Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (7 page)

“DO YOU PROMISE TO LOVE AND CHERISH HER?” I WAS
glad I decided to hit my cousin’s wedding solo. I couldn’t have sat through a candlelit ceremony with a knock-off date on my arm. I wanted the real thing, the genuine article, with the brand name L. Hearing Electra and William exchange vows, I felt their importance, probably more than someone who’d never been married because I knew their weight. “In sickness and in health, for richer for poorer, for better for worse…” It was coming, the onset of sobbing. I felt it rising through me, caught in my throat. I knew if it were to come out, it would be loud and people would turn. I swallowed. I had no one to hold. What if this was my life, attending weddings, sitting in pews, listening to I do’s, perpetually wishing for someone to share my life with? Where the fuck was the alcohol?

Instead of a yellow bridesmaid’s gown, I should have been wearing green. I was jealous, happy for her, but jealous just the same. It felt like Valentine’s Day, when you’re single and each time you pass a cluster of cellophane-wrapped roses, you try to sneak a glance at the card, hoping they’re for you. They never are. That’s how it felt to be me. “And forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, for so long as you both shall live?” While I’d never said those exact words, the sentiment was still there, in Hebrew, somewhere, except Gabe and I didn’t have our friends and family present to witness our promises.

William and Electra’s ceremony ended with family and friends wishing each other peace. “Peace be with you, Steph,” Lea said suddenly, throwing her arm around me.

“And with you, my dear.”

“I know this sucks balls for ya, but don’t worry. We’ll be at the reception hall soon. I’ll get ya drunk on Redheaded Sluts.” Only my sister would know there’s a drink called Redheaded Slut. She was the best date I’d ever had. I regretted at that moment, in our embrace, not having her there for my own wedding. I wanted to share it with all of my family, even Yiya and Fay, with whom I’d share a dinner table at Electra’s reception soon enough. This would mean inquisitions from the Spaniards in my life. Screw the Redheaded Sluts—this called for tequila.

IF SHE SO MUCH AS ASKED A SINGLES CROWD TO FORM, I’D
leave. I had already cried during the father-daughter dance, blowing my nose into Fay’s handkerchief, and God only knew where that had been. I survived the cutting of the cake. I couldn’t handle the craptacular bouquet toss. Everyone would look to me to step forward. I’m not
single
. I’m
divorced
! Yes, I want to get married again, but I’m not standing in a circle, putting my left foot in, so another wedding guest can hokey pokey his way up my thigh with a four-dollar garter. Leave me the fuck alone!

“I think I’m going to leave now,” I said when I noticed the single men forming a cluster near the dance floor.

“Oh stop! The bouquet toss is a delightful tradition.” I was surprised my grandmother knew of it. The way she spoke of her upbringing, I had imagined her wedding traditions involved a goat eyeball.

“Then you go out there Yiya. If I leave, I’ll be improving your chances.”

“Are you kidding us?” Fay interjected, “If we go out there and catch that bouquet, it means we’ll have to let go of our walkers.”

“Yeah, but Fazie,” Yiya responded, “it also means the man who catches the garter will slip it on our leg!” The sisters looked at each other for a silent moment before releasing their siren laughs. “Wooo hoo! Now that’s a wedding, Fazie!”

“Well, at least dance with a fella, Stephanie.” There really was no fella with whom to dance. Besides, I was tired from being forced to twist and shout with Lea. “You know, in my day we needed chaperones at dances. They measured to make sure he was far enough away, but I’ll tell you, I was so naïve back then.”

“What do you mean back then, Fazie? Just last week, you still thought it was a cigarette lighter in his pocket.”

“Oh, stop it!” Fay laughed as she shooed my grandmother away with a hand. “Stephanie, I’m telling you, I actually believed I was pregnant because I was tongue-kissed by a man. But I tell ya what. I’m happy to tongue kiss any man here tonight!”

“Knock yourself out, Fay.”

“I’m telling you, Stephie, life is short. Live it up while you can. Take a lover.” Oh God, where was Lea when I needed her? “Though maybe that’s not the best idea. Lovers get jealous. I had one once who hunted me down with guns when I left him.” On the word
guns
, Fay made guns with her thumbs and pointer fingers, then said, “boom, boom!” “Nah, it’s all worth it, so kiss some fellas now, Stephie dear, because the change of life, I don’t care what they tell you, makes you crave a whole lot of boom boom.”

I craved my bed. I didn’t care that I’d be in it alone.

“I think I’m going to go now.” I said it, then smiled, hoping they’d pat me on the shoulder and kiss me goodnight.

“At least stay for some cake. Going home alone is one thing, Stephie, but alone without cake is more depressing than your well running dry.” No, depressing is when a woman refers to her vagina as “a well.” I forced a smile.

I left without trying their wedding cake, and before the bouquet toss. I’d survived my pew tears and their first dance. It was enough. After hearing my grandmother and her sister tell me to “live it up because it goes by so fast,” I wanted to throw a bouquet of a fit. I wanted to scream and make a drunken scene, but there were video cameras and a bridegroom to consider. So I left alone, slipping out the door without good-byes or good wishes.

In bed, Linus licked my tears. I hated that Fay said time went by so fast. When I was suffering, time was stagnant. So now that I was single and dating it was supposed to be rushing right by? If these were to be the best times of my life, I was seriously screwed. This couldn’t be the good stuff, not yet. The good times came in jumps on a sofa until you laughed, in kisses to each other, in a car singing, rolling your eyes laughing at someone you love. It comes in snorts when you stop caring how you sound or look. You stop caring if you’re doing it all wrong because you know. You know in your heart it’s amazing and right. You just know. And you love selflessly—the man, the woman, the kids, the dog, the lack of space. You love it all. That is the good stuff.

I thought I had all of that with Gabe. When I realized I didn’t, that I was living a knock-off marriage, I questioned all my choices. With old people telling me to hurry up and enjoy my life because it goes by so fast, how was I going to find happiness in the moment?

Of course I wanted to make those memories with someone. I wanted to start that life and to make a past with someone who could remember my embarrassing moments, someone who’d roll his eyes and tell me that’s not at all how it happened, then kiss me on the head and love me anyway. We all want that. But maybe it’s not where we’re looking for it.

I didn’t really attend Electra’s wedding alone. I was armed with my III, the three I’d found in family that night. My grandmother grew old with her sister, and mine made me snort and stop caring about my flabby arms and lack of date. Maybe that’s whom we really grow old with, siblings or old friends who link us to our pasts and remind us of who we are.

I knew one thing for certain: my proclivity to care what people thought had gotten
old
, and had I brought a
new
rent-a-date, surely he’d have outed me to the charming wait staff. It was about time I
borrowed
some esteem and left a wedding feeling something other than
blue
. So yeah, I was alone in bed, but I’d be okay because, really, what would be the point of staging anything, especially for my family? And, when it comes down to it, who was looking anyway? So, I embraced “stag,” despite how wretched and dripping with stigma the word is:

How can a word meaning “unaccompanied by a partner” also mean “castrated pig” and “pornographic?” No wonder people are frightened into borrowing and, ultimately, “
stag
ing” love. I spent too much time there, caring what other people thought, what Gabe’s family thought. I wasn’t ready, just yet, to share pew space with a date, despite what anyone would hiccup about time going by so fast. Forget having a date for the wedding. I wasn’t sure I should even be dating anyone. ’Cause “anyone,” I feared, would turn out like Gabe. The kind of love who wasn’t patient or kind, who was easily angered, and kept a record of my wrongs. Stag, by any definition, was better than that.

“I REFUSE TO GO OUT,” I DECLARED WITHOUT APOLOGY
to Max over the phone the following week.

“What the hell’s your problem? I said dinner, not diva.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just so sick of this dating. I’m beginning to forget which stories I’ve told to whom.”

“Then stop. You act like one night at home means you’re wasting time.” That was exactly right. If I found someone who loved me before Gabe found someone, it would mean I won. Yeah, won the psycho award. Max was right, and he was there, usually willing to do whatever I suggested.

When I was having the “I’ll never meet anyone” s, I twirled my spice rack and Eeny Meeny Miny Maxed. My neighbor Max was my pantry, as comforting as Darjeeling, yet as strong as espresso. He was a new neighbor now that I’d moved west, but he was also an old friend who predated my marriage to Gabe. It wasn’t as though I didn’t get my share of deliciously fresh men. I did, but too often, they cropped up in colonies and seceded in stampedes. Max was my when-in-doubt, always there, Macaroni & Cheese in the middle of the night. So why aren’t we married already? It’s simple.

Some people are close talkers—you’re worried they might touch your face with their tongue when using words with “L”s. Then you’ve got the loud talkers who speak as if they’re at a Megadeth concert, even in waiting rooms. Max is neither. He’s a small talker. He doesn’t do weather, politics, or movie prattle. He does
infantimbre
—a form of baby talk so cloying it deserves italics. Uses words like
seeping
in lieu of
sleeping
. I couldn’t date this, never mind vows.

“Oh, and before I forget, when I die, I want to be cremated and encapsulated in a firecracker,” he added over the phone.

“What?”

“Yeah, in a firecracker that you’ll explode over the ocean. Poof.” Not “bang” or “boom” but “poof.” This is why he’s Gay Max, despite the fact that he’s heterosexual, and we once fucked until we broke the bed. No one could quite understand why we weren’t together, including us, when we were lonesome.

I wasn’t quite ready to invite him to an
I’m-not-dating-him-so-now-you-can
party, where people bring companionable members of the opposite sex to meet other former ill-suited lovers. I knew I didn’t want him, but I didn’t want anyone else to have him either. My pantry of past men was teeming with faded dill weed, thyme, and, unfortunately, onion powder (he was an unsightly mistake). But Gay Max was the saffron of the bunch, the most auspicious member of my past.

It’s hard to leave a history and watch other people date yours. Some people are aces at it—it seems more of their best friends are exes than not. When I first met a man who told me his best friend was an ex of his, I held my breath a little. The “count to ten” carried me past irrational, and I was left to exhale and fake a smile.
It didn’t work out for a reason
, I chanted as I gulped espresso and cream.
Hopefully the reason wasn’t timing. What if
now
is their timing?
Then I picked the polish off my new manicure and headed back to my own pantry.

“THERE’S NOTHING TO EAT IN THIS GODDAMN HOUSE.”
Linus was whining at my feet as I stared into my empty cupboard, hoping something new would catch my eye. I scanned the familiar as my free hand weighed on the small knob of the wooden door. My brain eliminated decisions. There was a lone package of dried spaghetti, with no staples to initiate a sauce. I remembered the time I’d made my spaghetti and meatballs recipe for Gabe. We toasted over a bottle of Chianti in our apartment. He made me laugh so hard a piece of spaghetti actually came out of my nose. He wanted to save it.

“Come on, Steph, can’t we put it in a case or something?”

“What for?”

“For the next time you say, ‘not funny, Gabe. Not funny.’ That way I can just point to the spaghetti case.” Usually, I reserved “not funny” for his Austin Powers impressions.

“You’re sick, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you love me.” He was right. I did.

THE ONLY OTHER BITS OF FOOD IN MY CUPBOARD WERE
graham crackers, which are a good time when you’re six, not when you’re hungry. Usually, I found solace behind another door: the refrigerator. I’d have to get past the condiments and salad dressings. Satisfaction was typically tucked away in the dairy drawer. I can’t believe refrigerators actually have drawers for dairy. As a child, I always thought it was wrong. Gosh, it’s not like the milk fits in there. I didn’t think about dairy as a solid, the way steam and ice don’t really seem like states of water.

The fridge was barren, save for the baking soda and ketchup. It occurred to me just then: even my refrigerator screamed single. This was more depressing than crow’s feet.

“Steph, let’s go get food, and you can cook for me,” Max suggested. “I mean that’s so not going
out
out.”

“Okay.” I pepped up at this idea.

In a moment, that’s our relationship. Right there. Boiled and pared down to that simple happy lick of an exchange. “You can cook for me.” “Okay.” Max is sensitive in a way only a former lover notices, so his requests for food are never met with my feminist fatal fencing. There’s nothing worse than cooking for those who eat to live instead of live to eat. Max is a seasoned counselor at Camp Livetoeat. Our relationship is just as campy: flip-flops on the beach, arms draped on shoulders, and white protective cream on each other’s noses.

“Alright, are we going or wha?”

“Okay, I’ll meet you at Citarella.”

“You’re too fancy shmancy, Stephanie.”

I wasn’t about to argue. Gristedes to the rescue.

I WAS ALWAYS WAITING FOR GAY MAX TO ARRIVE. I MADE
myself useful at Gristedes and started us off with a shopping cart—I was, after all, cooking dinner for two. As a rule, I was relegated to the solitary world of handbaskets, which sometimes made me feel like a hook-nosed nursery rhyme—some wirehaired spinster in a rocking chair whirling golden threads into needlepoint, living in a boot. It was new, this idea of shopping just for myself. When I first separated from Gabe, I might have actually looked over my shoulder before gripping a green basket. Back then, I was still living in our two-bedroom, hospital-subsidized, Upper East Side apartment. Alone. God only knew where he was living, so I was constantly paranoid I’d run into him or any of his medical colleagues. Shopping with a basket for one was one of the first moments divorce felt less like an idea and more like my life. Grocery shopping made divorce tangible. I felt it in my negligible handbasket filled with low-fat dairy, two apples, and high-fiber crackers made from seeds. A basket like that says two things: single and miserable. Perhaps I’d add that to my online profile.

At Gristedes, I was half-past dejected and a quarter to liberated. You feel the idea of “mine” right away in a grocery store. These are for me. This makes me happy, and this, right here, this is
mine
. I didn’t have to consider what someone else might like. It felt selfish and wonderful. It meant I could eschew the round pods of tuna fish I normally had to obtain for Gabe. Aside from organs, there’s nothing I hate more than canned tuna fish. I cannot believe they even make it. Who decided one day to can meats? Canned fish, chicken, and oysters—who, dare I ask, awakes with a craving for canned chicken? It’s wrong on too many levels. I’d sidestep the canned gross aisle altogether if Gay Max ever showed up. I was quite certain I’d
never
prepare canned anything, ever again. It’s the liberty that comes with divorce—using phrases like “never, ever again.” Just then, it was tuna fish. Later, it would become men who tiptoe around confrontation and kowtow at the pedicured feet of their controlling mothers.

You can always spot a young mother in a grocery store. Her cart is filled with chicken in the shape of stars, boxes of juice, and string cheese. She’s got Band-Aids and wipes. I can spot the married ones, too. Despite being just from the gym, in a frizzy bun with leggings, the woman beside me was undoubtedly married, sans wedding band. I saw it in her potpies and Hungry Man drumstick dinners. Even the dude with the canned Hormel, who might privately be into leather facemasks with rubber ball gags, was shopping for someone else, unless he was also into maxi pads and Skintimate shave cream. Publicly, he was in the mistake that is the color orange, with a hint of a moustache that makes you feel for the safety of your wallet. But his fridge wasn’t single. Even losers have love.

It had been ten minutes with no sign of Max, and I was frozen. Grocery stores are always cold. I was wearing sweats and a wife beater, looking I-really-don’t-care-how-I-look-but-I-look-hot-in-this-don’t-I? Fuck that noise. I’d get a basket. I wasn’t cart-worthy anymore, and I sure as shit wasn’t waiting—Voila! Gay Max to the rescue. Just like that, he stood before me with a shiny silver cart of his own. I was looking for his red cape.

“Nice tits.”

“Excuse you?” I looked down covering my nipples with my forearms.

“Hey, don’t put ’em away on my account. You look hot in a ’beater. What the hell are you doing with a dinky basket? We’re going to cook.” Max stretched his arms out wide, as if he were a child telling his father how much he loved him. “You know,
cook
!”

“Well, now you get no say at all in what we’re eating, Mister Late.”

“Fine, maybe just something I can pronounce this time?” Max swatted me on the tush with a Gristedes flyer as I headed toward produce.

“Something with artichoke.” I turned to look at him, one finger on my chin. “I love to eat the hearts.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

I would put Max to work that night, have him punch out ravioli from the fresh pasta I’d made earlier in the week. “Artichoke heart and brin d’amour ravioli with a wild mushroom sauce, my friend.”

“
I said
, something I could pronounce.” He crinkled his nose as if I’d just asked him to smell my armpit.

“Say it with me, baby. A. More.” I traced my finger along one of his sweet dimples.

“How about this: Oy. Vey. Miss Fancy Pants.”

“What the hell is up with that fancy pants shite? Greg said the same thing to me this week.”

“Which one’s Greg?”

“Hello, nice to forget my life.”

“Hello, it’s not like there aren’t too many of them to keep straight,” Max repeated using my snarkerrific tone.

“Greg’s the Lower Least Side guy,” I replied.

“Ooh, shit. That’s right. That was fucked up. I love when you’re mean and devilicious, just not to me.” I wasn’t devilicious. I was discouraged.

IT WAS OUR SECOND DATE, AND IT WAS A TUESDAY. I WAS
in jeans with black heels, and in a white tank with an inner bra shelf, so if it got cold, he could admire my nipples and start thinking about sex. Who cares what he was wearing? It wasn’t memorable, which is better than remembering some Hawaiian shirt à la Larry from
Three’s Company
.

We’d made plans on Monday morning, so he’d had some time for reservations, for linen somewhere, for a place with more than just appetizers. It wasn’t about getting fed…shit, most women only do tartare, crab cakes, or salad anyway. Not me, but most women. It’s about showing interest. A guy asks me to meet him at some inexpensive East Village shit-box, and I’m thinking one of two things: 1) he’s cheap, or 2) he’s poor. Either way, he’s not the guy for me. I supported poor through medical school. I’m not dating the Frugal Gourmet.

The first indication ought to have been when I suggested we meet at Balthazar for our first date drink. “How fancy shmancy,” he said over the phone. Oh, fuck—he had to have been in cahoots with Gay Max. Who else says this? Still, I went, despite the suspected cahoots cues. Greg was cute, witty, and I felt we were on the same page, aside from the fact that he was the type to throw a solstice party in lieu of anything religion-oriented. Yes, let’s celebrate winter. Feh. Yet, we liked each other enough to commit to bread. Then, an additional glass, and with an additional glass and a half, the hunger kicked in. Before I knew it, there was a seafood tower obstructing my view of Greg. We drank more and ordered fries and a goat cheese tart. More wine. Then, we finished off our shoreline, and suddenly we were kissing on the sidewalk while he tried to hail me a cab.

“Come meet my friends,” he suggested. I didn’t want to say good-bye yet. I was having fun with my new match.com friend. We cabbed it to McGee’s, the bar beside my first apartment with Gabe. I’d have preferred a bar with more wine variety than “white” or “red,” something perhaps with a cocktail menu or saketinis. That would’ve been my choice. Guinness on tap, hockey on TV, and a chalkboard outside announcing two-dollar pitchers was McGee’s. The men who frequent Irish pubs have goatees. They own sports jerseys and even wear them in public. They use toothpicks after a meal. Okay, so I might be pushing it, but you get the point. They’ve played football or hockey at some point in their lives, but now they play softball. I was agreeable, though, and ordered “red” because I was certain their idea of “white” was Chardonnay. I met Greg’s friends, who were also agreeable.

After a half glass of in-your-face merlot, Greg began to rub my leg under the table, telling me he wanted to be affectionate so I would know how much he liked me. It was a callow move, but it was nice just the same.

Between conversations, where we sided with each other against the group, he leaned in and whispered, “I can’t wait to make out with you.” So when the rest of his group took consecutive nicotine and bathroom breaks, that’s precisely what we did. Then we left and went to the next place where everyone said we should go because they were going. After an unsuccessful hour there, trying to get a table, we left and had more watered down drinks at the next place. But we kissed well together, and his hands felt really good around my waist, so I broke the rules and agreed to a second date on our first.