Year of the Chick

by Romi Moondi

  Since I liked the shirt (and the accompanying tight black office pants which encased my ass like honeydew melons), I decided not to change into my PJ’s. I actually needed to look good, for the exact same reason I’d been brushing my hair:

  Nerves.

  Telling James the truth was a frightening pursuit. Which meant I needed to feel as confident as possible.

  For me, confidence didn’t come from the inside out. It came from the outside, and stayed there. It occurred to me in that moment, that I should never give advice to teenage girls: ”That’s right girls, skip some meals and show your cleavage!”

  I dialed his number slowly, trying very hard to remember Laura’s words: “You guys were probably screwed anyway, just live in the moment!”

  Right.

  “James Caldwell.”

  Hi James Caldwell, please don’t chuck me!

  “Hi it’s me,” I said. “I love how you answer the phone by the way, it’s so proper.”

  I was nervous all over but I prayed he wouldn’t hear it in my voice.

  “Well how do YOU answer the phone?” he asked, sounding slightly amused. “Do you shout out ‘Yo’! or something else distinctly urban? Do people even say ‘Yo’ in Canada?”

  “They sure do, it’s one syllable and therefore highly efficicent. But I just say ‘Hi this is Romi.’“ Oh yeah, I’m just a big ol’ ball of captivating tonight!

  “Of course you do,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

  I didn’t answer. My thoughts were far away from his words. I needed to get to the point before this conversation did its usual loops over the Mediterranean. Somewhere along the way though, Laura’s “attitude adjustment” had fallen from a gaping hole in my brain. All I could think was this guy had a million options, and the option of “me” couldn’t possibly be a good one. A fact that I needed him to know.

  “James, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. I’ll start by saying I’m not married, I don’t have a boyfriend, and I wasn’t born a man.” It was good to get the basics cleared up. “The truth is though,” I continued, “you somehow found me in this vast expanse of cyberspace, but what you found is a lot more complicated than you think.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t really know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I enjoy our conversations, so what’s the problem?”

  “But that’s the thing!” I exclaimed. “The problem is it won’t continue.”

  Silence.

  I stopped coming up with ways to drag it out. “My family is psychotic.”

  “Hmm…yes I do remember that description from your blog,” he said.

  I couldn’t help but smile, and it helped calm the crazies in my brain. “Yes, that’s them! They’re not that bad when they live an hour away. In eight weeks though, I’ll be moving back in with them. And unfortunately, they are not the type who would approve of me having endless chats with unauthorized fellows on the other side of the world.”

  I banged my head against the headboard repeatedly. Loser! Loser! Loser!

  “Ah, I see,” he said. “I guess we will just have to stay in touch via e-mail…if you still want to. Or I could just call you during your lunch break, when needed, on your cell phone. You do have a cell phone don’t you?”

  He’d done it again! How did something so simple slip right past me?

  “Of course I have a cell phone, duh!” I shook my head. “That was going to be my second suggestion.” Of course it was.

  “Right, well there you go then. Problem solved.”

  I suddenly felt the world lifted off my shoulders. I’d convinced myself this talk would end horribly, yet he easily smoothed it out with his rational sensibilities. I wondered what it was like to have your default button set to “logic” versus “psycho.”

  Men are so weird.

  The conversation was over before it had even begun, but this time I didn’t care.

  Things are looking up…

  ***

  I was squished on the train and the air conditioner was broken, on this sweltering mid-July day. To top it all off we were stuck between the first and second stations. On any other day my brain would’ve been screaming profanities. And how could I forget the aroma of people’s body odour? On a day like this I’d normally be wishing to have a Michael-Jackson “disappearing nose.” On this day, however, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm…contentment even. I pictured myself arriving home, writing another blog post, stopping for a healthy dinner, and working on some brainstorm activity for the novel loosely based on my blog (which I’d bounce off of James of course).

  Life simply seemed a little more worthwhile, yet I was not even one inch closer in my quest to find a man.

  Or at least not in three-dimensional terms.

  ***

  I popped a grape into my mouth (yes, I now ate fruit on a regular basis) and started to type my next blog post.

  ----------------------------------

  Let me start by saying I am all in favour of girlfriends wearing flannel pajamas. Here’s why:

  -Flannel pajamas are loose and roomy, which is perfect for romantic engagement. Translation: the naughty bits are easily accessible

  -Flannel pajamas are soft, and I’m pretty sure that softness is synonymous with sensuality (or at least they both start with “s”…)

  -Even if sex is not on the agenda, flannel pajamas are a welcome addition to the girlfriend/boyfriend bed. Why, you ask? Because they’re “cuddle-licious”! Like even if a dude is NOT a big cuddler by nature, the fuzziness of flannel is irresistible to him. It’s akin to being back in his mother’s womb, and since ninety-percent of guys have that latent “I wanna date my mom” tendency anyway, you really can’t go wrong…

  ----------------------------------

  I downed a few more grapes and fully understood what James had meant in a recent conversation. Half of the search for love was discovering what you liked and what you wanted. And if James didn’t want me in flannel, we were going to have a problem…

  ***

  This was one hot summer I wouldn’t soon forget. My room swelled with heat even with the air conditioner on. Which was why it was best to lay on the vent as I spoke to James.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “I’ve set my alarm early so I can work on my script.”

  “Well that’s my cue to hang up and call the next guy.” I laughed.

  “Right,” he said. “Well I don’t want to keep you.” Clearly that joke didn’t land. “Oh before I go, I should tell you I’ve planned out when my schedule will open up.”

  Suddenly the vent with its cold air blasting was not enough to keep me cool. “Oh?”

  “Yes, it looks like it will be October. And I was thinking I’d never been to Canada, so it might be time for a visit.”

  I lay there frozen and blind, my eyes having popped out of my head.

  I suddenly came back to life. “Yes! I second that idea.” A clown smile was now fully plastered on my face.

  “It’s only an idea right now but let’s see where it leads.”

  I didn’t hear a word. All I knew was that James was coming to Canada.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Do you need another box?” My dad’s muffled voice was somewhere between the garage and the basement.

  “I need THREE more boxes!” I surveyed my room, which was now a disaster thanks to “Moving Day.” It was the room I’d grown up in from the ages of eight to twenty-three, and now it was littered with long-forgotten crap.

  As I rolled up some sweaters in a ball and piled them in an empty corner, my phone started vibrating...from somewhere.

  It buzzed again and I finally found it, hiding underneath a tie-dyed T-shirt from 1993 (was tie-dye even cool in 1993?).

  It was a text message from Laura: “Coffee date with Dave was great! Dinner tmrw, I’ll e-mail you my top 3 outfit picks. Eeek! xo”

  I smiled at the thought of Laura and an actual gentleman. At least he
seemed like one since he hadn’t yet whipped out his schlong. It’s a start!

  I had very high hopes for this Dave character. It had less to do with him, and more to do with fate. My little Laura, who’d only been off guys for five short weeks, had randomly met sexy Dave at the gym. Yes, it was the fate of the gym gods for her...and the fate of the Internet gods for me.

  I glanced at the clock and it was already half past five. Had I actually been packing for three straight hours? Yet I’d only taped a single box.

  I waded through some old pajamas and right past my laptop too. It was not the right time to be e-mailing James, since it was Saturday night and he was probably out with his friends.

  Not that I’m jealous anymore. He’s mine.

  Still it was odd, that as I trudged through my lame-o days he was six hours forward, living out the hot summer nights in Barcelona.

  But I’m NOT jealous.

  I hadn’t heard James’s voice in a week and a half. I’d been too busy driving back and forth from one house to the next, loading and unloading heavy boxes.

  At least my upper arms aren’t flabby anymore.

  Despite the gap, the memories from our talks kept me eager and inspired. Each time we spoke he’d drill some more creative ideas in my head. From brainstorms to storyboards to free-form writing sprints, I couldn’t believe I’d started out as a nervous first-time blogger. By now the idea of writing a novel seemed no harder than losing some extra flab: time, effort, determination and sacrifice.

  And maybe some “slimming tea,” with side-effects no one likes to talk about.

  Even though James had the world figured out, it’s not like our talks didn’t benefit him as well. In each conversation I was sure to make him laugh, and how many times did the hot Spanish babes make him laugh? Exactly.

  I heard a light thud outside my door. The drop-off of more cardboard boxes.

  My dad opened the door and surveyed the disaster. “I only had two more boxes,” he said. “Put the rest of your stuff in a garbage bag. Or just throw it out. Why do you even have so much? Half of it’s from ten years ago.”

  As my dad shuffled away I gazed around the room and could see he had a point.

  Like why do I still have my “period jeans”?

  I held up the jeans that had once been my go-to pair. All slim-fit and high-waisted, I’d been rockin’ these at age fifteen. But when a red-ink pen exploded in the front right pocket, everyone thought I’d had a “period mishap.” My parents never bought me a replacement pair, so my style became defined by big untucked T-shirts and jeans with a hidden red stain.

  Once I tossed the “period jeans” in the “donate” bag, the pile of yearbooks found me next. Well these I have to keep. I regarded these as teenage time capsules, and one day I would show them to my interracial children (the ones that would sprout from my Indian eggs and James’s white-boy seed).

  That’s right you kids, look at mommy in ninth grade, with her braces and thick eyebrows.

  Or maybe not.

  I tossed away the first yearbook, and grabbed one from 1999.

  Yes children, this is mommy at age sixteen. She doesn’t have boobs yet but her moustache is coming in nicely.

  And to think I walked around like that and tried to meet guys.

  I grabbed the next yearbook, because it had to have been better at age seventeen.

  Yes children, look at mommy and her thin, misshapen, practically missing eyebrows. She finally started to pluck!

  My yearbooks were dangerously close to being tossed in the garbage pile, but luckily I uncovered the final one:

  -Senior year

  I knew it had to be good, since by age eighteen I’d found a part-time job, and was buying all my own trendy clothes. I even wore sexy makeup!

  I flipped to my graduation picture with bated breath.

  Yes children, look at mommy and her fancy styled hair for graduation! And hey, check out her frosted pink eye shadow, and the matching pink frosted lip-gloss. It’s the kind that porn stars wear!

  How could they all be so hideous?

  It wasn’t the era I could blame, because the popular girls’ pictures were still attractive.

  Bitches.

  And the worst part? The cool and pretty girls were married now, and some had even given birth! I couldn’t even think of one who was alone. At least not from any of the Facebook updates I’d seen.

  Before I could wallow too deeply in the wasted years, my brain went ahead with a juicy little question:

  -How do all those pretty high school girls look today?

  As it turned out, most of them were kind of “thick” these days. And they’d been way too busy recycling boyfriends to ever get out of suburbia. I mean sure they were settled now, but they had zero chance of meeting Prince Charming on the web.

  Not like me, so suck it, bitches!

  I decided to keep the yearbooks for nostalgia’s sake, and if James or our future children ever got a hold of them, I’d simply explain it as an “awkward phase.” One lasting several years.

  Come on, it happens.

  ***

  With the last boxes packed and sealed, my cat Tommy safely trapped in the pet carrier, and my mother running back and forth in a frenzy, we finally looked like a family ready to move.

  Like many of the cheesy television shows I’d grown up with, I braced myself for the tearful moment when I’d shut off my bedroom light for the final time. But the tears never came. Instead I could only gaze at the four bare walls in horror, entranced as I was by the sponge-painted purple and green design. I had begged my mother to paint these walls nearly thirteen years before. Just the thought of all those hours “dabbing” paint sent a pain through my shoulders. What a pity for the future owners.

  Later that night our cars pulled up to the brand new home. I had already been there five or six times for drop offs, but this was the official homecoming. We marched inside in single file, and as my dad closed the door behind us, I could’ve sworn I heard the sound of an iron bar door sliding shut. “Welcome to the maximum security prison. Your orange uniforms are in the corner, one size fits all…”

  ***

  “So,” said Amy. “How’s week one in the prison?” She and Eleanor walked alongside me with morning lattes in hand (everything in moderation, yo!).

  “What?” I could barely hear a thing with the construction going on across the street from our building. Another expensive condo development, and...ugh! I just swallowed airborne dirt!

  “Are you okay?” mouthed Amy as I wretched by the side of the street.

  I nodded yes, whilst trying to decide if dirt was a carb-free snack.

  Amy tried again but a whole lot louder this time. “I SAID HOW IS PRISON?”

  I thought about my answer as we turned the corner, away from the direction of the office and the maddening noise.

  “Prison’s okay. But it’s only been four or five days. And most of those days were spent emptying boxes or cleaning.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I like knowing that dinner’s on the table. But I don’t like having a boyfriend via e-mail.”

  “So he’s your BOYFRIEND now?” said Eleanor. I didn’t even have to see her face, to imagine her eyebrows rising high.

  “What else would you call him? I know he likes me, he’s fine with my crazy parents, and he pushes me to reach my goals.”

  “And yet you’ve never seen actual words escape his physical mouth.” Eleanor laughed but I barely even cared. Not on such a beautiful day, with the sun beaming bright and the late summer breeze gently passing through my hair.

  “You know what I think?” said Amy. “I think it’s romantic. Two Internet soul mates separated by the ocean. Wait ‘til you tell that story to your grandkids!” Amy looked a whole lot nicer in her floral summer dress when she said things like that. Thank goodness for the wisdom of a person who’s in love.

  “Yeah...but when are you actually going to meet him?” asked Eleanor. “Like that trip he mentioned for Octo
ber…did he book the flight?” She stopped directly in front of me, with her slicked back ponytail giving her an air of domination.

  I fiddled with a button on my blouse. “He told me he’s going to visit. All I need to do is be ready!”

  “Which means he still hasn’t confirmed a thing, has he?” She sighed. “I’m not saying he’s a flake, but get him to put that shit in writing! I just don’t want you getting your hopes up, you know…if he cancels.”

  “Cancels?” I gasped. “Of course he wants to visit, he said so himself!”

  “Well then you have nothing to worry about…do you?” Eleanor glanced at me with worry, as late morning pedestrians pushed past our sidewalk stand-off. Amy meanwhile was leaning against a flower shop window, her short brunette waves surrounding a zoned-out expression.

  “He’s NOT going to cancel.” I stared back at Eleanor with my teeth fully clenched.

  “Okay, I get it,” she quickly said. “But please do ask him if he booked the trip.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to pester him about it! Then he’ll think I’m needy and psycho. Besides…I already asked him last week. He said not to worry.”

  I suddenly realized he’d never brought it up since his very first musing. Was it weird that I had to ask?

  Eleanor started shaking her head. “Just be careful with this guy.”

  “Okay, okay!” I finally smiled at her. “I guess I’ll need his flight number eventually. I’ll ask him in a couple of weeks when it seems more normal. You know September…when it’s only a month away…he’ll definitely have all the details by then.”

  She sighed. “Alright.”

  “Speaking of James, it’s been fourteen days since I’ve heard his voice. And only two more hours ‘til I hear it again.” I smiled as we resumed our stroll, only now in the direction of the office. “First I’ll send some work-related e-mails so people think I’m busy. Then I’ll get back to my personal e-mails to James!” I squinted at the sun with my smile even bigger.

  “Is that all you do every day?” said Amy. “Personal e-mails to James?”

  I shrugged my shoulders and continued walking.

  A day in the life of an Internet-girlfriend. Now when’s lunch?