Me vs. Me (15 page)

“As long as you're sure,” Curtis says. “You definitely don't have to.”

I can't tell if she thinks I want to steal her job or if she appreciates that I'm putting in the extra effort. “Honestly, it's fine. I don't do Christmas. And I have nothing planned for New Year's Eve. I'm happy to be working. I'm hoping I can cut out a little early tonight, actually. I have an…appointment.”

“No problem,” she says. “Thanks for working the extra shifts.”

The thing is, I love work. I love being here. I love everything about this place. I love the throbbing of my BlackBerry, and I love who I am. Tough. Strong. Capable. The perfect place to bring in the New Year.

 

That evening in New York, on our way to Le Mariage on Madison Avenue, Heather hands me a sparkling solitaire ring.

“Aw, you're proposing! You're sick of your parents harassing you about being single, so you've decided to introduce me to them as your committed lesbian partner in order to get them off your back.”

She smirks. “Very funny. It's a fake engagement ring. In this city, you can't go wedding-dress shopping without one. I got myself one, too. I might as well try this technique while we're here. Air out my ex-boyfriend issues, too. See?” She extends her left hand.

“What ex-boyfriend issues?” I guess I do ask a lot of questions.

She brushes away my question with a wave of her sparkling hand. “You know. The ones who got away.”

“You think of everything,” I say, lifting my own sparkler to the sunlight. “Where did you get this?” And yet another question. Damn Cam for making me feel self-conscious.

“From a street vendor downtown. You owe me twenty bucks.”

It's a big square-shaped rock on a slim silver band. “It's pretty good. I would never be able to tell the difference between this one and a real one.” I think I might like it better than my real one. Who knew?

Still, another question, this one rhetorical. Well, so what? I'm in the news business. Asking questions is what news people do. The only thing I have to stop is questioning myself.

“Trust me,” Heather says, “if you had a real one, you'd be able to tell.”

I don't think I can tell what's real and what's not these days.

When we get to the boutique, the receptionist hands us two clipboards with forms to fill out. What is your e-mail address? When is your wedding date? Where are you getting married?

The stores are far more organized in New York than they are in Phoenix. I catch Heather laughing to herself as she scribbles on the questionnaire.

“I'm getting married at the Pierre,” she whispers. “On Valentine's Day.”

Once we've been accepted inside, we're both shown changing rooms. We point to the dresses we like, and our salespeople, or “Wedding Specialists” as their name tags say, get to it. I have a pen and paper in my purse and plan on marking down whatever styles Heather believes are right for me.

“How are you doing over there?” Heather calls from the other room.

My specialist zips my dress up. It's similar to the straight one I tried on at Snow White. “Good! I'm ready. Let me see.”

We both step out of our rooms.

“You look gorgeous!” I shriek. She's wearing a long sleek dress that shows off her curves perfectly. “Wow. You should totally get that.”

“Thanks. I'm sure my fiancé Frank the brain surgeon would love it.” She winks at me as she pirouettes.

I place one hand on my hip, the other on my head, and strike my best glamour pose. “What about mine?”

She looks me up and down. “No.”

I love this girl. “No?”

“Definitely not. It's not your style. I can see you in something more princessy.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. It's awful. You look horrific.”

“I get the point.”

“That dress was just not sewn to be worn by somebody with your lack of breasts.”

“Heather, you're scaring me again.” I used to have breasts. In Arizona, anyway. Damn weight loss.

“Friends are allowed to be honest. Let me find you something,” she says, charging into my changing room. She selects a simple satin strapless dress with an empire waist. “This one.”

I try it on. My waist looks so narrow. And I look gorgeous. I think. “What do you think?”

“It's perfect,” she says. “It's the one. Can't you tell?”

I look at myself in the mirror. It's nice. Definitely. But how will it look in Arizona? And is it the one? “I don't know.”

“Trust me,” she says.

I look at the price tag. “Three thousand five hundred.” Eek.

“It's your one special day,” Heather says. “You need something perfect.”

She's right. “I'll take it!”

“Wonderful. You'll be gorgeous,” says the smiling Wedding Specialist.

Heather's pinches my arm. “Um…don't you want to think about it?”

“No, I'm sure.” It'll be amazing. Cam will never be able to take his eyes off me. “Can I put it on my credit card?”

“I think you should think about it,” Heather urges. And then she whispers, “You're not really getting married. This is just therapy, remember?”

Oh. Right. “I should think about it,” I tell the specialist.

The specialist winces. One commission down. I imprint the designer's name and the style number in my memory so I can try it on in Arizona.

I hope it comes in a larger size.

Two Turtlenecks and a Partridge in an Orange Tree

C
hristmas Eve in New York passes in an eggnog blur. Heather's family is loud but nice. There's lots of screaming to pass the this or the that, and her younger brothers keep getting yelled at for turning on the TV.

In Arizona, Alice cooks a feast, and insists that Blair and her brood spend the night. She forces us to watch, again, all their Christmas home videos. Cam rolling himself in wrapping paper. Blair throwing a tantrum when she doesn't get a bike. Alice throwing a tantrum, period.

The entire family congregates around the piano to sing Christmas carols, and I kind of join in when I know the words. Alice tries to insist that Cam and I spend the night, too (what fun, sleeping in Cam's old room a wall away from Alice!), but in anticipation of just that, I purposely forgot the gifts back at the apartment so that we'll have to go home and return the next morning.

I spend Christmas Day in New York working. It's slow; the building is quiet since hardly anyone is here (definitely not running into cute Elevator Boy today), and the stories are all Christmas-hokey.

In Arizona, Cam and I return to Alice's to exchange presents. Honestly, until I met Cam, I never realized how much we Jews miss out on regarding gift-giving. At Hanukkah, parents give their kids presents, but that's it. (Most parents, anyway. Mine seem to have forgotten this year.) At Christmas, everyone exchanges gifts with everyone. At least that's how it is in Cam's family.

The gift-giving thing can be awkward. In college, I got all my girlfriends little trinkets, but none of them got me anything because they knew I was Jewish and didn't want to offend me. The first year I was dating Cam, I got him a baseball hat and he got me a diamond necklace. It was only a small diamond chip, but still. Better than a baseball hat. Cam likes to go all out for Christmas. Last year he got me pearl earrings. It's hard to shop for him, but my general rule these days is to get him something he wants but would never buy himself. Last year I got him a digital camera. This year I got him the latest iPod. Latest for the next five minutes anyway, until they come out with a new one.

I have no clue what Cam's getting me this year. It will probably be jewelry again, since he knows I love it, and I'd never buy any for myself. Although, he did just get me a ring barely two months ago, so maybe he'll get me something different. Like a day at a spa? I was hoping to stumble across it or a clue somewhere in the apartment so I could practice my “This is the nicest (blank) ever,” but no such luck.

I picked up toys for the kids, a satellite radio for Blair and Matt (I hope it's acceptable to give only one gift to a couple), a new Martha Stewart book for Alice, and a few DVDs for Cam's dad. Cam carries everything to the car. Still don't see a gift for me. Although, if it's earrings or a spa certificate, it would easily fit in his pocket. Hmm, is it possible I don't get a gift because I just got a ring?

I help him carry all the gifts inside (stopping under the mistletoe—love that mistletoe!) and place them under the massive and overdecorated tree.

After brunch, over more eggnog, we all move into the living room and get ready to open the gifts. The kids go first, and then Alice unwraps her presents from us. (“A new book? That's so thoughtful of you, Cammy. You, too, Gabrielle.”) Then Cam starts to unwrap the gift his parents got for us. I'm assuming it's a painting, since it's tall and wide, about half of my height.

“We wanted to help fill up the wall space in the new house,” Alice says.

Yup. It must be a painting.

And then Cam opens it. It's a painting. Of Jesus. On the cross.

“Wow,” I say. “That's quite a present.”

Does she not understand that I'm Jewish? I enjoy mistletoe, and I know the words to “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer,” but I have to draw the line somewhere. Besides, religion and interior decoration just don't mix. I liked Pilates, which is kind of yoga-like, and I've been intrigued with eastern philosophy since I did a story on Thailand last year, but you won't see a picture of Buddha on my wall, either.

Alice nods. “We thought so. It will look just perfect over the fireplace in the living room.”

I finish my second glass of eggnog and decide I might have to scale down my carol-singing and eggnog-drinking since I'm obviously confusing her. I try to catch Cam's eye to see if he also finds the gift inappropriate. Religious artifacts should be discussed and agreed upon by the couple. How would Cam feel if my dad started sending us mezuzahs and insisting we put them up?

“Thanks, Mom,” Cam says, not looking at me. He opens the gift from Blair and Matt. It's a new tie. “Nice,” he says. Boring, I think.

I'm up next, and I open the gift from Blair and Matt. I tear away the purple tissue paper to reveal a blue turtleneck sweater. “It's beautiful,” I say. Actually, it's really quite nice. Except the neck looks a little small. Outrageously small. It occurs to me that the sweater might not fit over my jumbo-sized head. I reach over to put it on a chair.

“It's cashmere,” says Blair.

“That means it wasn't cheap,” pipes up Alice.

Please don't make me try it on. Pretty please?

Alice eyes it on the chair and says, “Try it on.”

“Oh, I would, but—” I rack my brain for an excuse. I remember that I'm wearing a thick sweater already. “It won't fit over what I'm wearing.”

Alice narrows her eyes. “So change in the bathroom. We want to see it.”

“Mom,” Cam says, “she doesn't have to try it on this second.”

Blair snorts. “I think I'm entitled to see what it looks like.”

I heave myself off the couch. These people are so annoying. “I'll try it on, I'll try it on,” I grumble and head to the bathroom, which still has no lock (is it so hard to fix a lock?), peel off my sweater, slide my arms into the sleeves of the turtleneck and then try to insert my head.

I pull.

I yank.

I thrust.

I give up.

Unfortunately, my head is just not going in. Heather is right. I have a jumbo, freak-sized head. I take a second to nibble my nails, oh, God, I have to stop—they're disgusting in Arizona—and try one more time for good luck, then pull out my arms and put on my sweater.

This is not going to be pretty.

The group is chattering and laughing, but as soon as I join them, they clam up. “You're not wearing it,” Alice says.

No kidding. “It doesn't fit. I'm sorry.”

“Of course it fits,” Alice says. “It's a medium. I'm sorry to tell you, but you're not a small. Maybe if you slowed down on the eggnog—”

“The neck is too tight.”

“That's ridiculous,” Alice says. “Let me see.”

“I can't get it on. I tried.”

“Try it on here over your sweater,” Blair orders.

My head feels hot. My arms. My tongue. “No. It doesn't fit.”

“If you don't like it, just say so,” Blair says. “It was expensive.”

“Blair!” Cam says, finally jumping to my defense. “If Gabby said it doesn't fit, it doesn't fit. Maybe you can exchange it for a larger size.”

“Actually,” I squeak, “a larger size won't help. I am a medium, but it's the neck that doesn't fit, and if I get a larger turtleneck to accommodate my head, the rest of it will be too big. So can you just exchange it for another style?” At this point I realize that I'm rambling and stop immediately.

“Try it on.” Blair repeats.

For heaven's sake. I shove my hands through the armholes and attempt to ram my head through the neck, and what is wrong with them, why are they so horrible, why don't they see that this stupid sweater just
does not fit?
The sweater is blanketing my face and I'm waving my arms and I'm screaming, “See? See?”

By the time I give up again, I'm sweaty and hot and exhausted. The room is deadly quiet. I fling the sweater onto the coffee table and collapse into my spot on the couch. Cam puts his arm around me in a feeble attempt to appease me.

Blair snatches the turtleneck. “You don't have to be such a drama queen. I'll buy you another one, since I can't exchange it.”

Translation: she bought it at a clearance sale.

“Blair, honey, don't upset yourself, it's not good for the baby,” Alice coos. “Why don't you open one of your presents?”

Blair picks up the one that we got her and rips open the paper. “A satellite radio! Thanks, Cammy!” she says, clearly ignoring the card that came from Cam
and
me.

“You're welcome,” Cam says. “I'm glad you like it.”

Matt reaches across the coffee table and shakes Cam's hand. “Thanks, man. Thanks, Gabby.”

At least someone in that marriage has manners. Which is perfectly understandable. He's not blood related. “You're welcome.”

“Gabrielle, it's your turn to open Cam's,” Alice announces. “If you're feeling up to it.”

I ignore her. She is not going to ruin the one good part of the day: me opening the present from the man I love. “Which one is it?” I ask, searching under the tree for a small package.

“The red one,” Cam says, playing with his fingers. Aw, he's nervous. How cute!

I don't see a small red package. I do see a monster three-foot red box. “That one?” I ask, confused.

Still doing that thing with his fingers, he nods.

I pull it out from under the tree and, sure enough, spot my name on the card. I open and read:
Gabrielle! Merry Christmas! Love, Cam!

Since when does he call me
Gabrielle?
And this isn't his handwriting. This is Alice's handwriting. Cam hates exclamation marks. Please tell me my fiancé didn't ask his mother to write my card. Please tell me that my fiancé didn't—

I rip away the tissue.

—buy me a vacuum cleaner.

“It's a vacuum cleaner,” I say, my voice flat.

“It's a Dyson,” Alice says, beaming. “State of the art.”

Maybe I can plug it in right now and suck myself away.

 

I don't speak to Cam all the way home. I don't even look at him. I'm exploding with resentment.

He pops open the trunk and says, “I'm sorry. I should never have given you a vacuum cleaner for Christmas.”

I ignore him and concentrate instead on heaving my Dyson toward the apartment door.

“Gabby, talk to me.”

I lean the vacuum cleaner against the door while I search through my purse for the keys. Where are my stupid keys?

“I'm sorry,” Cam says, unlocking the door. He piles our gifts under the window. “I'm sorry. I should have given you something more fun. But I thought that since I got you a ring, I could get away with something more practical.”

Get away with? Is giving me a gift some kind of crime? “No, I don't like it. A household appliance? You couldn't have been more clichéd if you got me a toaster. And does this mean I'm supposed to do the all the vacuuming in the new house? Are you not planning to pitch in with the housework?” I shake my head. “But it's not just that. The entire day was a disaster.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Yes, it was. What's up with that painting your mother gave us? Don't they get that I'm Jewish?”

He sits down on his couch and pats the spot next to him. “It's just a picture.”

I opt to angrily stride up and down the room instead. “Nothing is just a picture. Is that why she's so horrible to me? Is it because I'm a different religion?”

“She's not
that
horrible to you.”

“Are you on crack? Of course she is. And your sister is no better. Is it my fault I have a big head? She didn't have to be so rude about it.”

“You don't have a big head. You have a beautiful head. And a beautiful smile. Will you smile? Please? I'll talk to them.”

I'm in no mood for smiling. “But why do they treat me like garbage? Do they just not think I'm good enough for you?”

When he doesn't answer, I know I've hit the nail smack on its tiny, ugly head. “That's it, isn't? They don't think I'm good enough.”

“It's normal. No mother thinks any girl is good enough for her only son. It's the same with fathers and daughters. I'm sure your dad doesn't think I'm good enough.”

“Yes, he does,” I say. Although, in truth, he hardly knows Cam. In truth, he hardly knows me. But one thing I'm sure of. My father would never treat Cam the way Alice treats me. And do you know why? Because I wouldn't stand for it. But there's a bigger problem. The truth is, lately, I don't
feel
good enough. I feel so damn insecure. I have no career. No money. No desire to clean a house. “Look, forget about your family. Let's go back to the gift for a second. How could you think a vacuum cleaner is an appropriate gift for your fiancée?”

“I'm sure we can return it.”

“We don't have to return it,” I say, kneeling in front of him. “That's not the point. We do
need
a vacuum. It's just that we just got engaged…and I guess I was hoping you'd be feeling more romantic. You normally get me jewelry.” Am I sounding like a spoiled brat? “I think that may have sounded awful and I don't mean to sound like a spoiled princess, but I think you know what I mean—”

“I'm sorry. Really. I was going to get you something different. Like earrings or a day at the spa, but then my mom bought it and she said that you really needed one, and I didn't want to disappoint her….” His voice trails off.

“First of all, you should be more worried about disappointing me than disappointing her.”

“You're right. I'm sorry.” He rubs the back of my neck with his palms.

I'm feeling appeased until I remember the card. “And what was up with the card? Did your mother write it?”