“Yeah, I got kind of lucky. While I was waiting tables, I began writing a book. One night at the restaurant, I met a literary agent. She gave me her card and told me to contact her when I had a manuscript completed. She sounded genuinely interested in reading it. I thought, ‘Nah, nothing will come from it.’”
“Guess you were wrong, huh?”
I grinned. “Very.”
He reached for the book in front of him and held it up to the camera. “Spanking the Spatula: An Erotic Comedy by Sibby Goldstein.”
“Have you read it?”
“I have.”
“I wouldn’t think it would be your cup of tea.”
“What, are you kidding? Penis euphemisms galore. It’s right up my alley.” He pointed to the male cover model, whose chest was bare. “And look at those man nipples—”
“Mipples,” I corrected.
Cue audience laughter.
The host laughed as well and continued, “Will you autograph it for me?”
He handed me a pen and I used his desk to dash off a quick note in the title page. I gave it back to him and he read out loud, “Your cheeks are better than any model’s mipples. ~Sibby.”
“You should tell them what your book is about,” he said.
“It’s about a young woman who’s going through the rigors of culinary school. She falls for one of her instructors and they like it dirty. You know, sauces and kitchen utensils kind of dirty. It’s a comedy. My agent is calling the genre ‘dirty chick-lit’.”
He set my book aside. “Rumor has it, you’re also working on the next book in your erotic comedy series.”
“The rumor is true.”
“Do we have a title?”
I shook my head. “I was hoping you guys could help me with that?”
The host’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Go on.”
“I have three potential titles,” I explained. “And I’d like the audience to vote for their favorite.”
“You mean, you’re going to let them—” The host pointed to the audience. “—name your next book.”
“Yep.”
“I love that idea!” he said with a huge smile. “Okay, tell us your titles.”
“Beating the Banana, Flicking the Fava, or Tickling the Turnip.”
“Well, I definitely see a theme. Okay folks, pull out your phones and Tweet your favorite title to @sibbygoldstein. The title with the most Tweets will be the title of Sibby’s next book.” The host turned to me and changed the conversation, “Are you still engaged?”
I held up my hand to show off the gorgeous engagement ring Aidan and I had picked out in the diamond district.
Hello, kinda Jewish!
The audience cheered in excitement as I held up the ring.
“I’m getting married this weekend.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Yes, absolutely,” I said with a straight face.
“You are?”
“Well, we’re having a Jewish wedding. I’m afraid I’m going to fall out of the chair. It would be just my luck, you know?”
He smiled. “I’ll think good thoughts. So, what does your fiancé do?”
“He’s a bar owner,” I stated with pride. “He and his best friend opened a bar in Greenpoint a few months ago.”
“What’s the bar called? Maybe I’ll stop by.”
“Veritas.”
“As in ‘in vino veritas’?”
“Exactly.”
“Is it a cool place?”
“Very.”
“Hipster bar?”
“I plead the fifth.”
He laughed. “Listen, I have a surprise for you.”
“A surprise for me?” I turned around in my seat, looking in the direction the host was pointing.
The famous actor I’d spilled wine on strolled out onto the sound stage. The audience’s cheers were deafening.
“Oh my God,” I said, standing so I could greet him.
Unfortunately, my feet tangled with one another and I tripped—right into the famous actor. He wasn’t prepared for my assault and I knocked us to the ground, accidentally kneeing him in the kishkes. If that wasn’t bad enough, I felt a sudden draft on my bum. Struggling to right myself, I looked back and saw that my skirt had flipped up. I was flashing the entire audience.
Thank God for superhero undies.
The famous actor was still moaning in pain underneath me as I struggled to lift myself off of him. I gave him my most sincere and apologetic look when I said, “I’m such a huge fan.”
Sibby’s Law.
It’s a thing.
Do you want to see what happens when Aidan and Sibby spend Passover with Sibby’s crazy family? Sign up here to receive an extra epilogue.
Read on for the first few chapters of Tales of a Sibby Slicker. Or just dive in here!
A Quick Guide To Yiddish
Bubbe: Grandmother
Chuppah: Canopy that a Jewish couple stands under when they get married.
Kishkes: Literally means “insides”. In this case it mean testicles.
Klutz: A clumsy, awkward person.
Kvetcher: A complainer.
Mazel Tov: Congratulations.
Putz: Slang for penis, more offensive than schmuck.
Schmaltz: Corny, cheesy.
Schmuck: Slang for penis, less offensive than putz.
Verklempt: Overcome with emotion.
Sibby is back, and she's clumsier than ever.
My life is awesome. I married a sweet, super hot guy who loves me in spite of my ability to screw things up. I write steamy rom com full time, and I only spilled two things on myself this morning.
#winning
But I'm the Queen of Klutz--and no lucky streak lasts forever.
Now my husband wants a baby.
I know I'm gonna mess this up.
Chapter 1
#Sibbyinthewild
“You want to do what?” I asked, my mouth open in dumbfounded shock.
Aidan sat on the couch next to me. “You heard me.”
“But you—and me—and—no, really?”
He nodded.
I took a deep breath, wondering if I was having a hallucination. “Let me get this straight.” I took another deep breath. “You want to take me on a camping trip upstate.”
“Yes.”
“For two weeks.”
“Yes.”
“With no Internet.”
“Yes.”
“Dirt.”
“Yes.”
“And bugs.”
Aidan sighed. “Yes.”
“Many, many bugs.”
“Yes, Sibby, many, many bugs.” He smiled, his adorable lopsided smile—the smile that got me into bed with him—and got me to fall head over heels in love with him. Love had limits, I realized, in the form of no bathing for two weeks.
“But, Aidan, I don’t do nature,” I whined. “I need my comforts. I’m no granola girl! I need to be clean and warm and just, no. Go with Caleb!” I suggested. “You're both from up there. You’re both manly, and now that you’re a full-on Brooklynite, you have more than enough flannel to get you through this. You don’t need me. You don’t want me. I promise.”
Aidan reached over and grasped my hand in his. “I’m calling in the I-O-U.”
I shook my head. “Not fair.”
“Totally fair,” he shot back. “Did I or did I not spend Passover with your family?”
“You did.” I looked away.
“Did I or did I not try gefilte fish?”
“You did.”
“Did I or did I not drink the so-called virility tonic your mother got from her Chinese herbalist?”
I sighed. “So, camping, huh?”
He nodded emphatically. “Camping.”
“But why?” I demanded, making one last-ditch effort to get out of this.
“Because I need a break, Sibby. This city…” He shook his head. “I’ve been working like a maniac. So have you. I want some time away fro
m all the obligations and technology.”
Though unplugging did have a certain level of appeal, the idea of having it inflicted upon me irked. But Aidan wasn’t wrong—and the man had endured Passover. Quite graciously actually, while managing to keep down the gefilte fish.
I sighed in defeat. “When do we leave?”
“No,” Annie said, eyes wide.
“Ya.”
“You? Camping?”
My best friend reached for her vodka cran and took a healthy sip. We were at one of our favorite bars, a shit-hole dive in the East Village. You could buy a shot, a beer, and a hot dog for five bucks. I’d never eaten the hot dog, purely for safety reasons.
“I know,” I sighed. “It’s really important to Aidan.”
“I told you not to get married,” Annie said with a roll of her eyes. “Now you’re compromising and shit.”
“What does marriage have to do with anything?” I demanded. “You’re dating Caleb. Don’t you compromise?”
“Uhm. I moved to Brooklyn, didn’t I? And look how well that’s turned out for me,” she grumbled. “I’m wearing a pair of skinny leg jeans I bought at Brooklyn Industries. Who the fuck am I?”
Annie always reminded me of a modern Marilyn Monroe. Blonde, curvy, total bombshell—a bombshell that cursed like a fish and drank like a sailor. Wait, scratch that. Reverse it.
“Can we focus, please? I have a legitimate problem. Aidan is taking me to the woods. I don’t do the woods. There are wild animals and stuff.”
“And let’s not forget sleeping on the ground. And what are you going to do about bathing? And getting your eyebrows waxed? You know you have to do that weekly, right? Otherwise you look kinda sasquatchy.”
It was true. I had to upkeep the grooming religiously. I blamed the Russian roots. “You’re not helping,” I moaned. I laid my head on the bar and then felt Annie pat my hair.
“There, there,” Annie said.
I peeked up at her.
“Did that make you feel any better?” she asked.
“No.”
“Okay, I know how we can make this better.”
I perked up. “Shots?”
“Shots,” Annie agreed, searching for the bartender. “Doug! Shots!”
“No, wait! No shots,” I called back.
The burly, tatted bartender with a Danny Zuko haircut looked at us in exasperation. “Well, what is it? Shots or no shots?”
“No shots,” I said, tone firm.
Annie pouted. “Aww, shucks. You’re no fun.”
“And you’re a bad influence. Aren’t we past the stage in our life where we drink to forget our problems?”
Annie thought for a moment, her face screwed up into a picture of introspection before grinning. “Nope. Doug, bring me a shot of vodka!”
I sighed and like a solid friend, threw one back with her. Setting aside the empty shot glass, I turned to her. “Now you. Go.”
“My turn? Finally. My boss made her husband buy her a house in Kennebunkport.”
“Because the Park Avenue penthouse, the house in Palm Beach, and the house in the Hamptons weren’t enough?”
“Exactly. Which means—”
“You’ll be in New York even less.”
She sighed. “I used to like it, you know? Traveling, working like a dog, drinking like a frat boy. But lately, I don’t know…”
“Something missing?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I have Caleb and that’s going really well. And he’s really busy with Veritas—as you know.”
I did know. Caleb and Aidan were best friends as well as business partners. They worked all the time. Oh. Now I got it, why Aidan needed this camping thing.
“So he doesn’t ever make me feel bad that I work all the time either, but I’m just bored. Like I’ve worked for Heather for a few years and it’s old.”
“So find a new job.”
Annie looked pensive again. “Yeah.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“What does what mean?”
“Your ‘yeah’ sounded—I don’t know.”
She took a fortifying drink and then said, “I think I want something really different. Like I’m done being a private chef.”
“Your parents are going to kill you,” I said with a rueful laugh. Annie had gone through four years of undergrad and then moved to New York. It only took two-months of interning at Merrill Lynch to realize her actual dream of being a chef. Hello, CIA. Hello, hefty price tag—and a lot of stress.
“No, I still want to cook,” she assured me. “But I think I want to have my own restaurant. I want my own kitchen.”
My eyes widened. “Doug! Another round of shots.” I looked back to her. “Let’s drink the crazy out of you.”
“Are you really going camping?” Annie asked, drunk as a skunk, and looping her arm through mine as we walked out of the bar.
“Are you really going to open up your own restaurant?”
“Yes,” she declared with drunken bravado. “I’m gonna do it. No more slaving away for a woman who yells and throws Perrier at my head!”
“She throws Perrier at your head?” I asked in astonishment.
“That’s the French one, right?”
“Right.”
“Then yeah, Perrier.” She held up her hand to flag down a cab.
“Really? A cab?” I asked.
“We live in the same neighborhood.”
“No, I meant, let’s just call an Uber.”
“What did New Yorkers do before Uber?” Annie asked, lowering her hand.
I fiddled with my phone and swiped over to the Uber app. “Uhm, they hailed cabs, took the subway. Or walked.”
“Walked,” she huffed. “What a rotten idea.”
“Seriously.” I tapped the screen a few times. “Uber should be here in three minutes.”
“Good.”
I looked up at the night sky—the stars were nonexistent due to the light pollution. I wondered how I’d feel seeing them.
“Damn it, I know I have some gum in here.” She was rifling through her purse, head buried in the bag, which carried her entire life. A change of clothes, her comfortable Crocs, even a toothbrush. We used to call it her One-Night Stand bag. Amazing how things changed in a few years.
I let out a laugh.
“What?” Annie asked. She found the gum, popped out a piece, and handed it to me before getting one for herself.
“Just thinking about how things change. Remember when we first moved here and everyone asked us if our lives were like Sex and the City?”
She laughed. “Yeah. Like we were able to sit around talking about guys at the city’s best restaurants.”
“I still don’t own a pair of Manolos.”
She smiled. “You can afford them now.”
“Please don’t compare me to Carrie,” I warned. “Just because we’re both writers.”
“O-M-G.”
“What?”
“You married an Aidan.”
I groaned. “Shut up.”
She bent over and let out another laugh. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that before.”
Our Uber pulled up, and we scrambled inside, collapsing against the seat. I kept my eyes open since I had the swirlies.
“There has to be something you can do,” Annie murmured. “To get out of camping. Did you offer him something sexual?”
“I was too in shock to even think clearly. He’s pretty adamant, Annie. And what’s two weeks? I can do two weeks. My book is with my agent. I’m free as a bird.”
Annie grinned. “A camping bird.”
“I love Aidan, and Aidan loves camping, ergo—”
“Ergo you love camping?”
“Fuck no. I was gonna say, ergo, I can do this. I can rough it.”
She snorted. “Yeah, you can rough it. At a four-star hotel. With a spa. You’re such a JAP.”
I buried my head in my hands. “Oh, God, you’re right. I’m totally scre
wed.” I looked at her. “I’m a total Sibby Slicker.”
“Aidan,” I whispered. “Aidan, wake up.”
“Ung,” he groaned into his pillow. “What?”
Part of me felt sort of bad for waking him up. It was four in the morning, and he hadn’t gotten home until two. But after I’d slept off my drinks, I’d awakened with tons of questions about…camping.
The word made me shiver.
“It gets cold upstate,” I said, poking his back. He tried to bury his head deeper into the pillow, but I pressed my face in the spot between his bare shoulder blades.
“I’ll keep you warm,” he promised.
“Was that meant to be suggestive?”
He sighed and then wiggled his body. I removed myself from his back, and he rolled over. I snuggled into his side.
“It wasn’t meant to be suggestive.” His fingers found their way to my wavy hair. “Do you trust me?”
“You know I do,” I replied. “But how are we going to shower?”
“I’ve got it.”
My eyes narrowed. “I’m not going two weeks without washing my hair. I’m prone to dreadlocks.”
“I promise to keep you safe, warm, and comfortable. September upstate is gorgeous. It’s nice during the day, cool at night. There are hardly any bugs and the bears—well, we have to make sure to keep a clean camp.”
“Bears? Did you say bears?”
“No, I meant—” He sighed. “Yeah, bears. But they’re hibernating by now.” He paused. “Probably.”
“You’re not reassuring me.”
“We’ll be fine. I promise.”
“I don’t have any camping clothes.”
“Easily rectifiable.”
“This really is important to you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Sibby, it is.”
I sighed. “Then I’ll try to be a good sport.”
He kissed my forehead. “Good. Can we please go back to sleep now?”
“Sure,” I said. I waited until he fell back to sleep before I crept from the room. I went into my office and sat down at my desk. Before I knew it, I was on the L.L. Bean website. For safety, I opened up REI’s webpage along with Eddie Bauer.
Tales of a New York Waitress (The Sibby Chronicles Book 1) Page 22
