In my mind, the rest of the evening was a soaking wet and disasterous montage. Scattered images of yours truly running through drenched city streets since fate had ironically decided to start a downpour the second I peeped through Aidan's master bathroom door. It is eerie how I can only mostly remember the sound of rain in each of those still lifes. First, the spitting stream from Aidan's shower, lit through the steam, where I witnessed not only my boyfriend but the naked girl who was with him. A skinny little size zero with no breasts and a Brazillian wax job. Next the crack of thunder and rushing of blood as I smacked my head on the door trying to flee the crime scene. Then the gushed static of Tom's cell's bad reception when he agreed to meet me at his place. And finally the plopping of huge raindrops and the sweep of the windshield wipers in my downtown cab.
I paid the fare and got out at Tom's sprawling apartment community, breaking one of the heels of my fuck-me pumps as I dashed into the main lobby. He was waiting at the door with a fluffy towel, complete with a Floridian sunset design, and the most perfectly chilled vodka martini.
"Jesus, what the fuck happened?" These five words were all that I'd been thinking too, but Tom vocalized it as I downed the martini and sunk into his overstuffed couch. "I called Kate, she's on her way. Melanie, too, and that crazy lesbian pagan girl she's been hanging out. What's her name? Lotus or something. They're all bringing more booze." He lined up five more martini glasses and filled each with double olives, then emptied his freezer tray of ice into a decanter and doused it with more vodka.
"Those'll get warm before they get here," I croaked, my voice as froggy as I must have looked.
"Bitch, these are for you," he smirked.
Monday, September 6, 2010
1.5 Leather and Granite. Such a Guy Thing.
If you knew me, you'd know I was a total freak. Since you don't, I'll have to make the admission that I'm weirdly into looking through other people's stuff. When I was a little girl, my parents were always so guarded when I'd ask to use the bathroom in their friends houses. Mostly because they knew that it was really just a clever ruse to raid medicine cabinets or look through bedroom closets. It wasn't about stealing, of course. That was wrong. For me it was more about unlocking secrets through hidden treasured objects.
I felt the same pang of giddiness as I unlatched both deadbolts on Aidan's apartment door and slipped inside. His place is such a bachelor pad, but in an upscale, less slimey way and without the stereotypical clap-on disco ball and Barry White playing over loud speakers. It actually kind of reminds me of a chic hotel with its dark hardwood floors, white furniture with a splash of red throw pillows and heavy, chocolate brown black-out curtains. To the immediate right of the door is a galley kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Past the living room is his bedroom and the impressively simple Japanese platform bed, completely finished in a lush design spread set. Some girls would drool, I just wept.
I slung my purse over the couch and put the flowers on the coffee table, curiously running my hands over the cool, smooth leather of the stools by the bar height cutout that peered through the dining room. I was imagining this place was mine. In the back of my mind, I was still that little girl poking through medicine cabinets. Since it was still too early for him to be home, did I have time to peek in his hall closet? All in the name of research, of course.
That was when I noticed the other set of flowers. Exquisite red roses, steeped in a vase in the kitchen sink. Funny how there was no card. Also funny how after a minute of staring at his sink I didn't realize that since I'd opened the door I could hear the water running in his bathroom shower. I felt that giddy sensation again--he must have come home early so he could plan a night with me. I picked up a rose and played it against my cheek. Tom's advice was stupid. I should have known better than to think Aidan, of all men, was cheating on me.
I felt the same pang of giddiness as I unlatched both deadbolts on Aidan's apartment door and slipped inside. His place is such a bachelor pad, but in an upscale, less slimey way and without the stereotypical clap-on disco ball and Barry White playing over loud speakers. It actually kind of reminds me of a chic hotel with its dark hardwood floors, white furniture with a splash of red throw pillows and heavy, chocolate brown black-out curtains. To the immediate right of the door is a galley kitchen with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. Past the living room is his bedroom and the impressively simple Japanese platform bed, completely finished in a lush design spread set. Some girls would drool, I just wept.
I slung my purse over the couch and put the flowers on the coffee table, curiously running my hands over the cool, smooth leather of the stools by the bar height cutout that peered through the dining room. I was imagining this place was mine. In the back of my mind, I was still that little girl poking through medicine cabinets. Since it was still too early for him to be home, did I have time to peek in his hall closet? All in the name of research, of course.
That was when I noticed the other set of flowers. Exquisite red roses, steeped in a vase in the kitchen sink. Funny how there was no card. Also funny how after a minute of staring at his sink I didn't realize that since I'd opened the door I could hear the water running in his bathroom shower. I felt that giddy sensation again--he must have come home early so he could plan a night with me. I picked up a rose and played it against my cheek. Tom's advice was stupid. I should have known better than to think Aidan, of all men, was cheating on me.
Monday, August 30, 2010
1.4 Don't Stop. Stopping Means Bad Mojo Jojo.
That night, I left work early so I could plan. Throughout the day my Inbox bleeped cheerfully in an unending wave of interested literary agents and desperately seeking hopefuls trying to butt their way through the process and ultimately have our firm publish their works. Either way, I wasn't interested. I was thinking of the fuck-me pumps back at my loft style apartment, and the dinner reservations which would ultimately satisfy my need for Aidan to profess his undying love. In retrospect, I realize how insane this was, considering what fortune lie ahead for me.
The checklist that night included the following: check one, the little black dress I found hanging in a consignment store window the week before. Check two, the aforementioned fuck-me pumps which Tom approved of, after comedically retching off my Juliet balcony before God and several terrified street walkers alike. Check three, my personal favorite, L'ode à L'éternité, a French perfume which almost cost an entire paycheck but was worth it when it came to Aidan. And check four, most important, a haircut in the city, which was priceless when you consider the importance of the perfect bob when you're trying to cover up the fact that you've gained four pounds in the last week.
It was just my luck that there was a new doorman to Aidan's apartment building, and he gave me a quick looking over before accepting my story of a girlfriend, desperate for affection, who wanted to just take her man for a night on the town.
Most of this "looking over" involved staring into my cleavage.
The doorman wasn't even the problem, at least for the most part. Sure, like every woman I wanted to be seen for what I was--a good girl, a good career, despite several neuroses. No, it was the gilt framed mirror that caused a pause in the clipping of my fuck-me pumps across the marble floors. I angled my profile and stuck out my chest. I did the most that I could for a size four. And all I saw was the perfection of my boyfriend's body. The body, oh the body. My body was electric. I broke my gaze, summoned the elevator, and hit the button for the penthouse suite.
The checklist that night included the following: check one, the little black dress I found hanging in a consignment store window the week before. Check two, the aforementioned fuck-me pumps which Tom approved of, after comedically retching off my Juliet balcony before God and several terrified street walkers alike. Check three, my personal favorite, L'ode à L'éternité, a French perfume which almost cost an entire paycheck but was worth it when it came to Aidan. And check four, most important, a haircut in the city, which was priceless when you consider the importance of the perfect bob when you're trying to cover up the fact that you've gained four pounds in the last week.
It was just my luck that there was a new doorman to Aidan's apartment building, and he gave me a quick looking over before accepting my story of a girlfriend, desperate for affection, who wanted to just take her man for a night on the town.
Most of this "looking over" involved staring into my cleavage.
The doorman wasn't even the problem, at least for the most part. Sure, like every woman I wanted to be seen for what I was--a good girl, a good career, despite several neuroses. No, it was the gilt framed mirror that caused a pause in the clipping of my fuck-me pumps across the marble floors. I angled my profile and stuck out my chest. I did the most that I could for a size four. And all I saw was the perfection of my boyfriend's body. The body, oh the body. My body was electric. I broke my gaze, summoned the elevator, and hit the button for the penthouse suite.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
1.3 Organization Lessons.
I think a lot these days about the classic "life flashes before your eyes" paradigm that supposedly occurs when you're about to die, and I can't help but wonder if this doesn't apply to states of utter catastrophe as well. Case in point, that little voice in the back of your head that starts to outline all the decisions that lead you up to the point of ruin, degradation and decimation. In my case, the voice is narrated by a senior acquisitions editor at my publishing firm. "Cause and effect, Carly," he so often quips when I'm fielding books in the slush pile, albeit a little too early in the morning. And with majorly heinous coffee breath. "Look for the cause and effect."
I'm never quite sure what he means, but I always smile and nod and hold my breath until he's gone.
The morning before the night that changed my life forever, he said just such a thing in a smelly, sage-like voice. Kate, one of the office assistants, and my second closest friend next to Tom, just happened to be in the office kitchen heating her lunch when he was baraging me with this wisdom. Thankfully, she offered us both some gum with the stealth of a spearmint sworded ninja.
"So what's the plan?" she asked eagerly once he'd left, clearly buzzed from her morning frappaccino. "You sure you don't want me to go to the florist for you?"
She was referring to the last time I bought cut flowers and learned that I'm terribly allergic to certain varieties of daisies. Also, as I mentioned, I'm clumsy. All those expensive porcelain vases carrying a deadly triage of daisies on precarious columns did nothing to soothe my credit card debt that summer. At least not when the angry store manager was demanding retribution and I was lying on the floor in front of him, sneezing with the remains of a Burmese orchid and dirt in my hair.
"Nope, I ordered on their website. It's being delivered to my house this afternoon so he doesn't suspect anything."
"Dinner reservations?" she asked.
"La Bonne Nourriture. Eight thirty. On the back patio facing the river. I made sure."
"Classy. Condoms?"
At that I laughed. When she wants to be, Kate is about as subtle as an elephant. "Got it covered."
She offered a kind "uh huh" and went back to her desk. Sometimes it's good to have friends who are more organized than you are. They think of everything.
I'm never quite sure what he means, but I always smile and nod and hold my breath until he's gone.
The morning before the night that changed my life forever, he said just such a thing in a smelly, sage-like voice. Kate, one of the office assistants, and my second closest friend next to Tom, just happened to be in the office kitchen heating her lunch when he was baraging me with this wisdom. Thankfully, she offered us both some gum with the stealth of a spearmint sworded ninja.
"So what's the plan?" she asked eagerly once he'd left, clearly buzzed from her morning frappaccino. "You sure you don't want me to go to the florist for you?"
She was referring to the last time I bought cut flowers and learned that I'm terribly allergic to certain varieties of daisies. Also, as I mentioned, I'm clumsy. All those expensive porcelain vases carrying a deadly triage of daisies on precarious columns did nothing to soothe my credit card debt that summer. At least not when the angry store manager was demanding retribution and I was lying on the floor in front of him, sneezing with the remains of a Burmese orchid and dirt in my hair.
"Nope, I ordered on their website. It's being delivered to my house this afternoon so he doesn't suspect anything."
"Dinner reservations?" she asked.
"La Bonne Nourriture. Eight thirty. On the back patio facing the river. I made sure."
"Classy. Condoms?"
At that I laughed. When she wants to be, Kate is about as subtle as an elephant. "Got it covered."
She offered a kind "uh huh" and went back to her desk. Sometimes it's good to have friends who are more organized than you are. They think of everything.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
1.2 Advice. Delicious Custard. Both Cost You in the End.
The meal was spectacular as usual, despite my inherent clumsiness when it comes to martini glasses and the utterly fickle nature of gravity. Thankfully we’d gotten the friendly waiter instead of the older, ham-handed woman who reminds me a bit of my mother. He didn’t seem to mind when, during a more heated spell of conversation, I stretched my hands to illustrate how many women in the city wouldn’t mind committing a few carnal acts with my boyfriend and subsequently knocked the glass on the floor. At least, the waiter didn’t mind. Tom made several clucking noises and then a few lewd eye movements focusing primarily on the waiter’s ass as he bent down to sop up the mess I’d made.
Typical Tom.
The conversation lapsed sometime around nine as our bodies fully realized the extent of the self-induced food coma. Tom was furiously texting some boy he was dating and I was lost in the thoughts about how much gym time I’d need to work off the all the cream in the crème brulee ramekin before me.
“You know that’s rude, right?” Tom said without looking up from his phone.
“What?”
“Being melancholy at the dinner table, for one. Major faux paus. You’re thinking about the elliptical again, aren’t you?” His Blackberry beeped again and I laughed.
“What about texting at the dinner table?”
“That’s only rude on a date,” he winked, but he did put the phone away. He then leaned into the table and put his arms up, fingers together in a psychiatrist’s steeple. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Do about what?” I asked, oblivious, still doing leg reps in my mind.
He sighed and rolled his eyes. “About your man. You can’t be serious about thinking he’s cheating on you.”
I didn’t have an answer for that one. At least not a good one. I started to do a current relationship checklist tally in my mind. I’d been dating Aidan for two years. I’d met his parents and he met mine, we’d just spent a weekend in Atlantic City last month, and the sex was still explosive. I have the key to his apartment. We hadn’t had any serious conversations about where the relationship was headed, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Why did I think I was losing him?
Tom was reading the look on my face. “You’re still stuck on the ‘let’s talk about us’ bit.”
“Well, it’s been awhile. How long is too long before you’re supposed to stop talking dating and start meaning forever?”
“You’re such a cliché,” he grinned, then relaxed his arms, stretched, and took a forkful of his lemon layer cake. “I don’t know why you don’t just say something. Make some dinner reservations and surprise him or something, like a slow romantic evening, rose petals on the bed, the whole bit. Then after you’ve wined him and dined him and fucked him, sneak attack him with ‘Where’s my ring, bastard?’”
I giggled. “You know, you have a point.”
It turned out this was the advice changed my life forever.
Typical Tom.
The conversation lapsed sometime around nine as our bodies fully realized the extent of the self-induced food coma. Tom was furiously texting some boy he was dating and I was lost in the thoughts about how much gym time I’d need to work off the all the cream in the crème brulee ramekin before me.
“You know that’s rude, right?” Tom said without looking up from his phone.
“What?”
“Being melancholy at the dinner table, for one. Major faux paus. You’re thinking about the elliptical again, aren’t you?” His Blackberry beeped again and I laughed.
“What about texting at the dinner table?”
“That’s only rude on a date,” he winked, but he did put the phone away. He then leaned into the table and put his arms up, fingers together in a psychiatrist’s steeple. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Do about what?” I asked, oblivious, still doing leg reps in my mind.
He sighed and rolled his eyes. “About your man. You can’t be serious about thinking he’s cheating on you.”
I didn’t have an answer for that one. At least not a good one. I started to do a current relationship checklist tally in my mind. I’d been dating Aidan for two years. I’d met his parents and he met mine, we’d just spent a weekend in Atlantic City last month, and the sex was still explosive. I have the key to his apartment. We hadn’t had any serious conversations about where the relationship was headed, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Why did I think I was losing him?
Tom was reading the look on my face. “You’re still stuck on the ‘let’s talk about us’ bit.”
“Well, it’s been awhile. How long is too long before you’re supposed to stop talking dating and start meaning forever?”
“You’re such a cliché,” he grinned, then relaxed his arms, stretched, and took a forkful of his lemon layer cake. “I don’t know why you don’t just say something. Make some dinner reservations and surprise him or something, like a slow romantic evening, rose petals on the bed, the whole bit. Then after you’ve wined him and dined him and fucked him, sneak attack him with ‘Where’s my ring, bastard?’”
I giggled. “You know, you have a point.”
It turned out this was the advice changed my life forever.
1.1 Admonishments Mean Nothing Between Friends
I stared longingly into the swirling pink chill of my cosmopolitan. "He's got to be. I gained four pounds last week and he's not the type of guy that stays with a girl who gains four pounds in one week."
"Is this like back when Tammy Oreman started calling you names after you wore those pink hot pants during your presentation on transcendentalists in English Lit?"
A chill went down my spine. Tammy was sleeping with half of the football team at the time, and recently I'd heard that she'd moved to DC and gone on to be a high powered attorney. Two guesses on how she got partnership. "I don't even remember what she called me," I winced, almost forming a question sound on the "me" because my voice cracked.
At that his eyes darted over my face as he sharply took a sip of his vodka martini. Then Tom smiled demonically and I could almost feel the red hot horns growing from his temples. "Hmm, as I remember it had something to do with your last name..."
"Carly Big Hams," I let slip, barely realizing I'd said anything.
"I told you not to wear those hot pants."
At that I smiled. "I seem to remember Tammy got a nickname after that. Someone started calling her Tammy Whoreman."
Tom feigned rubbing his fingernails over his vintage paisley shirt. "Not one of the best nicknames I could have done, but someone had to tell that girl where to shove it."
"Is this like back when Tammy Oreman started calling you names after you wore those pink hot pants during your presentation on transcendentalists in English Lit?"
A chill went down my spine. Tammy was sleeping with half of the football team at the time, and recently I'd heard that she'd moved to DC and gone on to be a high powered attorney. Two guesses on how she got partnership. "I don't even remember what she called me," I winced, almost forming a question sound on the "me" because my voice cracked.
At that his eyes darted over my face as he sharply took a sip of his vodka martini. Then Tom smiled demonically and I could almost feel the red hot horns growing from his temples. "Hmm, as I remember it had something to do with your last name..."
"Carly Big Hams," I let slip, barely realizing I'd said anything.
"I told you not to wear those hot pants."
At that I smiled. "I seem to remember Tammy got a nickname after that. Someone started calling her Tammy Whoreman."
Tom feigned rubbing his fingernails over his vintage paisley shirt. "Not one of the best nicknames I could have done, but someone had to tell that girl where to shove it."
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
1.0 Boys. And Fancy Ghosts of the Gay Variety
In the beginning there was Aidan, and he was good.
And he looked good. Imagine the heavens shining down on his chiseled pectorals or his jawline, which despite the unshaved stubble could. cut. glass. It was as though, for him, the heavens could shine down sun or pour heavy rain, and he could alternatively tan on our super high school beach vacation or appear on my roof as a Greek god in his low cut, boot cut jeans with no shirt on. Fuck, the life of a god. I wonder now, clutching my umbrella against my conditioned-to-perfection and wonderfully diva-bobbed brow, if what had occured between us wasn't more of divine intervention than the mockery of an every day life gone horribly awry.
My name is Carly Hans, and I put two teaspoons of sugar on my grapefruit that morning, then regretted not using Splenda. Now that I don't watch carbohydrates or fat intake, I indulged in three Boston cream doughnuts, a caramel macchiato and two spoonfuls of marshmellow fluff. And I'm still a size two.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
That's my gay friend Tom, playing with his caesar salad at the Fifth Street Cafe on the Southside after several attempts to convince him that Aidan has been cheating on me. We were in the back dining room since Tom always says he can't eat on the patio when he imagines flies swarming over his dinner plate like "those damned kids in Sally Struthers commercials." Tom has been my bestie since I was wearing blue eyeshadow and listened to Journey in my '84 Plymouth Horizon back in senior year of high school. He's also as gay as the Sound of Music meets West Side Story, and I never approve of his language.
"That man ain't cheating on you. And if he's up for the option, give him my number."
And he looked good. Imagine the heavens shining down on his chiseled pectorals or his jawline, which despite the unshaved stubble could. cut. glass. It was as though, for him, the heavens could shine down sun or pour heavy rain, and he could alternatively tan on our super high school beach vacation or appear on my roof as a Greek god in his low cut, boot cut jeans with no shirt on. Fuck, the life of a god. I wonder now, clutching my umbrella against my conditioned-to-perfection and wonderfully diva-bobbed brow, if what had occured between us wasn't more of divine intervention than the mockery of an every day life gone horribly awry.
My name is Carly Hans, and I put two teaspoons of sugar on my grapefruit that morning, then regretted not using Splenda. Now that I don't watch carbohydrates or fat intake, I indulged in three Boston cream doughnuts, a caramel macchiato and two spoonfuls of marshmellow fluff. And I'm still a size two.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
That's my gay friend Tom, playing with his caesar salad at the Fifth Street Cafe on the Southside after several attempts to convince him that Aidan has been cheating on me. We were in the back dining room since Tom always says he can't eat on the patio when he imagines flies swarming over his dinner plate like "those damned kids in Sally Struthers commercials." Tom has been my bestie since I was wearing blue eyeshadow and listened to Journey in my '84 Plymouth Horizon back in senior year of high school. He's also as gay as the Sound of Music meets West Side Story, and I never approve of his language.
"That man ain't cheating on you. And if he's up for the option, give him my number."
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