by Karyn Bosnak
“Gee, hungry?” Daisy asks, her eyes widening.
“Starved,” I say, snatching a beef-kabob off a tray on a table behind us. My mom owns a catering company—Kitty Cannon’s Catering—so I’ve had the kabobs before. They’re pretty darn tasty. As I pop the large piece of steak into my mouth, Daisy holds her left hand out in front of my face. Hanging off her finger is quite possibly the largest, most brilliant diamond I’ve ever seen. I practically choke.
“Four carats,” Daisy says matter-of-factly, as the diamond sparkles in her eyes.
“Fourmf? Ohmf . . . wowmf,” I say, with a mouth full of meat.
“I know. I almost passed out when Edward gave it to me. It’s almost too big, you know?”
Ignoring Daisy’s comment, I listen to the Rock Report (four carats, Asscher cut, platinum band) and then anxiously look around for Edward. I haven’t yet met him; no one in the family has. Daisy and he have had a bit of a whirlwind romance—they met just six weeks ago. I feel stupid not knowing anything about him, but every time the two of us talk, Daisy gushes so much about how fabulous he is that by the time she regains her composure, her other line rings or something else happens and one of us has to go. The only thing anyone in the family really knows about him is that his name is Edward Barnett, he works on Wall Street somewhere, and he’s ten years older than Daisy.
“So where is he?” I ask. “Is he here?”
“Of course he’s here,” Daisy says, looking around. Smiling when she spots him, she nods in his direction. “He’s over there talking to Victor.”
I turn around and spot Victor in the corner talking to a man wearing a light blue shirt. Although his back is facing me, from what I can tell, he appears to be tall, dark, and handsome, and—oh yippee! He’s turning around. I get a better look at him. Sure enough, he’s tall, dark, and—
Whoa, wait.
Edward’s not just dark—he’s black. My eyes light up. Well, hallelujah, Daisy!
Turning back to my sister, I see a cheeky grin come across her face.
“Okay, this is so not a big deal,” I say, “but I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
Daisy laughs. “I know, I know,” she says quickly, “and I knew you wouldn’t care, it’s just that I didn’t want Mom knowing until she met him.”
“What did she say? Tell me everything!” My mom isn’t racist by any means, it’s just that not many black people live in New Canaan.
“Well, when I first introduced them, she stared at him for a few seconds with her mouth slightly ajar, but then I kicked her and she snapped right out of it!”
“Daisy, be serious!”
“Okay, fine, I didn’t kick her, but she did stare for a bit.”
“And?”
“And honestly . . . she’s fine with it. You know, I’m an adult, he’s an adult—she could care less. But Patsy on the other hand . . .”
As Daisy says this, I look over at Patsy—our bitchy, humorless, no-doubt sexless neighbor—and see her scowling at Edward. Patsy has never liked Daisy and me, so her obvious distaste for Edward probably has more to do with the fact that he’s made one of us happy than anything else.
After turning back to Daisy, I listen to her go on and on yet again about how in love she is, when it suddenly dawns on me that she can probably shed light on whether there’s any truth to a very popular myth.
“So is it true what they say?” I ask coyly when she finally exhales.
Daisy gives me a confused look. “True about what?”
I didn’t think I needed to explain what I was referring to, but apparently I did. “About his . . . you know. Is it big?”
Daisy’s cheeks turn red. “Delilah! I can’t believe you’d ask me something like that!” She quickly looks around to make sure no one heard my question.
“Well, sorry,” I say, defending my curiosity. “But since he’s only known you a month and already knows he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, I assume you did something right.”
“For your information,” Daisy sniffs, “we’re waiting to sleep together until we get married.” Holding her shoulders high in the air, she stands as tall as she can.
“Waiting? Why on earth would you do a thing like that?” Obviously, this concept is foreign to me.
“Because we have a lifetime to have sex, that’s why. Why rush it?”
I have to admit, Daisy’s behavior goes against the image I had of her. She dates way more than I do—way more—and I’m not saying that I think she’s easy, but only a prude would hold out on her fiancé. I’m going to get to the bottom of this . . . in a roundabout way.
“Hey, did you read the results of that sex survey in the Post a few months ago?”
Daisy shakes her head. “No, what survey?”
“It was really interesting. It said the average person first has sex at the age of seventeen.”
Daisy thinks about this for a second and then nods. “That sounds about right.”
“It also said the average person has 10.5 sexual partners in their lifetime.”
“10.5?” Daisy wrinkles her nose.
“Yeah . . . that doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“No, not at all!”
I’m instantly filled with relief. Maybe the survey is way off. Maybe having a number like nineteen isn’t that bad and I’ve been worrying for nothing. But on the other hand, if Daisy is saying this because she thinks 10.5 is too high, then I’m worse off than I thought.
“Wait—What do you mean by that?” I ask.
“I mean only a total tramp would sleep with that many guys.”
“A total tramp?”
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no!
I begin to feel sick.
“Yeah. I mean, between you and me,” she whispers, “I’ve only slept with four men.”
Four men?
FOUR?
Holy Sweet Mother of God!!!
Before I have a chance to ask Daisy if she’s kidding (Oh who am I kidding?—I’m sure she’s not), a breathy voice interrupts us.
“Delilah . . . you don’t return my phone calls . . . you’ve got me worried sick!”
It’s my mom. Reluctantly I turn around and find her staring at me pathetically. Her hair is perfectly coiffed and colored, her head slightly lowered.
“Mom!” I exclaim, raising my voice an octave, trying to sound excited to see her. “How are you?”
“Never mind me,” she says, patting down the wrinkles in my shirt. “You. How are you?”
“I’m—”
“Come,” she says, not letting me finish, “come to Mama.”
As my mom embraces me, she hugs me hard, squeezing me so intensely that I can barely breathe. Although I try to pull away, I can’t, so for the next minute, I find myself gasping for air as she silently rocks me back and forth. Even though she’s not saying anything, I know her well enough to know that her inner dialogue is jabbering away. You see, in her world, if a woman is single and thirty, it’s because she’s either a lesbian or a loser. Since my thirtieth birthday is three months away, she’s trying to figure out which it is and, more importantly, what she should tell her friends.
“What’s wrong with Delilah? Why can’t she meet a man? Is she a lesbian? No, no, she’s not a lesbian, she can’t be. Although she did like Joan Jett an awful lot when she was younger. And I swear I caught her listening to Melissa Etheridge the time she was home. I sure hope she wasn’t fired today, because if she was, then my excuse as to why she’s still single—she works too much—is no longer valid, which means that all my friends will assume she’s single because she’s a lesbian. It’s not that I don’t like lesbians, I do. Lesbians are funny. Look at Ellen DeGeneres. They can be successful too. Look at Hillary Clinton. Oops, she’s not a lesbian . . .”
Yes, the pity party has officially begun.
“Honey,” she says, finally breaking her silence. “Did you lose your job today?” She’s talking to me like I’m a dog.
“Lose her job?” Dais
y pipes in, confused. “Why would she lose her job?”
“Daisy honey, watch the news once in a while, will you?” my mom says, as she finally (thankfully) releases her hold on me. “There were big layoffs today at ESD.”
“Layoffs?” Daisy gasps loudly. Glaring at me, she then slugs my arm. Hard.
“Ouch!” I scream.
“Oh ouch nothing!” Daisy says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “I didn’t—”
Suddenly sensing we’re not alone, I stop talking and turn around. Just as I suspected, all of my mom’s friends have gathered around, waiting to hear what I have to say. Like I said, Elisabeth is an icon, so to hear the scoop on the day’s events from an actual staff member is exciting. All of their big owlish eyes (the result of overzealous plastic surgeons) are on me. All of their big black pupils (the result of one too many Vicodins) make me nervous. I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone or in Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say, so . . . I lie.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t lose my job.”
My mom lets out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord!” she exclaims. “When the news said almost twenty-five percent of the staff was let go, I thought for sure you were a goner!”
“Thanks for the confidence, Mom,” I mutter. Ignoring me, she turns around to address her friends.
“Did you all hear that?” she says gleefully. “She said she didn’t lose her job!”
As my mom’s friends come up to congratulate her, I turn back to Daisy and roll my eyes.
“C’mon,” she says, putting her arm around me, “let’s go meet Edward.”
After chatting with Edward for the next hour (who couldn’t be more perfect, by the way), I spot waiters making rounds with my mom’s famous chocolate bonbons and excuse myself to go to the kitchen, to the source. Since I’ve started using chocolate as my patch, I’ve built up quite a tolerance and know one won’t be enough. After grabbing a handful, I head upstairs to eat them alone in my old bedroom, and pass by Patsy on my way there. Glancing down at the pile of bonbons I’m holding, she shakes her head in disgust. Slightly embarrassed, I ignore her and continue on my way.
When I get to my room, I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. Gosh, what a day, what a night. Leaning against the door, I look around and become melancholy. My room hasn’t changed since the day I left home for college. The Laura Ashley wallpaper still matches the Laura Ashley bedspread which still matches the Laura Ashley curtains. Posters of REM and Pearl Jam still hang on the wall. It’s a room frozen in time, a room frozen at a time in my life when the world was one big opportunity waiting to happen.
Thinking about my life, I can’t help but feel like a loser. I mean, I always imagined things would be perfect by now. I wouldn’t just have a job—I’d own my own company. I wouldn’t just rent an apartment on the fourth floor of an East Village walkup—I’d own my own loft in Tribeca. I wouldn’t still be single—I’d be happily married with a big family.
Looking at my dresser, I see a pile of stationery sitting on top, so I walk over and pick it up. Covered in stars, it says FROM THE DESK OF LITTLE DARLING along the top. Little Darling, my grandpa used to call Daisy and me that when we were little girls. It was his nickname for us. Looking up, I gaze into the mirror and wonder if the girl who used to live in this room—Little Darling—could write a letter on this star-studded stationery today, I wonder what she’d say to me. After thinking about this for a minute, I plop down on the edge of my bed and reach for a bonbon. Instead of eating it right away, I stare at it for a while and feel sorry for myself. Then, a few moments later, something hits me—a thought.
I’m pathetic! I’m completely, utterly and totally pathetic!
What kind of loser sulks in a childhood bedroom while eating bonbons on a Friday night? Moping about what I don’t have and what I didn’t do isn’t going to make life any better. Neither is eating a dozen bonbons. I just lost my job, for God’s sake. I should be out with my friends and coworkers, letting loose and acting like an idiot, not sitting alone contemplating my self-worth. I can deal with the real world tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that.
Although I was planning on staying the night, I decide not to and call Michelle to see if she’s still out. Sure enough, she is, as are all my coworkers. Deciding I should be with them, I stand up and throw all the bonbons out the window. I don’t need food—I need a drink!
I tell my mom and Daisy that I received an emergency phone call from work and have to leave immediately to prepare for an early morning crisis-control meeting. They’re both very understanding. After that, I call a taxi to take me back to the train station and hop on the 11:40 train back to Manhattan. I arrive at Grand Central just before one o’clock and head straight out to meet Michelle at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen.
For the rest of the night (morning?), Michelle, my former coworkers, and I reminisce about the past, toast to the future, laugh, cry, and eventually . . . sing karaoke. After that, we go to a bar in the Meatpacking District, then to another in Chelsea, and then . . . then I’m not so sure what happens.
* * *
1 I wonder if people with ADD are eligible for workers’ comp. If so, then I need to get a proper diagnosis right away so I can take advantage of the perks.
2 Roger is a holiday dresser of the worst kind. Some of the offending accessories I’ve seen him sport include a Santa tie, reindeer horns, a blinking shamrock button, Easter bunny ears, Dracula fangs, American flag suspenders, and, yes, a pilgrim hat.
3 I frequently stare at the permanent eyeglass indentions above his ears while silently chanting the word “loser.”
4 I once met a girl who would write the word “slut” in permanent marker on her belly before every first date to prevent herself from hooking up. Harsh? Yes. But effective? Absolutely.
Chapter two
oops! . . . i did it again
saturday, april 2
Thump, thump, thump.
I hear a loud thumping at the door and wonder who’s visiting me at such an ungodly hour. I’m not really a morning person, and all my friends know this.
Thump, thump, thump.
Oh, there it goes again. When I open my eyes to look at the clock next to me, I quickly realize three things: One, no one’s knocking on my door—the thumping I’m hearing is a pounding headache. Two, it’s not some ungodly hour—it’s one o’clock in the afternoon. And three, the clock that tells me so isn’t mine; nor is the table it’s sitting on. I have no idea where I am.
The sun is pouring in from a window behind me and beating down on my neck. The smell of alcohol, which I assume is coming from me, fills the room. As I look around, I notice some familiar things . . . my brown purse, my shoes, my crumpled-up skirt, and my—
Whoa, wait.
That’s not mine.
Could it be . . .? No, it couldn’t possibly be . . . a braided belt?
Oh, God, no. Say it isn’t so.
Please tell me it’s not.
I mean, I wouldn’t. I couldn’t!
Please tell me I didn’t . . . shack up . . . with Roger!
“Hey there, sexy,” says a familiar and somewhat scratchy voice from behind me.
Holy shit, I did.
No! No! No! No! No! No! Noooooooooo!
I try to remain calm but can’t. My mind is too hazy from last night’s margaritas and I’m completely naked, lying one foot away from the man I despise most in the world. How could I have let this happen? I mean, no amount of liquor could make Roger even remotely desirable. He’s not cute, he’s not funny—he’s Roger, for God’s sake! He must have slipped me a mickey last night because there’s no way I would’ve voluntarily chosen to come back here with him.
As a wave of nausea comes over me, I bolt out of bed, scramble to gather my belongings, and run to the bathroom. Once I arrive, I lock the door behind me and turn around to find myself face-to-fac
e with—
Oh, Lord . . .
—the hairiest toilet I’ve ever seen. I’m barely able to kneel before getting sick. While throwing up, with tears streaming down my face, I pray . . .
Dear God, why me? Why have you chosen to punish me this way? Is it because I despise Christian rock bands? I know they spread your good word, but let’s be honest—most of them suck. Is it because I eat meat on Fridays during Lent? Is that it? If so, I’ll never do it again, I swear. Please, God, whatever I did, whatever it was, I’m sorry! Please, God, just make last night go away and I promise . . . I’ll never drink again!
After saying three Hail Marys and five Our Fathers, I close my eyes and click my heels, hoping that, like Dorothy, I’ll be magically transported home. But no such luck. When I open my eyes, not only do I find myself still kneeling in front of the world’s hairiest toilet, but, to make matters worse, I’m now connected to it by a long string of spit.
I’ve become one with the hairy toilet.
I get sick again.
Afterwards, I try to remember the previous night, I try to remember how this happened. The last thing I remember is singing Destiny’s Child at karaoke: “I’m a SURVIVOR! I’m not gonna GIVE UP! I’m not gonna STOP! I’m gonna work HARDER!” I was good, too. People were cheering me on, hands were in the air—it was like American Bandstand. I even stood on a table while belting out the end of the song to make sure I went out with rock-star status. And then I think I saw Roger . . .
Yessssss. Oh shit, yesssss! Yes, I did!!!!
I remember it a little more clearly now. After singing, I was feeling positive and optimistic about my future, when Roger showed up with another coworker. People weren’t being very nice to him and I thought it was funny, thought he deserved every snide remark he was getting. But as people became more rude, I started to feel bad. Someone threw a piece of ice at his head, and then, while a group of people were singing the “Copacabana,” someone else changed the words and sang, “His name was Roger, he was a jackass. He pulled his pants way up his butt, just to get them over his gut.” Roger tried to laugh it all off, of course, but I could tell he was embarrassed—anyone would be. I walked over and said hello.