There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  A baby carriage. WTF?

  I can’t have a baby! First off, I have no desire to ever touch diarrhea or spit-up. Plus, I like sleep. And I like spending my money on whatever I want. (What mother in her right mind would spend three hundred dollars on a pair of suede pumps with a college fund to worry about?) But the most important reason that I can’t have a baby is a nonnegotiable … I like being able to hyperfocus on my career as a newspaper reporter, a job which has stalled enough in the past year without a mewling infant on my hip taking away any shot I have of ever writing again.

  It’s not that I don’t like babies. I do. I love holding them, playing with them, being an auntie, and then SENDING THEM HOME. It’s why I make such a great stepmother but would make a lousy mother.

  I almost didn’t date Jason after I found out he had children.

  When I first met Jason at a museum fund-raiser Seema had put together, I thought he was gorgeous, charming, and smart. Wickedly smart, which sort of surprised me for a former NBA basketball player, who was now an NBA assistant coach here in L.A. The first hour we talked, I was totally smitten. He was thirty-seven at the time (six years older than me, a bit past my comfort zone), but he was a very in-shape and smokin’-hot thirty-seven. As we talked and laughed, I started thinking about fate, and the silver heart charm I had pulled earlier that day, and how you just never know when the right one is going to come along.

  Then he mentioned his two daughters, who at the time were four and eight. Damn, I thought to myself—I knew there had to be something wrong with him. Within minutes, I had politely excused myself and started scoping out other men at the party.

  But I kept running into him: he was at the bar getting a drink when I popped by for a refill, later I turned a corner to see him admiring one of the Monets. At the end of the night, he was behind me in line for the valet.

  He asked for my number. I told him I was seeing someone.

  After the valet pulled up with my car, we stood by my open car door talking for so long, the valet actually asked us to move it along. Jason asked for my number again. I politely declined.

  Then he asked Seema for my number. She called me right after she gave it to him to declare that I was an idiot, that she had overruled me, and that he was perfect for me.

  When Jason first started calling, I used the accepted code of those not interested: I couldn’t do this weekend, I would be out of town. I was really busy with work during the week. My weekend was completely booked as my cat, Mr. Whiskers, had died, and I was planning his funeral. There was no Mr. Whiskers, and I’m allergic to cats. But I figured nothing turns off a guy faster than a crazy cat lady. (By the way, he was onto me. He sent flowers and asked if he could attend the service.)

  Despite my rebuffs over the next few weeks, I always stayed on the phone a little too long and thought about him a little too much the next day. So, after he asked me out for the tenth time, I agreed. I mean, for God’s sake, the guy wasn’t proposing, he was asking me to dinner. And what was wrong with dressing up on a Saturday night to gaze at an elegant man with poreless caramel-colored skin and clear hazel eyes?

  During our dinner I discovered (to my astonishment) that this guy was a real guy. He actually pursued me: a rarity in Los Angeles. I was used to typical L.A. neurotic guys. Men who would call once every eight to ten days, with no rhyme or reason to when or why they would call. Men who asked me to go dutch at dinner. Men who were incredibly attentive until they got sex, then talked ad nauseum about how they weren’t sure if they had time for a relationship. (At which point they, too, would call at random times, although at least then I knew the reason.)

  But this guy asked me out again before the first date was even over.

  He knew what he wanted and—like everything else in his life—he planned to go after it until he won. If other men in Los Angeles are like toy poodles—yippy and useless—this guy was a Labrador: hardworking, loyal, a bit slobbery, and beautiful.

  A month later, I agreed to meet his kids. And I fell in love with them immediately. Megan was a gorgeous eight-year-old (now nine) who cracked me up with a knock-knock joke and had fun polishing my toenails. Malika, four at the time, had the cutest voice I’d ever heard. There was (and is) nothing she says that I don’t want to repeat to all of my friends, because it’s just so damn cute.

  That said, it took me a while to feel comfortable in my role as stepmother. And frankly, I screwed up sometimes. Like when I snapped at Malika for repeating the same sentence for the sixth time, or when I drove Megan to her school for her dance recital instead of to the auditorium the school had rented, thereby giving us all of four minutes to run from the parking lot to the correct stage to begin her dance.

  This summer, the girls have been living with us full-time, per the custody agreement. I love it, but I am ready to rip my hair out. I seriously don’t know how mothers do this full-time. We can’t go out to dinner without Malika insisting on sitting next to me (never her father) and screaming in my ear the entire time. And I can’t insist she sit next to her father, because then I’ll look like a mean stepmonster.

  Oh, and on the subject of food: what is it with kids and not eating anything? Malita is the picky eater to end all picky eaters. We had an argument last week because I used tomato sauce on my homemade pizza rather than “pizza sauce.” It wasn’t worth the fight—it’s just pizza—so I nuked her some fish sticks instead.

  The same thing happened with the gourmet mac and cheese I slaved over one night. It was baked. It was white. It was pronounced “wrong,” “weird,” and “yucky.”

  We have been eating neon-orange mac and cheese from a box ever since.

  And don’t get me started on all the driving! Whatever happened to summers off? This summer the girls have had a combination of ballet camp, museum camp, zoo camp, and music camp. Of course, neither girl has the same camp as her sister, and inevitably each week’s camp is at least ten miles (meaning forty-five L.A. driving minutes) from the sister’s camp.

  Jason has had a full-time job all summer prepping his team for the next season. I currently have no job. Guess who does 90 percent of the driving?

  I love these kids. I really do. But in one week, they go on a Caribbean cruise with their mother, and then it’s back to school for them—and back to weekend parenting for me.

  Politically incorrect though this may be, I am not only counting down the days until my honeymoon, I’m counting down the days until I get my life back.

  I look down at the silver carriage again.

  Nope. I’m barely hanging on as a part-time stepmonster—there’s no way I’m ready to have a baby.

  Seema and Mel walk into the kitchen. Seema hands me a Bellini, then says, “Sweetie, it’s a cake, not an augury. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Easy for her to say. Ever since we were in college, Seema has lambasted me for my belief in fortune-tellers, good luck charms, and fate.

  “Yes it does!” I say, almost crying. “You don’t understand. At the last two showers I’ve been to, every woman’s fortune came true. There was this woman who couldn’t have a baby, who got the carriage. Pregnant two weeks later. One person got the wishing well—said out loud she wanted a new job in New York, totally got an offer.”

  “Okay,” Seema concedes, “but, with all due respect: the woman who got pregnant could have been doing IVF for the past year. And the woman who wished for the new job had probably been working on getting that job for a while.”

  “You gotta admit,” Mel says, opening her hand to examine her pepper. “It is a pretty big coincidence.”

  “No, it’s not,” Seema counters. “It’s people having enough faith in their lives to work hard and go after their dreams. Here,” Seema says, taking Mel’s pepper. “Give me this. Nic, give me your charm.”

  I hand Seema my charm. She places it and the other two charms in the palm of her right hand, covers her hand with her left, and shakes her hands like she’s about to roll dice. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidoci
ous.”

  Seema opens her hands, then gives the baby carriage charm to Mel. “You take this. Nic, you get the shovel. And I’ll take the chili pepper.”

  “Why do I get the baby carriage?!” Mel practically howls.

  Seema glares at Mel. “I thought you didn’t want the chili pepper.”

  “Well, I want it more than a baby carriage!” Mel whines.

  Seema rolls her eyes. “Fine. You want the engagement ring, right?”

  She waits for a response from Mel, who looks down and shrugs self-consciously.

  “Be right back,” Seema says.

  As she leaves the kitchen, I look down at the shovel. “Maybe since she hid it in her hand, it could kind of count.…”

  “What the Hell is wrong with you?!” we hear someone screech in condemnation from the other room.

  Seema comes racing back in, with my friend Ginger running in after her. “Mel! I got you your engagement ring. Quick! Throw the carriage at her!”

  Three

  Seema

  That night, Scott keeps me company while I clean up all of the shower refuse scattered about my house.

  Or, I should say, Scott comes over so we can get drunk on leftover champagne and hors d’oeuvres, then watch a double feature of wedding movies together. We each picked one: he picked Wedding Crashers, I went with 27 Dresses.

  Okay, so we’re not the most romantic couple in the world.

  “What the Hell is this?” Scott asks, picking up a stainless-steel serving platter from the pile of gifts Nic had left behind to pick up tomorrow.

  “What’s what?” I yell from the kitchen, as I collect some freshly washed champagne flutes from my dish rack. I look through my kitchen doorway to watch Scott as he holds up the platter and scrutinizes it.

  “It looks like a giant … comma?” Scott says questioningly.

  “That might be the weirdest gift of the day,” I say, as I emerge from my kitchen with my flutes and an open bottle of just-popped Taltarni sparkling wine. “Someone at the party said it’s a traif dish.”

  “A what?” Scott asks, as he turns it slightly in his hands to examine it further.

  “A traif dish,” I repeat. “You know … for serving traif.”

  “And that would be what?” he asks me.

  “Um … shrimp I think?”

  Scott shakes his head as he puts down the platter. “Okay, you can make fun of us men all you want for wasting money on lap dances during a bachelor party, but wasting money on a traif dish you’ll never use is just as sinful. Maybe even more so.”

  “How do you figure it’s ‘more so’?” I ask, as I put the glasses down on my coffee table.

  “At least the twenties we’re handing out at the strip club will help pay for the girls’ college education.”

  “They’re never really going to college,” I say with a tone of disgust, as I reach for the pitcher of peach puree, left largely untouched by my guests.

  “So says you. Let me keep my fantasies. Oh, honey, please don’t put peach glop into my drink.”

  He called me “Honey,” I happily think to myself, as I stare at Scott examining all of Nic’s shower gifts. As I fill his flute with bubbly, my imagination immediately rushes to the fantasy of what it would be like to have him here in my living room, looking through all of our wedding gifts. I hand him his glass. “One glass of champagne, sans peach glop.”

  “Thank you,” he says, taking the glass as he makes himself comfortable next to me on my sofa. “So next week—‘black tie’ doesn’t really mean I have to go rent a tuxedo, right?”

  “Not if you already own one, no,” I answer him teasingly.

  This is one of our running gags with each other. I love clothes and shoes. Scott could not care less if he tried.

  Tonight, for example. Once the shower was over, I changed out of my perfect “bridal shower” long pastel-peach A-line skirt with matching top, and into dark jeans cut at just the right waist level for this season, a purple Graham & Spencer crew top I just picked up at Fred Segal, and Giuseppe Zanotti sparkly flat sandals that were full price, and in my mind worth every penny. I put a lot of time and effort into my look. Buying the pants alone took at least three hours, and included two runner-up pairs and me turning around in the dressing room to stare at my backside at least five times while asking Nic if they made my butt look big.

  Scott, on the other hand, is wearing a wrinkled “Stone Brewing Co.” T-shirt with blue jeans: one of his many “pick out of the clean laundry basket because God forbid I should ever fold anything and put it in a drawer” ensembles. It took him all of two minutes to get ready. Five, if you include a shower. The “just laid” look is one that no woman could ever pull off but one that guys like Johnny Depp and Scott will probably get away with until well after they hit the nursing home.

  I hate men. More pay for equal work, no labor pains, and they can be ready to go out in two minutes flat. So unfair.

  Anyway, despite the frat boy look, I still want to pounce on him, right here and right now, and take advantage of his virtue. But God knows it’s not because he’s trying. He’s never trying. He just is.

  Scott smirks. “I could rent an aquamarine tuxedo to match your dress.”

  “You do and no one will give you a blow job that night,” I warn him.

  “Like I would have a shot at meeting anyone anyway. I’m already going to be with the prettiest girl in the room. The others will be too intimidated to talk to me.”

  “Aw…” I say. Then I reiterate firmly, “You still need a tux.”

  “Now, are you sure you really want me to rent one? What about that guy you’re seeing? Conrad. Don’t you think it would be better to take him?”

  My shoulders tense up. I’ve been avoiding this subject all week. “Um … actually, we broke up.”

  Scott furrows his brows. “What? When?”

  “Last week,” I say, trying to use a light and breezy tone. “It’s good, really. It just wasn’t quite right. And, you know, it was getting to that point where we were either going to sleep together or not, and I just…”

  I pause. I just kept thinking of you. And comparing him to you. And even though he was way more appropriate for me, all I could think about was you.

  Scott is staring deep into my eyes, and I worry he can see right through me.

  So I make a joke of it. “Quit looking at me like that. I’m fine. Besides, I really did not want to take a date who I knew was temporary just so that I could have well-meaning people embarrass me all night with questions like, ‘So, have you two talked about marriage yet?’ ”

  Scott laughs. Tension diffused. “Why do people do that at weddings?” Scott asks, shaking his head appreciatively. “It’s right up there with asking a single person if they’re seeing ‘anyone special’. I always want to answer, ‘No. Is your prostate still giving you trouble?’ ” He glances at a pile of pastel-pink index cards on my coffee table. He looks at the top card. “Brad Pitt. What’s this?”

  “Oh, that’s this game we played called fantasy Date/Date from Hell. Everyone had to write down who their ideal celebrity date would be, and then their celebrity date from Hell. Then we all had to guess which girl picked which dates.”

  Scott shoots me a mischievous look as he picks up the pile. “Oooo … I’ll bet I can guess who you picked.”

  I grab the cards away from him. “No, you can’t. Besides, I don’t want you making fun of me.”

  Scott playfully tries to grab the cards back. “I’m not going to make fun of you.”

  “You can’t help it. It’s in your DNA.”

  “No. Seriously—I’ll be good.”

  Off my dubious look, he continues. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll show you how well I know you.”

  He puts out his hand for the cards. I eye his open hand wearily.

  “Fine,” I say, about to hand him the cards. “But first you need to tell me your ideal celebrity date.”

  Scott looks up at my ceiling, seemingly giving
my question serious thought. “Um … I guess my ideal would be Drew Brees,” Scott answers. “And that stupid blond chick with the reality show—she’d be the worst.”

  “The quarterback?!” I exclaim. “But you’re not gay! Wait, you’re not, are you?”

  “No,” Scott assures me. “And neither is he. But if I get to go out to dinner with any celebrity in the world, why waste that on a first date that will inevitably lead nowhere?” He rubs his fingers together. “Cards please.”

  I reluctantly hand him the pink cards. Shit—when he sees the name on my card, he will so obviously associate it with himself. Fuck! That name is about to give away my crush, and then he’ll never see me the same way again.

  Scott leafs through the cards. “Ben Affleck,” he guesses.

  I am tempted to lie, say yes and get it over with. But I know the other side of the card is Hugh Hefner and, while the old man is gross, he can’t be the worst guy in the world to be on a date with. So I am forced to admit, “Not a bad choice, but no.”

  He continues to fan through the cards. “Jason Washington is obviously who Nic chose…” Then he guesses, “Bradley Cooper?”

  “What? Him? No.”

  “John Krasinski.”

  “No.”

  “It’s not the actor on Heroes, is it?”

  “Dr. Suresh? No. Why do you assume just because I’m Indian, I’m going to go for an Indian?”

  “I don’t,” Scott says triumphantly, proving how well he knows me as he turns around the card to show me Zachary Quinto’s name (Sylar on Heroes).

  I shrug, and concede, “Actually, Zachary Quinto’s kind of hot in a ‘take your damn Spock ears off’ kind of way.”

  “ ‘Take your damn Spock ears off.’ Sexy,” Scott deadpans, as he leafs through the cards. “Fabio?”

  “He’s from the dates from Hell side of the card, you moron.”

  Scott stops at one card. He cocks his head to one side. “Orlando Bloom?” he guesses.

  “Yeah,” I admit quietly.