Spooning (6 page)

“Uh, you were saying I felt good?” That was what he said, right? Was I talking too much? I guess these types of situations don't call for too much small talk. Who was I to think that I
could get sexual accolades and a body compliment in one night? But I hadn't quite blown it because in between one of my over-analytical, self-deprecating moments, he chimed in and saved my embarrassed soul.

“Oh, yeah, Charlie. You felt really good tooonnniiig …” And then he was out. Fast asleep. That was it. Kaput. Finished.

He had wrapped up the evening without crossing the Ts. Shouldn't he have made sure that I too was fully satisfied before he passed out? Was I being hypersensitive? Maybe he had been hurt badly before, and therefore put himself as numero uno every time. Were his preppy good looks just the mask on a hardened interior? Could I ever be his top priority? Or would I wind up as one of those bitter Park Avenue wives in a fur coat and slippers taking the dog for a walk at 2:30 A.M., alone? Regardless, he still had me on the dotted line. Screw it. I had plenty of time to find out what made this Ken doll tick. I made an executive decision to stop psychoanalyzing the minor details of our first encounter.

Nevertheless, I was up all night staring at his every inch. You can learn the darnedest things about someone while they are sleeping. He tended to jump while dreaming, not unlike a dog, but when I'd lay my hand on his arm, he'd sigh and fall back into a deep sleep. He also talked in his sleep—kind of a singsong mumbling. I wondered what he sounded like singing in the shower. He had a little tattoo of a Tweety Bird on his ankle. Trust me that was a tough spot to inspect, but it's there. Little yellow wings. Teeny orange beak. So darn cute!

So here we were: 7:00 A.M. and Mr. Morgan and I were lying arm in arm, smooth leg with hairy leg, bedhead to bed- head. Ahhhhh! It was official. We had made it through the
night. Not once did he say, “Oh Charlie, I'm sorry, I gotta go. Early meeting.” Or “Hey Charlie, I have an appointment to get my hair cut.” Oh, no. I could tell that this baby was all mine—it was written all over his face. I just was hoping that we'd continue the night before, move from the preview to the feature presentation. Then afterward, we could do breakfast. That would totally close the deal for us. A “couple breakfast” would make it officially official. Who cares about morning breath when you can share waffles and whipped cream together?

With his hair sticking straight up, he rolled over and handed me my one pillow, which he had snatched during the night.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Was he really talking about the pillow or our incomplete sex romp from the night before? (Note to self: Buy another pillow ASAP.)

“No problem. I can sleep on a floor, so I didn't even miss it,” I soothed. I prayed that my mascara wasn't smeared all over my face as I resisted the temptation to rub my sore neck and wipe the sleep out of his left eye. God, his eyes were a great shade of blue. Not dismal gray but that steel color that someone like James Bond would have. I could imagine how deep in color they'd be when he looked into my own dull brown eyes and said “I do” someday.

“I think I have to go into the office today,” he sighed.

“On Labor Day?” You could hear the disappointment in my voice.

“I have to log the hours now, show the big guys that I am eager, and I am,” he added, “so that I can retire by thirty-five. I want to be able to go to my kids' Little League games.” Oh, he has dreams! Oh, he wants kids (I forced myself not to ask how
many). I was slowly learning about him, making my way to his heart. I ran my hand over his chest.

“Too bad I can't sneak you in my bag to work,” he smiled lazily. Those half grins were so addictive. He swung his legs out of bed and paused. I reached under the sheets and tossed him his boxers.

“You know me so well,” he joked. But I did! Immediately I could tell he didn't like walking around in the buff—so sad, but modesty is commendable. He walked toward the door and tossed me my undies (a true gentleman). We were in sync. I rolled over and onto the television remote. MTV's
Real World
switched on and the dysfunctional roomies' arguing blared through the room.

“Love this show!” J. P. declared when he returned. He leaned back against my teddy bear. Score! He was not moving for another, check the watch, eight minutes. I snuggled closer as he and I began to dissect each of the wayward roomies on the show. I was so getting beneath that hardened NYC male exterior! When the episode ended, I heard an imaginary bell toll, and this Cinderella gave Mr. J. P. Morgan her best Carrie Bradshaw wink as he headed out the front door.

F
orget the morning after. I always lament the whole day after. I mean, how do you follow up a night of good (sorta) lovin’? You don't want to stay in bed—too many memories. You don't want to go for any sort of celebratory lunch—you are now strictly watching your newly scrutinized waistline. You don't want to sit around watching TV—too much time to think. What to do? It was official, after such a night of highs, I was having a day of the autumn blues. Dr. Phil should do some
advising on alcohol depression. Oh, the lows a little imbibing will bring one to!

So what to do? Why, clean! My mother would be so proud. I am actually a very thorough cleaner when the mood hits me. French maids had it right with the outfits. Talk about looking good and putting on airs while attending to daily duties. After dropping a tablet in the toilet (so laborious), I squirted some Fantastic on the counters. Fantastic, by God, is fantastic on those nasty red wine rings. Its label should proclaim such powers. But forget vacuuming—vacuums are so invariably expensive and therefore—not part of a New York budget, mind you.

And what is the pièce de résistance in apartment cleaning? Drumroll please for the Swiffer Sweeper, the new millennium's greatest invention! Only New Yorkers can truly value the sheer genius behind the Swiffer. New York apartments seem to be covered with dust bunnies and a thin layer of soot no matter how near the heavens one may live. How the soot gets in the tightly enclosed, air-conditioned apartments is one mystery. How dust bunnies the size of city rats accumulate in 400-square-foot apartments is the other mystery. No amount of sweeping or mopping will grab those bunnies or shine that soot. This is where the Swiffer saves the day. J. Lo must totally Swiffer (or have someone do it for her). With its highly technologically enhanced, lemon-scented, static cling–dryer sheet contraption, it snags the dust devils and licks the soot clean.

Deep in the doldrums with rubber gloves and scummy buckets, I had lit upon a wonderful idea—a two-step system to clean effectively. Step one: Dry Swiffer the designated area. Step two: Swiffer Wet Jet said area. But who knew the Swiffer Wet Jet that Macie had bought would be so complicated to assemble? I was determined, though, since I wanted my floors
to shine. Mr. J. P. Morgan would want shiny floors to reflect his shiny polished loafers (could parquet floors shine?). I knew which parts of the wet Swiffer were the top, middle, and bottom (yeah, college grad!). However, the container that held the magic elixir was confusing. Did one attach it first? Did the narrow part attach to the top or bottom? How was it supposed to attach? Screw? Stick? And these damn blue dishwashing gloves protecting my manicured nails were not helping. I ended up just pouring some of the cleaning solution onto the floor and mopping it up by hand with the absorbing pads. The girls found me on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for divine intervention … my cleaning mood was finished.

“Incense? I hate incense!” Tara rolled her eyes as she walked into the apartment. Macie plopped down on the couch.

“Tara, sweetheart, that is the enticing scent of cleaning supplies. Smell the subtle tanginess of bleach? Can't you almost taste the oranges in the citrus window spray? And breathe in that mountain fresh air found in the bottle of mop- ping solution! We are in a plethora of clean smells, something we need to grow accustomed to.”

“Ooh, I know a cleaning lady for seventy-five dollars an hour!” Tara volunteered missing the thrust of Macie's speech.

“I think the apartment smells like the Strawberry Short- cake dolls I used to eat,” Syd tossed out.

“Eat?” we all questioned simultaneously.

“Um-hum,” confirmed Syd absentmindedly. “I just loved their scent and would suck on the hair.” I had a sudden image of Syd at two feet tall, sucking on one of those miniature doll's pink hair like a baby with a bottle.

“You were the type that probably ate glue too, huh?” theorized Macie.

“No, I am all about the smell, and glue smells like melted horses.” We let that one go for another time. “But the Strawberry Shortcake dolls smelled delish. Lemon Meringue was my fav-or-ite,” she declared licking her lips.

“Do you think she scoffed down some My Pretty Ponies too?” whispered Tara.

“Back to the cleaning issue,” interrupted Macie. “There are four of us here! It wouldn't kill any of us to pick up a toilet brush once in a while—”

“I hate those phallic things. Maybe if the toilet brush was cleaned in between uses—” Tara interrupted back.

“Clean the cleaning supplies? That's funny coming from you! Just thank Charlie for doing all of this work.”

“So, you didn't get laid, huh?” Tara asked me. She had this annoyingly uncanny sense. “Just kidding,” she grinned. “Thanks, chickie!”

A
fter tidying our apartment, I decided to take a walk through the park in search of an answer about my professional life—or lack thereof. Midway across the Great Lawn, I had it (basically due to the fact that I was hungry). I had figured out my million dollar idea and I was a mere twenty-two! I, Charlotte Brown, would be the CFO of an up-and-coming company in charge of putting pizza stands in Central Park. Think about it. Everyone already flocked to the Popsicle stands in the summertime. They walked through the winding paths with blue and red stained lips. Weight-obsessed runners did the six-mile loop around a plethora of profitable hot dog stands. And the two-dollar pretzels were the favorite food of the plump park pigeons. So why were there no pizza stands? It was only logical.
New York City is known for its flat, greasy pizza. Marketing and presentation would be key. The stands would have yellow and orange stripped awnings, and we would use matching plastic plates. Chic, yet practical was my motto. Pizza Perfection … Slice of Delight … Metropolitan Munchies … Thanks to me, you'd be able to throw a little Frisbee, blade a few hills, and then grab a hot slice!

Buoyed by my own optimism that my ever-blossoming creativity would one day make me a self-made millionaire, I decided to walk into the Orange Bank near our apartment to open a basic, no-fee checking account. Time to establish myself as an official resident and bona fide adult. I had a whop- ping fifty dollars left in my wallet and figured it was enough to start an account. After all, you gotta start somewhere.

“So your present employer is?” asked the sweet balding banking man behind the customer service desk.

“None,” I said.

“None? N-O-N-E?”

“Yes, none,” I repeated definitively.

“What kind of company is this?” he asked as I saw him neatly printing “None” under “Employer” as if it were a Fortune 500 company.

“No, I mean I'm not working. Not working yet,” I added.

“Oh, well, that is a problem. You have to wait until you have a financial backer for your business account.” I wanted to ask him if a mom and a dad counted as references but decided otherwise. Still, I was not to be discouraged; I gave him an understanding smile and waltzed out with the dignity of a major CFO. I still had my brilliant idea to start my own business, thereby someday having the financial backing to open the said basic checking account. Duh, it was a no brainer!