There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  “Wife,” I say a little too quickly, holding up my engagement and wedding rings.

  I know this is petty, but right now I’m very happy Jason spent too much money on my engagement ring. At the time I thought it was a gigantic waste of money, a ring that just screams, “Trophy Second Wife.” But at this moment, it is the only thing I have going for me. Because I notice Kevin isn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  Hah! I win!

  “How’s Heather?” I ask him, hoping to hear that the trollop dumped him after he dumped me for her.

  “She’s good,” Kevin says, scratching his neck self-consciously. “Won the Kennedy Award last year.”

  The Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award. I fucking hate her. I smile. “Tell her congratulations.”

  “Wish I could,” Kevin says. “We’re divorced.”

  “Oh,” I say, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s fine,” he says, giving me his best self-deprecating smile. “So, are you still writing?”

  “Well, I was working for the L.A. Tribune, but I decided to take some time off to write my novel.”

  Kevin’s face lights up for the second time in a minute. “Oh my God! You’re finally writing Tales from My Happy Place. Good for you! Do you have a rough draft? Can I read it?”

  “It’s still very rough,” I say, noncommittally. Then I add, “But I’ll let you look at it once I’m done.”

  Why? Why did I say that? Just treat him like a fire: lay low and crawl on your elbows and knees to the nearest door to get the Hell out of there.

  “I would love that,” Kevin tells me, while flashing me a smile that still melts my heart. He walks over to the office coffeepot. “So, do you have a couple of minutes for coffee?”

  As if on cue, Malika comes tearing through the office and over to me. “Nic,” she whines, while grabbing me in a forceful hug. “I forgot my space journal. You have to go and get it. Pleeeassseeee…”

  And now I have a five-year-old hanging on me. I don’t think I could be less cool if I tried. “Honey,” I whine right back, “it’ll take me at least an hour to go home, find it, and then come back.”

  Her bottom lip starts to quiver. “But I can’t go on the field trip without my journal.”

  I sigh. Damn it, I can just feel myself about to cave. “I’m sure your teacher can give you another journal to write…”

  As Malika looks up at me with those doelike brown eyes and pleads, “Please, please, please…” I can feel Kevin’s eyes on me. Judging me. Thinking I’m a bad mom.

  “Okay,” I sigh.

  “Yay!” Malika says, giving me a great big hug. “You’re the best bonus mom ever!”

  I force a smile to Kevin. “Duty calls. Rain check?”

  And then my little love pushes me out the door, and farther away from my old life.

  Thirty-two

  Seema

  “I am a woman aged…” I say aloud as I read my computer screen, “thirty-two. Seeking a man aged…” I think about the question for a moment. “What should I write?”

  “Type in thirty to thirty-eight,” Mel tells me as she types in her profile.

  “Wait a minute,” Nic argues from our couch as she leafs through her wedding proofs. “Why is it that the man can only be two years younger but up to six years older?”

  “Men mature slower than women,” Mel tells her as she clicks away at her keyboard. “Therefore, Seema probably wants a guy who’s older.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Nic says to Mel, then turns to me. “Men never mature. Grab a young one.”

  “This from a woman whose husband is six years older than she is,” Mel points out.

  “Yeah, but he’d be perfect if he were my age,” Nic tells us. “Start out looking for perfect. Better to shoot for the stars and hit the moon rather than aim for the gutter and get a bull’s-eye.”

  “I think that might be this Web site’s motto,” I quip as I type. “What should I say my desired annual income for a man would be?”

  “Ask them how much money can they print in a year,” Nic jokes. She hands me a black-and-white proof. “I can’t see the fire extinguisher glop on your dress in this one. Can you?”

  I look over to see a very nice picture of Mel, Nic, and me. Nic is radiant. “Nice, and no I can’t see anything. But will it be in color?”

  Nic looks at the picture. “I’m not sure.”

  “Have it retouched if it is,” I say to her. “How would you describe my job?”

  “Put that you’re in the arts,” Nic says at the same time Mel says, “Say you’re an executive.”

  “If she says she’s an executive, she’ll catch an actuary,” Nic tells Mel.

  “There’s nothing wrong with an actuary,” Mel points out. “And if she says she’s in the arts, she’ll wind up with a broke artist who lives with his mother.”

  It’s Wednesday night, and the three of us are back together as a group for the first time since the wedding. While Nic goes through her wedding proofs, Mel and I begin our quest for the perfect man via a leading dating Web site for singles in Los Angeles. Mel has put out her silver chili pepper for good luck. I leave my silver shovel in a drawer.

  “How has the stepmothering been going?” Mel asks Nic.

  “Better,” Nic says, although her slightly weak tone of voice makes me wonder if she’s questioning it. “Although with Jason working such long hours, this is the first night I haven’t been with the girls in over a week.”

  “Well, at least you have the weekends,” I say to her.

  “Well, I will soon,” Nic says, sounding a bit worn out. “Unfortunately, the governor was in Washington last weekend, and Jacquie went with him. This weekend, we have time off, but the following weekend is a governors’ conference, and she’ll be out of town again.”

  “I love how you say ‘time off’ like you’re serving a jail term,” I say as I debate whether I should fill out the box saying I’m curvy, or if that’s some online code for “fat.”

  “Actually, being stuck at home with sleeping kids and unable to leave does feel a little like I’m under house arrest some nights. Oh, and I’m not allowed to use the ‘what the’ words anymore. That’s been a challenge.”

  “The what words?” Mel asks, furrowing her brow.

  “No, not the ‘what’ words, the ‘what the’ words,” Nic clarifies. “You know: what the fuck, what the hell, what in the God damn fucking Hell are you doing? Malika’s classmates call them the ‘what the’ words. And I’m not allowed to use them. Particularly while driving.” She looks at my screen. “Who’s Seema562?”

  “I am,” I say.

  “I see,” she says, clearly not seeing at all. “And why?”

  “On the first question, when they asked me what I wanted my username to be, I typed in Seema. I thought that one advantage of being Indian is that at least no one has my name. But then it said that name was already being used. Makes sense, I figured. Even if Seema isn’t a common name, I gotta figure at least one girl in this country would have it.”

  “Have there really been five hundred and sixty-one other Seemas trying to hook up online?” Nic asks, surprised.

  I shrug as Mel says, “At least you got a number. When I gave the name Mel, it suggested I take the name WittyMel.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I ask her.

  “Seems like lying,” Mel admits.

  “At least they didn’t suggest DesperateMel or LonelyMel,” Nic jokes.

  “I don’t know,” I counter. “Maybe that’s the way to go. Reverse psychology.” I check out a few pics of the guys that fit my parameters so far. “I mean, there’s a guy here called Whatacatch. As if.”

  “Let me see what he looks like,” Nic says, happily walking over to my side of the table. “I mean, if he has the confidence to … oh, yuck.”

  “I know! Right?” I say, shaking my head and checking a box that allows me to delete him.

  “Maybe you should fill out the whole questionnaire, then start
making choices from the available pool,” Nic advises.

  “Fair enough,” I say, then read the next question. “Oh fuck. What are you saying for exercise?”

  “I put five or more times per week,” Mel says.

  “Yeah, put that,” Nic tells me.

  “I can’t,” I say. Mel actually does exercise five or more times per week. My idea of exercise is that excruciatingly long walk from the couch to my freezer. “How about I say once a week?”

  “Once a week sounds a little fat,” Nic explains to me.

  “Hey, for this drinking question, what’s the difference between a social drinker and a moderate drinker?” Mel asks.

  “Put social,” Nic suggests. “So did I mention I ran into Kevin yesterday?”

  Both Mel and I stop typing and turn to face Nic. She looks back at us innocently. I’m the first to say something. “Sweetie, you’ve been here twenty minutes. You buried your lead.”

  “No, it’s not like that,” Nic says, brushing off the information with the tone of her voice. “Turns out he’s the principal of the girls’ school. I saw him a couple of days ago when I was dropping them off…”

  “A couple of days ago, and you’re just mentioning it now?” I say to Nic suspiciously.

  “Oh, it was barely worth mentioning,” Nic says, shrugging. “I mean, I called Jason the minute I got in the car. But he didn’t seem fazed by it, so why should I be?” She walks over to Mel’s screen. “Okay—this is the fun part: what do you want in a guy?”

  “How’d he look?” I ask just as Mel asks, “Is he still married?”

  “He looked great. No, he’s divorced. And before you ask me the next question, no I don’t still like him.” Nic reads the screen. “Mel, you’ve said you’ll take a guy three feet zero inches tall.”

  “Wait. Really?” Mel says in surprise as she moves her face closer to the screen. “Oh, look at that. All right, I’m five-foot-two, so what can I get away with height wise for the guy?”

  “What brings me to this site?” I read from my computer. “Well, isn’t that a loaded question? ‘I am in love with my best friend, and he won’t have me. Thanks for asking.’ ”

  “What is going on with Scott?” Nic asks, having heard the latest during a recent late-night phone vent.

  “He’s called twice this week, and texted a few times, but he hasn’t seen me since he brought my car back Sunday. One would assume it’s because he’s with her. That’s the main reason I’m doing this—I need a fantastic date for his show a week from Saturday.”

  Mel jumps back from her seat. “Oh, God no!” she yells as Nic simultaneously winces at something they see online.

  I get up and walk over to look at Mel’s screen. “Which one?”

  “The Fu Manchu guy with the nose ring and the tattoo of the butterfly around his eyebrow.” Mel gasps in horror. “I specifically said no body piercings, no facial hair, no tattoos.”

  I point to a different picture, this one of a cutie with red hair and blue eyes. “How about him? He’s cute.”

  She sighs. “I don’t know. I guess.”

  “No,” Nic says, shaking her head. “Don’t go on a date with someone who makes you sigh before you’ve even met him. Let me scroll through.”

  Nic quickly scans through several pages of potential mates, stopping at a handsome dark-haired man. “His job is listed as medical/dental or veterinarian. He doesn’t smoke, drinks moderately, diet is meat and potatoes. Send this guy a note.”

  Mel scrutinizes his picture. “Okay. What should I say?”

  “I want to have a meaningless relationship with some guy for a few nights so that I can forget all about my problems with my current guy,” I answer immediately. “Must buy me dinner first.”

  Nic and Mel look at me disapprovingly. “What?” I ask. “Just me then? Okay.”

  My home phone rings. I check the caller ID. Scott. I pick up. “Hello?”

  “Wanna go get drunk Saturday night?” he asks, sounding angry.

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly. “What’s up?”

  “Britney not only broke up with me, she just totally laid into me about how I was basically a douche bag for sleeping with her without a commitment. Even though she specifically told me we should just hang out and discover each other and see where things go. And even though I was actually thinking about making a commitment. Why is it that women say they want something, yet then they hold it against us when we give it to them?”

  “Because, no matter what we say, if we’re dating you, the something we really want is for you to be madly in love with us,” I tell him truthfully. “Anything else just messes up our master plan. You want me to come over?”

  “No. I’m working now. Which is what started this whole fucking fight in the first place.”

  I signal to the girls that I’m going to go into my bedroom for some privacy.

  “I mean, you’re not upset that I haven’t called all week, are you?” Scott asks me as I walk.

  He’s not really asking me a question so much as stating emphatically, “You are not upset, and that proves me my point.” So I lie and say, “Of course not.”

  “Thank you!” he belts out. “That’s because you have respect for my career. You know how much I have to do between now and a week from Saturday. Oh, and she told me I couldn’t ask you for your shovel.”

  He practically spits out that sentence, so I immediately say with (albeit feigned) outrage, “Well, that’s just ridiculous. Of course you can have my shovel.”

  “Really?” Scott says, his voice softening immediately. “I can borrow it?”

  “Of course,” I insist. Then I have to clarify, “We are talking about the shovel from Nic’s shower, right?”

  “Yes. See, I wanted to put it in this piece I just started that may or may not be done by next week. But the place that sells the sterling charms are back-ordered on shovels, and they won’t be able to send me one for at least three weeks. So Britney and I got into this STUPID argument because I told her I wanted to borrow your shovel, and she said it’s a fortune, I can’t steal your fortune, so I said … well, you know me … that fortune stuff’s all bullshit anyway, you make your own fortune. And somehow she turns that around to, I must have meant that she doesn’t work enough on her stuff, and that’s why she’s not as successful as me. Which … I’m sorry, but why the fuck do women do that?”

  Before I can answer, Scott says, “Shit. She’s calling me again.”

  “Of course she is,” I tell him. “She wants you to win her back.”

  “Wait. You cannot be serious.”

  “Dead serious. Ostensibly, she’s calling to say she’s sorry, but really she wants you to admit that she’s right by giving you a different perspective of why she blew up at you, and why, really, this is all your fault.”

  I hear Scott make a clicking sigh noise, followed by, “All right. That’s it. I don’t have time for this. This ends now.”

  And he’s off the phone before I can even say good-bye.

  I walk back into Mel’s room to watch her madly typing away on her keyboard as Nic watches the screen over Mel’s shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Doctor guy e-mailed her back,” Nic tells me proudly. “They’re chatting right now.”

  “I have a date tomorrow night!” Mel says excitedly as she finishes typing, then reads the guy’s response.

  “And apparently I have a date Saturday night,” I say as my text beeps. I grab my cell phone and read from Scott:

  Good God woman—you were right! On the phone with her now, she’s saying exactly what you said she’d say.

  Saturday: plan for Jack and Cokes, taxi home, and spending the night.

  By the way, did you know the shovel also has another meaning?

  So many parts of that message to obsess about for the next three days.

  Thirty-three

  Melissa

  That Thursday, my date begins promptly at seven o’clock at Monsieur Marcel,
a lovely French restaurant at Third and Fairfax. Knowing it’s still warm in the evening in September, and that the restaurant is outdoors, I wear a modest yet form-fitting BCBGMAXAZRIA long-sleeve dress in a breathable jersey knit and some killer strappy sandals that make me look tall. My makeup is good, I have doused myself with the right amount of Chanel No. 5, and I am ready for a night of romance.

  Or at least good sex.

  My online conversation with Max last night was flirty and fun, and went until almost midnight. I knew from the dating sites and self-help books I’ve read that I shouldn’t be so available, but sometimes things are just effortless, and you gotta grab those rainbows when they magically appear. (Or grab a potential chili pepper, in my case.)

  When I walk into the restaurant, Max is already sitting at a table, a bottle of white wine open, my glass already poured. He’s even cuter in real life than his picture. (Whew!) He stands up, smiles warmly, and takes my hand. “Mel,” he announces.

  “Max,” I respond back as I shake his hand firmly, but not too firmly.

  He kisses me on the cheek, which slightly startles me, then has a seat. “Since it’s such a warm night, I took the liberty of ordering a white Bordeaux I think you’ll find exquisite.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking my seat. “So what’s good here?”

  “If you’re coming here for the first time, you must go with the fondue. Although I like to start with a nice salad,” Max tells me. “So, why would you say you’re single?”

  I haven’t been back in the dating scene long, but my Spidey sense is telling me something is amiss. “That’s an odd conversation starter, don’t you think?” I say, taking a sip of wine. (Which I will admit is delightful.)

  “You alluded to something being wrong with the man in your life during our chat last night, but you never actually said what it was,” Max tells me. “Why would you say you’re single? Is it because you’re too picky? Or maybe you pick the wrong guys? You have a tight little body and fantastic skin, so it’s not like your options aren’t wide open.”

  “Um … thank you?” I say, trying to make it sound more like a statement than a question. “I was in a long-term relationship that didn’t work out.”