There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  “I don’t need to fall in love,” Mel says to me passionately. “As a matter of fact, I specifically don’t want to fall in love. I want to have indiscriminate sex with gorgeous men who I toss aside the next day. I want all of the benefits of being courted without the costs of being caught.”

  Our phone rings. Mel picks up on the first ring. “Forget it. It’s not going to work this time,” she says proudly. “I’m out, and I’m going to have better sex than you ever dreamed!”

  Mel listens to the caller a moment, then hands me the phone. “It’s for you.”

  I furrow my brow as I take the phone. “Hello?”

  “I take it you’ve been out with Mel all night,” Scott guesses, sounding amused.

  “We’ve been moving,” I say, walking out of her room with the phone. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “Working, feeling guilty for not having called you all week,” Scott says. “I miss you. How have you been?”

  He misses me! Yay! There is a God!

  “Fine,” I say. “Other than the fact that Mel is trying to talk me into participating in the idiocy of online dating.”

  “I heard that!” Mel yells from her room.

  “You were meant to!” I yell back.

  “I tried to call you around one,” Scott tells me. “But no one picked up, so I tried again at two, three, four, and now. Does that make me a needy loser?”

  “Depends. Were you updating your profile on every matchmaking Web site out there while splitting your time between a tub of full-fat ice cream and a fifth of cheap whiskey?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re fine.”

  Scott laughs. “What are you doing later tonight?”

  “Avoiding putting my profile up on every matchmaking Web site out there,” I tell him.

  “What are the hot new clubs these days?” Mel asks me loudly from her room.

  “And nightclubs,” I continue into the phone. “I will also be avoiding nightclubs, and men half my age trying to bed me by challenging me to beer pong.”

  “I read church is a good place to meet men,” Mel continues to yell toward my direction. “What religions have services on Saturday night?”

  “Hold on,” I tell Scott. Then I yell to Mel, “I only go to church for the hatch, match, and dispatch!”

  “The what?” Scott asks.

  “Baptisms, weddings, and funerals,” I explain to Scott. “So what’s going on later tonight?”

  “It’s kind of boring, but do you feel like coming over and helping me with my work?” Scott asks. “I have a bunch of digital pics I took before I turned in the pieces. Maybe you can help me compare them to what I’ve done so far? Let me know what you think?”

  Yay! He asked me out for Saturday night! Things aren’t weird between us! I still have a shot!

  “Will there be steaks, grilled just the way I like them?” I ask flirtatiously.

  “No,” Scott says. “But there will be takeout. I figure we work until we’re both punchy, then argue over the virtues of Thai versus pizza, then watch a video or something.”

  “Oh. Netflix just sent me When Harry Met Sally. Any interest?”

  “None in the least,” Scott admits cheerfully.

  “Four Weddings and a Funeral?” I ask, knowing full well that his answer will be …

  “Good Lord.”

  “He’s Just Not That Into You…” I continue.

  “Woman, are you out of your mind?”

  “I’m about to say Twilight…” I threaten in a singsong voice.

  “I’ll take When Harry Met Sally,” Scott answers me. “I’ve never seen it.”

  “You’ve never seen it?!” I exclaim, reveling in the possibilities of being able to discuss whether men and women can ever truly be platonic friends with my frustratingly platonic friend. “You’re going to love it. It’s really funny. What time do you want me there?”

  “Six,” he tells me, letting out a big yawn. “Now go get some sleep.”

  “You too,” I say. And then my voice catches as I say to him, “I love you.”

  Scott yawns again. “I love you too,” he says through his big yawn. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  And he hangs up, and he is gone. I stare at my phone for a second before clicking it off.

  Well, he did say he loves me back. He always says he loves me back. But does that mean anything?

  I head back to Mel’s room. “Do you think it’s true that Inuits have a bunch of different words for ‘snow’?” I ask her.

  I walk back in to see Mel, passed out on her bed, using one of the Glad bags as a pillow.

  I’m pretty sure I hear snoring.

  So maybe she didn’t have too much ginseng after all.

  I know I should be a good friend and let her sleep, but I can’t help myself. I’m obsessed and need an answer. I shake her shoulder softly. “Mel…” I whisper.

  “Farmers’ markets!” Mel says, sitting straight up in bed. “Another target-rich environment to meet men.”

  I take a second to process that. “Duly noted,” I say, and then repeat my question. “Do you think it’s true that Inuits have a bunch of different words for ‘snow’?”

  “I think it’s true that Americans do,” Mel says, yawning, and collapsing back down on her bed. “Slush, sleet, flurries, blizzard, powder, hardpack…”

  “I’m going somewhere with this…” I say, eager to get to my point before she passes out completely. “But I like that you came up with six. Shouldn’t there be six different words for love?”

  Mel doesn’t even have to think about it. “There are. Adoration, worship, fondness, devotion, adulation…”

  “My point is that when I tell Scott ‘I love you,’ I don’t think it’s fair that he can say ‘I love you’ back, when clearly my ‘I love you’ means ‘I adore you and want to rip your clothes off and keep you in bed until a week from Thursday,’ whereas his ‘I love you’ means…” I look Mel in the eye as I desperately ask, “What does it mean?”

  She looks at me sympathetically and shrugs. “Honestly, if I knew how to read men, do you think I’d be here with you?”

  Of course she doesn’t know either. What did I expect? She’s a girl. In order to read a guy, I need another guy to translate. The problem is, the only guy I can think of who can answer these questions would be …

  Ding, ding, ding. Right.

  Who’s never watched When Harry Met Sally before. Huh. I wonder which question from the movie I’ll start with. And how much wine I’ll encourage him to drink before he gives me his answer.

  Twenty-five

  Melissa

  It’s amazing how much information you can find on the Internet these days. When I Googled “How to Meet Men” I got more than a million results. If only I had an available man for every available result …

  I settled on five different articles from five different dating gurus. Then I did another search to make sure all of these people were married and threw away the single one because—though you may not need to be a chicken to judge an egg, it helps your credibility if you’ve proven you can catch a rooster. (Also, she suggested dance classes, and I think we all know that the man I meet there is going for the same reason I am—to meet a man.)

  Each article gave me a top-ten list of places to meet men. A few of the places were on all or most of the lists, so I threw those out due to lack of creativity. (Grocery stores? Really? You know, I’ve been going to the grocery store since I was a baby. I occasionally pick up things I hadn’t gone in for. Once I went home with a twelve-pound watermelon. Once I went home with a lawn chair. Not once have I gone home with a man.) Then I threw out some suggestions because they would require too much time and money on my part. Dog park shows up a lot on these types of lists. I don’t own a dog. One suggested hanging out at an animal shelter, which I just found depressing. Several suggested joining a co-ed softball league or scuba club. That would require even a smattering of interest in learnin
g softball or scuba diving.

  Later that Saturday, I dress up in new jeans and a cute red top, put on a little makeup (enough to look better, but not so much that the men know I’m putting on makeup), bring my silver chili pepper charm for good luck, and begin my man hunt promptly at noon at Home Depot.

  Why noon? According to one of the dating sites, I don’t want to come in the morning unless I want a Type-A personality who wakes up too early and has a list of things to do for the day, because this is not a man who will be swayed from his mission, even for a chance to hook up. And I don’t want to go too late in the day, because then I get the men running in to buy one can of Glidden paint in antique white or a General Electric 20-amp one-inch single pole circuit breaker because they’re almost done with their fucking project and just need one more random item in order to finish their day.

  Noon. Noon is when the homeowners come in to look at new countertops. When they saunter in to compare and contrast flooring options. When they come in to pick the new drill they need to finish the bookcases they’re making by hand.

  I begin my search in the kitchen area, right by the granite. I lean my elbows down against a gray marble counter and try to look casual.

  That looks stupid.

  I stand up.

  Look around.

  Exactly what am I supposed to do during the time I wait for Mr. Right Now to approach me?

  “Can I help you?” a good-looking dark-haired twenty-something wearing an orange vest asks me.

  “Oh … um…” I look around nervously. “Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”

  He smiles. “Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything.”

  I flash him a nervous smile. “I will. Thanks.”

  He walks away, and I begin my search again.

  A fine-looking blond wearing jeans and a Beatles T-shirt is perusing a dark blue laminate countertop. He’s gorgeous: glowing tan skin, light eyes, a swimmer’s body. I could get used to looking at that. And no wedding ring—very important.

  He runs his fingers over the counter thoughtfully, and I see he has a pianist’s fingers: long and thin, and indicative of someone who knows how to run his fingers over just about anything. “I was looking at that one myself,” I say aloud.

  Is that a good opener? What the heck is a good opener for laminate?

  The blond looks up, and smiles at me, “Yeah. Do you know the difference between this one and that beige one over there?”

  “Oh, you don’t want to go beige,” I advise him. “It’s your kitchen, not your office.”

  He smiles at me, amused. “Huh. You might be right. You’re a woman—what do you think a woman would want in a perfect kitchen?”

  “Bright white with lots of colors,” I happily tell him. “What’s your favorite color?”

  “Red.”

  “Then I’d go with a white tile countertop with a mix of various red tiles interspersed with the white. Then I’d get a backsplash of mostly white, a few red, and a handful of hand-painted tiles. Or if you really want to go bold, go for a quartz counter in bright red.”

  “Wow. You know your stuff,” Adonis tells me, visibly impressed. “Do you work here?”

  “No. I’m just looking to remodel my kitchen,” I lie. “So do you live around here?”

  “I do. I just relocated from Minneapolis. Got this fixer-upper that seemed like a great deal at the time, but it’s led me here pretty much every weekend. I’ve even started to take the classes here.”

  “They have classes here?”

  “Yeah. Everything from plumbing to electrical. You should come sometime. They help a lot.”

  I smile. He’s invited me out (sort of). “I might do that. I’m Melissa, by the way,” I say, putting out my hand to shake.

  “Steve,” he says, shaking my hand.

  “So when and what’s the next class?” I ask him.

  As he opens his mouth to answer, a California blonde with perfect white teeth walks up to him. “Sweetie, I found the chandeliers. There’s this one that’s so cool—it’s kind of silvery and kind of crystally, and it would be perfect for the dining room.”

  Needless to say, Mystery Date #1 did not work out.

  I quickly say good-bye to the perfect little surfer couple and head over to Paint. There have to be some single men who need to paint. I walk over to the Glidden section, where a major cuteness with dark hair is looking over paint card samples. His body is stunning—muscley, but not overly so. The biceps are there, but not in a Governor Schwarzenegger obnoxiousy way. I walk over, leaning over him to take a sample of dark pinks to peruse. “Oh, honey, you don’t want that,” he insists to me as he points to the shocking pink square on my card. “The Barbie dream house was fun at eight, but you’re a grown woman now.”

  I laugh out loud. Turns out I got the Mystery Date who in the children’s game was wearing the purple tuxedo. “I just broke up and moved into a new place,” I admit to him. “And I want my bedroom to scream, ‘No man lives here.’ ”

  “I know just how you feel,” the young Liberace tells me. “Mine was cheating on me. How about you?”

  “Oh my God! Same thing,” I say, happy to have an immediate bond, even over something so awful. “How are you holding up?”

  “In the last month, I’ve dropped fifteen pounds, bought a dog, and taken up sobbing inconsolably. You?”

  “I’ve decided the best way to get over someone is to get under someone,” I tell him. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone looking, would you?”

  He thinks about it a moment, then shakes his head. “Not unless you want a guy who still lives with his mother, a former heroin addict, or a clown.”

  “You mean like a comedian?”

  “No. I mean an actual clown. Like in the circus. He’s gone a lot and makes no real money.”

  Eek.

  “Oh!” new man in my life says to me. “What about…” New man looks down at the ground, thinking to himself. “Oh wait, no. I set him up once, and it turns out he’s an asshole.” He looks up at me. “When did we get to the age in our lives when we know why all of our single friends are still single?”

  “Thirty,” I answer without hesitation.

  New man and I talk for a bit, then I head to gardening. There’s a hot Latin number near a ficus tree who I might be able to have a love connection with.

  Until he tells me, “No habla inglés.”

  I go for broke with my broken Spanish, “Quisiera usted … um…” I try to think of the word for “sex.” Damn it! I start making kissy noises at him.

  He squints his eyes, looking at me in confusion.

  Trying a more subtle approach, I throw my pelvis out toward my new Latin lover.

  Now he looks vaguely terrified. “Por favor,” I say as sweetly as possible.

  He shrugs and shakes his head.

  Oh well.

  I begin perusing the aisles, and settle in at lighting fixtures. “Excuse me?” I hear a voice crack behind me.

  I turn around to see a pimply-faced teenage boy smiling awkwardly at me. “Hi, I’m Greg,” he says.

  “Hi, Greg, I’m Mel.”

  “Do you want to go to my house and have sex?” he squeaks at me.

  I close my eyes and shake my head a bit. I must have heard that wrong. “Excuse me?”

  “Since you were asking my dad’s gardener to have sex, I’m thinking you’re pretty desperate. I’m kind of desperate too, so I figured, you know…”

  I left the Home Depot so fast I looked like I was being chased by a giant tidal wave.

  Twenty-six

  Seema

  “Your penis was larger than this,” I say authoritatively to Scott that Saturday night.

  “You’re wrong,” Scott argues, slightly out of breath.

  “I’m right,” I insist. “You’re not looking at it from the right angle.”

  “How many angles are there?” Scott whines. “And besides, a different angle won’t make it smaller.”

  “Yes, it will
,” I insist. “You’re several feet from it. If you got up close like me, you’d see it needs to be bigger.”

  Scott finishes securing a large engagement ring that’s been cracked in half onto a navy blue canvas, then steps down from his ladder and walks over to where I am standing, in the center of his living room. He knits his brows as he stares at the big penis sculpture in the center of his dark blue canvas. He scrutinizes the picture on the digital camera I hold in my hand. It’s a picture of Chode, one of his installations stolen from the art gallery last week. “You’re right. It was bigger before,” Scott concedes.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him sympathetically.

  “It’s also the wrong shade of red,” Scott says, exhaling a worried sigh.

  I look at the picture again, and debate, “Oh, I think that part’s fine.”

  Scott shakes his head. “Right now it’s not red. It’s pink.”

  “Penises can be pink,” I say to him reassuringly.

  “In real life, they can be. But in my last version of this piece, it was bright red.”

  I look at the picture again. Scott leans over my shoulder to stare at it for the millionth time. I don’t mean to, but I inhale the sweet scent of his cologne as he debates, “Well, maybe it could be pink.”

  As I hand Scott his camera, all I can think is, What is that scent? It’s new. Oh, he smells good tonight.

  Scott shakes his head as he looks at the camera’s screen. “No, I gotta redo it. It’s gotta be red.”

  “It’s fine now,” I assure him. “Just keep going.”

  Scott shakes his head. “I want the piece to be angry.”

  “Oh, I think you have a pretty angry penis there,” I joke. “Seriously. If you think it’s big enough, move on and focus on the broken promises section in the back left.”

  “Nope,” Scott says, rushing over to a massive bookcase filled with a variety of sculptures—everything from penises of assorted sizes to butterflies to guillotines to wedding cakes. “I can’t move on until I think it’s perfect,” Scott says. He puts his camera down and pulls two penises from a shelf. “Pick one. How big should we go?”