In an effort to feel useful, I went to the grocery store. And bought shrimp. Even though it pained me to do so, after tossing five whole pounds of it into the garbage in New York. Next time I do a FreshDirect order, I’m freezing.
“Dinner in an hour,” I now tell Cam via the phone. “I’m cooking. Or trying to.” I cradle the cordless between my shoulder and ear. Before I get my hands all shrimpy, where did I put that guacamole? Oh, there it is. Yum. I’m so hungry in this life. Must be from all that not-working-out.
“Very exciting, baby. I’m sure it will be delicious. Did you put together your account statements for me? I need them for the broker.”
“Yes, everything’s waiting for you. You know, I didn’t realize how gross shrimp are. Did you know they were gray?”
“Yes, I did, hon. I’ve made this dish before.”
“Really? So why did your mother give me the recipe? You could have given it to me yourself.” Maybe because Cam asked her? Maybe he wants me to cook for him all the time, but doesn’t want to tell me himself in fear of sounding chauvinistic?
“I was planning to make it for you myself, but I lost the recipe and you know me. Can’t even boil water without a recipe. And nothing I found on the Internet even remotely resembles my mother’s shrimp.”
Somehow that sounds a little icky. But still. How sweet is Cam? He was planning to make the shrimp by himself. For me.
He was planning to make his favorite dish for me.
“Oh, and hon?” he says. “Don’t forget to devein the shrimp. That much I remember.”
“I don’t have to worry about that. I got them deshelled.”
“You still have to take out the vein. Look at the back of the shrimp. There’s a blue line. You have to take that out before you cook it. Things you should know.”
“That’s crazy! Why would they go through all the trouble of de-shelling them and then leave in the vein? It’s going to take forever. There are at least fifty shrimp!”
“So forget about the shrimp. We’ll have something else.”
Cooking is so annoying. But I am no quitter. “It’s fine,” I say. “I have plenty of time. When will you be home?”
“I’m leaving the office now, so I should be home in twenty.”
It’s amazing how fast twenty minutes go by when you’re in the process of deveining. By the time Cam walks into the kitchen, I’ve only just started to cook them. But shouldn’t I hear some kind of sizzling sound? Oops. Helps if I turn the stove on.
“Something smells delicious,” Cam says a few minutes later. He’s looking quite handsome in his pressed white shirt and brown pants that I picked up the other day from dry cleaner.
“It’s either me or my cooking.”
“How did the deveining go?”
“Took forever.”
He peers at my platter. “That’s because you got small shrimp.”
“Huh?”
“You should have bought the jumbo guys. More things you should know. No wonder it took you so long.”
“The recipe says shrimp,” I grumble. “It does not say anything about jumbo shrimp.”
“I’m sure it’ll be good.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a soda. “Did you get me any more Cherry Coke?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“No. I thought maybe you’d notice we were running low.”
“Really?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you speak in questions?”
“Excuse me?”
He finishes off the soda and tosses the empty can in the recycling bin. “You answer my questions with questions.”
“Do I?”
He laughs. “You just did it.”
“So what?”
“You did it again.”
I am this close to throwing one of the miniscule shrimp at his head. “If my manner of speaking bothers you, I’ll stop asking questions. I will begin by not asking you how your day was.” I contemplate rubbing my shrimp-smelling hands on his clean white shirt.
“I’m just trying to tell you, you should be more assertive. Don’t kill the messenger.”
“I might if you don’t stop nagging me.”
He looks genuinely surprised. “I’m not nagging you.”
“Ha!”
“Do I nag?”
“Yeah, lately you do. A lot.” He’s not only nagging. Ever since I agreed to marry him, he’s gotten so patronizing.
He leans against the counter and grimaces. “I don’t mean to.”
“Well you do. You’re starting to sound more and more like—”
He puts his hand against his chest. “Don’t say it!”
“—your mother.”
He tilts back his head and howls, “Nooooooooooooooo!”
I can’t help but laugh. “Oh, yes.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean it. Do you think it’s hereditary?”
“I’m hoping it’s nurture versus nature. Nurture that can be unlearned. Why don’t you try thinking before you talk?’”
“See, you worded that as a question. You should have just said, ‘Think before you talk.’”
I roll my eyes.
He gives me a big fat kiss on the lips.
On Friday morning in New York, Curtis sits on the side of my desk, swinging her loafers.
I look up from my programming. It’s only 11:00 a.m. and I’m already on my third cup of coffee. Who needs food when there’s a Starbucks in the basement? Anyway, I’m pretty sure that the FDA made mocha lattes one of the food groups in their last nourishment pyramid. “What can I do for you?”
“I saw that you volunteered to help out around here on Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve,” she says, eyeing me with suspicion.
“Yes. I’m not going anywhere and I know that the network is short-staffed. I’m happy to cover both.” The truth is, I’m happiest when I’m here. It’s miserably wet and cold outside. Heather will be away for New Year’s and it’s not like I know anyone else. My dad is still in Brisbane, and my mom is spending the holidays with a new guy. What else am I going to do—go back to Arizona? Why pay for the flight when I travel free every night?
“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 rea
l 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.
12
Two Turtlenecks and a Partridge in an Orange Tree
Christmas 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 e
ggnog-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.
Me vs. Me Page 16
