Spooning (13 page)

“I don't like roughage anyway,” I assured her. “Can we change the subject now?” Macie picked a feather from under her left thigh.

“Okay,” she said grinning. “Did I mention that I was a spring chicken last night? And damn, was I plucked!” Way to sum it up, Mace!

Better Than Ben Affleck Dessert

Serves 6–8

Crust

Preheat oven to 350° F. Mix the crust ingredients together with spoon. Pat into greased 13 × 9-inch pan. Bake crust for 15 to 20 minutes till golden brown. Remove the crust from oven and let it cool
.

First Layer

Mix the powdered sugar, cream cheese, and Cool Whip with electric mixer and pour mixture on top of cooled crust
.

Second Layer

Mix the Jell-O and milk with electric mixer slowly until it thickens. Spread on top of cream cheese mixture
.

Third Layer

Spread Cool Whip on top of Jell-O layer

Fourth Layer

Sprinkle chocolate shavings all over the top of the dessert. Refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours.

Serve to your sassiest single ladies. You'll have even the biggest skeptics asking, “Ben who?”

I
n New York City, the fall is one of the friendliest times of the year. The air is not too humid, it's crisp and refreshing. There are usually a few last days of Indian summer spattered here and there. You can still dine at one of the hundreds of outdoor cafes that line the various avenues and streets, or you can cozy up in one of those quaint back garden restaurants in Little Italy. You can thankfully dress to the nines and not have to worry about donning a bulky winter wrap … yet. You can drink to Columbus, Halloween, the New York City Marathon, or to the Veterans.

True to form, my first November in New York arrived with a lot of hype and expectation. Holiday sales began right after Halloween, so window shopping was the sport of choice. The pre- holiday season allowed for guiltless shopping—it's better to give
than to receive—shop, shop! One can't help but be optimistic as Christmas carols are blared from street performers' trumpets and keyboards at every intersection. Even the ringing of the Salvation Army's bells seemed to harmonize with the taxis' horns. Second to the sport of credit card swiping, one of New York's premier athletic events, the New York Marathon, always held on the first weekend in November, was fast approaching.

The city was so eager to capitalize on the marathon that it was practically boiling huge pots of carbo-loaded pasta for the runners who were about to descend upon the city from around the world. None of us, meaning me and my girls, was running. After our collective Halloween dinner party debauchery, we had all theorized about running it one day—one day in the distant future. But on Marathon Sunday, we all decided to meet at mile 25, located on the east side of Central Park South, for inspiration. Syd showed up looking confused. The cops had reworked the traffic patterns. The roads that ran east now ran west and vice versa—and the transit restructuring had drastically affected the city and its inhabitants.

“Good God, there are cops everywhere!” she fumed. “One of 'em wouldn't even let me near Tavern on the Green! Totally annoying.”

“Syd, that's because it's the finish line and you are not a runner,” Macie explained.

“Yes, but I always use the bathroom there after I have my soda and pretzel from the guy on Seventy-ninth Street, and he wouldn't let me near it!”

Meanwhile, Tara was cheering on the marathon runners as they went by. Most of them wore their names scribbled onto their shirts, and Tara, always good at getting close to people, was making intimate athletic connections on the sidelines.

“You go, Gary!” she screamed. “Shake those arms out or you'll cramp up! Go, Suzy, go! Hon, you can see your butt crack, hike those shorts up!” You could tell that she was going to be one fanatical soccer mom someday. “Come on, get going, Tyrone!”

“Jesus, Tara, I would break my stride to run over and deck you if you told me to ‘get going’ at mile twenty-five,” scolded Macie. Tara just shrugged and unzipped her Juicy sweatshirt a bit.

“And why are you wearing a jogging suit when you are clearly not running?” Sage asked her.

“Why to blend in, of course. But I want to blend in and look good … not be puking in the bushes with my knees knocking and my hair matted down with sweat.” She gave another thumbs up to a nearby runner who was in just such a state.

“If you really want to blend in, you need your name on your sweatshirt,” suggested Wade. “Maybe you should have that top monogrammed?”

“I'd rather get my phone number tattooed on the back,” Tara laughed, “8–6-7–5-3–0-9!”

A
bout an hour later, post a finish line photo op to remember our classic New York moment, we arrived at Top Shelf, ready to celebrate the marathon that we had not taken part in. Each and every bar on Broadway was packed, with lines out the doors due to the proximity to the finish line. It occurred to me that my father would have a field day making a math problem out of the situation. I'd figured you could calculate how many New Yorkers were
not
running the marathon simply by watching the bar bathroom lines. Subtract that number from the
total city population and you'd know just how many runners had to be from out of state or from the other side of the world.

“I'd be pretty pissed if I was running, and the rest of the city was boozing,” Wade remarked. “If I ran next year, would y'all come cheer me on or would you be scoping out the best bar stools?”

“Honey, I'd be standing on my bar stool and toasting your mighty fine running posture as you breezed by!” answered Tara.

Speaking of the sheer numbers, the bathroom lines on this Sunday afternoon were approximately twenty-five to forty-five minutes long. The boys' line, of course, moved efficiently. The girls' line, however, was stagnant. A fellow GBL (girls' bathroom liner) and I decided that the bathroom process was a lot like running the marathon: You trained your muscles before- hand—kegel exercises allowed one to hold it for as long as possible; once in the middle of the throng, you bonded with other participants—over the course of twenty minutes, we decided that we were supposed to be best friends after this trying experience; you begin to cheer on everyone else:

“Come on, you can do it!”

“Pick up the pace, go, go, go!”

“You're almost there!”

“Way to go, you are a speedy one!”

Some other GBLs gave us dirty looks as they exited. Apparently they did not appreciate such encouragement. But as we neared the finish line, with those metal stall doors in sight, the mental game kicked in. Just like the runners must surely feel, all of a sudden I could not go on. I began to groan, not sure if I could make it. I had made it so far, and now with the end in reach, I was not sure I was going to be successful! The cramps, the tears. But to make a long story short, my new best friend
and I both made it and high-fived each other (after washing our hands, of course). I was as high as a kite and had not felt this good in a long time (granted because the oppressive pressure on my bladder had ceased). By the end of Marathon Sunday, after all the excitement and a few too many beers and Bloody Marys, we were all camped out on our respective couches, exhausted, a bit wired, quite light-headed, and not sure we were going to make it to work the next day. Runners, we can definitely relate!

I
n addition to my vicarious runner's high, I'd recently been on a Mr. J. P. Morgan high as well. After his no-show at our Halloween dinner party, I had been willing him not to call (okay, maybe not with much effort—it was a short-lived endeavor). Then, the day after the marathon, he called and asked me to help him shop for a new tie. Although I should have said no and played hard to get, he did sound pretty darn sweet on the phone. He even apologized for not making it to our holiday get-together. I could tell by his tone on the phone that he wanted to see me, and that had to mean something. So I decided to meet him on the East Side the next day after work for our shopping date.

We headed toward the new Thomas Pink store on Madison Avenue, where I deduced that he was destined to be successful since he was willing to throw away more than $100 on a tie for a Thanksgiving dinner with family friends he didn't really know. We picked out a bold green tie with flecks of blue (to match his eyes).

“What do you need, C?” he asked fingering the cashmere scarves. What? Was he going to buy me something? Or was he simply inquiring if I was going to shop too? I could feel my
credit card twitching in my bag, reminding me of my swollen balance.

“Oh, I really don't need anything,” I said. “I have everything I want.” I grabbed his hand. Did he catch my subtle meaning? Ugh, was that too over the top? He rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand as we waited in line. But contact was lost when his cell phone rang.

“Hey!” he greeted someone in a warm voice. Friend, girlfriend, cheating soul? “Yep. Nope. Done already. Hey, I gotta go, Charlie is with me.” I practically gave myself whiplash as I spun around at the mention of my name. Someone on the phone knew who I was!

“Sorry, my mom checking in,” he explained. His mom? I was mentioned to his mom? His mom knew my name? Would I call her Mrs. Morgan or Madge? Was her first name Madge? Where had that come from? What did I care? I was in love!

E
ven though the month had started out with a bang (although the Marathon marshals didn't use real guns anymore), November's damp fingers soon began to grip the city. Dawn broke on Thanksgiving Thursday and I knew immediately that it was not going to be a good New York day. I could typically judge a day as being either “a good New York day” or “not a good New York day” after being awake for only a few hours. My methods were not as complicated as true qualitative research, but they were pretty reliable nonetheless. And there were no in betweens.