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Authors: Kristen McGuiness

51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life (17 page)

BOOK: 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life

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The Wednesday before, my boss Noelle called me into her office. Recently a manager position in our fundraising department had opened up, and I got the feeling by all her dropped hints that it might be mine.

“How hard are you willing to work?” she asked me.

“Noelle, you know how hard I can work. I’m already taking classes in fundraising. This job is for me.” I didn’t stutter. I didn’t doubt myself. Just as fate brought me to our wonderful organization so many years before, so fate created the perfect job into which for me to move.

Noelle took my hand in hers and smiled. “It’s yours.”

Later that day I accompanied her on my first fundraising tour of our Charter School. We showed the prospective donors our incredible classrooms, our children, our belief that we are all made of stars and deserve the chance to sparkle. I never would have expected that this work could bring me such joy. As I watched our kids run up to Noelle, looking up at her as their hero, this woman who has brought them opportunity as much as hope, I wanted to hug her too. Because she did the same thing for me. And now I stand on the verge of that opportunity. As the children I know came up and gave me hugs too, as one of my favorite students handed me a heart she drew for me, as Noelle smiled over to where I knelt, talking with a little boy about his art project, I knew that though I might be willing to do the work, something else quite powerful actually got me here.

And if I could identify that new God, it would be the Sparkling Ribbon of Time. It would be that great mass of energy that got those molecules moshing up against each other in the first place. It would be the hazy clusters of life and movement that keep our earth spinning, that make the mountains form, that show us that we can’t do it on our own. And for every pendant in our own life, for every Jimmy, for every Siren, for every Noelle and new job, there will be another sparkling gem soon on its heels, showing us that we are cared for. Even when we feel absolutely alone while walking through the Griffith Park Observatory, we are cared for.

“That’s a ridiculous illustration,” Peter scoffs. He is standing next to me, staring at the jewelry. He shakes his head, disappointed. “Fucking L.A.”

He wanders off, and I smile. Because he’s right. You could only find such an illustration of God made out of costume jewelry in L.A. And I’m okay with the fact that Peter isn’t for me. In fact, I’m a little excited. Because I wonder what my next gem will look like. I wonder whether he’ll be the bright diamond brooch, or the pearl ring, or the turquoise pendant. I wonder who he will be.

We finish the tour and grab lunch at the museum café. We sit outside and look at the incredible view of Los Angeles, and though we have been able to talk easily on all the dates thus far, we’re a little quiet now. We know we won’t go out again. We sit under a beautiful tree in the shade as the city, in all its hazy glory, spreads out before us.

Date Twenty-Two: The Schmoos

I walk up to my Tuesday night meeting for sober people who want to stay that way and have to pause to catch my breath. Jimmy Voltage stands there talking with some small little hipster girl with her tattoos and fringe bag and old fake riding boots. I can hear her giggling half a block away, and I cringe. I try to casually take the last drag off my cigarette, crushing it out with the toe of my work shoe. This was not the night to run into Jimmy. I am not wearing makeup; I am wearing argyle and Banana Republic slacks. There is nothing cool or fringe or cowgirl about me. I look like any other conservative professional, with my hair in a bun and my work bag hanging limply from my shoulder. Jimmy looks up and sees me. He smiles warmly, and so I breathe it in, walk up, and say “hello.” He instantly grabs me in a hug for which I am wholly unprepared, making me practically trip into his embrace. But it is warm and comfortable, and I am sad when he pulls away. The schmoo to whom he was talking still stands there, staring at her competition, and I can tell she is relatively confused as to why Jimmy is hugging the yuppie.

The term “schmoo” is Siren’s claim to fame. It doesn’t stand for anything, except that it does. It stands for the easy girls, and we don’t mean sluts. No, the schmoos are what my gay friend Tommy refers to as “Ikea girlfriends” because you can put them together without reading the instructions. It’s not that they’re not smart. They typically are. They studied women’s history or geology in college. They get graduate degrees in social work. They do needlepoint or garden. They have a dog named after an obscure musician (Costello, or Niko, or even Ramone). And they stand there looking up into the eyes of one Jimmy Voltage, giggling and talking about last weekend’s “show,” and they don’t show an ounce of the insecurity that lies beneath all of our surfaces.

Because the schmoo is lacking in the one thing that makes dating so incredibly painful and awkward for women like Siren and me—they don’t have ego. I mean, sure, they have enough to survive. They’re actually incredibly confident and cool and uncomplicated, but that’s the thing, ego isn’t confidence. It’s the part of you that tells you that you are so much better than the schmoo, that she is the Ikea girlfriend and you are
Architectural Digest
. Then you tell yourself, perhaps with some honesty, perhaps with self-sabotage, that you will never win. And so, we anti-schmoos give awkward hugs and sleep with guys on the first date. At times, we act like we are the greatest things on the earth; other times we are on our knees, begging for them to stay.

Three days later, I find myself sitting across the table at Canter’s, a local Jewish deli, with my date Rob. Rob is the organic nutritionist with the PhD. And unfortunately for him, I find myself trying to forget yet another man on one of our dates. But this time, it’s not Oliver; it’s that damn schmoo lover I have been doing so good not thinking about. But perhaps even more disappointing is that between the last date and this one, Rob has shown some disturbing personality trends.

I was supposed to go out with Rob the night before but had gone to the dentist after work and found myself with three fillings and a mind-numbing amount of pain afterwards. I called Rob to reschedule. He had just left work and as I told him about the pain I was in, I could hear him scoff.

“What’s wrong, Rob?” I asked.

“Nothing. It’s just, it’s Friday night, you know. You really shouldn’t be canceling a date last minute on a Friday night.”

“I’m in bed, Rob. I’m in pain.”

“I know, I hear ya. Still, it’s Friday night. It’s a little rude.”

Something in my gut says I should hang up on the guy, that I should cancel the date, but whether it’s my good manners, or the place in me that still wants to beg people to stay, I don’t. I apologized again, I hung up the phone, and I put in the movie
Rear Window
.

Oliver once said that I resembled Grace Kelly, not so much in my looks, but in my demeanor. When watching her last night, I understand why. Because though she looks fairly cool and collected, she is actually a fast-talking spaz under the surface, and when her mouth gets going, all she can hear is herself. And in
Rear Window
she is the perfect woman; so perfect that Jimmy Stewart is afraid to marry her because he thinks he would prefer someone more bland, someone more schmoo. Grace gets him in the end. But then again, she’s Grace Kelly. She married a prince. And of course Jimmy Stewart is so much like my Jimmy here that I cannot help but feel that this is how the universe laughs at us.

“It’s been three years for me,” I say as I tell Rob how single I am over dinner. I know I sound a little morose. I sound like all my dates who just shrug once they realize they’re not interested. I don’t even hide the fact that I am depressed.

“Wow, three years, what’s wrong with you?” He laughs and then bites into the pastrami and rye that has just arrived. Apparently Rob might teach others about organic diets, but he himself can dig a meat sandwich from time to time.

“I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to figure that out.” I shovel a large spoonful of potato salad into my mouth. I talk with my mouth full. “And you? Ever been married?”

“No, I was close once, but it didn’t happen.”

I tell him how Siren and I are bored by the male sex. “I guess we’re just beginning to feel like you’re all so predictable. And we adore you, we do. It’s just, well, we have your number. And that’s dangerous. It’s dangerous to not be surprised.”

Rob laughs. “What are we, recipes or something?”

“Kind of.”

“I think,” he jokes, “I would be a cranberry pomegranate reduction —pretends he has read more books than he actually has and masturbates twice a week.”

“Mmm, yeah, except for you’re lying.” I take down another flight of potatoes as I mumble through them, “You masturbate more than that.”

“And lies about how much he masturbates,” Rob quips.

I have to laugh at that. And then I decide to just drop one.

“I quit masturbating,” I say.

Rob shakes himself. “What?”

“Yeah. My libido is just gone.” Rob might be shocked but not as much as I am.

“I have an idea,” Rob says. I brace myself. He suggests that we go to a sex shop around the corner.

“We won’t buy anything; we’ll just see if we can reprogram you,” he suggests.

“I don’t know.”

“I promise we’ll keep it innocent. No matter what, we will end our night with a kiss on the cheek.”

And that’s a plan I can agree to. We spend the next hour jousting with dildos and making dirty sounds between the shelves and trying to figure out how someone could look themselves in the mirror after fucking a foam pussy. I actually begin to forget about Jimmy and about Rob’s previous behavior because this is fun. We leave the sex shop, laughing and bumping into each other in the parking lot. I drive him back to his car, and I pull over. It’s a busy street, and I am in the red. There are people walking by, so I don’t take my foot off the brake. I don’t put the car in park. I don’t even undo my seatbelt because I am hoping that Rob and I will keep our pact to go to the sex shop and end the night with a kiss on the cheek. Rob undoes his seat belt and turns toward me.

“All right,” Rob announces. “I am going to try to kiss you again, even while you attempt to fend me off.”

“Rob, I’m sorry, but that’s exactly what I am going to do. Can’t we just do what we said? Can’t we just end it with a kiss on the cheek?”

“Whatever.” He leans in, and I think he is smart and is going for the peck, but suddenly I feel his tongue pushing into my mouth, and it’s wrong. I keep my mouth closed, and Rob pulls away.

“You’re really not going to kiss me?” he hisses.

“No, I told you that. I want to take this slow, please.”

“It’s our second date. That is slow!”

“So? Is there some rule in place?” I’m a little taken aback.

But Rob gets pissed. “That’s bullshit.”

This guy really is an asshole. “I’m sorry, Rob. But if I don’t feel like kissing you, then why should I?”

“Because we’re not ten. I bought you dinner; we had a fun night. You normally end a date like that with a kiss.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Well, you’re a freak,” he says, and quite frankly I think we’re both surprised by his behavior. Silence. I let that one sit there.

“Look, Rob, that is just how I feel, and if you’re not interested in going along with that, I won’t take any offense. Really.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just weird to me, that’s all.” Rob tries to back down. But the card has been played, and from here on out whatever Rob might say or do has been destroyed by the word still bouncing around my car. We just went to a sex shop together. We talked about masturbation and terminal singlehood. We had fun. And he ruined it. Rob gets out of my car, and though I know he feels bad, it doesn’t change anything. I can’t help but wonder if my instincts actually worked this time.

And so I hope that I can apply those same instincts to Jimmy. After the meeting is over on Tuesday, he saunters over and asks me how I am. Except he pulls me back up into that same hug, and though I am so confused, I try to focus. I try not to act all crazy Grace Kelly, but I can’t.

“Guess what?” I nearly yell in his face. “I got a promotion at work!”

Jimmy still has his arms around my waist, and mine are around his shoulders.

BOOK: 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life

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