bottle of Chianti with wax running down the sides. The music was on, the runway was clear, the lighting was just right, and now it was time to get to work.
I sat down next to him, leaned in for a kiss, and didn’t waste any time. Within seconds, off came his rock T-shirt and overalls (I said he worked in campus radio, didn’t I?), and my jeans and peasant blouse (ditto) quickly followed.
I was trying to play it like I knew what I was doing, but I had no idea. I thought I would just follow his lead, but as it turned out, he didn’t know up from down either. It’s a good thing we were so young and flexible, because otherwise we really could have hurt ourselves. Instead of moving sinuously to the sweet sounds of Stevie Wonder, we looked more like we were square dancing to a skipping record.
Poor Barry. At one point I actually asked him, “Is it in?” It wasn’t.
Then, finally, it was. While Barry pumped away on top of me, I lay back and looked up at Roger Daltry.
Minutes later, it was over. And at that point I thought to myself exactly what women the world over have thought to themselves in precisely the same situation: So that’s it? What’s all the fuss about?
But the deed was done—yay! Now I could revise my to-do list:
1. Practice violin
2. Avoid Barry
3. Shave legs (maybe I should have done that before I had sex with Barry?)
4. Avoid Barry
5. Buy more Cup-a-Soup
6. Avoid Barry
I THOUGHT I WAS so in control—I had it all figured out. Sex was no big deal, and my dream career was a light at the end of the tunnel, getting brighter all the time. What else was there to do but keep on charging ahead? I was on top of the world.
Let’s take a significant pause right here. Dim the lights, and enter Joe, stage right. This is the man who taught Lisa that she wasn’t nearly as in control as she thought she was. (Why am I speaking in the third person, you ask? Because it seemed more dramatic that way.)
I was nineteen, he was thirty-three. I met him at a Manhattan radio station where I interned one summer in college. He knew everyone in the business and got invited to all the best parties. We flirted and flirted, and then flirted some more. Sometimes we flirted in the office, sometimes over drinks—and more drinks. Was he good-looking? No, not really. Was he already living with someone else? Oh, yes he was.
I remember exactly how I found out. Joe and I were out at a bar with a lot of other people at the station, and at a certain point he leaned into me very close, and he said, “You know, Lisa, I have a girlfriend.”
The way he said it to me, it was almost like he thought it would be a turn-on. And I’m ashamed to say this now, but actually … it was. As low as my self-esteem was at the time, I was flattered that he was with me instead of his girlfriend. Some people say that they have a little voice inside of them that talks to them at moments when they need to make a critical decision. I don’t have a little voice, though; I have a ticker tape, like the old Associated Press wire that every radio station had in those days shooting out the top headlines. Right now, my ticker tape read, News flash: Someone is paying attention to you, Lisa. That must mean that you’re worth something! On top of it, the guy who was with me was choosing to be with me instead of someone else that he really should be with. That must mean that I was really worth something!
I must have gone quiet for a second while the ticker tape was running in my head, because Joe looked at me meaningfully and said, “You know how it is.”
Of course I had no idea “how it is.” I was barely nineteen. But I nodded like I was a sophisticated woman of the world who’d been around the block at least a few times.
Then he added the kicker. “We’ve got an open relationship. She knows I need my space.”
I should have been disgusted, and now I would tell him that he was full of crap, but back then I was complimented by the attention. It’s so pathetic how little he gave me, and how happy it made me. It’s not like he was taking me out somewhere nice and showing me off or declaring any kind of public affection for me. We were in a totally unromantic Midtown bar where office workers went for some liquid courage before hitting the commuter rails. This place was most definitely off-peak—which made me Joe’s off-peak girlfriend. But I was so delusional that I saw this as a huge romantic conquest.
Now let’s pause for another moment. Why, you are surely asking yourself, did I continue with a guy like that? In my defense, did you also wonder how that chick Anastasia could be such a pushover for that guy Christian Grey? In response to both questions I can only say: youth and stupidity are powerful aphrodisiacs. And for some, money is, too. Christian, after all, is filthy rich. So maybe Anastasia’s not so stupid.
But back to my point: Joe was no Christian Grey, and he definitely wasn’t showering me with gifts, but I was no less addicted than Anastasia. It didn’t matter to me that Joe looked like a lost Doobie Brother—the one who couldn’t sing and was put up for adoption at puberty. Joe had more than enough confidence for both of us. He was the kind of man who saw exactly what he wanted when he looked in the mirror, and he liked what he saw. He swaggered with deejay power in my small world. He had actually met Jefferson Starship. I thought he was worldly.
Our dates were conducted in a haze of gin and tonic, his drink of choice. He was twice my size and age, so when I say that I tried to keep up with him drink for drink, I hope you get the full picture of how wasted I’d be by the end of the night. In that inebriated state it didn’t take long before we’d move past making out in the bar to sex in his car.
I guess at the time I convinced myself that this was passion, but bear in mind that we weren’t parked in a secluded make-out point out of some 1950s movie. This was 1970s Manhattan, when the crime statistics were through the roof. If I was going to end up as a line item on the police blotter, then the risk I was taking should have been worth it. I was putting my very life on the line for an orgasm, while transvestite hookers and drug dealers plied their trade a few feet away. I could be screaming with excitement or fear, and who would know the difference?
Now I just shake my head that I took all those chances for great sex, because truth be told, how good can sex really be in the back of a car? It’s one of those things that sounds so much better than it is. We’d end up twisted into such tight pretzels that we’d need the jaws of life to separate us. It was horrible—I felt like I was in a bad game of Twister. My back hurt, I was sweating, and at least a few times I ripped out a clump of my long hair in the metal ashtray. After it was all over I looked like an extra in a zombie movie, with unkempt hair and blotched mascara under my eyes. Then, while I was still barely sober enough to stand, my so-called knight in shining armor dumped me onto the Long Island Railroad for my long trip back home. We’ve all heard of the walk of shame. I had the ride of shame—ten local stops and an hour’s worth of pity stares from the conductor.
Thirty years later this doesn’t sound so appealing—it was typical Smart Women, Foolish Choices–type stuff. But back then it was beyond hot to me. The fact that he was older and unavailable (Hi, Daddy Issues? This is me, Lisa) heightened everything to a crazy degree. I was hooked. And this became a pattern that would repeat itself for years. All he had to do was crook a little finger and I came running. He took me out of my insulated college world and into coked-up Manhattan parties and
handed me VIP backstage passes to rock concerts. What wasn’t to love? For the first time, I felt attractive and special. This was monumental for me. It was a constant high.
Until it wasn’t. Because, of course, I wasn’t the only girl he was drinking gin and tonics with. I already knew about the live-in girlfriend—who was a six-foot-tall amazon, mind you—but I guess I thought I was the only one in addition to her. Plus, Joe made me laugh, which is a very attractive quality in any man, and he knew everything (I thought) about the business we both loved. I remember he called me “the Hawk,” which had something to do with my devotion to the news and felt much more like a term of endearment than it sounds. Beyond our quick, furtive sex and the occasional professional pat on the head, it never dawned on me to ask for more than the crumbs he was giving me. I didn’t feel I had the right to. Instead, I tried to act cool, and I pretended to like Foghat because he did.
It was all so pathetic, and I think on some level I came to realize it. I didn’t really want to be this sad sack of a girl, desperate for a man’s attention. I longed to be like Alison Steele, the beautiful redheaded deejay I loved to listen to. She had a gorgeous, smoky voice and a huge following as “the Nightbird.” She’d begin her show every night by reciting poetry over New Agey music before murmuring her sultry introduction:
The flutter of wings, the shadow across the moon, the sounds of the night, as the Nightbird spreads her wings and soars, above the earth, into another level of comprehension, where we exist only to feel. Come, fly with me, Alison Steele, the Nightbird, at WNEW-FM, until dawn.
The Nightbird played long uninterrupted sets of progressive rock, albums from groups like Tangerine Dream. She was edgy, mysterious, alluring. So unlike me.
Once I discovered how unspecial I was to Joe, and how many other girls he was sleeping with, things still dragged on awhile longer. My work at the station continued, and Joe was part of the social scene that I wanted to be a part of too. So I hung on.
Then, I graduated. And then, it happened. I got the call. A big FM station in Chicago was flipping over to a rock format. The program director wanted to know if I was interested in a real, full-time newsperson job.
“I can start Monday,” I answered.
I told Joe my news over the phone.
“We can still see each other,” he said. Maybe he’d drop in on me in Chicago, he suggested, or we could hook up when I came home for the holidays. I said something vague about needing to get settled and left it at that.
The only person who wasn’t surprised by how quickly I could turn my back on the past was me. Everyone else seemed shocked that I could drop everything and move to a city I’d never even been to. Joe was certainly shocked. But I was done with him, just like I was done with college. Now real life started.
My mother was concerned, as any parent would be. She would have felt better if I’d had at least one nice, Jewish girlfriend in Chicago so I wouldn’t be totally alone. And my girlfriends were worried about me, too, but they were too involved in their own lives to give it too much thought. They were at that stage of figuring out where they stood with their boyfriends, and trying to wrangle proposals. Meanwhile, the only proposal I cared about was from a radio station. (WMET: “Will you, Lisa Glasberg, devote your entire life to being on the radio?” Me: “I will!”) A microphone and headset were the equivalent of my engagement ring and wedding band.
Before I could start this new chapter of my life and move myself to Chicago, I had to shed some stuff. I’ve never been one to become attached to things, so I had no problem giving away pretty much everything I owned—even my beloved violin. I told myself that there would be no time to practice anymore … so why have it? I gave it away to a quirky guy I knew who’d always wanted to play.
“Are you sure?” he asked me.
“Just take it!” I insisted, wanting the separation to be over as quickly as possible. “Just take it and go!”
I felt like a little kid trying to convince my dog that I didn’t love him anymore. But I couldn’t afford that kind of sentiment—it was radio or bust. All or nothing. No looking back at Old Yeller.
Losing my virginity may not have been such a thrill, but I promise you: these cookies never disappoint. And isn’t that more than you can say for any number of ex-boyfriends? Whenever I make drop cookies like these I use my secret weapon. It’s the size 100 (⅜-ounce) ice cream scoop. It makes the perfect-sized cookie for entertaining and leaves your guests (and boyfriends) wanting more. The cookies are small enough to pop in your mouth in one gulp, and who can stop at one?
LOSING MY CHERRY COOKIES
¾ cup (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla
1¾ cup all-purpose flour
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
4 tablespoons milk
2 10-ounce jars maraschino cherries, drained, 2 teaspoons cherry juice, reserved
Parchment-lined cookie sheets
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Using an electric handheld or standing mixer, combine butter and sugar until fluffy. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, then add vanilla and mix again. Slowly add flour and mix until just combined.
Chill dough in the refrigerator for about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, in a small saucepan (on very low heat), melt the chocolate and milk until smooth, stirring constantly. Alternatively, you can melt the chocolate and milk in a microwave set to high for 1 minute; stir until smooth after the first minute and continue to cook at 10-to 15-second intervals until there are no lumps.
Once the chocolate is melted, remove it from the heat source and add cherry juice.
Using your ⅜-ounce ice cream scoop, scoop out dough and place on parchment-lined cookie sheets 1 inch apart.
With your thumb, press in the center of each cookie to make a small well. Spoon ½ teaspoon chocolate sauce in middle of each cookie.
Bake 20 minutes, until bottoms are lightly browned and cookies are firm. Immediately after removing from the oven, work quickly to place one maraschino cherry on top of each chocolate center, pressing down lightly.
Let cool.
Drizzle cookies with remaining chocolate sauce and allow the chocolate to set before storing in an airtight container.
Makes approximately 44 cookies.
CHAPTER 3
AUNT NINA’S COOKBOOK
When I said that I wasn’t sentimental about things, I wasn’t being completely honest. I took one thing with me to Chicago that I was really attached to and that I still treasure to this day. In fact, if anything ever happened to it, I don’t know what I’d do. It’s my aunt Nina’s cookbook.
Aunt Nina is the woman responsible for my love of cooking—and my love of cookies. But before I get into that, first you need some background.
Food wasn’t something we thought a lot about in my household growing up, and in that regard we were no different from a lot of our neighbors. This was the ’70s, era of those awesome TV dinners where everything was supposed to cook at exactly the same rate and temperature but nothing ever did. They never tasted as good as they looked on the box, but even still, we loved them. I mean, how cool was it to have your corn and your turkey in gravy and your apple pie all on the same aluminum dish in their own little slots? I also remember eating a lot of bologna in those days. I joke that I’m well preserved to this day from all the nitrates I consumed back then.
My mother made us dinner every night, even though cooking really wasn’t her favorite thing to do. And none of us helped her in the kitchen either—certainly not my father, macho former marine. He wouldn’t even help with the dishes. That was for girls (is it any wonder I hate to do dishes to this day?). But even though my mother didn’t particularly enjoy cooking, she served us the same square meals all the other mothers in the neighborhood did—beef stew, broiled chicken, hamburgers, fish sticks. On Sundays we went to the local Chinese restaurant like every other Jewish family. Those are probably som
e of the happiest times we had together as a family. I remember it was old-school Cantonese—drinks served in tiki glasses with little umbrellas, fortune cookies, and chow mein—always chow mein.
Mostly though, food wasn’t particularly special to me. It was just food.
Then we’d go to my aunt Nina’s house, and all that would change. She was my father’s sister-in-law. She and my uncle lived near my father’s parents outside of Boston, and we’d visit them a few times a year. I have such a potent memory of arriving at their door for visits. No matter the season, we’d walk in to smell something amazing. Her cranberry onion brisket was to die for—whenever I make it now, people lick their bowls. The same thing goes for her lemon herb chicken and her baked ziti. I loved it all.
One of the things that still amazes me about my aunt Nina was that her timing was always impeccable, which is the true sign of a great cook. No matter how many dishes she was making, they were all done at the right time and served at the right temperature. I still don’t know how she did it. As much as I love to cook, the timing part of it makes me anxious. That’s probably why I’m more of a baker—you don’t have to serve cookies to temperature and you can make them in advance. There’s no last-minute sweating and straining in the kitchen. But Aunt Nina never seemed to sweat, and she was so relaxed and happy in there that I’d even offer to help her with the dishes, which is something I’d never do at home.
Nina and my uncle had three kids close in age to me and my sisters, and it was hard not to notice how different their household was from ours. Aside from what Nina whipped up in their kitchen, their house was just calmer all around than ours was. Their town was a little closer to being rural than I was used to, and I remember being there in the winter and my cousins suggesting that we all go skating on the nearby pond. Skating on a pond? I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. It was so Norman Rockwell. Way more important, Nina and my uncle loved each other, and it showed. Their kids must have picked up a few pointers, too, because they’ve all been happily married for decades.
Sex, Lies, and Cookies: An Unrated Memoir Page 3