Spooning (8 page)

“Is there some sort of timeline or protocol here? I mean what should we as women be willing to accept? Or sacrifice?” Suddenly, we were in an episode of the Jenny Jones show. I was the host and the girls were my guests. It wasn't “Lesbians Turned Straight,” or “My Momma Slept With Your Daddy.” In keeping with our Cooking Club, tonight's topic was:
What Is the Recipe for the Perfect Guy?

Did you go by the book?

Combine
: looks, money, family, finance job, triathlete body

Add
: a summerhouse and some country club manners

Blend in
: a compatible religion and a dash of good ole Republican tendencies

Bake
: until he is an ultimate golf player (ex-LAX player of course)

Or did you try to be creative and add some spice to the mix?

Combine
: musical talent (at least the guitar), modern art appreciation, cooking skills

Mix in
: political know-how (especially about those little war-scarred countries)

Add
: a pinch of unemployment and starving artist

Cool
: let sit until he looks good wearing a T-shirt over the long-sleeve T

Could you experiment? Could you mix the two? Who said the perfect chef followed each and every detail? My problem was that I seemed to burn every relationship somehow, somewhere along the way, every time: Brad—I was too overeager; Roger—I was too coy never returning his phone calls; Sam—I just couldn't get over his hairy lower back. Maybe I should play it safe and stick to the recipe. But whose recipe was I using?

As I brought the now-licked-clean dishes back into the kitchen, I willed my phone to ring. “Now! Okay, how about …
now
!” Those who talk to themselves supposedly have money in the bank, or are just plain crazy. I fell into a new category appropriate for the new millennium. Some of us talk to ourselves because a certain boy has pervaded all of our vital organs, multisponged cells, and viable neurons in the brain.

“Please let him be there. Please let him call. Call me, call me. One, two three … call!” Remember trying to turn the stoplight green with psychic magic? “One, two, three … ring!” I checked my cell phone. Was the ring working? Was the volume up? Modern technology actually works against the modern-day woman. We all now have cell phones, caller ID, answering machines, or voicemail. There is no way to not
know if someone has called, if he indeed called. It is quite difficult to deny when someone hasn't called. That red light or little icon of an envelope can send your heart a pitter-patter like a love letter.

“What are you doing?” Macie said laughing. I stopped shaking my phone.

“Sometimes, well, I just think it can help grab a signal; a signal that may be lost in all those radio waves battling in the crowded NYC air.” Sounded technical enough.

“Charlie, are you okay?” she asked, zooming in closer to me. I gave her my million-watt smile hoping that the glare would hide the dark under-eye circles I got when stressed.

“Sure!” I said as thoughts of Mr. J. P. Morgan's soft hands drifted through my mind. And was I whipped? Yep! Macie took a sip of her wine, and I gave the phone one last shake.

Maybe I gave him the wrong number, because it was a new number after all and didn't I used to be a little bit dyslexic when I was younger? I was never tested, but the words “being” and “doing” always threw me for a loop. The
b-d
thing. Or maybe he lost the piece of paper with my phone number on it on his way to work? He did tell me the last time that he's been putting together a big deal at work. Men can be scatterbrained. Maybe he doesn't have time to call me since he's a workaholic, in a good way? He does have to be professional … it's all cubicles nowadays, they can hear everything! Plus, cell phone reception can be sporadic in Manhattan. Sometimes Macie's messages are so garbled by the end of the night that you can't tell if she's calling from Mars or around the corner. And no, the shots we consume have nothing to do with that issue. Maybe the Sprint cellular tower was down in the area?

The single women of the world would be a lot saner if
someone would only take a retina scanner, a Breathalyzer, a disco ball, and enhanced ESP caller ID and morph them together with a cell phone. How great would that thingy be? To begin with, your cell phone would do all of the normal functions. It would allow one to make and receive calls (long distance included), call three-way (as if anyone ever does), and memorize and prioritize phone numbers. The ring tones would even help attract men at bars, as certain songs like ZZ Top's “She's Got Legs!” always do. At the bar, once the hottie had been attracted by your constantly ringing phone, you could wave the phone in front of him with a quick flick of the wrist and flip of the hair, and the retina scanner would download all of his pertinent information: age, dating status, job title, annual salary, penis length, apartment square footage. Once in the bathroom for a quick powder, you could flip out the tweezer arm of your cell phone to nip those errant brow hairs before exiting to make your final move on your selected hottie. You then have a night of extraordinary passion.

The next day, your phone would flash to alert you that said hottie is
thinking
of you, even if he hasn't called. All he has to do is get within twenty feet of his phone and think about you (good or bad) for your phone's ESP caller ID to alert you. That night, when you have not received the all-important call, you blow into the side of your phone and it registers your blood alcohol level. If your breath registers at anything above a giddy drunk, the phone will automatically shut down, preventing you from drunk dialing and making an ass out of yourself. Phew! Skip ahead to five long days later when he calls to toss out the ever-so-slight possibility of a drink sometime in the next year, and your phone lights the room with its disco ball mirrors. Like the fireworks in your head, your phone emits
flashes of colored lights blinking and twinkling like stars in the sky. Make a wish! Your cell phone is your new best friend. Always by and on your side! All for $59.99 a month.

We all ended up buzzed and bouncing off the walls due to the cheesecake, and oh yeah, the wine, so we decided to high- tail it to Top Shelf. Maybe Mr. J. P. Morgan would be there again, I thought, before doing my best to force him from my mind. We ordered apple martinis and somehow the clock over the bar changed from 11 P.M. to 3 A.M. in the span of “Waiting for Tonight,” a goddamn J. Lo classic that always made me gyrate.

L
ater that night, Sage and I stumbled back to 167 West Eighty-first … thank God we lived only two blocks and exactly fifty-five steps away from the bar. And good thing I was a champ at Frogger in my youth, since we had to artfully dodge oncoming taxis, limos, dry cleaning trucks, bread delivery trucks, high bike messengers, parked cars (yes, they are the nonmobile obstacles), and other nightly revelers to get across Broadway. We had left behind the dancing queens: Tara, Macie, Wade, and Syd … and damn, did we need some munchies.

We'd devoured the Cooking Club's creations before we had left, but thankfully, Syd's mother had bought about forty boxes of mac and cheese at Costco. And by the way, are the Kraft guys fucking kidding? That infamous blue box does not serve two to three people. That puppy yields one hefty helping for one, not two, not three, and sure as hell not one and an anorexic half. What's better than a bowl of mac and cheese and a good Lifetime Original Movie at three in the morning? Nothing.

“Bring out the milk and butter.”

“Will skim milk work?” Sage asked. To give her skinny self credit, that was all that was in the fridge.

“Skim it is. I guess the butter can add the necessary creaminess.”

“Butter, butter, butter,” muttered Sage with her nonexistent ass sticking out of the refrigerator's shelves. “No butter!” she exclaimed, I swear with some glee.

“Ohh, you're kidding! The recipe is ruined and I haven't even turned on the stove!”

“No, wait! I got it!” In her drunken sense of reasoning, Sage pulled Macie's butter-flavored cooking spray from over the stove. Aha! One of her weight-loss secrets revealed!

“Eww, what are you thinking?” J. P. Morgan hadn't called, and now my mac and cheese was becoming a faint memory too. Sage's skinny ass was back in the refrigerator.

“Wait! Got it!” Her scream must have reverberated throughout the apartment building. She backed up and ceremoniously held up a jar of nacho cheese dip.

“We've got the cheese already,” I protested.

“No, make the mac and cheese with the powder stuff, and then add the nacho cheese sauce for the creamy factor.” I knew Sage had to be rocked to suggest such a fattening additive. Thus, we had our homestyle mac and cheese with a southwestern flair. Who said we couldn't cook! At least I had found one recipe that worked for me. Sage dumped the pot's contents into one large mixing bowl. We each grabbed a wooden spoon and settled on the living room floor with an episode of
Blind Date
in full swing. Legs spread, mouths moaning, warmness spreading throughout our bodies. What else do you need on a Saturday night? J. P. Morgan who?

Funeral Potatoes

Preheat the oven to 350° F. Peel potatoes and boil for 30 minutes or just until tender. Cool and grate like hash browns into a greased 9 × 13-inch baking dish (or put hash browns into greased baking dish). In a medium sized bowl, combine and gently mix soup, sour cream, cheese, the ½ cup melted butter, and onions. Fold into potatoes. In a small bowl, combine the crushed corn flakes and the 2 tablespoons of melted butter. Sprinkle on top of potato mixture. Bake for 30 minutes.

Serve up piping hot to all your ghosts and goblins. This sinful treat is sure to spook up any dinner party.

L
ift, one-two, lift! Here we go, Bulldogs, here we go! 10, 9, 8 …”

“Syd!” I yelled before she got to the “off.” “Focus. I don't
need a drill sergeant, a cheerleader, or an astronaut, I need muscles!”

“Hernia!” screamed Syd. “I have a hernia and I'm only in my twenties!”

“Drama queen,” I mumbled under my breath as my mattress came crashing down on my left shoulder. “Please, Syd! Grab a handle!”

“You don't have any handles. How old is this mattress?”

“Brand new!”

“Brand new and no handles? I'd return it!”

“Focus, Syd, focus!” Syd had come home from work on her lunch break for a Fluffernutter sandwich, and I had snagged her to help me flip my mattress.

“Why are we doing this again?” she panted.

How to explain? How to explain that we were flipping a brand-new mattress due to the fact that the love of my life wouldn't spend the night anymore. A few nights ago the dilemma had begun:

“What are you going to be for Halloween?”

“What?” I had asked, a little hazy. I couldn't tell if my fogginess was the result of the two-hour kiss-a-thon with Mr. J. P. Morgan or due to the fact that he was pulling on his socks; pulling on his socks to leave; pulling on his socks to leave in the middle of the night.

“What are you going to be for Halloween? I'm thinking of the Hulk, although I don't think I own much green.” As I struggled to pull on a shirt I thought of how the green paint would only complement and exaggerate his blue eyes.

“Are your toes getting cold?” I asked feigning innocence. “I'll pull out an extra blanket.”

“What? No, don't worry. I have to go. I don't sleep well
here,” he concluded waving his hands around as if to blame the sandman or someone. I couldn't help but think of last week when he'd stayed and snored himself into a deep slumber. I couldn't even wake him in the middle of the night for some dream-inducing nooky.