Spooning (28 page)

Maybe it was due to the crisis in my bathroom or maybe because the train operators were in a good mood, but the subway gods were in my favor and I got to work early enough to do a little private research on my “dimple debacle.” First thing I decided to do was to Google the word “cellulite.” Ah Google, the search engine for all your needs. It is the most fantastic tool on earth. I felt an itch to Google Mr. J. P. Morgan but I suppressed it. Naturally, I had already Googled him months ago and found two sites extolling him: one about his high school soccer prowess and another with a small pic from his company Web site. I still had to fight the urge to check out the merchandise even though I wasn't really in the market anymore.

Instead, I was instantly inundated with links to everything from wacky creams to strap-on gadgets that promised to help the cellulite-crazed woman rid herself of those nasty little suckers. At first, it was overwhelming. Not only did every site claim to have the ultimate cure, but most of them also had a money- back guarantee. Thank goodness! It would be horrible to be dimpled and poor! Okay, so which one was it going to be? The cream claimed to sting a little after the initial application. I wouldn't mind a little burn for the cause. The strap-on thingy said it had to be worn for a minimum of two hours every day for a week in order to see the best results. Who the hells wants her
ass jiggling for one hundred and twenty minutes a day? I definitely didn't. After fifteen minutes of searching, my head began to ache. There were just too many things out there and I had absolutely no idea which one would provide the best solution.

Just as I was about to throw in the towel, the answer to my prayers appeared. It came in the form of one of those annoying little pop-up advertisements. There it was in all its glory, smack dab in the middle of my screen. Typically, these things annoyed the crap out of me, but this one was intriguing.

The happy faces were a little cheesy but I was curious, so I proceeded to click for more details. What appeared on my screen was the saving light at the end of dimple tunnel.

To: Snoopy, T-Dog Tara, Sage The Rage, Sydrama, Wade. Brady

From: Macie-O-Gray

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Die Dimples!!!

Book it girl. You're the best. I'm going to have to finagle days from work somehow. We only get one vacation day for every month worked after a year of servitude. I think I feel the flu coming on … we could all use a little pick-me-up. Especially you C. J. P. Morgan who???

Love, Macie

T
he Cooking Club convened later that night. Sage had whipped up some sinful guacamole to get us in the mood for our tropical getaway. Consistent with the theme, Macie had concocted some of her equally sinful chili-nacho dip.

“This is my mother's good ole stand-by when she has guests coming over last minute,” she told us while mixing the bubbly concoction on the stove. “All it takes is a can of chili, with or without meat depending on what you like, and a jar of that queso dip you find in the chip section at the store.”

Now we could have been tough on Macie about the simplicity of her recipe, but all I'd managed to contribute was two six-packs of Coronas and two limes. Who was I to throw stones at glass houses? So March was officially the “Mexican Fiesta” month for our Cooking Club.

“Guacamole has the good fat, not the trans fat,” Sage lectured as she shoved a carrot-full into her mouth (no chips for her). We gathered around the kitchen table and began inhaling by the pound.

“God Sage, this guac is heavenly,” Syd chimed in with her
mouth full. “Mmmmm, it must be the lemons. Oh yeah, gotta be the lemons. It's just so zesty. Fantastic!”

“What about the zesty nacho dip, girls?” Macie asked, sort of offended that no one was raving about her contribution.

“Um, it's tasty. A tad too spicy maybe?” suggested Tara. Macie glared, then smiled as she realized that Tara was actually conversing about seasonings—a big step for her.

“Okay, so let's talk trip. What about Miami?” suggested Macie.

“I want to go on a trip afar,” Sage whispered like a movie star.

“Miami is at least three hours away, but okay, what about Jamaica?” Wade asked.

“Been there, done that,” Macie said.

“Ditto,” Sage agreed. “Done that twice, although I only remember one trip.” Sage's skinny little body could only handle so much alcohol. However, each and every blackout seemed to erase that fact from her long-term memory.

“Hold on for a second, girls,” I interrupted. “Before you get too excited about your destination, there's a catch with the package I found. We've got three lovely destinations to choose from and only three.” I could see their minds begin to wander. “You ready to hear your choices?” They all nodded their heads in unison.

“Okay, first up, there's the sunny island of Puerto Rico. It's close, warm, and clean. Or we can sunbathe on the exotic spring-break beaches of Cancun. But wait, there's more. How about what's behind door number three? We've got the gorgeous Florida panhandle destination of Destin.” There was dead silence in the room for a good ten seconds and then the girls begin to chime in one after another.

“Cancun?” I called out.

“Too college,” Macie sighed.

“You need a passport to go there, don't you?” Syd asked.

“Destin?”

“Too dirty.”

“Too old ladyish,” Tara whined.

“I think the Rico would be great!” Syd blurted out while double dipping in the guac for the tenth time.

“What?” we all asked in sync again.

“The Rico, you know, Puerto Rico,” she said mid-bite. “Choice numero uno. Plus, it could be a sign that we are eating Spanish/Mexican type food. Don't you think?” At that moment, we all knew. The Rico it was to be.

T
he next day at work, I booked everyone's travel on my credit card and coordinated the trip. So, it was official. Two weeks from today we would be sunning our bodies in the Rico. Watch out PR! Here come the Six Sinners to Be …

As I sent out the grand announcement, an IM popped up on my screen. They needed to make those thingees less obvious to nosey cubicle neighbors. I already had the audio turned down, but I swear those flashing boxes look like a nuclear alert from the Pentagon.

J.P.M: What up?

Holy shit! Where had he come from? And more important, what kind of question was that? Text messaging could make an Ivy Leaguer sound like a dunce. What kind of update did he really want? Was he asking about my well-being or my dating
status? Did a mere two words warrant a real juicy answer or a curt, clever reply? Was he looking for a loophole to worm his way back in or was he trying to be the “nice” ex by keeping sporadic communication going?

I sat for a moment pondering how to respond—if I responded, that is. I chewed my lip. Maybe I'd better just ignore him. After all, he'd barely mustered a hello. But what if he had something important to say—an apology perhaps? I thought hard, and then it clicked! The perfect reply.

Snoopy: Going to Puerto Rico with the girls.

Ha! Let's see what he says to that! I was moving on. I was a jet-setter leaving his rose-strewn ass in the dust.

J.P.M: Don't you burn easily?

What the hell? He hadn't even known me last summer during tanning season! Did he just assume since he had seen my Irish self in all its buff glory that he knew my melatonin level? How could he so easily have twisted my fun news into something that grated against the very fibers of my being? Good God, wait until he saw my tan! (Note to self: Determine at later date if he deserves to see my tan.) Or, was he simply being concerned about me?

Snoopy: No worries. CVS has aloe on sale in economy size. Will be fine.

Would I be fine? I jotted down a note to myself to visit the drugstore and a psychiatrist. Somehow, after only six words,
Mr. J. P. Morgan had me obsessing again. Was I really taking this trip because I deserved it, because New York winters suck, because my body needed pampering, and because I wanted time with the girls? Or had it been fueled all along by a sense that I wasn't good enough, that I needed to be hotter, thinner, tanner, for the next time I bumped into my now ex at Top Shelf?