I Like You Just the Way I Am (16 page)

As an adult, I’ve come to terms with the reality of my situation. I’m probably never going to be scouted at the mall. I’m never letting your toddler get in the way of my career, but I’m also never going to have upper thighs that don’t touch. Accepting my flaws and feeling less like I need to kill or be killed (except when it comes to your kid) has helped me sustain a handful of decent female relationships. None of which look anything like the unconditional bonds I see women having in TV and film, partly because women aren’t that simple, and partly because everyone’s love is conditional. The reality is—and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, here—even your best girlfriends can’t fucking stand you.

It’s not your fault. You just aren’t them; ergo, you have issues, issues that could be solved if you just heeded their advice and became exactly like them. Not that they are perfect. They hate themselves too. But trust me, they think they have their shit figured out more than you do at least.

Unlike men, women enjoy analyzing the shit out of something until they’re blue in the face. When one of my girlfriends gets up from the table to take a phone call, you better believe the rest of the table is discussing how she should change her life. And most of the time, they’re right. Nobody knows what a hot mess you are more than the other hot messes you call friends.

*   *   *

My biggest train wreck
of a friend is Simone Chevallier. (She picked this name for the book, which I think says a lot.) Her nickname in college was Captain Blow Job. Simone is five foot eight with brown hair, green eyes, and a rack that could save you in a car accident. She’s the type of girl who dates two brothers at once, then doesn’t understand why she’s in trouble when they find out about each other. She’s stolen boyfriends, derailed engagements, and even inspired the occasional divorce. She never has a real boyfriend, but she’s always in a fight with some guy over text about why he only calls her after midnight. I don’t think Simone means to be such a femme fatale.… No, wait, actually I do. She has major daddy issues, is damaged as all fuck, and as a result, is one of the most fun people ever! She has a wicked sense of humor, loves drama, and is always up for an adventure. I met Simone in the sixth grade when my sister and I were shuttled off to live with our father in Arizona. Standing on the scorching hot playground in my J.Crew khakis and inappropriately warm button-up, Simone approached me boldly and said, “You’re pretty. I think we should be friends.”

She was shallow even then. Simone prizes looks above most things in both women and men. The night before my first date with my husband, Jason, Simone randomly spotted him out at a club.

“Hey, that
American Pie
guy you are supposed to go out with just walked into Le Deux,” she texted.

“Is he cute?” I asked.

“In like a Jewish way,” she said dismissively.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Why would I be friends with a girl who obviously sounds like the type of whore bag I originally said I’d never get close to? Well, that’s simple. Simone is a different strain of whore. Which is to say, she has a specific type. While I only date men who look like rabbis, Simone strictly falls for men hot enough to fuck Herb Ritts. And because I’d never date a guy who looked better in my jeans than I do, I’ve never really had to worry about Simone trying to sabotage my love life. That was until years later, when Jason and I were happily married and his sister Veronica came out from Jersey for the summer.

Veronica is the baby of the family. She is five feet tall and a quarter of that is hair. She’s never been seen without eyeliner and has even been known to apply more before going to bed. Her skin is always covered in bronzer, making her look more yam than human. I once saw her cut a guy off in traffic, then pull up next to him, roll down her window, and call him an asshole. She chain-smokes menthol cigarettes, drinks her coffee with a minimum of seven Equals, and always has an opinion about everything. She’s like a mini Joe Pesci in the body of a mini Joe Pesci.

“Are you fucking serious with that one?” she asked one night, while we were in the kitchen preparing for a dinner party.

“What do you mean?” I asked, rummaging through the cupboards for little cocktail umbrellas.

“I mean I wouldn’t leave a girl like that alone in a room with my cat’s dick!” she said, slamming a shot of tequila straight from the bottle.

I peeked into the room and saw Simone dressed in a cherry red satin romper and sensible Lucite heels talking sports with two dudes she didn’t yet realize were the bartenders.

This got me thinking. Maybe I was giving Simone too much credit. How did I know what kind of respect she had for me when I wasn’t around? Maybe, after enough carb-ridden margaritas, any cock could become her Fun Dip spoon. I was now officially paranoid.

Later that night, after everyone had gone home, I approached my husband about a possible sting operation. My request was simple: Come on to Simone and see what happens.

“Are you nuts?” Jason asked.

“What? I don’t see what the big deal is,” I said, my face now covered in green zit medicine.

“Flip the roles. How would you feel if I asked you to come on to one of my friends?”

“Babe, be real. It’s already obvious all of your friends would want to be with me if given the opportunity.” I applied more medicine to a weird pustule forming next to my nipple.

Disgusted, he stared at me. “Your dad really fucked you up.”

“Don’t worry. I only want to be with you. You won me,” I assured him, trying to pop the pustule I’d now determined wasn’t a zit but an ingrown hair.

“I wasn’t worried.” He winced as I broke the skin on the pustule and pulled out a thin dark hair. “In fact, I think you totally missed my point. But whatever.”

It was obvious Jason wasn’t into my plan and needed some convincing—or rather, some passive-aggressive manipulating of his most deep-seated insecurities.

“You’re right. Who am I kidding? Simone would never be attracted to you. She only likes models. You’re not her type. Waaay too swarthy…”

A beat of silence filled the air. Confident, I said nothing.

“You don’t think I could get her?” he finally asked. “I modeled as a child, and before I met you, I used to fuck the hottest chicks!”

“Yeah, chicks who thought you were Jason Schwartzman. That’s who I thought you were.” I drove the knife deeper.

“That’s not true. All women love me because of my adorable personality. I’m irresistible. They expect me to be this dorky guy, but once I start talking, they realize how cool I am and instantly fall in love with me. You did!”

“That’s because I only like dorks!” I said, getting into bed beside him.

To a certain extent, he was right. Women have always adored him. One of the many things that bond us is our mutual belief that everyone is in love with us. We both feel we could win over anyone, regardless of age, gender, or race. Even people who don’t want to love us. For instance, when someone ignores us, we never take that to mean they don’t like us. We just assume they can’t deal with the intensity of their feelings and have chosen to back away in order to avoid getting hurt. We are very healthy.

“Trust me, I can get any chick I want, including Simone!” he said, taking the bait.

“Then prove it.”

I knew I had him.

*   *   *

The following weekend, we
planned a dinner with Veronica, Simone, and two other bitches I was pretend-friends with that summer. My suggested plan was for Jason to pick Simone up for dinner while Veronica and I hid in the backseat. (At this point, I was becoming something of a connoisseur when it came to backseat space, size, and comfort. And I was pleased to learn that my car was the one best suited to spying yet.) If she inquired about why he was alone, he would simply say that Veronica and I took a separate car because we were running late. I knew Simone wouldn’t ask questions. It was common knowledge that Veronica took a minimum of five hours to get ready for anything. And Simone doesn’t really give a shit about topics that don’t somehow circle back to her scoring model dick.

Two blocks before reaching Simone’s house, Veronica and I jumped in the backseat of my car and threw jackets over our bodies. Simone was already waiting outside her apartment when we pulled up, dressed in a pleated leather schoolgirl skirt, metal stiletto heels, and a low-cut wife-beater. Jason told her Veronica and I had taken a separate car and, as predicted, Simone got in without further question. We took a turn down an adjacent residential street and slowed down to 5 mph.

Jason started his attack slowly.

“You think I’m ugly, don’t you?”

It took everything in me to keep from laughing. Not so much at the comedy of the situation but more out of nervousness. Whenever I’m uncomfortable, I start to giggle. When I have to fire people, I laugh. When someone dies, I laugh. When someone gets divorced, robbed, or even injured, my first impulse is to laugh. For this, I always come off looking like an insensitive asshole, but the honest-to-god truth is that I just can’t deal with seeing other people in pain. And by Jason’s tone, I could already tell he didn’t plan on half-assing his assignment. Things were about to get severely awkward, and I was already dreading the aftermath. Veronica kicked me to shut up as Jason continued.

“It’s cool. I’m obviously not your type. I get it.”

“What? No! You’re cute!”

Simone shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Chewing holes in the insides of my cheeks to keep from exploding, I couldn’t help but appreciate how talented an actor my husband was. Unlike me, who at thirty-three still looks guilty buying beer at a grocery store, Jason commits to his objective 100 percent. It’s like a switch gets flipped inside him, and he literally becomes that other person he’s portraying. Before I could start beating myself up for being the Jimmy Fallon of our at-home
Saturday Night Live
troupe, Jason switched gears.

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Yeaaah,” Simone said, rolling down her window for some air.

“Why don’t you give me a blow job,” he said, completely cavalier.

Not getting it, Simone tilted her head to the side and looked at him the way your dog looks at you when you’re about to leave the house without him.

“I don’t get it. You said you were gonna tell me a secret,” she said.

“That was the secret. As in, blow me and we won’t tell anyone, get it?”

Jason was growing frustrated with Simone the way he does with all his female co-stars. I could already hear his bitching in my head: “She wasn’t picking up her cues fast enough, she was talking over my lines, she wasn’t listening and reacting.…”

Simone started breathing heavily, like she was going to have a panic attack. Guilt-ridden, Veronica nudged me to reveal myself. Turning onto La Cienega, Jason continued to badger Simone.

“Show me one of your tits, and I’ll just masturbate on it really quick.”

The light turned red and the car sat momentarily idle. My husband and Captain Blow Job were at an impasse, both literally and figuratively.

Veronica and I sat up silently. Simone didn’t notice us, because her head was buried in her purse, most likely looking for Mace. Then, taking what must have felt like her only chance at escape, Simone flung open her car door just as Jason hit the gas. The car jerked into first gear and Simone, gripping the door, flew out of the vehicle. Her hands clung tightly to the handle as her metal stilettos dragged behind her, picking up speed. Sparks flew like she was wearing rocket-powered roller skates, and her skirt was pulled up, revealing her bare ass.

“Where is her underwear?” Veronica asked, alarmed.

“Hold on, Simone!” I said.

I climbed into the front seat and tried to secure the door from slamming shut on her fingers.

“Stop the car, you bitch!” Simone cried.

“Baby! Stop the car!”

“I can’t just stop, Jen!”

If Jason hit his brakes, Simone might lose her grip and slip under the wheels; if he kept going, she might lose her grip and slip under the wheels. The only option was to gradually coast to a stop and hope Simone’s Tracy Anderson DVDs had done their job in strengthening her core.

Simone’s arms seemed to be giving out as Jason swerved out of traffic and pulled into a nearby parking lot.

“I’m too cute to die!” she screamed.

As we came to a gradual stop, Simone went rolling. Her heels were fucked up beyond recognition, distracting her from the gravitas of what almost happened to the rest of her.

“These were four hundred dollars, you cunt!”

I stared down at her scalding-hot pumps that were now kitten wedges.

“You risked your life for our friendship! You were willing to throw yourself from a car to avoid fucking my husband!” I said, helping her into the backseat in what I thought would be our total chicks-before-dicks moment.

“Actually, I just don’t find Jason hot.”

Simone peeked under her skirt to make sure her vagina was still intact.

“You all saw my vagina, didn’t you?” she asked, smirking proudly.

After appraising the state of her hair and makeup, Simone demanded we take her to Cedars emergency room for a full-body scan.

Veronica called the other girls waiting for us at the restaurant and tried to explain what happened, but I think all they really got was that Jason asked Simone for a blow job and she tried to kill herself.

Simone lasted only five minutes in the waiting room before setting her sights on a DJ with a broken hand who looked like the type of guy who invites you back to his dorm to listen to house music and then rapes you.

“Have you ever realized that you are kind of that self-serving asshole that you tell your girlfriends not to date?” Veronica said to me, stuffing her face with SunChips from a nearby vending machine.

It was true! More than liking pretty faces, Simone liked people who undervalued her, and I had accidentally done just that. Simone wasn’t after my husband. She was probably in my life because she was addicted to my abuse!

“I am so sorry,” I said, grabbing her by the arms and sobbing like she had cancer.