The Queen of Minor Disasters

by Antonietta Mariottini

Lots of women do it. It’s very chic. Very New York.

  At a quarter to six I place a pot of water to boil, knowing that Drew will be home in twenty minutes. I ask him not to call before he comes home, because I love the surprise of him opening the door and seeing me in the kitchen. I imagine what our life will be like after we’re married, when I cook for him every night. In my mind’s eye, I’m living the comfortable life with Drew. Sure I’d have to compromise on a few things, like always coming in second to his career. But lots of women compromise for the comfort of a husband. And at twenty-seven I’m not getting any younger. Plus, there’s nothing wrong with wanting a comfortable life, is there?

  I start setting the table but something about it doesn’t look, right. We can’t be sitting on the couch when Drew pops the question, can we?

  Then, I get a brilliant idea. I move the table to the center of the floor and remove the seat cushions from the couch, placing one on each side of the table. It’ll be romantic to sit on the floor and I know that despite his height, Drew will find it charming.

  I look around the apartment for the candles that I bought a few months back. I open cabinets in the kitchen, look on top of his dresser, fumble through the closet, and finally find them on top of the toilet in the bathroom. Gross.

  I give them a quick wipe with a wet rag before placing them on the table.

  Back in the kitchen, I drop the pasta in the boiling water and give it a stir. That’s when I hear the key in the door.

  “Hello.” Drew calls from the doorway, and I waltz over into his arms and stand on my tiptoes to kiss him since he’s a foot taller than me.

  Ok, so maybe I don’t waltz, but anyway, you get the point.

  “I’m so happy to see you,” I squeal and look into his eyes. All my nerves melt away as I realize this man loves me. And I love him.

  Drew looks good in a Brooks Brothers’ black suit. He’s wearing a blue oxford shirt, which enhances his light eyes, and he’s loosened the striped silk tie around his neck. Despite his crisp appearance, his face looks flustered, which totally makes sense. He’s probably nervous.

  “What did you cook?” he asks and walks towards his bed, not noticing the effort I put into decorating the table. I watch as he slips off his tie and plops onto the bed.

  “Get changed. I’ll set everything up,” I tell him, though obviously he won’t get changed. He probably has the ring in his jacket!

  “Alright,” he says and ducks into the bathroom.

  I feel my face get flushed. This is probably all part of the plan to make me think that it’s a normal night. I look over at the table in a panic. Maybe I overdid it just a tad. I walk over and blow out the candles just as Drew emerges from the bathroom wearing old gym shorts and a ratty white t-shirt.

  He’s really playing up this casual thing.

  “Go sit.” I move towards the kitchen. By now, the pasta is cooked and needs to be drained. I save a bit of the pasta water and add it to the sauce, stirring it a few times to incorporate everything, then I add the cooked pasta to the pan and toss it all together. I spoon a large portion of penne in his bowl, a smaller serving for myself. As a final step, I grate both the Parmigiano and the ricotta salata on top, and then drizzle a tiny swirl of olive oil over each bowl.

  “Nice,” Drew says as I place a bowl in front of him. He’s moved the table back in front of the couch and is sitting there, flipping through the channels.

  I take a seat on the floor in front of him, blocking his view to the TV. “Can we listen to some music instead?” I say.

  Drew sighs and gets up from the couch. He walks over to his iPod, which is docked in the sound station I bought him for Christmas. “What do you want to hear?” he asks.

  “Surprise me,” I answer and close my eyes. This is his chance to up the romance and turn this night around. Maybe he’ll put on some Nora Jones, or Frank Sinatra.

  “How about U2?” he asks.

  U2. Hum. U2 is good. They’ve got a few romantic tunes.

  Suddenly the sound of snare drums hits my ears. “Sunday Bloody Sunday” wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I can roll with this.

  Drew sits back down and starts eating his pasta. I let my eyes linger on him for an extra second then start to pick at my pasta as well. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him take the first bites. If there’s one thing that annoys me about Drew it’s that he never gives me any compliments on my cooking. I know he likes it because he always finishes his plate, sometimes even goes for seconds. But he never says “wow” or “delicious” like you’d expect. I mean, what’s the point of cooking for someone, if not to hear his satisfaction? That’s why I could never cook in the restaurant. You basically slave away in a hot kitchen all night long and only get to hear praises from your customers when you make your obligatory round around the restaurant. No, instead, I like to see people enjoying themselves. That’s where the magic of food (and Food Therapy) really come into play.

  Once we’re married I’ll tell Drew how I feel. I’m sure he’ll be really embarrassed that all these years he’s never said anything about my food.

  “How’s the pasta?” I ask, not that I’m fishing for compliments or anything.

  “Ok.”

  Ok? Just ok? This pasta is delicious, and I’m not just saying that because I made it. Then it hits me. He’s nervous. Of course the pasta’s just ok. He’s not thinking of taste or textures. He’s focusing on the proposal. He’s probably fixated on getting the words just right. How adorable.

  An awkward silence passes between us.

  Here it comes. I can feel it.

  “Stella, there’s something we need to talk about,” he says and takes my hand. I can feel him shaking ever so slightly. He shifts to his knees.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

  “I know you want to get married.” He looks away. “But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I just don’t think I’m ready to marry you.”

  Suddenly the room gets hot and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale and wait for him to say “just kidding, I’d be honored to spend the rest of my life with you.” Only, he doesn’t say anything.

  “Ok,” I say, still wondering if this is part of the surprise.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I’ve just been thinking this through and I realized you’re not the one for me.”

  His words hit me like a slap in the face. This can’t be part of his proposal speech. I feel numb.

  “Stella, say something.”

  “What about the Tiffany’s catalogue. I saw it on your nightstand.” I confess.

  Drew sighs. “That’s sort of what started me thinking about all of this. I went to buy you a ring and I couldn’t do it.”

  Ok this all makes sense now. It’s not as bad as I thought. I reach for his hand. “Drew, I don’t need a Tiffany’s ring.” I look at him, but his face is blank. “I don’t need a ring at all,” I lie. “Just as long as I’ve got you in my life, I’m happy.”

  He looks like he might get sick. “Stella, you don’t get it. I don’t want to marry you. Ever. We’re not a good pair. I live in New York and you live in your parents’ house.”

  “I’m saving up for a place!” I yell as if I need to defend myself. I stand up quickly and feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Look, Stella, you manage your family’s restaurant in the summers and waitress during the year, that’s what makes you happy and it’s all good. But I’m more career-minded than that. I’m working my way up the corporate ladder and I need a wife who can keep up.”

  I’m about to yell “I can keep up,” but I stop myself. What’s the point?

  I grab my bag off the floor and fling it over my shoulder then turn towards the door.

  “Do you want me to drive you to Pietro’s?” he asks.

  I look at him incredulously. “No!” I snap and head for the door. This is his last chance to stop me.

  I take a pause in the open doorway, but he doesn’t follow, so I ceremoniously cross ov
er into the hallway and slam the door shut.

  Recipe: Penne alla Norma (or The Last Supper)

  Yields 2 servings

  Ok, I don’t really know who the hell Norma is, but apparently, this is her pasta, (or my version of it anyway). I’ve taken the liberty of naming this the Last Supper. You can figure out why.

  1/2 pound penne

  1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

  1 medium onion, finely chopped

  7 Roma tomatoes, diced.

  2 cups eggplant, diced

  salt and pepper to taste

  1/4 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano cheese

  1/4 cup grated ricotta salata

  4 fresh basil leaves, chopped.

  1) Bring ten cups of water to boil. Add salt to flavor the pasta.

  2) Heat olive oil in a medium saucepan. Add the onions, salt and pepper and cook until translucent.

  3) Add the tomatoes and eggplant. Reduce the heat to low and allow the sauce to simmer for 15-20 minutes, adding a few spoonfuls of the pasta water if necessary. (While the sauce is simmering, you can cook the pasta).

  4) Once the pasta is cooked, add it to the saucepan, and toss to coat it.

  5) Top the pasta with grated Parmigiano Reggiano, ricotta salata, and fresh basil.

  Chapter 3

  It’s only about 7:00 when I exit Drew’s apartment building. It’s early enough that I could take the train to my brother Pietro’s place on Long Island. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s still in the city; he usually leaves work around this time. But something in me can’t bring myself to call him. I just stand on the corner of 117th and Broadway and watch the people go by. There are so many faces in Manhattan, and with each one a different story. Who knows how many other people right on this street corner are heartbroken like me. I could really use some chocolate cake right now.

  Before I can stop myself, I feel a fat tear fall down my cheek. Seconds later, another one drops and I realize I need to get out of this neighborhood before Drew leaves his apartment and finds me. The last thing I need is his pity.

  I start walking towards the subway, when it hits me. I have Julie’s keys. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I crashed at her place for the night. Plus, given the situation, I need a little Julie time, though she’ll probably go off about what an asshole Drew is. At the moment, I sort of agree.

  Julie just doesn’t get it though. She thinks the whole idea of marriage is a farce. But that’s only because her parents’ dysfunctional relationship screwed her up at a young age. Her mother rivals Elizabeth Taylor in marriages and divorces, and her father, a plastic surgeon in LA, changes Botox Bunnies like some men change their ties.

  Julie’s on the same path, unfortunately. I can’t even count the number of guys she’s been through since I met her freshman year of college and she seems to only get worse with age. Plus, now that she’s a staff member at GQ she’s all into the models that roam the place in their boxer-briefs.

  But the thing is, Julie’s never been in love—not like Drew and me at least. She’s never had that lasting, withstanding love that bonds people together for life.

  As I walk I try to call her, but I get her voicemail. I don’t bother leaving a message.

  I board the 1 train going downtown to West 4th Street, and snag myself a seat next to an old man. The train is filling up with college students (Columbia trust-funders) who are making their way downtown, probably to get liquored up at some dive bar. I try to ignore their idiotic chatter as I fumble through my bag. When I finally find my compact, I almost wish I hadn’t.

  My reflection shows a tired girl with mascara streaked cheeks and rumbled up hair. If I were a little skinnier, I’d almost have the whole heroin-chic look down, but instead, I just look like a hot mess.

  No wonder Drew broke up with me.

  I furiously dig for a tissue and find a crumbled up Starbucks napkin in the bottom of my bag. I lick it and wipe it over my cheeks repeatedly, like a stray cat trying her best to groom herself.

  By the time we hit 59th Street, I almost look presentable.

  For the rest of the ride, I just stare out the window and replay the events in my head. On one hand, I hate Drew for being so shallow, but on the other hand, I can’t help but feel a small spring of hope. I mean, he was close to buying a ring. We dated for three years. He’s not just going to throw all of that away on the spur of the moment.

  And neither am I.

  I reach Julie’s by 8:15 and unlock the front door of her building. Even though Julie is a trust-funder, her apartment building is pretty average and doesn’t even have an elevator. Thankfully, she lives on the second floor.

  I try to call her as I walk up the stairs but her phone goes to voicemail again.

  Honestly, I don’t even remember when I talked to her last. For all I know she could be on a business trip.

  Once the thought enters my head, I can’t help but hope it’s true. I’d really love to just be alone tonight, take a hot shower, and roll up in bed.

  But as soon as I get to her door, I know she’s home. I can hear her fake laugh, which can only mean one thing.

  I almost don’t want to knock on her door, but I’m desperate.

  I ring the bell.

  She doesn’t answer.

  I ring it again and wait a few minutes.

  I can still hear her laughing so I ring the bell again and bang my fist on the door. “Jules, it’s me,” I yell.

  The door opens a crack and Julie peeks her head out. Her hair is pulled back and her neck and shoulders are bare. I almost think she’s naked, but then I see her hot pink tube top. Thank God.

  “Hey Stella,” she whispers. “Why didn’t you call?”

  “I did, your phone is off.”

  She wrinkles her nose and looks back into her apartment. “Oh, sorry. I’m kind of busy. Do you want to hang tomorrow for lunch or something?”

  I sigh. “I sort of need a place to crash.”

  “Just stay at Drew’s. Tell Momma DiLucio you’re staying here. I’ll cover for you.” She’s about to close the door when I stop her.

  “He dumped me, Jules.”

  Her face softens. “Oh shit. Give me a minute.”

  I nod and she closes the door. Two minutes later she opens it and a short, pudgy, balding man walks out. “I’ll call you,” she says and waves him good-bye. So much for the GQ models.

  I give her a strange look as I enter her apartment. “Who was that?”

  “That’s George. He’s a photographer,” she says and plops onto an oversized pillow in the center of her living room floor. Every time I visit Julie’s apartment she’s got some new theme going. From the orange and purple sheers billowing from the ceiling, I’m guessing she’s doing Moroccan now. Even Winston, her enormous Chow Chow, has a purple doggie bed, which he’s snuggled into. He’s supposed to be a great watchdog, but the thing is so friendly that if a burglar ever did get through her fifteen locks, Winston would just sniff him a few times and lick his feet.

  “He doesn’t seem like your usual type,” I say trying to be nice, in case this is the one time she’s actually in love.

  “Ew, Stella!” she squeals and flings her long blonde hair to one side. “I can’t believe you thought that.”

  I give her a look.

  “George is a photographer that freelances with us. He’s helping me with a project.” She pauses to light a cigarette and the offers me one. I decline. “I’m starting a fashion blog. George’s doing the photography and I’m doing the styling.” Her blue eyes flash with excitement.

  It’s just like Julie to take on a new project and give it her all. She’s motivated, driven, and successful. The exact opposite of me. Drew should be with her. “Do you have any wine?”

  “Oh my God, of course,” she says jumping up from her pillow. I take a seat on an embroidered foot stool and wait for my drink.

  “So, tell me everything.” She hands me an oversized goblet of white wine, pours one for herself, and sits back on the floor.
/>
  As painful as it is to recount, I give her all the details.

  “What an asshole,” she says when I finish. “You’re better off without him.” She blows a puff of smoke, and stands to get another bottle of wine.

  “Maybe,” I say half convinced. As I was retelling the story though, things started falling into place. In my heart of hearts I know I can get Drew back. Now I just need to figure out how.

  When my phone rings at seven the next morning, my first thought is that it’s Drew, calling to tell me that he’s made a big mistake.

  Instead, it’s my future sister-in-law Gina, calling to tell me that I’d better high-tail my ass up to the Bronx because we have an appointment with her caterer at the Botanical Gardens at ten.

  As I listen to her talk, I contemplate canceling, but then I realize that if anyone can help me get Drew back, it’s Gina. After all, she changed my brother from an uncommitted playboy to a whipped, love struck puppy in just under two years. Honestly, the girl has talent. She’ll know just what to do.

  Gina has hundreds of close girlfriends, but no sisters, so she chose me as her Maid of Honor, which really surprised me. She and I were never such close friends, but that gesture made it clear; she thinks of me as a sister. Since then, I’ve looked at her the same way, and though the whole wedding process can be a bit much at times, I’ve tried to be excited and supportive through it all.

  Of course, no one’s perfect.

  There was that one time when Gina was interviewing photographers and made me look through thousands of slides. It would have tried anyone’s patience. Trust me.

  But anyway, besides that, I’ve been really keen on wedding plans, even when I really don’t feel like looking at another color swatch.

  Today is going to be a big effort for me, given the circumstances. But as I walk towards the D train I know I’m doing the right thing. I just need to build my strength with a little Food Therapy. A good breakfast will give me the stamina to make it through this day, so before getting on the train, I stop at Café Reggio for a chocolate cornetto and overpriced cappuccino.