The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series)

by Tami Anthony

  “You act like I’m leaving New York forever,” I tell her. “I’ll be back. I just need a little time to get myself together and to get away for awhile.” Get away from the embarrassment is more like it. How did my life get so shitty within a matter of hours … HOURS?!

  “Well you know you can’t just leave without saying goodbye to the girls,” she tells me, smiling. “We can have a Leslee Robinson Pity Party where all we do is drink and vent about how bosses and men suck.” Jay nudges me and I hesitate a bit.

  “OK, fine,” I say, laughing. “Call up the girls. We’ll make a night of it.”

  “Great!” Jay exclaims. She pulls out her cell and then looks at me with puppy dog eyes. Jay, on the verge of tearing up, hugs me. “I’m gonna miss you, Les! You are my best friend, hands down.”

  “I’m gonna miss you, too,” I tell her. “But, I’ll definitely be back.”

  “That’s what you say now, but you’ll leave, find another man, get married, have tons of babies and stay there,” she says. “You won’t come back.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Oh, I do,” she assures me. “Once people leave this beautiful, concrete jungle, they never come back, which brings me to another question.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Where are you gonna stay?” I haven’t even really thought of that. I can’t stay with my parents because ultimately they drive me completely insane. Maybe I should just stay in New York, stick it out, and just bunk at Jay’s for awhile or maybe …

  “I know where I can go,” I say, thinking in the back of my mind how crazy my idea is. Home, sweet, home, Philadelphia, I think to myself. Home, bittersweet, home.

  Chapter Seven

  After a never-ending night with the girls (a nonstop, men-bashing, martini-drinking night with sad, drawn out goodbyes), I take a train to Philadelphia in the morning. I can hear the screeching wheels of the train as we pulled into 30 Street Station. I sigh. This is it, I think to myself. It’s my old life revisited. I better just suck it up for now and deal with it. I’ll be back in Manhattan in no time.

  I drag my bags off the train, struggling to fit through the doors. It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk from the train track to the lobby. I can’t figure out if it’s the excess baggage or the hangover from last night. Maybe it’s the combination of both. I put my sunglasses on to hide the bags under my eyes and also to soften the glare of the lights. I want … to … fall … over.

  “Leslee!” I hear a familiar voice shout from across the lobby. “Over here, over here!” Waving frantically from across the way with her long, black, wavy hair, her perfect mocha skin, and a vintage t-shirt on is Karen, my Philadelphia best friend and college roommate. Even though I am excited to see her, the emotion hasn’t fully kicked in yet. I feel like I want to throw up a bit. My drunken shenanigans are over, I tell myself. No more martinis for at least a month.

  I muster up a smile. “Karen!” I say unenthusiastically as she practically bear hugs me. I feel like if she squeezes any tighter, I might actually pop.

  “How was the train ride?” she asks.

  “It was uneventful,” I tell her. “I slept the whole entire time.”

  She sniffs my clothing and starts to fan her nose. “Woo, Leslee! What the hell were you drinking?” She’s implying that I smell. Ugh! Maybe I do smell. I begin to sniff my clothing.

  “I had a few beers last night which turned into martinis … which turned into vodka shots … which turned into Tequila shots … which ultimately turned into me passed out on a living room floor.” I have a headache. I have the ultimate headache, the type of headache that you get after college parties when you’ve been at a frat house all night playing beer pong and then you wake up in just enough time to take a mid-term exam. I am a hot mess right now.

  “Well, whatever it is, it smells like you had an exciting night,” she says. “I am so glad you’re visiting,” she tells me as she looks down at my garbage bags. Karen frowns. “Is this your luggage?”

  I sigh. “Yes, this is my luggage.”

  “Usually people use suitcases to pack their—“

  “It’s a long story!” I say, frustratingly. “Just grab a bag and let’s go.”

  “OK,” she says, grabbing a bag. “Touchy subject?”

  “Yes, it is. Can we just go now?”

  “OK,” she replies as we exit out of the train station. “So, I am happy you’re here because now you can help me with the wedding plans!” she says excitedly. OK, so here’s the thing with Karen. She’s enrolled in a doctorate program at UPenn and she studies English Literature (she’s technically been in college for 10 years now which officially makes her a “professional student” so to speak). She’s travelled the world, she has great parents who have spoiled her unconditionally, and she’s engaged to Russ, a Jewish guy that we both met while in undergrad at Temple University and we both became friends with. I remember that Russ was always asking her out and she would always say no, but then after awhile, I guess she figured out that he was a good guy, so then their friendship turned into a relationship. Isn’t it funny how things turn out? I can’t help but to be a little bit jealous, though. If Victor didn’t go all psychotic on me, then I’d be planning my wedding, too.

  “That’s great,” I say plainly. “Awesome.”

  “So I’m trying to figure out what type of wedding I want,” she says. “Do I want something traditional, do I want something contemporary, do I want a crazy theme, should I go vintage, maybe even some sort of eco-friendly affair? I just don’t know …” She goes on and on about her wedding concerns, but I’m not even in the right mind to be concerned. I’m depressed and helpless! I went from having the perfect Manhattan life to moving my garbage bags full of my wardrobe to Philadelphia. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with Philly, but I just want my life back. It was exciting. It was great! I can’t imagine anything comparing to that.

  “And speaking of the fiancé, there he is!” Karen says, pointing to a silver SUV parked on the street. “Russ!” she yells. “Come help us with Leslee’s stuff!”

  Russ gets out of the SUV with what seems to be a scowl on his face. He looks a bit worn out … or like he just got run over by a tractor trailer and is really, really pissed. Either way you look at it, he doesn’t look happy at all.

  He walks over to us and I give him a hug. “Hey, Russ,” I say. “Long time, no see.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he tells me looking at my things. “How much stuff do you actually have? I’m just wondering.”

  “Enough to open a designer boutique of my own. I don’t know.” I smirk. He begins to rummage through one of the trash bags. “Hey, get out of my stuff!” I yell as he pulls out a purple, silk handbag. He laughs.

  “Herpes,” he laughs. “This bag really says herpes on it.”

  I grab the bag from him and hit him on the shoulder. “It’s an Hermès bag, not herpes, you moron,” I say to him. “Just put my stuff in the truck, OK?”

  “How much did you pay for the herpes bag?” he asks.

  “It’s really none of your business,” I say, “but if you must know, this is a fifteen-thousand dollar bag.”

  “Whoa!” he says shockingly. “For that much money, you could not only open your stupid store, but you could also clothe all of North Philly…maybe even South Philly, too...”

  “Very, very funny, Russ,” I say sarcastically. Russ and I have a sibling relationship. Since Karen is like a sister of mine, Russ is like a brother; the bratty little brother that snoops in your diary and gets in your personal business enough to make you go insane. Some days, like today, you just want to smack the little brother. He knows nothing about Hermès nor does he have any respect for the fashion world. Russ is just a six-foot-three overgrown child who thinks fashion consists of his ragged khaki shorts, a pair of overworn flip-flops, and an old blue t-shirt that says ‘Dew the Jew’ in a Mountain Dew soda design (FYI: Yes, this is what he’s wearing and yes, it is still February and twe
nty degrees outside … the whole wearing-shorts-in-the-winter thing that men do remains an enigma to me).

  We pack my things in the SUV and all jump in like one big eclectic family and begin the journey to their house. “You don’t even know how happy I am to have you come down here to visit,” Karen says. “I have so many things to do like shop for a wedding dress, pick wedding colors, find a caterer …” Karen says and I’m exhausted just hearing her talk. Screw a wedding. If I can’t have my wedding, then no one should … marry that is. OK, I’ll admit that I am a little bitter, and maybe by some stroke of luck me and Victor will get back together, but who am I kidding? Any man that throws Burberry out the window doesn’t deserve a wife. They deserve to be castrated Lorena Bobbitt-style.

  “How come your future husband can’t help you?” I ask her. “You know, it’s his wedding, too.”

  “Because I like things to be done a certain way, that’s all,” Karen responds.

  “That, and she becomes a complete psycho when it has anything to do with the wedding,” Russ chimes in and Karen pouts.

  “That’s not true!” she insists.

  “It’s true, Leslee,” Russ says. “Don’t let her trap you into the wedding Hell that she’s created.”

  “It is not a wedding Hell!” she says.

  “Oh, OK, so then why did you put money down on three different places?” Russ asks and Karen rolls her eyes.

  “It’s because my mind may change,” she replies gritting her teeth. “When I decide on a place, I want to make sure it’s the best, and furthermore, all those deposits are refundable.”

  “OK, fine, Karen. I give up,” Russ says accepting his defeat, but unfortunately for him, Karen’s not done with this conversation. It seems like they’ve had this “disagreement” before.

  “You’re just mad because your mother wants us to have our wedding at the temple and I’m not doing that. I know you and your family are Jewish, but I don’t need a reminder on our wedding day. I mean, I don’t see you running around wearing a damn yamaka on your head,” Karen says.

  “My mother was not trying to remind you that we are Jewish. She just wanted things to be traditional.”

  “OK,” Karen smirks. “Let’s be traditional then. How about this? You can do the whole glass breaking traditional thing that Jewish grooms do during the ceremony, but instead of breaking the glass by stepping on it, I’m requesting that I get to take a glass and break it over your mother’s head. How’s that for tradition?”

  “You know, I never said anything when you suggested jumping the broom,” Russ says and Karen rolls her eyes.

  “It’s African tradition, dumbass. Am I not African-American?”

  “OK, then I have a solution,” Russ said angrily. “How about I break the glass, we both jump over a broom, and then do the Electric Slide at the end?” Silence erupts and Karen’s face grows hot.

  “See, this is exactly what I mean,” she says. “You don’t take our wedding seriously!”

  “You just told me that you wanted to hit my mom over the head with a fuckin’ glass!”

  “I know what I said,” Karen says abruptly. “Fine. You don’t have to plan the wedding. Leslee and I will plan the wedding. How long are you staying for, Les?”

  After watching them verbally abuse each other, I’m afraid to say anything. Maybe my problems aren’t as big as I think they are. “I, um … I don’t know. It’s a long story actually. You see—”

  “Stay as long as you like,” Karen interrupts. “I need someone to help me with the wedding who isn’t getting ridiculous suggestions from their apple-headed mother.” She looks at Russ and he just clutches the wheel tightly. This is going to be a very LONG “vacation.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  After a very tense and quiet car ride to Karen and Russ’ home, we finally arrive at their quaint, brick row home in South Philly. Karen, still sulking from Russ’ comment about the broom, gets out of the SUV without saying a word to Russ. She pulls out one of my bags from the trunk and begins to walk to the front door, stubbornly. I grab the rest of my bags and follow her into the house. Russ, on the other hand, doesn’t carry even one of my bags as if to say to me, “Why didn’t you stick up for me, you bitch?” But he’s probably just a little ticked off that Karen pretty much told him how much she despises his mother. The life of an engaged couple, I guess.

  “OK,” Karen says as she throws down one of my bags onto the living room floor. It’s a very modern living room, but a tad bit plain. The walls are beige with very few pictures hanging on them, the couch is a suede maroon with a few chocolate brown throw pillows, and the entertainment center is a cherry wood color just like the coffee table and the end tables, all only a shade darker than the hardwood floors. But the best part is how big their television is and how ridiculously clean the whole room is; not a speck of dust. I remember from our college days that Karen was a bit obsessive with the cleaning, and it looks like the legend still lives on.

  “So, this is our living room,” she says. “The kitchen and dining room are in the back, the office with the computer and all that other stuff is upstairs, there’s an extra room up there, too, and in the attic so make yourself at home. There’s two bathrooms on the second floor where the bedrooms are, and the basement is off limits. Russ calls that ‘the man cave’ and that’s where he and his little friends play their video games, drink, and get high.” It’s kinda funny how she talks about Russ as if he’s a child. I remember that my grandmother would always tell me that men are just children, only bigger in size. I still think it’s a little weird how grown men still play video games…ALL THE TIME.

  “Thanks, Karen,” I say as I plop onto their comfy couch. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

  “It’s not a problem,” she says smiling. “You’re my best friend … even though you barely ever visit anymore.”

  “I was busy in New York,” I reply. “My job was taking up a lot of my life, I had to spend time with my fiancé—“

  “Wait a second,” Karen says putting her hand up in a halting position. “You’re engaged?”

  “I was, but not anymore … at least I don’t think.”

  “You said you were living together, but never ever did you say that you were engaged.”

  “It was a very short-lived engagement,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

  “How come you never told me?”

  “I don’t know. It just never came up.”

  Karen nods her head. “Oh, I see. You were embarrassed of him, weren’t you?”

  “No, I wasn’t embarrassed!”

  “Did he have both of his arms, both of his legs?” she asks.

  “Yes, all of his body parts were intact.”

  “Hmm …” Karen thinks for a second. “He had some fucked up teeth, didn’t he?”

  “No, his teeth were perfect, Karen. There was nothing wrong with him.”

  “He had a face like Shrek?”

  “Um, no,” I say. “He did not look like Shrek, you jackass.”

  “Speaking of Shrek and jackasses …” Karen pulls me off the couch and drags me through the kitchen to the backdoor of the house. She opens the door and slowly pokes her head out.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Shh!” she whispers to me. “Be quiet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they might hear you.”

  “Who might hear me?” I whisper.

  “Shrek and her little jackasses,” she responds.

  “What are you even talking about?”

  “My nosy next door neighbor. She’s got the body of a beast and the face of an ogre, and her children are the devil. Come and look.”

  I begin to slowly poke my head out the door and spot two little children. The little girl is funny looking and pudgy, while the little boy is cute yet lanky in size. They don’t even have coats on and it’s cold as God knows what outside. What is their mother thinking? There’s snow on the ground for crying out loud!


  Then, I spot the mother. From her feet to her ankles, she looks normal, but as you work your way up the ladder of her body, it’s quite the sight to see from her oversized, keg belly to her extremely saggy breasts that seem to reach down to her belly button. But, that’s not the worst part. After observing the chunkiness of her neck, you can’t help but to spot the most hideous, disgusting face that you would ever see in your life. A plastic surgeon’s worst nightmare … Shrek indeed. I gasp.

  “Oh my God!” I say, catching my breath.

  “Oh my God is right,” Karen says. “Last summer, her children thought it would be a great idea to dig a pool in my yard. I could’ve choked the bastards. So now I have this big brown hole in the back of my beautiful yard all because she can’t control the little fuckers.”

  “Did she even apologize for it?”

  “No, of course not. We had an argument about it and then she got ‘so scared’ that she called the cops on me. So, since then she’s felt threatened by me, and now she tries to peep in my house from her backyard and she’s always calling the cops on me, saying that the noise level is unacceptable. She’s such a douche.”

  “Sounds like a neighborhood rivalry,” I say.

  “Yeah, just a little,” Karen says as a snowball beams her in the cheek. “What the hell?!” she exclaims and walks onto her patio. “Those little fuckers! Shrek, I told you to control your damn kids!” she yells at the mother.

  “Stop calling me ‘Shrek!’” the mother yells back, stuttering. “I don’t like that, I don’t like that!”

  “Oh, screw you and your horrible ogre ways!” Karen yells back. “The next time your kids throw a snowball at me, I will bury them in the hole that they dug in my back yard last summer!”

  “Don’t say that about my kids!”

  “Your children are the devil!” Karen shrieks.

  “You’re harassing me! I’m calling the cops!”