Sex, Lies, and Cookies: An Unrated Memoir

by Glasberg, Lisa

  I’m sure a lot of twentysomethings go through this to one degree or another. This is the decade when you’re building your career and it’s considered acceptable to be a little selfish about it. Working long hours and being ambitious is admirable. But still, I think most people at this age are also starting to try to narrow in on a potential partner, and to figure out how to strike a balance between work and personal life. That urge never clicked in for me, though, and I never had the slightest pang of jealousy when other girls talked about their boyfriends or mooned over engagement rings. That was not my thing. Work was my thing.

  Strangely enough, as important as my job was to me, I had a real insecurity about guys only liking me for what I did for a living. When I met men outside of the radio business, I’d often lie to them about my work, at least at first, because I wanted them to be interested in me, not my call letters. When I did finally tell them that I worked at a radio station, they loved it. What wasn’t to love? The parties I got them invited to were awesome, and the people I introduced them to were cool and interesting. If guys could put up with my insane schedule, then I was pretty fun to go out with. But did they like me for me? I didn’t think so.

  Maybe that’s why I was more comfortable around people in the business. With the exception of my sweet upstairs neighbor, my social life revolved around work. I made friends with the woman who owned the restaurant downstairs from the station. I played on the WMET softball team. I went to all the promotional parties. Work was my social life, and my social life was my work. So it only made sense that I met my first Chicago boyfriend while I was covering a story. We were at a news conference at Navy Pier, and I was waiting around with all the other pool reporters when Rick walked right up to me. “You’re new in town, aren’t you,” he said.

  Rick was a television sports reporter—tall, WASPy, and the dictionary definition of handsome. He always wore a blazer, corduroy pants, and loafers, and his hair was neatly side parted. He was like a living Ken doll. I knew that I was no Barbie, so when he first started flirting with me, I kind of looked to my right and my left to see what cute girl he was talking to. It couldn’t possibly be me. I was so insecure about my looks that it never occurred to me that I could be the target of his interest. But I managed to smile and even flirt back a little bit.

  I said, “Well, I guess you can tell as soon as I open my mouth that I’m not from around here. But don’t let my New York accent scare you.” Then I immediately wondered why I’d said that to this nice midwestern boy. He’d surely walk away in horror.

  To my surprise and relief, he laughed. “Are you kidding me? I deal with Chicago aldermen. Nothing scares me anymore.”

  The local TV reporters were like gods in Chicago, so Rick was a true celebrity in town. I was only the unknown newsperson for the distantly second-rated rock radio station. Rick and I didn’t just travel in different circles, we were from different solar systems. When he asked me to go out with him and the other TV people, it was like being invited to hang out with the popular kids in high school. I didn’t kid myself that I was one of them, but I enjoyed the borrowed glow.

  This was when I learned how to like beer and talk sports. The first time I was at an upscale bar on Rush Street with Rick and his friends (who all looked like well-groomed fraternity boys but who were also genuinely nice), Rick asked me what I wanted to drink.

  I looked around at what everyone else was drinking, and I said, “I guess I’ll have a beer.”

  Rick laughed and said, “What kind of beer? They’ve got five different kinds on tap.” This was news to me, because at the bars I went to back in New York, a beer meant a Bud, plain and simple. So that’s what I settled on, and then I tried to blend in with the conversation, which always seemed to be about one of two topics: (1) work at the TV station, which I could handle, because all my radio friends and I talked about was work, too, and (2) the Bears. I had to brush up on my football knowledge mighty quick if I was going to hold my own with these guys. It was a good thing that Gary Fencik of the Bears was a good friend of the radio station’s staff, so I could drop his name and sound like I knew him—and also come across as if I knew what I was talking about.

  Rick and I might not have been the most natural fit, but amazingly (to me), he seemed to genuinely like me, and soon he was zipping me around town in his car, taking me shopping for sweaters out in the suburbs where all the other WASPs gathered. This was completely unfamiliar terrain for me. Half my wardrobe was made up of promotional T-shirts, and the other half was denim. If I was going to date Rick, I knew I had to step up my game clothing-wise. Overalls and rock concert T-shirts were not going to cut it in his crowd. So on my next trip home to New York I went shopping. And there, in the Norma Kamali store, I found the Magic Purple Jumpsuit.

  It fit me like a second skin, and it showed more of my 32C cleavage than anyone even knew I had. The impact it had in my little world in Chicago was as dramatic as that famous green-print Versace dress that J.Lo wore to the Grammys. My purple jumpsuit was life changing. Suddenly, I felt feminine, and I loved it. I also loved the effect it had on Rick and every other guy who saw me in it. If I made one wrong (or right) move, the goods would be fully on display, and I could see the expectant look on their faces. It was the first time in my life when I experienced the power of attracting men physically. And I used that power for good and evil. Poor Rick never had a chance.

  Our evenings together inevitably went something like this: He’d take me out to dinner somewhere nice. After dinner, on our way out of the restaurant, we’d be chatting and laughing and it seemed only natural to suggest getting a drink somewhere to keep the good mood going. Then, by the time we left the bar, I would look at my watch in pretend surprise and say, “Oh my God, I didn’t realize it was so late! I have to be up in the morning!”

  That was always the perfect excuse, and it worked every time. It had the benefit of being true, and any guy who wasn’t a jerk couldn’t argue with the fact that I had to be awake and on-air when he could still be fast asleep in his bed. As Rick and I got more serious, he got a little more persistent, and I’d let him come up to my apartment. But I’d always say, “Just for a few minutes, because I have to be up in the morning.”

  In my apartment, we’d make out a bit, and I’d let him get to second or third base, but that was it. Then I’d call time-out and send him home with a goodnight kiss and a thanks for the memories.

  Rick was looking for a girlfriend, but I didn’t know the first thing about how to be a good one. I had a great time with him, but dressing up for him was as far as I would take things emotionally. He might as well have been dating my jumpsuit for all he got out of me. It was crazy, really. Here was a gorgeous, successful man who seemed nuts about me, and yet I wouldn’t even sleep with him. It wasn’t prudishness that was stopping me—I was as ready as the next girl to jump into bed. But Rick was the real thing. He was the kind of guy you could fall in love with. The kind of guy you could marry. And that stamped a big X on his forehead as far as I was concerned.

  So instead of settling down with Rick, I found myself drawn to Bryan, who was like Rick’s evil twin.

  Bryan was one of the record promoters who came every Tuesday to meet with our music director and convince him to play their songs. These guys weren’t like the goofy-looking studio staff I was used to. They were smooth. All these suave, well-dressed men would wait patiently in the lobby for their names to be called. One by one, they’d parade by the newsroom window, cool leather briefcases in hand, hoping their songs would make our playlists—giving me ample time to flirt with them.

  I thought Bryan was incredibly good-looking. He was six foot three and slim, with long blond hair, perfect features, and bedroom eyes. And he always made a point of stopping by my desk to chat.

  He had a kind of electricity around him, very different from what I felt with Joe. So I asked one of the other women at the station about him. “What’s his story?” I said to her.

  “Him?” she said,
giving Bryan a knowing look. “That one’s off-limits. Very married. And she’s hot, so don’t even bother trying.”

  “Well, that hasn’t stopped me before,” I said. She raised her eyebrows at me, and I smiled like I had all the confidence in the world. In truth, I had no self-esteem whatsoever or I wouldn’t even have thought of going after a married man. But I figured he was giving me plenty of signals that he was interested in me, so this was a perfect challenge for me—a way of proving to myself that I mattered, that I was noticeable. That familiar old ticker tape ran through my head, News flash, Lisa, if this guy chooses to be with you instead of his wife, then you’re really worth something!

  I fell hard for Bryan. We moved our flirting in the office to flirting in bars and promotional showcases, and it got to the point where we were talking to each other more than anyone else, holding our heads too close, everything short of touching. Finally, when the suspense was beyond killing me, he leaned into me and said these immortal words, “Things aren’t good with my wife. We’re kind of doing our own thing right now. I’m not really sure what’s going to happen with us.”

  I should have heard brakes screeching to a halt, but instead I heard violins. Music to my ears. If things weren’t good with his wife, then things might be better with me, right? And that made it okay, right? To be honest, if he’d confessed to me that he had his wife locked up in his basement, I probably still would have been into him. But thankfully he made it sound like he and his wife were on the verge of breaking up, which was perfect for easing my conscience. In my lust-addled brain that translated to, “Yay! Let’s have sex!”

  As slow as I’d been with Rick, I threw caution to the wind with Bryan. The first time I brought him back to my little studio apartment, I couldn’t tear off my purple jumpsuit fast enough. We started making out at the entrance to my building and had shed several layers of clothing by the time we got to my door, ignoring my gawking neighbors along the way. I remember feeling absolutely giddy with the sexual thrill of being with him. I could have bottled that sensation and sold it as Viagra, it was just that powerful. It was pure, unadulterated youthful lust, that rush of feeling like every cell in your body is alive and crying out for the same thing. This was the way passion was supposed to be (I thought). Like forbidden love in a movie. Like that scene in Fatal Attraction when Michael Douglas and Glenn Close go at it in the elevator—before things take a turn for the worse.

  Bryan was so tall that his legs hung out over the edge of my twin bed, and it was a gymnastic event just getting undressed the rest of the way. It was like having sex on a balance beam. I’m sure I said, “Ouch, my hair,” every time he leaned the wrong way, but instead of dampening our desire it just ratcheted it up. What we lacked in grace we made up for in enthusiasm. This was the first time in my life that I was ever totally, completely sexually hung up on a man. Everything before this had been child’s play. Bryan was no child.

  Afterward, my apartment looked like a hurricane had swept through—bra, shoes, coats, pants strewn everywhere, books and dishes knocked off tables. Outside, though, the weather was beautifully calm. I watched the snow falling on the other side of my window, and everything seemed so perfect and cozy right where I was. I had a gorgeous man in my bed, so who cared if winter was upon us? My mission was accomplished.

  Irony of ironies, Bryan was as unavailable as Rick was available, and what was my response? I was crazy for him. I remember when he got up to go home to his wife a few hours later, I reached out to him and said, “Can’t you stay longer?”

  “Gotta get back. A late night is one thing, all night is something else,” he said, pulling on his pants.

  Right then I should have said, “But I thought you guys were doing your own thing?” I should have asked what he was doing with me instead of his wife. But I didn’t ask, because I didn’t want to know the answer.

  I wish I could go back in time, shake my younger self, and say, “What are you doing? Tell him to go away and call you when he’s divorced!” But no one—not even future me—could have sat me down and talked sense into me. I was hypnotized. The ticker tape just kept running through my head: He wants to be with me! This is great!

  It would take years of spinning my wheels and putting energy into the wrong things before I learned how to be true to myself and what I deserved. So I kept repeating this pattern of wasting my time and emotionally investing in the wrong men. Instead of building something real that I could nurture and grow and call my own—and with someone who was open and available—I contented myself with the thrill of forbidden sex. Maybe that’s why I’m not a judgmental person to this day. Having made so many mistakes myself, who am I to look down on other young women who don’t realize that they have more to offer than a great ass?

  All the while I was getting in deeper with Bryan, I stopped answering Rick’s calls. It didn’t take long for him to get the message. Years later, I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that Rick had married and had five kids. Like I said, he was the settling-down kind. And supposedly, I wasn’t. And it’s true that I never expected Bryan to leave his wife—I certainly never asked him to. I didn’t plan my personal life more than a day in advance—it was my career that I fantasized about, not a white wedding. But for all my insistence that I was just biding my time until New York radio called again, if Bryan had broken up with his wife and asked me to stay in Chicago, I would have. I was just that addicted to him, and my relationship antennae were just that twisted. I tossed aside a guy who would have wanted me to stay in Chicago, and I hopelessly trailed a guy who never would.

  In my defense, I was tenderhearted putty in Bryan’s experienced hands. He was a master at the infidelity game. He dangled me like a professional, drew me close when I might have wandered, but then when I seemed like I was a little too into him, he’d push me away again and remind me, “I’m still married, you know.” And the kicker? When I made the mistake of referring to the two of us as a couple, he actually said to me, “You know, we’re not really together.” And no, I didn’t slap him in the face in response.

  Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me a hundred times or so, and I’ll finally get with the program. Eventually I woke up from my stupor, and when New York did call—exactly one and a half years after I’d arrived in Chicago—I was ready to go home.

  I was such a ding dong when it came to men at this point in my life, and no wonder. I didn’t have brothers, and my father was such a formidable, unyielding presence in my life. I found men magnetic and incomprehensible all at once. Over the coming years, I would date man after man, a whole string of them, trying to figure out what made them tick, and which ones were the keepers. You can make your own mental count of boyfriends past while making these truly delicious gingerbread men. They’re the perfect combination of crisp and chewy. You can even decorate them to resemble your exes, which can make it doubly satisfying when you bite their heads off. And if a leg or an arm falls off while you’re transporting them to the baking sheets, no worries. They’re just cookies.

  GINGERBREAD MEN

  3 cups all-purpose flour

  ¾ cup dark brown sugar

  1 tablespoon cinnamon

  1 tablespoon ground ginger

  ¾ teaspoon baking soda

  1½ sticks unsalted butter, softened slightly

  ¾ cup robust molasses

  2 tablespoons milk

  5-inch gingerbread man cookie cutter

  Rolling pin

  Parchment paper for rolling and for lining cookie sheets

  Using a standing mixer (preferable, since this is a heavy batter) or handheld electric mixer, blend all the dry ingredients. Add butter one tablespoon slice at a time, until butter is incorporated and dough resembles sand.

  Add molasses and milk just until combined. Don’t overmix.

  Divide dough into three sections. Put each section between two pieces of parchment paper and roll ¼-inch thick. Stack sandwiched dough on a baking sheet and place in freezer until firm, about 15 to 20 minute
s. Or you can refrigerate for 2 hours. Be patient at this stage; don’t try to rush it. Trust me, you’ll thank me later.

  Meanwhile, preheat oven to 350 degrees.

  Line cookie sheets with parchment paper. Remove one sheet of dough at a time. Make sure it is very firm—this is really important if you don’t want to have a breakdown when you try to use the cookie cutter. Now cut out your man shapes and transfer them to the prepared baking sheet using a wide cookie spatula. Space them 1 inch apart. Set scraps aside.

  Repeat with remaining sheets of dough. Gather scraps of dough, form a ball, and place between two pieces of parchment paper. Roll ¼-inch thick. Refreeze, and then repeat the rolling and cutting.

  Bake cookies 10 to 12 minutes. Cookies should barely spring back when touched in center. The longer you cook the cookies, the crisper they will be. You have all the power in this relationship!

  Makes around 21 five-inch gingerbread men.

  CHAPTER 6

  SLEEPLESS IN MANHATTAN

  The call came from the ABC Radio Network, the largest syndicated radio network in the country. This was national radio out of New York, a world away from the local radio that I was used to. It was like I’d been called up to the majors.