The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series)

by Tami Anthony

  I turn around and face Annie. “I’m not mad at you, Annie,” I tell her. “I just don’t know what to think right now.” I sigh and shake my head. “I’ll give you a call later.” I walk out her front door without looking back at her.

  So I can safely say that The BACHELORETTE Project has turned into a complete bust, and I can also say that Internet dating can work great for some and not so great for others. Instead of leaving butterflies in my stomach from that wonderful feeling of love, I feel pits in my stomach … no, boulders in my stomach just tumbling around like a vicious earthquake working their way up to crush my stupid heart. Lesson of the day: Plenty of Fish = Plenty of Douchebags. Some would rather date you, and others would prefer your best friend instead.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  “The lavender is better,” I hear Karen say from the kitchen as I walk into the house. Oh, God! I think to myself. Wedding talk. First, I get to deal with the whole Xavier thing, and now I come home to yet another dreadful wedding discussion. Can I jump off the Ben Franklin Bridge right now, or should I wait until my life gets a little bit suckier?

  “Which one is the lavender?” Russ asks and I hear Karen groan.

  “You’re kidding, right?” she asks snidely as I walk into the kitchen. I act as if I’m ignoring their conversation as I grab a wine cooler out of the fridge. Their conversation may actually become intense. Maybe I should reach for the Jack Daniels bottle …

  “Lavender and eggplant are not the same thing,” Karen says through clenched teeth. “It’s obvious that they are two totally different shades of purple! Aren’t you educated? Don’t you know anything?” She picks up two pieces of fabric from the counter and dangles them in front of Russ’ face. He couldn’t look anymore annoyed.

  “I know that I’m a guy,” Russ responds, “and guys don’t give a shit about this type of stuff.”

  “But you should because this is our wedding,” Karen tells him. “The color choice determines what color the bridesmaids’ dresses are, the groomsmen’s ties and handkerchiefs, and the overall theme of the wedding. Don’t you care?”

  “Purple is purple to me!” Russ shouts as he gets a beer out of the fridge. “You women always want to make things so technical with colors. Why can’t purple just be purple? Why can’t purple be great? Leave the color purple alone!”

  “Oh, that’s it?! That’s your answer? Just leave purple alone? Who are you, Chris Crocker or something?” Karen stares down Russ as if she’s giving him the death glare.

  “Karen, just pick what you want,” he tells her. “I don’t give a shit!” Russ throws his hands in the air and walks out of the kitchen.

  “Fine!” she yells after him. “Just so you know, if my ankle wasn’t twisted, I’d be running after you to finish this argument!” Karen sighs then looks over at me. I shrug my shoulders. What am I supposed to say? Why am I so speechless today? Of course I know that there is a very distinctive difference between lavender and eggplant, but I’m not taking sides on this one. It would be like throwing a grenade onto a landmine, a severe explosion.

  “I, um, thought you chose a color already,” I say trying to ease her tension.

  “I thought I did, but then I was unsure,” Karen says tossing the fabric back onto the counter. “I just can’t tell which shade goes better with silver.”

  “What kind of silver?” Fuckkkkkk! Why did I even ask that? Why the hell did I say anything?

  I can see the little wheels in Karen’s head just churning away. A smile erupts onto her face. “You know what?” she asks me. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Should I go with metallic silver or dusty silver?” I’m sorry. I know I’m a woman and I probably should know these things, but what in the world is dusty silver? Does it even make sense? Play it safe, Leslee, I think to myself. If I give the wrong answer, the consequences at the end will be a bitch.

  “I say metallic silver,” I answer confidently. “It will give your wedding a certain edginess, and you should pair it with the eggplant.”

  Karen begins to shake her head in agreement. “You know what, Les?” she asks me. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Dusty silver and lavender it is.” OK, so it’s the complete opposite of what I said, but it’s her wedding. I’m beginning to think she purposefully goes against other people’s opinions as a ‘shits and giggles’ thing.

  Karen passes me a wedding catalogue with bridesmaid’s dresses. She points to two different dresses. “Which one?” she asks me. I can play this game cleverly. I can either pick the overload frilly Southern Belle dress that’s enough to make me gag or I can choose the satin-like sleeveless dress with no frills and nothing crazy, just classic. If I pick the one that I don’t want, then it’s certain that she’ll pick the one that I do want, right? I sigh and take a chance.

  “I love the frilly one,” I say lying through my teeth. “It has this elegant Southern Belle flair. You can even pair it with a hat or something.” Gag, vomit, gag …

  “I think I like the other one better so that’s what I’m going to go with,” she replies. Thank the heavens that Karen is stubborn as God knows what. Now I know how to work her. Just choose the opposite of what you want when it comes to wedding stuff. “So, where are you coming from this early in the morning?” she asks me.

  “I went over to Annie’s,” I reply and sip on my wine cooler. Eleven-thirty in the morning may be too early for wine coolers, but with the luck I’ve had, I’m entitled to drink alcohol whenever I see fit, even if it is before lunchtime.

  “How’d it go last night?” Karen asks. “You were so excited for your date.”

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘exciting,’” I reply and look away. I can feel Karen’s eyes on me just prying for more information. It’s something that I can’t ignore. I have to tell someone, even if Karen is a little biased against Annie. “The date situation sucks, okay?” I answer. “And if anyone is to blame, it’s you.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “You called me to rescue you from that treadmill of death!” I exclaim. “I had to leave to come and get you. I couldn’t even finish my date! I didn’t even have a Mojito!”

  “Leslee, I’m sorry!” she yells back. “I tried calling my idiot fiancé but he wasn’t answering his phone. He went to the bar and couldn’t hear it ringing. I didn’t know it was a problem to call you because you’re my friend. We’ve known each other for years. You’ve only known that guy from the Internet for a month.” In actuality, I’m not angry or upset with Karen. I’m still upset with the situation and how it ended up.

  “You’re right, Karen,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset because I left Annie on my date, and then today I find out that he’s interested in her, not me.”

  “That dirty slut,” Karen says as she shakes her head. “I knew she was a floozy.”

  “Yeah, well he told her that he and I are only friends and that he’s into her.”

  “Didn’t he just meet her last night?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “But I guess they have more in common with each other than he and I do.”

  “Man,” Karen starts, “you really do have bad luck when it comes to men ... and friends, well one friend in particular who happens to be a tramp. I don’t want to be the one to say it, but I told you she was shady. She stole your man from right up under you.”

  “She didn’t steal him. He wasn’t mine.”

  “Either way, she’s a tramp,” Karen says. “Are they going out?”

  “Maybe,” I say but I’m sure I already know the answer. “Probably. I’m sure she’s interested in him.”

  “Bitches be crazy,” Karen says shaking her head. “Bitches be crazy.”

  “I just don’t understand this all!” I exclaim in frustration. “What am I doing wrong? How come I know nothing about men? How come I’m not in a nice, healthy, normal relationship?”

  “Maybe you’re trying too hard?” she suggests.

  “Why is it such a bad thing to put effort into finding love?�
��

  “Because maybe it’s meant to find you instead,” Karen answers. “Look, I told you before that men are not complicated, and love shouldn’t be complicated either, that is until you find out that your future fiancé doesn’t know the difference between lavender and eggplant. But either way, if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. You’ll either unexpectedly find someone or they’ll find you and you’ll finally be happy.” Maybe Karen’s right. OK, she is right. I’ll admit that, but I’m 28 now. My youthful years are closing in on me fast. I want to be able to walk down the aisle at my own wedding without the use of a cane or a walker or orthopedic shoes. Is that really too much to ask?

  “Stupid experiment,” I say under my breath. “All this dating and I know nothing about men and I know nothing about finding a mate.”

  “Well, if you never get married, you can always stay with Russ and me,” Karen says as she pats my back. “We can have parties every night! Whoop, whoop!”

  “Yeah,” I say unenthusiastically. “Whoop, whoop.”

  “Life and love aren’t that bad,” Karen starts, “and once you learn that men are the lower species, you will be much happier.” She gets up from the table and grabs her crutch. “Right now, I’m going to limp after my future husband and pick a fight with him. Then later we’ll have makeup sex. It’s a vicious yet fulfilling cycle of love.” Karen leans on her crutch and practically hops out of the kitchen.

  What’s a girl like me to do? This is just crazy to me. How is it that I don’t know ANYTHING about men? Is that just a part of my brain that I’ve shut down? Ahh! Relax, I think to myself. It’s not you, it’s them. I always wondered how it is that men complain that they never know what women want, but it’s the complete opposite. What to do, what to do …

  I sigh. Maybe if I actually flat out ask a man what he wants, then I’ll find the answer to the secrets of all men. This makes sense, right? This totally makes sense. I grab my purse off of the counter and pull out my cell phone. In this situation, I know exactly what man to call. A man that won’t prejudge me, a man who’s brutally honest, and a man that is my friend and won’t look at me as an object of sexual lust.

  I begin to dial the numbers on my phone. He picks up. “Hey, Eric?” I say. “It’s me, Leslee. I have some man questions for you and I think you can help me out …”

  Chapter Nineteen

  My love life: completely fucked up. The fact that my friend is actually dating someone that I was supposed to be dating is outrageous and completely ridiculous if you ask me. Here I invest months of my time into talking to this doofus thinking that he's somewhat interested in me and come to find out he'd rather be talking to my friend instead. Am I not interesting? Do I have a big sign on my head that flashes and says, "DO NOT DATE THIS WOMAN?" I mean, what the hell? I think I'm losing some dignity and respect for myself here! And really, what does Annie have that I don't have? Sure, she has a contagious laugh, a pretty smile, butt and thighs for days, but I have some junk in my trunk, too, and I'm smart, I'm pretty, so why am I by myself?

  Due to lack of Saturday night plans, I called upon the frat boy (also known as Eric) for male gender advice and a little bit of that exciting frat boy fun (well, at least the drinking portion of it). He had a hot date planned: a fiery redhead who owns a pet store (sounds so interesting…yawn). Since they planned an early date, I’d be able to see him later on in the night, so we arranged for an 11:30 get together at his house, then from there, who knows. I won't be truly happy until I get at least three strawberry martinis in my system and a couple Smirnoffs.

  At 11:15, I arrive at the Palace a la Eric, which truly is a palace. Eric and his brother live in this gorgeous house right outside of Philadelphia near Villanova University. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a ridiculously huge kitchen and living room, and of course this great big Jacuzzi. What bachelor pad would be complete without a big Jacuzzi? I doubt it's even used though. The thought of either one of them cleaning it is almost laughable, then again it is a possibility that they could use it without it being cleaned which is gross beyond belief.

  As I walk toward the front door of Eric's house, I just have to turn around and look at my car, and it's so obvious that my car does not belong in this type of neighborhood. The smoke is still emitting from the hood, the whole body of the car still seems to be shaking as if the engine is still on, and I honestly think that my car is browner than it is orange from the paint peeling off, and the rust showing more and more each day. Can we say piece of shit car?

  I ring the doorbell and it sounds like one of those loud church cathedral bells. I know Eric's not home yet because his car is not in the driveway, but Jeremy's is. He has a new S-Class Mercedes-Benz; black with a moonroof and shiny wheels, so new that it looks like he drove it off the lot today. Lucky bastard. And I really have no idea what he does for work either. I think he's just a professional prick, but I'm not sure. I'll have to ask Eric that one.

  I ring the doorbell again because lazy ass Jeremy doesn't want to answer the door. I then hear what sounds like heavy footsteps walking towards the front door sounding like elephants walking toward a buffet. The door flings open. "Jerkoff!" I say happily. "How wonderful it is to see you!" You have to understand that Jeremy and I have somewhat of a hate-hate relationship. The first time that he ever visited Eric in college was the first time that I had gotten completely wasted off my ass. Eric and I were 18, barely freshmen at Temple, and Jeremy, who was 21 at the time, a senior at West Chester University, decided that it was time to show us a few college tricks. A few college tricks meaning a fully informational tutorial on the game of beer pong, and also what bad things can happen after four shots of Everclear. Needless to say, I woke up in a pool of my own vomit the next day. I’m not saying that I never got drunk after that (which would be a complete lie because I definitely lived my college life to the fullest), but I definitely steered clear of Everclear and harsh vodka. Jeremy is my worst memory of college.

  "Lesbo!" Jeremy says in my same tone of voice. "Why don't you come on in? I have Everclear. I know it’s your favorite." He smiles as I push him out of the way and walk into the house.

  "Jeremy," I start, "you're so irritating. Everything out of your mouth makes me want to punch you."

  Jeremy looks outside and catches a peek of my absolutely horrible means of transportation. "Hey, lesbo, is that a new ride you got there?" Jeremy asks and smiles. I feel like cringing because do you know who Jeremy reminds me of? Stifler, you know, the kid from American Pie. The kid that got on everyone's nerves and just said the most random shit to just piss you off. Yeah, that's Jeremy: a Stifler. Granted, Eric is a jerk, too, but Eric is the type of jerk that you can tolerate. Jeremy is the type of jerk that you feel like choking then hiding his body in the trunk of someone else’s car.

  Swallowing my pride and the curses that are lingering at the end of my tongue, I ignore Jeremy's comments, walk into the kitchen, and sit down at the table. "Where's your brother?" I ask.

  "He's on a date which raises the question: why are you here?" Such the sarcastic smartass. Jeremy sucks as a person. Completely. Utterly. Sucks.

  "I know he's on a date, but he should've been done with that by now," I reply.

  "Maybe he's getting laid."

  I laugh. "I don't think so. It's been so long that your brother doesn't even remember what getting laid feels like."

  "And how would you know that?"

  "Hmm, because he told me." Maybe that was too much information for Eric to tell me, but we are friends. We can talk about these things. And besides, we’re practically in the same involuntary celibate boat.

  "And do you remember what it feels like?" Jeremy asks as runs his index finger from my lips to the top of my chest. "You've been a lesbo so long, Leslee. Let me straighten you out again." I hate him. I really, really do.

  I grab a hold of Jeremy’s finger and begin to bend it back until he shrieks. “Stop calling me lesbo and say SORRY!” I demand while still holding his finger. “I will brea
k you.”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he screams in a girly high pitched voice. I release his finger. “Ow!” I begin to laugh. That’s what he gets for messing with me.

  I hear the front door open and the footsteps of someone walking towards us. "Hello?" Eric calls out. He walks into the kitchen and my jaw just drops. Eric looks … HAWT! I mean he looks completely stunning wearing grey dress pants and a matching blazer, a white dress shirt underneath, and a black silk tie. He looks classy, sophisticated, and really, really sexy. I’m salivating right now.

  "Hi, Eric," I am able to putter out of my mouth. I’m speechless that he looks so hot, and breathless because I'm actually attracted to him. But I am a lady so I’m able to keep my composure and snap out of it. Eric is my friend and always will be my friend and NOTHING MORE. Stop staring down at his crotch, Leslee! "How was your date?"

  "Eh, it was OK," he replies which in his little language means I probably won't see her again.

  "That bad, bro?" Jeremy asks. Yes, Jeremy. I think to myself. Please get the juicy dirt out of him. I know you're good for SOMETHING.

  "No, it wasn't bad,” Eric tells him. “It's just that there wasn't much conversation. All in all, she was a nice woman." Eric smiles and looks at me. "You ready to go?"

  "Uh huh," I say and I get up and walk towards the front door, Eric following me.

  "You look nice," he says to me. "It's definitely better than the sweatpants and wifebeaters I catch you wearing all the time."

  "Thanks, Eric," I reply sarcastically. "You really know how to screw up a compliment," and a well-deserved compliment at that. Here I am wearing tight, low cut jeans, a sleeveless brown lace shirt, gold Steve Madden heels with jewels on them, and my hair out in curls. I’m pretty damn hot if I do say so myself. "So, whose car are we taking?" I ask.

  Eric looks at me as if I am crazy. "Do we really need to ask that?" he says, laughing. “Anyway, where are we going?” he asks as we walk out the front door. I think to myself for second.