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“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!”
Chapter 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 Washing-ton 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.
Scott looks up at me, looking a bit perplexed. “Seriously? He doesn’t seem like your type.”
Considering Scott is a dead ringer for Bloom, you’d think he’d pick up on the hint. Oh yeah, right— he’s a guy. They pick up on hints about as well as magnets pick up seashells.
Now I’m defensive. “Why wouldn’t he be my type? He’s cute. I know people who have worked for him, and he’s really nice. . . .”
“It’s not that. It’s that he has dark hair. You normally go for blonds.”
“No I don’t. Why would you say that?”
Scott shrugs. “Your last two boyfriends are blondish. Both had blue eyes. I figured that was your type. Who was your hell date?”
“Antonin Scalia,” I respond, still reeling from Scott’s obvious misinterpretation of me and my “type.”
“The Supreme Court justice?” Scott asks, as he finishes looking through the cards. “Not really a celebrity. Who picked Stephen Colbert?”
“I don’t have a type,” I continue. “There’s no type.”
“Please,” Scott says, flashing me a patronizing look. “No offense sweetheart, but you like the westside type: blond hair, or had blond hair as a kid at least, a little bland, has some sort of nonartistic job that he’s a bit bored with, but which is stable. You know, like an actuary or a strategic planner. Lives in a condo west of La Cienega . . .”
Now I’m fuming. “That is so not true. I dated an actuary once, and I have dated a lot of artists.”
“Not for more than a date or two. Then you find something wrong with them, and move on.”
I have nothing to say back, but my feelings are hurt. He doesn’t see it: he genuinely has no idea how much I like him. And the only way for me to ever let him know how much would be to go so far out on a limb that my weight could easily shatter the branch.
Scott smiles. Tickles me under my chin. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I don’t like dating artists either. I’ll admit I’d rather have a downtown lawyer than a westside computer geek, but we’re pretty much the same.”
I still look sad. Scott knows this, but he has no idea why.
My phone rings. Saved by the bell. I walk over to my landline and answer. “Hello?”
“Is Scott there?” Nic whispers into her end of the phone. “Am I disturbing anything?”
“Never,” I say, maybe a little too brightly. “We’re just drinking champagne, going through your gifts, and figuring out which ones you won’t miss.”
“Ginger just called me,” Nic tells me in full panic mode. “She got engaged tonight.”
The guest who pulled the ring charm.
Shit.
“And it’s all my fault!” Nic continues. “If I hadn’t tried to get Mel hitched, none of this would have ever happened. I wouldn’t be checking my birth control pills to make sure the pharmacy didn’t accidentally switch them with mini SweeTarts, you wouldn’t be doomed to a life of hard work, and Karen wouldn’t be avoiding going to Oklahoma City next week.”
“Oklahoma City?” I ask.
“She got the tornado charm,” Nic tells me, her voice getting more anxious and high pitched. “Which was supposed to go to Samantha to guarantee a whirlwind life. I fucked everything up.”
“Okay, take it down a notch,” I advise. “Don’t go off all half cocked, it’s just a coincidence.”
“It’s not a coincidence, and I am completely cocked,” Nic insists, sounding more frightened than the babysitter in a slasher movie. “It’s happening.”
