Sex, Lies, and Cookies: An Unrated Memoir

by Glasberg, Lisa

  Instead, I figured that it was time to let loose and live a little. I was tired of being responsible all the time—I’d been on a career track for years already and my job was high pressured, and I had the additional burden of supporting myself completely in an industry that wasn’t always predictable. So at night, I shed all that. I got dressed up, and I shook off all that responsibility—and I shut off my brain for a little while.

  I’D BEEN AT ABC Radio Network for two years when the grind of that little booth and Poindexter shooting finger guns at me finally wore me down. My heart just wasn’t in it anymore, and I think the powers that be knew it. I missed local radio. I missed feeling a connection to the listener. I missed the phones lighting up, and the fun of playing off another human being at the microphone. Millions of people across the country might be listening to me on ABC, but I had no way of knowing it, or feeling it. I started to feel like I was wearing golden handcuffs—the pay was great, and hundreds of people would have killed for my job, but I just didn’t love it. And while I could live without love with a boyfriend, I couldn’t live without it in my work.

  The final straw came when Bryan was visiting me. We went out with Arlene for one of our marathon nights of getting high, hitting a restaurant, then a club, then an after party, then an after-after party. Then Bryan and I went back to my apartment and had sex.

  I didn’t even need cocaine when I was with Bryan—he was my cocaine, and definitely my addiction, and I felt the same kind of artificial mental and physical high when I was with him. So the whole time I was with him it didn’t occur to me that I should get some shut-eye before I headed to work the next morning. Why sleep when I had Bryan with me? I knew he’d fly off when morning came, so I wanted the night to last—I wanted him to last. Bryan was like a never-ending arcade game for me—I kept putting more and more coins into him but never winning the prize. And the lack of reward just made me more determined to keep trying. Instead of walking away, I just kept digging up more coins to dump into him.

  The sky was still black that morning when Bryan turned to me and said, “You have to get to work, and I have a plane to catch.” I fixed my raccoon eyes and found some reasonably clean clothes, and then we hopped into a cab together. As we pulled up in front of the station he kissed me and then drove off to JFK. I was on a romantic high, and definitely not fully sober. So I didn’t read anything into that kiss, and I refused to admit to myself that he was moving on. I shouldn’t have been surprised when he stopped calling me after that, but I was, and I was deeply hurt.

  But that kind of hurt wasn’t on my mind when I staggered into work at 4 A.M. that morning. I remember walking onto our floor at ABC Radio Network and being stabbed in the eyes by the fake sunlight of the fluorescent lighting, and the news machines chugging away echoed the pounding headache that was starting to build behind my temples.

  The desk assistant started piling up the reports next to me, and I did the best I could to cut and paste them into something brief and logical. Before I knew it, it was time for my broadcast and I had to grab my typewritten stack and run to the booth where Poindexter was waiting for me.

  Every day my format was the same. I started with national news, then features, followed by a thirty-second commercial break, and then sports. My papers were always neatly stacked and ready to go, and today was no different. One by one I read all my stories. The clock kept ticking away, and as always I watched the second hand with a close eye while reading and knowing exactly how long I had to finish. But when we got to the commercial break, I had no papers left. My sports report wasn’t there. As the seconds of the commercial break counted down, I broke into a cold, slick flop sweat. I had typed up the sports report, I knew I had, but it wasn’t there. Nothing was computerized so it’s not as if I could pull up my missing report with a few keystrokes. Meanwhile there wasn’t an intercom or a phone or big red panic button to hit to signal that I was in dire straits and needed help. There was just me, the microphone, and Poindexter’s fingers making their slow, painful finger gun right at me. And dead air was not an option.

  So I winged it. I’d love to say that I remembered enough of what I’d written that I pulled it off brilliantly. But I didn’t. I remembered nothing, and I wasn’t enough of a sports fan to bluster my way through it. I still have the text of that awful, terrible sports report, and I include it here for your horrified amusement as well:

  A very active night, last night, at our country’s ballparks. It seemed like most teams, in all divisions, were up at bat. And why not, the weather cooperated across most of the country, especially with the heat wave in the North East.

  Stadiums were packed last night as fans spent a nice evening outside cheering their teams, with lots of runs being scored.

  The White Sox really knocked it out of the park, as did the Yankees.

  Usually at this time of year, teams are in top focus, with the smell of the World Series in the air. Before you know it—it’s pennant season.

  Here are some of last night’s scores.

  7 to 4

  3 to 6

  12 to 1

  8 nothing

  3 to 6

  and 8 to 4

  It’s going to be a great division battle as we get down to the wire.

  And that’s sports.

  I’m Lisa Glasberg on the ABC Rock Radio Network.

  Aside from the totally inane preamble, what really kills me is the way I listed off random scores, not attaching a single one to an actual game, or even to a baseball team. It was complete insanity. You know what though? I may not have known what the heck I was saying, but there wasn’t a second of dead air. I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and I was out of my mind with terror, but I was a professional. I didn’t leave Poindexter alone with his on-air button.

  At 9 A.M. that morning, the station manager called me into his office, and I knew my days were numbered. He didn’t fire me then and there, but when my contract was up I learned that it wasn’t being renewed. It wouldn’t be long before I found out that my relationship with Bryan wasn’t being renewed either. Two big endings came together in one day. And both were for the best, even if I wasn’t in quite the frame of mind in that moment to admit it to myself.

  Did I sabotage my relationship with ABC? It’s possible. I know it was only a matter of time before I quit or they realized I wasn’t cut out for sitting alone in a booth. But it’s still a mystery to me what happened to that sports report I typed up. Maybe Poindexter stole it. The larger, much more important question that I needed to answer was how to find some happiness in my personal life. That was a mystery that I really did need to solve.

  Since my life during these years was truly unhinged, I knew I wanted a recipe that featured nuts in this chapter. And because there’s no better pick-me-up than chocolate, packing those nuts into a fudgy brownie was a no-brainer.

  Not only are these brownies delicious, but they also gave me strength on those early mornings after I’d been partying late into the night. Even better, making them is a pretty good workout. If you’re feeling like you want to burn off some frustration (career, romantic, whatever’s currently getting you down), try mixing the batter using both hands and a big wooden spoon. You’ll feel better in no time. I also recommend taking out your aggression on the nuts while you chop them. The more frustrated you are, the more nuts you can add. You can even sprinkle another layer on top of the chocolate frosting.

  LISA GOES NUTS BROWNIES

  For the brownies

  10 ounces semisweet chocolate chips

  ¾ cup (1½ sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature

  1½ cups sugar

  1½ teaspoons vanilla extract

  4 large eggs

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  1 cup salted roasted cashews (roughly chopped)

  For the peanut butter frosting and chocolate ganache

  1 cup smooth (not natural) peanut butter

  ½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter, divided

  ¾ c
up confectioners’ sugar

  1 tablespoon whole milk

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  ¾ cup salted roasted peanuts (roughly chopped)

  7 ounces semisweet chocolate chips

  Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

  TO MAKE THE BROWNIES:

  Line a 9 x 13–inch baking pan with parchment paper, so it overhangs on the short ends.

  Over very low heat, melt chocolate chips and butter in a heavy saucepan.

  When smooth, remove from heat. Stir in sugar (slowly), then vanilla, then eggs one at a time. Mix well after each addition. Fold in flour, then cashews.

  Spread in prepared pan. Bake 25 to 30 minutes until tester inserted in center comes out clean.

  Cool on a rack.

  TO MAKE THE PEANUT BUTTER FROSTING:

  Use an electric mixer to beat peanut butter and ¼ cup of the butter until fluffy. Add confectioners’ sugar, then milk and vanilla. Spread the frosting gently over brownies with spatula. Now sprinkle the chopped peanuts over the peanut butter frosting, until covered. Gently press peanuts into frosting.

  TO MAKE THE CHOCOLATE GANACHE:

  Use a heavy saucepan over very low heat to melt chocolate and ¼ cup butter until smooth. Alternatively, you can use a microwave—slice butter into small pieces and place it and the chocolate in a covered microwavable bowl. Microwave on high for 1 minute then stir. Continue to microwave in 10-to 15-second increments until smooth.

  Carefully spread the chocolate ganache over the peanut butter frosting.

  Chill until firm, then remove the brownies from the pan using the overhanging parchment paper. Cut into 16 squares, and store in an airtight container (preferably in the fridge).

  Makes 16 one-and-a-half-inch squares.

  CHAPTER 7

  FAKE ’N’ BAKE

  After the pressure-cooker atmosphere of ABC Radio Network, I was very happy to freelance for a while. There was a lot of work in radio those days—people went on vacation or took leaves, and they needed someone experienced to fill in. I could adapt my newscasts to any format and demographic, from rock to country to talk radio.

  With my job demanding less of my time and energy, suddenly I didn’t feel like I had to let off quite so much steam outside of work. I got Bryan out of my system once and for all, and I started to date men who might actually be boyfriend material.

  The one problem with this plan was that I still had no idea how to be a girlfriend. And by extension, that meant that I really didn’t know how a boyfriend should act either. I figured that being with a man was about making him want to stick around. I didn’t ask myself what I wanted—or deserved—in a boyfriend. This was just another arena where I felt like I needed to prove myself to someone else. My years of dating lots of men had given me some confidence once the clothes came off, but I still had no real self-esteem underneath. And one way I decided that I could make a man like me was to bake for him. Because what man could resist a naked woman bearing cookies?

  David was tall and lanky and came from a large Jewish family on the West Coast. He worked in the clothing business, and he seemed like such a responsible adult to me. His apartment looked like a home—unlike my haphazardly furnished place, which was a collection of preowned stopgap pieces. He had curtains that coordinated with his carpeting, and a fluffy down comforter on his bed. He was a metrosexual before there was a word for it. For a girl like me who had no roots at all—who had purposely avoided putting any down—the fact that he had this lovely, comfortable home was really attractive. I also felt safe in his high-rise apartment building with a doorman. I had always felt like I had to look out for myself, but there I felt cocooned, and like there was someone else who was taking care of things for a little while. In some ways I think I was more attracted to David’s apartment than I was to him.

  Part of the problem was that I didn’t really spark to him intellectually. It’s not as if I was looking for an Ivy Leaguer. But I’ve always been drawn to people who think fast and talk just as fast. And I was surrounded by those kinds of people at work—people who had interesting thoughts about music, politics, and popular culture. Meanwhile, David was in the schmatte business, and he wasn’t really interested in the world outside. He was all about numbers and order sheets and how many dresses he sold to Macy’s.

  Given that, you would think that I’d realize after a few dates that this guy wasn’t for me. But he was good-looking, and I really did love his apartment. I also liked his family a lot and admired the way they enjoyed spending time together. So even though I really wasn’t all that into David, the ticker tape that ran through my head was, Nice apartment, nice family, why not date him? Instead of admitting to myself that I found him boring and not all that bright, and despite all the clues that we were not a match, I persisted.

  One cold winter evening we were snuggled up in his apartment on the sofa. It was election season and I wanted to turn on the news. He switched the channel to Wheel of Fortune. Okay, I told myself, I can do this.

  I remember watching Vanna White revealing letter after letter until the clue read as follows:

  WHEN T RANS T PORS

  While the contestant struggled to figure out the clue, I said, “Oh my God, it’s so obvious what that is. What a moron.”

  David looked at me and said, “It’s not that obvious.”

  I made the mistake of laughing, and I said, “You’re joking, right? I mean it’s obviously ‘When it rains it pours.’” When I saw David’s jaw tighten, I realized that he was really angry with me. The lesson of that situation, whether it was one that I wanted to follow or not, was: never rub it in your boyfriend’s face that you’re smarter than he is.

  For a while I told myself that David and I were growing close, but in retrospect I realize that no matter how much time we were spending together, I was never really his girlfriend. And at a certain point he started pulling away. We’d make plans, and then at the last minute he’d be busy. We’d go out together and I’d sense his eyes drawn to other women. While I didn’t find David all that interesting, other women found him fascinating. To them, a successful man was a real catch. And the more that other women looked at him—and he looked at them—the more territorial I felt. So instead of letting the relationship run its course and finding someone better to lavish with my affections, I clung to David all the harder. Clearly, I had learned absolutely nothing from my Rick/Bryan experience, and I was the same old Lisa I’d ever been when it came to men. The less available a man was to me, the more I just had to have him.

  One weekend afternoon we went roller-skating (this was the ’80s, remember), and I wore a dark pink version of my magic purple jumpsuit. As we circled the rink, I noticed that he kept looking at one woman in particular. She was the female version of him in more ways than one—tall and dark, and she worked in the garment industry too. Soon he wasn’t just looking at her, he was also stopping to flirt with her—while I was standing right there. A saner woman would have called it off with him on the spot, but (1) I was never very good at confrontation, and (2) I was not a saner woman.

  Instead, I made cookies. I went back to my tiny studio apartment with the galley kitchen that you could barely turn around in. There was maybe a square foot of counter space, but it did have a really cool rubber floor that absorbed the shock whenever you dropped anything. The downside was that when I spilled flour it looked like a crime scene. Anyway, I whipped up a batch of my How-to-Get-a-Man Chocolate Chip Cheesecake Squares, then I stripped naked and put on my fur coat. After I’d left Chicago, I’d sworn like Scarlett O’Hara that I would never be cold again, so that fur coat was my reward. I’d also bought myself a Louis Vuitton overnight bag, which seemed like the height of style and sophistication to me. Since I was naked under the coat, I tossed some clothes in my bag, and out I went, cheesecake bars in hand. As I went sashaying down the street in my high heels, I ran into a friend who said, “Where are you off to?” I remember smiling and saying, “To see my boyfriend!” Even at the time I k
new I wasn’t telling the truth, and I honestly don’t know why I lied. I think on some level it made me feel more worthy if I could use the B word.

  My baking for love may have been totally dysfunctional, but it had the intended effect, at least for one night. David’s eyes were wandering at the roller rink, but when I knocked on his door, he only had eyes for me. And he appreciated the chocolate chip cheesecake squares, too. So of course we immediately had sex, which, truth be told, wasn’t all that great. Half the time I was faking it with David, which I always found way too easy to pull off. A few moans here, a crescendo there, and David felt like a god, while I was as romantically (and sexually) unfulfilled as ever.

  David continued to give me signals that he wasn’t being exclusive, but I just wasn’t picking up on them. I did notice how testy he got whenever I talked about relationship stuff, though. I made myself way too available to him in a lot of ways, and I was never clingy or pushy about a commitment. I definitely wasn’t looking to get married. But one night when we were lying in bed I started talking in a theoretical way about marriage, and whether he saw himself married with kids one day. To me, it was a natural question to ask, and I didn’t see any strings attached to his answer. But you’d think I tossed a pot of cold water on him—he practically recoiled. So I went to sleep angry, he went to sleep horrified, and our relationship didn’t last too long after that—especially once I found out that he was seeing Miss Tall Brunette at the roller rink.

  Moral of the story: My cheesecake bars might help get a man, but keeping him is a different story.

  THE WHOLE SEXUAL SATISFACTION thing is kind of fascinating to me. Judging from popular culture now, you’d think women sit around talking about their orgasms all the time. I suspect that’s an exaggeration, and I know my girlfriends and I definitely weren’t talking about it when we were in our twenties. My friends now will say, “Oh my God, we were such sluts,” so I know we were all having a lot of sex. But were we always enjoying it? I’m not so sure. And since I spent a number of years there using a diaphragm, I can honestly say that I don’t know how anyone can have an orgasm wearing one of those.