Spooning (34 page)

“No!!”

Okay. Roommate lesson number one: know when to just back down. Some months later, I would realize how serious she was when she whispered, “Cords! Check the extension cords!” to Kurt Russell as he was searching a burnt-out shell of a house in
Backdraft
.

I hadn't shared with Syd that Mr. or Mrs. Death was waiting for me somewhere outside of our apartment, so she couldn't be blamed for making me age another few years. And what did it matter anyway, since it didn't look like I would reach the age of twenty-three? Our TV was destined to remain in its one and only spot. I was fine with that, really. When faced with one's mortality, the little things didn't matter so much. Someday though, should I live, I planned to invent a TV with an extra-long retractable cord already attached. Kind of like a vacuum, just for neurotic nitwits like Sydney.

Back on the redecorating front, I was now limited to the last two walls in the apartment. Currently the couch resided along the wall that faced the windows. So I changed the couch to the wall that had the windows. True, we wouldn't have the cityscape of the blinking hotel sign in front of us, and I couldn't watch the naked singing woman across the way who had an interesting way of ironing in the morning, but already the room looked completely different!

When we'd moved in back in August, the four of us had made some simple decorating concessions. Since we were out of college and entrenched in real life, gone were the framed Monet prints that we'd bought at the co-op for fifteen dollars each. Gone was the initial futon inherited from Macie's older brother. We had splurged over the winter for a Jennifer Convertible sofa. I owned one-fourth of a plush couch! Well, actually it was a loveseat. Which, at this point, I must take issue with. Actually, Tara had been the first one to raise the point about a week after the new couch's arrival.

“Loveseat, my ass! Okay, so I hooked up with Ben on the loveseat,” she'd informed us. Syd, Macie, and I had turned and looked at the new sofa with a bit of repulsion. No stains were visible to the naked eye, but each of us probably had the same vision of naked butts rubbed along the brushed cotton finish. “You can't properly kiss, never mind make love, on that thing,” she continued. “Ben's legs hung over the arm at his knees, my elbow kept hitting the back cushion, which does not come unattached—did we know that when we bought it? But the bottom cushions do slide off and flip off, as Ben and I found out as we groped toward the unattainable.” So much for my thoughts of simply flipping the cushions.

“Do not blame the couch for your lack of orgasms,” reprimanded Macie, still eyeing the couch with hesitation.

“Only 64 percent of women ever reach an orgasmic state and most do so by their own hand,” quoted Tara.

“Sweetie, you just keep trying. This Ben guy, maybe he can break the curse!”

Tara believed she had been cursed from ever experiencing orgasms during sex by an ex-boyfriend who turned out to be gay. His being gay was not an issue for Tara—it was that he had proclaimed himself a follower of witchcraft. Meaning, he had the power to cast spells and, after they broke up, Tara believed that she was doomed. Though she hadn't given up on trying!

Unfortunately, Tara had been cursed before. During college at Georgetown, she had lived in a row house in Washington, DC. Her castle was little more than a ragged, party-torn town- house whose scaffolding was barely tied together in order to extract rent from eager coeds (whose parents were footing the bill). In order to make the worn-down house a little more presentable, she and her roommates had adorned the windows with plastic window boxes filled with flowers: bright pink geraniums at $1.99 a piece planted every six inches. However, Tara and her beautiful geraniums had an enemy. Two houses down lived Helena Humperstein, aptly named, who was at least eighty years old and she had lived in her red row house at least that long. Needless to say, she did not appreciate the college spirit at her age. Nor did she appreciate Tara's torrid fight with her umpteenth boyfriend that first September.

Tara was “not allowed” to brawl in the house (House Rule 6, right after House Rule 5: No piggies are allowed to eat leftovers not belonging to said little piggy!), so she'd taken her
issues outside, right in front of Helena's house. Tara's dramatic fury was soon upstaged by Helena leaning out of her window muttering under her breath (this was after she went after the male coed neighbors with a Wiffle ball bat—their bat, mind you). The syllables were indistinguishable (even to Tara, the linguistics major), but the guttural noises couldn't be denied. Tara ended her riot act, grabbed the boyfriend, and dragged him back to her place. And the next morning, the geraniums were dead. One day alive, next day gone. Life, so short. Helena, so freaky. Tara, so cursed.

I put all thoughts of Tara's, Ben's, and whoever else's bodily fluids from my mind as I finished centering the couch against its new wall. I stood back and suddenly, in my mind, rich silken drapes appeared above the windows. The Diva had hung similar drapes on the set last Tuesday. I envisioned ours falling in soft billows and puddling on the floor like the trail of a luxurious ball gown. I then began to ponder the color. A sky blue—no, a deep wine red! Why does everything tie back to drinking? How amazing they would look. However, reality quickly set in. Unlike the Diva, TV hostess extraordinaire with millions of advertising dollars on her side, with a budget like ours, we would be lucky to be able to afford her cheap signature line of sheets. Maybe Mom could sew us some balloon curtains from those puppies. (Note to self: Call Mom to see if she knows what balloon curtains are.)

Next up, the white walls. Until I marry, I have come to terms with the fact that I will be surrounded by white walls. Harmonious and serene. And boring! Most apartment buildings in the city will not let you paint the walls even if you promise to paint them back to their boring old selves. And our lovely little multiethnic walk-up was no different. Our super
was the building's sniffer. He'd roam the halls investigating and sniffing for any foreign scent. Whether it be pot, burning cookies, kitty litter, wet dogs, or paint fumes, he knew it all. So white walls it was.

I surveyed the rest of the space and reflected that in years gone by, the ritual of getting married was designed to outfit you for grown-up life. Hence, bridal showers, which in theory gave you the goods you'd need to set up your first apartment or house. But these days, with women getting married later in life, bridal showers had become redundant. What we needed instead were Real-Life Showers, which could be thrown for girls when they first moved out on their own. Who wouldn't benefit from registering for home goods upon entering the real world? After all, that's when you really need them. Think about it. When you move into your first apartment, you rack up a tremendous amount of credit card debt within the first couple of weeks buying just the bare essentials. From knives and plates, to toilet brush cleaner and bath towels, there is so much stuff you need at the beginning. My own wish list would have included:

(Note to self: Be sure to bring up Real-Life Shower idea at work. Could totally be a Wow segment for the Diva.)

As I settled back down on the couch, my domestic inspiration drained, I found myself wondering who would protect me in the event that my stalker came calling. My father was miles away, 289 miles to be mathematically precise, and our super would only rise from the subbasement depths to defend me if my attacker stood in the way of Krispy Kreme's doorway around the corner. A boyfriend would have been the obvious choice, but I was all alone in that regard. Mr. J. P. Morgan had worked out religiously and had a body to do the bragging for him, but would he be willing to defend me if he saw me on the street in need of help?

Maybe this stalker episode would bring us together again. He'd be so concerned that he'd rush over to guard my humble door. Very movie-esque. I'd boil him coffee (Note to self: Does coffee really boil?) and serve him some of my newly learned Cooking Club delights like the cinnamon buns. I'd brush his bangs out of his sleep-deprived eyes and his lips would catch the ends of my fingers. With that innocent finger kiss, we'd get it on right there in the hallway. The McManns from 5D would ignore the sensuous noises in the name of love, and the old man in 5B was a recluse anyway—no problem there. The romance would ignite again. Every cloud has a silver lining, right?

Exhausted from the drama of the detailed fantasies in my mind, I headed for the kitchen. I needed one of the cool-down
pints of ice cream in the freezer. Yet when I opened the door, all that was left was one tiny cup of Tasty Treats. Apparently Sage had come over and spring cleaned our fridge. Ugh! Tasty Treats was definitely not ice cream; it was a newfangled trend of dieters. Someone, somewhere, had “invented” (because it's obviously not a natural process) ice cream that had no calories, no fat, and get this, no carbs. The name itself leaves something to be desired because all I could think of was dog snacks every time I heard it. But the line of salivating girls outside any one of the Tasty Treats kiosks in the city often resembled a pack of eager puppies. Famished, I snatched the cup and scoffed down the appetizing air in about eight seconds flat. In the midst of licking the last dribbles off my spoon, my cell phone rang.

“Charlie, how many points have you eaten today?” Sage asked.

“What?” I answered licking my guilty lips.

“How many points? You couldn't have given up already!”

That's right. The points. Sage had coerced us all into joining Weight Watchers a few weeks ago after our bathing suit experience in Puerto Rico, and she was determined to get us all following the point system. She'd found that Weight Watchers could be a tad discriminating however. After we'd all sent in the paperwork at her insistence, Sage had gone to a meeting to survey the scene and reported that the looks she got from the other women in the class could have burned off her saddlebags right then and there. Now I could see why these overweight women might have a problem with a tiny little thing like Sage. She was most likely sitting at attention in the front row, taking notes mind you, asking all sorts of annoying calorie-laced questions. Skinny bitch, is what they were probably thinking. And apparently, the Weight Watchers leader had
taken Sage aside afterward and said that she couldn't in good faith put Sage into the program. Sage had been crestfallen but somehow she had still been able to get her hands on the literature and was now reveling in her newfound glory as the points drill sergeant.

The other night when we'd been watching TV, she'd reprimanded Wade. “Five points!”

“What?” asked Wade.

“Five points.”

“What is?”

“That cracker that you're munching. Did you even know you were eating a cracker?” Watch out Dr. Phil.

“Yes, Sage. I know I am eating a cracker,” Wade said using her slow kindergarten voice. “I'm frickin’ hungry!”

“Five points hungry? You might try to satisfy your hunger with a handful of butter-free popcorn instead,” suggested Sage.

“Sage, A) these girls do not have a microwave, B) I like butter on my popcorn, and C) I want my cracker!” Wade was screeching at this point. I have a theory about teachers. They hold all their anger inside during the day, their patience being tried minute-by-minute. But let them out of school, and they are ready to yell at the littlest infraction. Wade behind the wheel of a car was scary. That sweet southerner could curse like a truck driver. Yet when around kids, she was a sappy version of Peter Pan combined with a smidge of the
Romper Room
lady. So Wade had continued to stuff her face full of crackers while Sage gritted her teeth and tapped her fingers on the table. I'd been convinced that Sage's taps were counting out 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 over and over again to make her five points point very clear.

“Yep, Sage, I've been counting,” I said now, calmly, into the
phone. “I've had about seventeen out of my twenty-five points today and I think I'm going to bank the other eight points.”

“What do you mean ‘bank’?”

“Well, if I don't use up those eight today, I can drink an extra beer or two this weekend!” Check out that math prowess, Dad! Too bad this newfound mathematical ability hadn't spilled over into my lack of financial common sense.

“You can't bank them!” Sage sounded disgusted. I could feel the spit coming through the phone. “You have to moderate your solid and liquid intake across the board. By not using up your points, you will begin to see those dimpled thighs disappear!” I knew Sage should never have come to the Rico with us. Those discerning eyes missed nothing!

“Fine, fine,” I mumbled as I opened the cabinet to search for eight points worth of something. “I'll talk to you later. I've got to find some more points to shove down my throat.”

“Trust me, C. I'm only doing this to help you.”