Spooning (39 page)

T
he following weekend I went out on my blind date with Brad, and from the moment I met him, I knew I was in trouble.
Not that he wasn't cute, he was. He had sandy brown hair and ice-blue eyes. He was of medium height and had good-sized hands. But, and there's always a but, he gave me an odd smile when I opened the door to our apartment.

“You don't look like your picture,” he began. Was that a good thing? And I thought the picture had been for his friend's eyes only!

“You know how fierce that New York sun is,” I joked referring to my new blond streaks.

“Yeah. I don't really go for artificial things,” he said looking behind me. Was he calling me artificial or a thing? Did it matter? Not wanting to give him any more ammunition, I suggested that we go.

“I looked at this neighborhood when I changed apartments,” he began.

“Oh? I love this area, very neighborhoody—”

“I didn't like it. Too cliché,” he interrupted. I decided to just stop talking. Plus, I had to concentrate on keeping up. He was walking about two steps ahead of me.

“So where are we going?” I asked.

“I thought we'd walk to that bar, Un Sacco di Baci, for drinks.” Walk? Who walked in NYC, especially on a first, never mind blind, date? We did. We walked about fifteen blocks in relative silence. We were definitely off to a bad start.

When we got to Un Sacco di Baci, it was actually quite charming. At first glance, I could tell that it wasn't your typical meat market–type dating spot. There were darling little rustic mosaic-tiled tables for two lined up along the outer walls with tiny candles flickering in the middle of each one. It seemed like the ideal place to sit down, have a real conversation, and really get to know someone. I was also completely
won over by the name, which Brad had translated for me. It meant “a bag of kisses” in Italian. My first impression of him began to waver as I sensed a more romantic side of him. But that quickly changed once again when he did a quick lap and declared that we would be leaving because “no one was there.” I apparently wasn't enough of “a someone” for him to stay. We then walked back from where we had just come, and ended up at a trendy new hotel with a restaurant in the basement. It was dimly lit, which was all right considering that I had decided on the walk back that his ice-blue eyes were actually quite freaky—too light and too intense.

“So, tell me about your family,” I began, attempting to initiate a sane conversation.

“I have one sister, but I don't really like her.”

“Why?”

“She's fat,” he answered.

“You don't like her because she is fat?”

“Yeah, she eats a lot. I can't hang out with her. And she drinks a ton too.” I reflected that she sounded much more like my type of person than this tool. I could feel the blisters forming on my toes from all the walking. I took a long sip of my wine.

“So do you go on blind dates much?” I asked.

“Never.”

“Oh.”

“I dated my ex-girlfriend for a long time.”

“How long was that?”

“Ten and a half months,” Brad nodded gravely.

“That is long.” I tried to look serious, serious and interested. “What happened?”

“Well, I have a medical condition,” he began. “I'm a
nymphomaniac and she couldn't handle it.” His eye color was getting more intense by the minute.

“Would you like another round of drinks?” asked the waiter.

“No,” Brad answered, “we've had enough. We've each already had one.” Was he joking? That was it? I certainly could have used another drink, but I'd definitely had enough of this boob.

“I actually have to get going,” I said, excusing myself and standing up.

“You don't want dinner?” he asked. That stumped me. I had no idea where the sudden interest on his part was coming from. Then his left eye began to twitch. I took it as a sign that his serious medical condition was beginning to flare up.

“No, I don't want to get too
fat
,” I emphasized. I ducked outside and promptly hailed a cab for the ten blocks back to my apartment. I felt I'd earned it after such an excruciating encounter. If this was what men and the dating world was going to be like post–Mr. J. P. Morgan, I think I'd rather become a lesbian.

T
he date had lasted a total of an hour and fifteen minutes and as soon as I got home and the girls took one look at my face, they all rallied to go out. They didn't even pause to ask for a recap. They just instinctively knew what to do. We jumped in a cab and headed down to Alphabet City to find a place to eat and imbibe.

“We're splurging on the cab tonight because you deserve it! Don't forget, we're all fucking princesses!” shrieked Tara.

“Cinderella dressed in yella went upstairs to kiss a fella,
how many kisses did she get?” sang Syd mimicking the old kids' jumping rhyme while making kissy faces on the cab's window as we idled in downtown traffic on Broadway. Suddenly she stopped and waved.

“Who are you waving at?” asked Macie.

“Cutie over there,” she answered pointing to a convertible BMW.

“Hmm,” Tara said from the front seat. Being stuck in traffic allowed her to lean out the window and get a better glance.

“Yale license plate holder!” she reported.

“Who
really
puts a custom license plate holder on his car?” Macie asked.

“Cutie with the hat, that's who,” answered Syd. “Or maybe it's his dad's car and his dad's alma mater.”

“Oh, he is cute,” Macie commented. “Your type, Charlie.”

“Exactly!” Tara exclaimed. All of a sudden, her door opened and she shot out of the cab. The cabbie's mouth dropped open.

“Tara, what are you doing?” I shouted out the window. But she had already glided up to the convertible and had engaged the cutie in deep conversation, walking slowly alongside the car as it inched forward. Our cabbie spluttered and motioned at her to get back in the car, and as I watched her work her charms, the cutie laughed, throwing his head back. Syd gave me a wink. “Tara's working for you, Charlie.” My face was glued to the window next to Syd's. From what I could make out, he was really good-looking. I could see that he had a little dimple on his left cheek and his smile was slightly crooked but that his teeth were perfectly straight (totally had braces). He also had brown hair and was clean-shaven. Got to love a clean-cut boy! But the best part was the adorable pair of round
metal glasses he wore. He must be an intellectual. Yale plus glasses plus dimple equals cute in my book.

“She wouldn't dare,” I theorized. But then Tara whipped out her cell phone. “Oh, yes she would!” I moaned as I realized she was giving him my number. Cutie grinned and went along. Tara skipped back to the cab between moving vehicles.

“All set!”

“What? What is all set?” I demanded.

“He's going to—” my cell phone began to ring.

“You have to answer it!” Tara screamed. Even Macie nodded in agreement. Syd accosted my bag and fished out my blinking phone. She flipped it open and shoved it against my face.

“Hello?” I said as she banged the phone against my head.

“Hey. So this is supposed to be the beautiful one in the cab near me. Do I have the right number?”

“Yep. I guess so.” I grinned. He had a good phone voice. Tara was motioning to me to talk more. What else was I supposed to say?

“So I've never had anyone come up to me in traffic before and give me a number,” he continued. “But I'm going to take it as a New York moment and go with it.”

“Uh-huh…. It's a first for me too.”

“So, would you like to go for drinks one night soon?”

“Okay.”

“Great!” he gave a little laugh which made me smile even more. “I'll talk to you soon, Charlotte.” Bonus! He'd called me by my real full name. So far he was polite and funny. Not a bad combo.

“Wait!” I cried.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry. I just thought that I should know your name? It's only fair. Right?”

“You're right! Dan.

It's Dan.” “Okay, thanks, Dan. Bye!” I said as I closed my phone. I tried to glare at Tara but Syd and Macie were whooping it up too loudly for me not to crack a smile.

“That should make up for earlier tonight and restore your faith in finding love in New York!” Tara exclaimed. Of course traffic had begun to move just as I'd hung up the phone. I watched Dan's taillights get lost behind the multiple cars heading downtown. I was already envisioning myself in the copilot seat of that BMW. Down, dreams, down!

“Dan and Charlie … sounds good!” murmured Syd. Obviously I wasn't the only one who dreamed.

“Dan the Man!” dubbed Tara.

I sat back in the cab with a smile on my face. Who says blondes didn't have more fun? This fake one sure did.

Thai Chicken Salad

Mix all the salad ingredients in a large bowl, using 1 cup of mayo and adding more as necessary. Refrigerate for 2 to 3 hours until salad is chilled and serve. The salad will serve 4 or 5, depending on how hungry they are
.

If you want to step up your salad a notch: Cut 2 cantaloupes or 2 papayas in half. Scoop out all the seeds and wash the fruit. Pile the salad in the fruit. Serve immediately
.

S
hopping time!” called Tara from the living room. “I cannot move. Just can't,” I moaned from my bed. My inner thighs ached and my butt felt bruised. God, even my toes throbbed.

“My toes even hurt!” I whined.

“Probably from your dance marathon last night with Buddy, the bar back,” she teased.

“Who?” I asked.

“Buddy, the bar back! Your enticing moves drew him out from behind the bar, but his international dance steps left your shoes a tad scuffed,” she explained pulling one shoe out from under my bed.

“Not my new Stuarts!” I groaned. “God, I paid full price for those.”

“Never pay full price,” Tara quipped. “Speaking of which, this morning is perfect for a trip to the flea market and Canal Street.” She drew back my curtain to reveal a shocking glare of early morning sunlight. Cheap shopping was one way to try to cure a post–dance-a-thon hangover.

“Come on!” She pulled back my duvet cover as if she were a mother on a mission. I reached over to hide under a pillow when I noticed the blinking light on my cell phone signaling a new voicemail. Could it be my rotten blind date from the week before? Natmare calling for the post-date recap? I'd been dodging her calls at work for over a week. Could it be Mr. J. P. Morgan? Sadly, my alcohol-laden mind was slow to block such detrimental thoughts.

I reached for my cell and pushed the envelope button to retrieve my messages.

“Message one received Friday at 11:30 P.M. from an unknown number …” Unknown number at 11:30 at night? Suspect. Okay, it was definitely not Mr. J. P. Morgan unless … unless he was calling from a different desk at work, which was totally possible because he did most of his work in random conference rooms late at night … Oh, the inner workings of the deranged
female love-punked mind. Ugh, the suspense was killing me! Really, it was probably just another annoying telemarketer.