Misery Loves Cabernet (8 page)

I look at the
Love, Jenn
, and wonder: Had e-mail been around when she was first dating her husband, how long it would have taken Rob to write
Love, Rob
. Then I remember. . . .

Try to avoid being jealous. The only jealousy that is productive is the kind that tells you what you really want in your life. If you are jealous of someone’s house, this is your mind’s way of saying you want a house. If you are jealous of someone’s success in a chosen field, in anything from acting to zoology, that is your mind’s way of saying you want to be an actress or a zoologist. If you are jealous of someone’s relationship—you are in trouble. Knock it off, and stay away from your friend’s boyfriend
.

And if you are jealous of a
Love, Jenn
in the middle of the night, it means you are a complete lunatic.

I click
REPLY
.

Subject: Re: Well, isn’t that always the problem?

To: Jenn Smith

From: Charlie Edwards

 

And not only are those grooms subject to availability, but they also don’t have penises.

Remember the Pregnant Barbie that Wal-Mart pulled from its shelves? I wonder if the Dad doll that was sold separately was also listed as “Subject to Availability.” Perhaps that was the problem.

I have no clue what is going on with Patrick and Dawn. They were still together when I left them at one.

I have no clue what is going on with Jordan, either.

Be happy you’re married and never have to wait by the phone again.

Love,

Charlie

P.S. Patrick probably doesn’t have a shot in hell, though. Sorry.

I leave it at that. I think about elaborating by writing, “She’ll play with him for a while, the way a cat plays with a mouse. But remember what always happens to that mouse.” But I decide against it.

As I hit
SEND
, a new e-mail beeps in, this one from Jamie. I click it open.

Subject: For my great-grandniece

To: Charlie Edwards

From: Jamie Edwards

 

Hey, here’s my first article for the mag. I think you should put it in your book of advice.

I quickly read the article and decide, yes, it’s worth repeating to my great-granddaughter.

This is from your great-granduncle. It was an article he wrote for
Metro
magazine, a woman’s magazine from the twenty-first century
.

Lines Men Will Use to Get You Into Bed.
By James Edwards

First of all, know that everything men say, from “Hello” to “Looks like rain,” is designed to get you into bed. And every teenage girl who has ever been on a fifth date has heard the line, “If you loved me, you would.” But here are some other classics you might want to avoid:

1. I have an amazing bottle of Dom Pérignon (Opus One, Cristal) at home. I keep waiting for a reason to open it, but maybe tonight should just be “Open that Bottle Saturday.” Would you like to join me?
   
2. Oh, I have a print from that artist, over my couch at home. He’s so (deep, real, interesting—insert your favorite adjective here). Would you like to come see it?
   
3. I don’t use lines per se, because they are transparent and I think women are smarter than that. (This, if you haven’t realized already, is a line.)
   
4. For you teenagers out there: Just let me for one minute—I’ll pull out
   .
   
5. I’ve always wanted a Christmas wedding. (June wedding, etc.)
   
6. I can’t wait to meet your family
   .
   
7. I want to fill our house with our laughing babies
   .
   
8. Would you like to hit the beach with me and see the midnight submarine races?
   
9. At the bank: I’m making a deposit. Does $100,000 have the comma after the second zero, or the third?
   
10. I love you. (By the way, this last line, if we’ve waited more than two weeks, will get any nonvirgin into bed. However, we try to use it judiciously. If we say it on the first date, sometimes we freak you out.)
    

Just then, Jamie IMs me.

CalienteJamie: Well, what do you think?

AngelCharlie: Mom’s going to be mad when she sees you stole her Dom Pérignon line.

CalienteJamie: Who do you think edited this and gave me notes? She thought it would class up the piece. I had opened with number four.

“Eewwww . . . ,” I say out loud, dragging the word out. Then I type in:

AngelCharlie: Eeeeewwwwwww . . .

CalienteJamie: You mean to tell me no guy has ever said that to you?

AngelCharlie: Of course they have, but it’s still Eww . . .

CalienteJamie: Hold on, I think I’m getting a booty call.

While I wait for Jamie to get back to me, I decide to begin composing my e-mail to Jordan.

To: Jordan 1313

From: AngelCharlie

Dear Jordan,

It’s about 1:30, and I just got home. I wish you could have been there. I went as a cheerleader.

Well, that’s lame. He knows I was planning to go as a dinosaur. And he can see from the time stamp it’s 1:30.

I erase everything, and begin again.

Hey, Sweetie,

Got your message. Sorry I missed your calls. I got stuck at Drew’s neighbor’s house dealing with this hippo

I stop typing, and stare at my screen. Should I really be sending an e-mail that will end with me describing myself covered in hippo poop? The story might be funny now, but I’m not going for funny, I’m going for sexy. I erase, and start over.

Jamie IMs me.

CalienteJamie: Make fun of my costume all you want—I’ve just been invited to Swingers Coffee Shop to meet a gaggle of drunken women.

AngelCharlie: Have fun. Quick—before you go. If I were sending an e-mail to Jordan to make him miss me, should I go with humor or sex?

CalienteJamie: Humor. Gotta go. Love you.

And he signs off.

Humor. He wrote that immediately. Must be the way to go. I begin again:

Hello my love,

Backspace, backspace, backspace.

Hi Babe,

No . . . .

Dear Reason for Living,

All right, that’s just going to freak him out.

Dear Sex God,

I’ve just thought about you—twice. I have some fun ideas about what we can do with whipped cream, a hot tub of Jell-O, and a cattle prod.

Delete, delete, delete.

Then again, it might be funny.

With Katie Couric and a cattle prod.

Now I’m freaking myself out. Backspace, Backspace.

My home phone rings.

I pick up on the first ring without bothering to look at the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Do you think I have a Peter Pan complex?” someone asks me.

“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.

There’s a pause. “Do you even know who this is?”

“No, but I know it’s a male voice, so you do.”

“It’s Drew.”

“Then I stand by my answer.”

“Okay, then, what exactly is a Peter Pan complex?”

“Go to bed,” I order.

“Well, I’d like to,” Drew tells me. “But there’s this girl in my bed right now, and at first she was very charming and really into me. But then she started crying about her ex-boyfriend, who just dumped her, and now she’s saying I have a Peter Pan complex.”

I start to respond, but he interrupts me. “And I need to know what that is, because if it has to do with flying during sex, I just can’t. Maybe the Spider-Man thing confused her. The webs might be realistically sticky, but I don’t think they’d support my weight. Certainly not both of ours.” Drew sighs loudly. “I think I’m getting too old for the new sex.”

I furrow my brow, and look up at my ceiling, confused. “I . . . um . . . what exactly is the new sex?”

“Oh, shit!” Drew exclaims. “She just found the harness—I gotta go. Love you.”

And Drew’s gone.

Great—a man who calls me right before he has sex with another woman can say he loves me, but the guy I’m dating can’t. Perfect. My life is right on schedule.

I backspace myself back to an empty screen, and stare at the page.

Then, following in the footsteps of great writers everywhere, I decide to find inspiration by raiding my fridge.

Don’t eat unless you’re hungry
.

A few minutes later, I realize I have nothing fun to eat in this house. No candy, no ice cream—not even an old can of Duncan Hines frosting hiding behind a jar of mustard. I decide I can’t face a 2
A.M.
Ralph’s run, so instead I open a bottle of Guenoc Claret, microwave some popcorn, and head back to my computer screen.

Ten minutes later, I’m still at my computer screen, staring at my empty e-mail box. Other than a job offer from the Bank of Kenya, and yet another ad for a penile implant, no one wants to talk to me.

I take another sip of wine, hit
COMPOSE
, then type.

Dear Jordan,

I miss you. I’m sorry I missed your calls. Call me again sometime when you’re free.

Love,

Charlie

It’s probably best to go with the classics.

I hit
SEND
.

Get plenty of sleep
.

I spent the rest of the night with terrible insomnia. I didn’t mean to wait by the phone, but I kept expecting Jordan to call the minute he woke up. He didn’t. Instead, when the phone finally rings at a little before nine in the morning, I look at the caller ID to see it’s my mom’s house. Probably my dad—he tends to call early in the morning.

Dad’s temporarily staying with Mom, his ex-wife, while he divorces Jeannine, his current wife.

Yup—my parents are divorced, but living together. I mean, not living together, living together—just living together as roommates. They have separate bedrooms. Mom shares her bed with Chris, her thirty-year-old yoga instructor.

One big happy family.

Did I mention I grew up in Los Angeles? Did I have to mention it? Is there anyone outside of California who can utter the phrase, “My parents are divorced, but living together”?

Maybe a few in Oregon . . .

Anyway, hopefully it’s Dad, not Mom. It’s too early for Mom.

“Hello,” I mumble groggily into the phone.

My father tells me over the phone:

Never get a tattoo on your lower back
.

“What?” I ask, sleepily.

“It’s for your book of advice to my great-great-granddaughter,” Dad says. “Never get a tattoo on your lower back.”

“Doesn’t that sound a little old and judgmental?” I ask as I instinctively reach for a phantom cigarette.

“Oh, please. Last night your mother and I saw a woman wearing pink Juicy Couture sweats low enough to see the words
DADDY’S LITTLE GIRL
tattooed right above her butt. I complimented her on her costume and she almost punched me.”

“Dad, lower-back tattoos are pretty common these days.”

“Charliebear, the only man a girl will ever catch with that tattoo lives in a trailer park, has a beer gut and bad teeth, and wears a trucker cap with the word
SKOAL
emblazoned on the front.”

“Probably true,” I concede. “Though that’s not the worst thing a tattoo could say on the lower back. Drew dated a hula dancer with the word
MAHALO
tattooed right above the back of her hula skirt.”

“What does
Mahalo
mean?” Dad asks.

“It’s Hawaiian for
Thank you
.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dad mutters. “Anyway, what does this e-mail you sent me yesterday mean?”

He reads to me from his computer:

All women think they can utter the following phrase: “If I had a dime for every sane member of my family, I’d have a dime.”

I cringe. “I’m sorry. That was just something I typed into my iPhone yesterday. I want to put it in my book of advice. I didn’t mean to send that to you. I meant to send you Jordan’s e-mail, so you can translate for me.”

“Don’t forward me the boy’s e-mail,” Dad nearly whines. “I thought you broke up with him.”

“I did, but—”

“What is it about women that when they break up, what they really mean is, ‘I want you to start acting like I want you to act.’ When a man says he wants to break up, do you know what he means?”

“That he never wants to see you again, unless it’s two in the morning, and he’s drunk and horny,” I answer authoritatively.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then Dad deadpans, “Seriously, you talk to your father with that mouth?”

“Sorry,” I say. “It means he really wants to break up.”

“Exactly. And, in response to your first e-mail: What makes you think you’d have a dime?”