“I don’t understand your logic.” Perhaps it was silly to attempt to understand an illogical man’s logic, but he was pouring his heart out to me and I took pity on him.
“Cause all girls love bad boys. And playboys. Like me.”
“Not all girls love playboys,” I advised. “Why don’t you just talk to her?”
“OK, tell me which line I should use: Are your feet tired? Cause you’ve been running through my head all day.”
“Seriously? Do you really think that’s going to work?”
“How about this one: Can you give me a Band-Aid? I hurt myself falling for you.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“There’s 200 bones in the body but baby you give me —”
“Stop! That’s disgusting. Just talk to her – like a normal person.”
He looked back at me blankly so I offered a suggestion. “Try this line: Hi, how are you? You look nice today.”
“That’s never going to work,” Mateo scoffed.
“Have any of your lines ever worked?”
“Fine. But if she disses me, I’m hitting on you next.” Mateo pointed his finger at me and pulled the trigger, as if it were a gun.
“No! I do not agree to that!” I yelled as he loped off to cut a rug on the dance floor.
“Veronica, I didn’t know you would be here tonight.” There was a flash of brilliance brought on by Caden’s beauty, or maybe it was his teeth. It looked like he had just re-whitened them. My stallion had finally appeared!
“I’m Stevie’s date!” I exclaimed, instantly reduced to a giggly school girl.
“His date?” Caden looked like he was searching for words to delicately explain the obvious to me.
“Oh no, it’s not like that. Stevie’s my gay boyfriend.”
Caden looked even more confused.
“He’s like my gay BFF. Totally platonic. You know, every girl has a gay boyfriend, or at least they should.”
“Huh, well, I learned something new tonight.” We smiled at each other. Was I actually having a normal conversation with him without drooling, panting or stuttering? I was making real progress!
What only Mateo would describe as a gorgeous woman approached, her large, fake boobs perkily positioned. She looked like the poster girl of high-end prostitute style.
“Hey babe, do you have a gay boyfriend?” Caden asked her, putting his arm around her waist. My smile and all colour melted from my face as I watched the scene unfold in front of me in horror.
“I hope you’re not gay,” she responded, draping herself all over him like a dirty rag. I felt like the wind was knocked out of me.
“Veronica, this is my girlfriend Britney.”
“Hi,” I croaked without offering my hand to shake.
“Caden, should I be worried that you work with all these pretty high school girls?” Britney pouted. She was nauseating. What did he see in her? The last time I was around this much plastic was, well, at Gisele…
“You have nothing to worry about,” Caden reassured his plastic girlfriend. “Veronica’s taken.” He pointed at Stevie, clearly not understanding my gay boyfriend explanation. By Britney’s expression, even she could tell that Stevie was gay.
I felt like a wilted flower. I didn’t have the energy to explain my relationship with Stevie or my educational history so I weakly excused myself to go find Stevie.
I passed by the dance floor where Mateo was trying to heat it up. He was reinforcing the stereotype that white men have no rhythm, blissfully unaware of how ridiculous he looked among the eighty-year old couples trying to waltz. I stopped for a moment to watch his running man transition into the robot. I hoped for his safety that he wouldn’t try any of his lines on the women at this event. Except Britney. That would be funny.
I found Stevie at the bar, who was hitting unsuccessfully on the bartender. Apparently, alcohol impedes the effectiveness of Stevie’s gay-dar. The bartender was very straight.
“Stevie.” I saved the bartender. “Caden has horrible taste in women.”
I looked morosely at Caden and Britney. She was still hanging shamelessly off of him. Her boobs were probably throwing her off balance and she needed the support.
“And you have horrible taste in men,” he responded.
“What’s the dirt on Britney?” I continued to watch them, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. She was chewing at his ear. Ew. She made Mateo look classy. “How long is she going to last?”
“Who cares? I’ve never seen him with the same woman twice, but they all look the same. Like a dumb Barbie doll. He’s such a cliché.”
Game on bitch, game on. Hmm, I could dye my hair blonde but getting a boob job to land Caden was a little excessive.
“You’re pathetic. You know what I’m going to do tomorrow?” Stevie stepped unsteadily in front of me to block my view of the disgustingly intimate couple. “I’m reporting you to HR.”
Mateo approached, a welcome interruption, oddly enough.
“Hey Mateo, why don’t you try one of your lines on Caden’s girlfriend? You can see firsthand that they don’t work.” It was worth a shot.
“Oh, they work baby,” he assured me.
“Matthew’s a playboy,” Stevie put his arm around Mateo and then retreated when he felt that Mateo was drenched in sweat. Even in a drunken state, Stevie was excessively hygienic. He excused himself hastily, in search of baby wipes.
“Hey, what I told you before. It’s between you and me. Don’t tell Stevie.” Mateo asked.
Why on earth would Mateo choose me of all people to confide in? “No worries.” I said. Besides, if Stevie knew, he would probably launch a campaign to hook them up and the whole company would know, which would embarrass Mateo even more when Heidi inevitably rejects him.
“So, how long have you been in love with Caden?” Mateo asked.
I was taken aback. “Is it that obvious?” I realized that I was staring, laser-focused, at Caden and Britney.
“A playboy knows.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.” I offered. It was now clear why Mateo chose me to confide in, other than my sage wisdom.
“Say it.” He demanded.
“Say what?”
“You know…”
“Fine. You’re a playboy.”
We leaned against the bar watching the gross couple. “Sorry babe, but you know you don’t have a chance in hell with him.” Mateo mopped his brow with a bar napkin.
“I know,” I admitted.
“You’re way to classy for him. What do you see in him anyway? He’s a douche bag.”
“What do you see in Heidi?” I changed the subject.
“She’s the perfect woman,” he shrugged.
“So when are you going to make your move?”
“I don’t know. Is there an app for that?”
“I wish,” I answered as I watched Caden and his prostitute girlfriend leave the event.
Chapter 10: Desperate Heathen
With mounting panic at the desperateness of my situation, I had been gorging my brain with all the mascara research we’ve done in North America to find a needle in a haystack: how to get women to buy multiple mascara products at the same time. It was like Mission Impossible except without all the cool spy stuff and Tom Cruise. Stevie and his new partner in crime, Sydney, appeared at my cube, arms crossed.
“What?” I was instantly suspicious. Why else would Stevie bring reinforcements?
“We’re setting you up on a blind date,” Stevie informed me.
“I have no time,” I responded, blowing them off. “Klaus and Savannah want me to revolutionize the mascara industry and I’m having revolutionist block.”
“Speaking of revolutionize – you revolutionized your fashion style and now we’re going to help you revolutionize your love life.” Stevie said with the credibility of a late night infomercial.
“You have no choice.” Sydney stepped in to close the deal. “There’s no backing out.”
“I appreci
ate the concern, but absolutely not.”
“You really need to get out more. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Stevie encouraged me. It was a poorly disguised effort to save me from my pathetic crush on Caden and my doomed trajectory towards a CLM.
“I’ll do it on one condition – only if you help me revolutionize the mascara industry.”
“I know exactly what to do,” Sydney said. “But I’ll only tell you if you go on the date.”
I didn’t know whether Sydney was bluffing but decided it was worth a one-hour drink to find out.
“Fine, but only because I’m desperate for help on transforming the face of mascara marketing and not because I’m desperate for a date.”
Sydney and Stevie had sworn on Justin Timberlake’s hotness that they were not setting me up with a psycho killer and that I would not end up bludgeoned to death by the end of the date. They were also generous enough to show me a photo of Mark to help identify him. I was encouraged. He looked decent.
However, any positivity I had built up for the date quickly dispelled when I met him face to face at The Beaconsfield, one of my favourite Queen West bars and the only saving grace of this set-up. I saw Mark sitting nervously at the bar. He was my height and looked like a white version of Shrek.
“Mark?” My disappointment must have been written all over my face.
“Yes, are you disappointed?” he asked, giving Mateo a run for the Worst Line Ever award. Any guy whose first words were are you disappointed probably had a pretty consistent track record of disappointing women. I felt bad for him. But I was still going to give Stevie and Sydney a serious ass kicking.
“No,” I lied. I noticed his extraordinarily small hands and felt worse for him. Beware the curse of the disproportionate hands.
“So, what’s your story?” I asked.
“What did Sydney tell you?” Mark looked panicked.
“Nothing. Why?”
“Oh, good.” Mark breathed a sigh of relief. “Not that I have anything to hide.”
My eyes widened. There was a broad spectrum of “I have nothing to hide” that ranged from “I’m a big Céline Dion fan” to “I eat babies for breakfast.”
“Well, it’s just that I broke off my engagement with my fiancée a few months ago and you know, things have been a little tough since then.”
“Oh,” I said, motioning the bartender over so I could start drinking immediately.
“I’m Jewish and it turns out that she didn’t want to raise our kids Jewish. That’s a real deal breaker for me.”
Oh happy day, he was graciously offering me an out! “I’m not Jewish,” I told him.
“I’ve since become more flexible with my beliefs. The biggest deal breaker is that she lied to me about it throughout our whole relationship.”
“I understand. I lie to impress guys all that time.” That did not appear to faze Mark so I asked, “What do you do for a living?”
“I’m in debt.” He saw the look on my face and clarified. “I assess debt for a living. And, well, I guess it’s kind of fitting because I’m also in serious credit card debt, which is why I moved into my dad’s basement.”
Stop talking. Now. The bartender served me my drink. I ordered another one right away. I had promised Sydney and Stevie that I would make an effort to stay an hour and it was feeling like that may be an impossible task.
“It’s only temporary,” Mark assured me as I gulped my drink back ferociously. “But enough about me. What about you?”
“Nothing much. I’m pretty boring. I work with Sydney at Gisele and that’s my life. All work and no play. ”
“I think it’s impressive how ambitious and driven you are,” he flinched.
“Then why did you just flinch?” I called him on it.
“Oh, I have Tourette’s. I pretty much have it under control with the medication and all but when I’m really nervous, I blink my eyes a lot.” He blinked.
“I’m sorry.” Apparently looking like Shrek wasn’t his only physical handicap. I checked my watch. Forty-five minutes to go. Forty-five agonizing minutes before I can kick Sydney’s ass.
“Mark! Hey there! Fancy running into you here!” Two guys approached us at the bar, taking turns with Mark doing a very bad impression of acting surprised.
“Why don’t you join us?” Mark suggested after the awkward introductions. They insisted on leaving us lovebirds alone and sat one table over, within ear shot.
“Did you tell them to show up so that they could listen in on our date?” I asked. His friends got up and moved over to the other side of the room.
“No,” Mark blinked.
“Look, you’re a really nice guy, but this isn’t working out.” I said. He looked so crushed that I took pity on him and spent the remaining forty-five minutes giving him advice on how to conduct himself on a first date. After all, I was getting the Holy Grail of mascara marketing after this date. At least he can get something out of it, too.
The truth was I wasn’t going to kick Sydney’s ass, not only because she could probably inflict serious injury on me, but also because she was saving my ass with her help on my impossible mascara assignment.
“How did it go?” Sydney asked the next day at work.
“Do you really have to ask?”
“OK, I admit, it wasn’t my best set-up but we had to do something quick to distract you.”
“Next time, come up with a better distraction. OK, so spill the goods. How do we revolutionize the mascara market?”
“Research,” she answered. I waited with bated breath for her to go on, but she didn’t.
“That’s it?” I started calculating how much espresso I needed to drink to build up the courage and energy to actually kick her ass.
“Yeah, if you don’t know, you need to gather up mascara-obsessed women and speak to them in focus groups. Find out what insecurities are driving their purchases and then try to make everyone else as equally insecure.”
“That seems so obvious. Why didn’t Savannah just tell me to do that?”
“Because she wants to see you sweat.” Sydney said. “Trust me.” Something in her voice told me that Sydney once lost a lot of sweat to offer me this piece of advice.
“Thanks,” I said, truly grateful for the sweat that Sydney saved for me.
It was Saturday afternoon and I was trying unsuccessfully to assemble an Ikea entertainment unit I had purchased months ago. The box had been put to good use as a TV stand and shelf and probably would have continued as such. However, I was finally having my girls over for dinner tonight to redeem myself and I wanted to show them that even though I may act like one, I was not living like a heathen. I had spent the whole day cleaning up my heathen-like ways, realizing that sadly, the exercise may take longer than a day. There was a knock at my door.
Oh no – could my neighbours hear me cursing and throwing Ikea parts around in frustration?
I answered the door, mystery Ikea part in hand.
“Hi, I’m Will. I live next door.” He had an effortless just-rolled-out-of-bed-but-not-a-pothead look about him that probably took a lot of thought and effort to put together.
“Oh right, I recognize you from around. I’m Veronica.”
“Cool. I’m in a band and we’re going to be practicing in my condo on the weekends – only during the day. I’m just checking whether that’s OK with my neighbours first.”
“Depends on how good you are.” He paused, not knowing whether I was joking or serious. “I’m kidding. I usually work on the weekends anyway. But I never hear a thing so you shouldn’t have a problem.”
“Great, thanks. Hey, do you like punk?” he asked.
“Uh, apparently. I’ve dated a few in the past.”
He laughed. “We’re playing at the Rivoli next month if you wanted to check us out. We’re called The Enlightened.”
“Sure, that sounds like fun.” Jackie loved guys in bands. It could be a fun girl’s night out.
“Cool. Hey, do you need any help?”
I lived in a small box of a junior one bedroom condo. He could clearly see the Ikea bomb that had exploded in my living room.
“Oh, I have it under control.” I assured him. I may be naïve but I wasn’t going to let a total stranger into my condo, even if I was a desperate heathen and he was the most polite punk rocker I’d ever met.
“Well, let me know if it doesn’t work out. I’m a carpenter by day so it’s no problem.”
“It’s all good,” I responded, intrigued by the carpenter/punk rock combo. How often does a man come along that both Jackie and Lindsay would approve of?
I had given up on the entertainment centre but did manage to stuff it all back into the box. Lindsay, Jackie and Calista forbade me to complain about work. I was instantly silenced when I tried to ask them their thoughts on revolutionizing mascara use.
“You are not allowed to complain about your job,” Lindsay warned me. “It’s bad enough that we never see you but now we have to listen to you whine about it when we’re with you?”
Other than that, they were really cool about my heathen-like behaviour, partially because my date with Shrek amused them but mostly because they’re good friends. My conversational topics vastly limited since I was prohibited to talk about work, I found myself raving endlessly about Stevie, to the point where I even creeped myself out.
We had just finished dinner (which I had picked up pre-prepared from Whole Foods) and Lindsay and Calista were helping me put together the entertainment unit.
“You need to accept that Stevie’s gay. If you want to be set up, I have plenty of prospects for you.” She was watching us struggle with the Ikea unit, perched on the sofa, drinking wine.
“I don’t want any of your loser rejects,” I told her. “Finding a good man is as hard as finding your Kegel muscles.”
“Kegel exercises are a breeze,” Jackie asserted. “I’m doing them right now.”
We all turned to look at Jackie as she smiled at us, glass of wine in hand.
“Anyway,” I broke the awkward silence. “I might have a prospect for you, Jackie. My neighbour is in a punk band and invited me to his show at the Rivoli next month.”
Why I Love My Gay Boyfriend Page 8
