As Seen on TV (20 page)

I wonder if I would have gotten a table if I had gone up, instead. Does anyone recognize me?

We’re brought to a booth. I’m planning on ordering Eggs Benedict when Miche orders a salad, dressing on the side and a tall glass of water. Hmm. I was feeling a bit bloated tonight.

“I’ll have the same, please.”

Miche pulls a sugar packet from the container and fiddles with it. “How’s your skirt holding up?”

“Amazing. Thank you again. I can’t believe no one even noticed. If it weren’t for you, I’d be a national laughingstock. You should be a fashion designer.”

The waitress places two glasses of water on our table, and I finish mine in one gulp.

“Really? I’ve been thinking of applying to FIT. You know. After this is done.”

“Yeah? You want to be a designer?”

“Just a thought. I don’t know what I want to be. What I want to do. So what’s your roommate like?” she asks.

The question comes so out of nowhere that I can’t think of an answer. The waitress interrupts with two plates of naked-looking lettuce.

I drench it in the dressing and take a bite—
so
not greasy enough—and hope that Miche has forgotten her question.

“So what’s your roommate like?”

“Cool,” I say.

“Roommates aren’t for me. I don’t think it’s natural to live with someone who you’re not sleeping with or related to. What’s yours like?”

Handsome? Good in bed? “Nice.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a student.” Enough already. Next topic. “Why don’t you travel a bit? You can move anywhere you want. Paris, London, Sydney.”

When did I become such a big talker? Before moving to New York, I hardly ever wanted to even travel around the country, never mind around the world. I had my one backpack adventure, but I preferred not to go too far from home.

Michelle shakes her head. “Been there, done that. My parents used to ship me abroad every summer. I was bored out of my mind. Anywhere besides The City is a waste of time.”

It’s funny how New Yorkers refer to New York as “The City” as if it’s the only one. “I guess it’s the best place to be if you want to make your mark,” I say.

“Make your mark? On what?”

On what? On something. “On the world. I want to do something worthwhile one day. You know. To be remembered.”

“You’ll be remembered for
Party Girls.
”

When I first met Michelle I pegged her as a person not concerned with the bigger issues, the scarier issues. One of those people who think fashion magazines, sitcoms and
Party Girls
are as deep as it gets. But ever since I found out about her father, I’ve been waiting for her to reveal another layer, to show me her wound.

“I don’t want to be remembered,” she continues and pours a drop more salad dressing on her lettuce. “I just want to have fun. Omigod. Did I tell you some idiot’s pickup line tonight? He came up to me and asked, ‘Is your dad a terrorist?’ And
when I looked at him like he was nuts, he said, ‘’Cause you’re the bomb.’ How inappropriate is that?”

Why does her superficiality comfort more than horrify me?

“I think there are some jokes that need to be outlawed in New York. Terrorist pickup lines top the list.” I need more water. I spot the waitress and try to catch her eye. I think she’s ignoring me. “So tell me, what’s fun about being on the show? Why is it fun?”

“Fame is fun. You’re admired. Little girls try to dress like you. Designers send you free clothes. You always get a table at a restaurant. It leads to money. You get to buy more things. You meet fabulous people. Do you want more water?” She motions to the waitress, who scurries right over with a large pitcher. “What about you?” Miche asks me. “Why did you agree to do the show?”

“If I tell you, do you promise to keep it between us?” I’m not sure why I suddenly want to bond with her, but I do. I want her to know me. I need to talk to someone who gets it—the quasi fame, the lies, the free stuff…the dead parent even.

I feel congested and I need to come clean to feel better.

I need to confess.

H
ere goes.

“I needed a job,” I say. “This doesn’t pay, but I’m hoping it’ll lead to something that will. Something big. Something important. And I don’t have a roommate. I moved to New York because I wanted to live with my boyfriend.” There. I’ve said it. “I live with my boyfriend.”

Her jaw drops and her eyes widen, but then she bursts out laughing. “I don’t believe you!”

A truck-sized weight has been lifted from my chest. Confessing feels good. “I swear,” I say.

Then she smiles. “Howard doesn’t know, does he?”

“No, of course not. They all think I’m single. Everyone but you.”

“You are single. There’s no ring on your finger.”

“I still don’t think Howard would appreciate knowing that I have a live-in boyfriend.”

She laughs. “Definitely not. It’s like his one rule. I love it. It’s so devious. How long have you been together?”

Devious. I picture myself tattooed, in leather and on the back of a motorcycle. “Eleven months on Monday.”

“You count the months? Adorable. Are you celebrating?”

“I’m going to try to make him a fancy dinner on Monday.”

“You cook?”

“No, but it’s the effort that counts, right? He cooks. Have you ever heard of the restaurant Manna?”

“Your boyfriend is a waiter?” she asks, surprised.

“He’s not a
waiter,
” I say, correcting her. “He owns the restaurant.”

A waitress walking by gives me an evil look. I think I deserved that.

“Now that you know the truth, can I borrow your cell phone to call him? Mine doesn’t seem to be working in New York. I need to get a new plan.”

She hands me her phone. “Of course.”

I tell Steve I’ll be home in an hour. I can hear Hot ’n Sexy in the background.

I press the end button. The phone rings in my hand.

“Oops, did I dial something?” I hold the phone up in front of me. The display says: Howard Brown.

I flip the phone toward her. “Howard’s calling you now? At four in the morning?”

She looks flustered, and giggles. “I—he calls me all the time. He’s such a sketch-ball. He’s like my stalker or something.” She looks down at her plate.

The phone rings again. Howard Brown.

“Crazy, huh? He won’t leave me alone.” The phone rings again and then goes silent. “He totally attacked me a few weeks ago.”

Oh, my. “What do you mean? Sexually? That’s serious, Miche.” I flashback to the scene in the shower.

“He didn’t molest me or anything.” She laughs nervously. “He’s just always there, touching me and asking me if I want
to fool around. Honestly, he asks me like once an hour. Hilarious, huh?”

“So nothing ever happened?”

At first she shakes her head, then she nods. “We made out once. But that’s before I knew he was married, I swear.”

I take another bite of lettuce and dribble balsamic vinegar all over my skirt. “Ew.” Hasn’t this skirt seen enough pain?

“What, you think he’s gross?”

I dip my napkin into my glass of water and dab it on my skirt. “I was referring to my skirt. I still can’t believe what happened. It’s a good thing that we’re not wearing mikes. We’re a tabloid reporter’s wet dream.”

When I get home, Steve is sleeping, sprawled across the couch. The TV is on.

“Hey, sexy,” I say, and crouch down in front of him.

“I missed you,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I was starving.”

“I thought you’d be. I brought you dinner from the restaurant.”

Oops. “Next week I’ll come home right after the show, okay? Let’s go to bed.”

Every woman should be so lucky to have someone who loves her and waits up until 5:00 a.m. for her to come home.

“Okay.” He kisses me, then closes his eyes. “Hon?” His eyes flicker open. “It’s good here. Come lie. It’s comfy.”

What am I going to do with him? “The bed is also comfortable.”

“Stay here. Like camping. Come.”

Whatever makes him happy. “One sec.” I close the blinds, throw out my skirt, put on pajamas and a maxi pad, climb onto the couch beside him and try to fall asleep under his arm.

I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about what I said to Michelle. About being remembered. Even if I do something incredible, like finding a cure for cancer, I’ll be remembered until, what,
2100, 2200 at the latest? Big deal. Really, in the bucket of time, what is that really?

Okay, we remember, say, Shakespeare. But what if it’s true? What if there was no such man? What if Marlowe really wrote all those plays, after all? Who wrote the bible? We don’t remember the creator; we barely remember the creations.

I’m not even a tiny blip on the radar. No matter what I do. Even if I’m president or something. All of modern American culture will be forgotten by then. Elvis, the Kennedys, Twin Towers. By 4000 nothing will be remembered. And then one day the world will have to end, won’t it? Nothing goes on forever. We’ll blow ourselves up with nuclear weapons or global warming or maybe an asteroid will strike us right into oblivion, and then there will be nothing, just blackness and emptiness and what’s the point?

My heart is beating hard in my chest and I need to get into my bed. I need to be under the covers and safe, but Steve looks so peaceful and I don’t want to wake him. I wish I could turn on the TV or turn on the light to read. I need to think about something else. Something mindless.

My eyes sting and I let the tears roll off the side of my face, onto the couch.

Between the cracks in the blinds I watch the sunlight slowly dilute the starless New York sky.

Finally, when the living room is flooded with light, my eyelids feel heavy and I close them, gently, falling asleep.

Steve and I are cuddled on the bed watching
Party Girls
when the unthinkable happens:

Sunny Lang, TV heroine and star, stands up, wraps Michelle’s sweater around her waist and starts walking to the bathroom.

Erin’s voice is dubbed over the image. “Sunny got her period at the bar. It went right through her skirt. What’s up with that? Has she never gotten her period before? Is she twelve? Does she not know what a pad is?”

Ohmigod.

Switch.

Image of me and Michelle dancing. The conversation playing has nothing to do with dancing:

Michelle: “Ohmigod.” Laughter.

Me: “Do you think I should write to some teen magazine? This has to go in one of those
It Happened to Me
columns.” More laughter. “What am I going to do? I can’t wear a cardigan for the rest of the night. I’m supposed to be trendy.”

Michelle: “First of all, take this. Ooh. I have an idea. Take off your skirt.”

Me: “I can’t, I’m not wearing anything underneath.”

Michelle: “Hmm. Okay, pull it up then.”

Me: “How high?”

Michelle: “So that the stain part is above your waist. How do you feel about knee-length? I hope this doesn’t unravel. Here you go. New and untarnished. It’s adorable.”

Me: “It’s too big. How can I make it stay up?”

Michelle: “Voila!”

Me: “I have to admit, Betsey Johnson, I’m impressed.”

Michelle: “Ready to go back out there?”

T
he summer I was eleven, I had a crush on a boy named David Jacobs. He liked to sail, he was a whole year older than I was, and he wore his Yankees baseball hat backward. Every morning my heart would stop when he walked into the dining hall for breakfast. Every time he said hello to me I found myself unable to articulate a simple greeting and ended up mumbling incomprehensibly.

Three days before the camp social, a boy named Harry sneaked into our bunk at rest hour to play matchmaker (boys were not allowed in the girls’ cabins). Sitting on his girlfriend’s top bunk bed, legs dangling, he made a list of the eight boys in his cabin, including David, who were still dateless. All twelve of my bunkmates sat at his feet, waiting. Harry read out a boy’s name and then whoever liked the boy was supposed to raise her hand. Once the comprehensive list was compiled, the plan was for Harry to return to his bunkmates and find matches.

“Jordan M.,” Harry said. There were two Jordans, and were therefore distinguished by their initials.

Jordan M. was the stud of the twelve-year-old boy section, and three of the girls raised their hands in application.

“Dave,” Harry said.

No one called out. I contemplated not calling attention to myself, but I was suddenly overcome by a sense of courage. Why not? Go for it! The image of having a real date for the social, and not having to dance in a circle with the rest of my bunkmates propelled me to raise my hand.

“Sunny!” Harry said, delighted. “You and Dave, huh? Interesting.”

After going through the list, Harry promised to return at free play with the results.

By third afternoon activity I was a nervous wreck. At dinner I couldn’t eat the chicken stir-fry on my plate, usually my favorite. By the beginning of free play I thought it possible that my chest might explode.

We reconvened in our rest-hour positions.

“Jordan M.,” Harry began. “He likes Stef. Match!” He made a ding sound, like the bell on a game show.

Stef blushed.

“Next is Dave,” he said. “Doesn’t like anyone. No match!” He makes another ding sound. “Sorry, Sunny.”

My face stung as though doused in boiling water. The other girls looked at me. I wanted to slither into my sleeping bag, zip it up around me and remain there until the end of the summer.

The most embarrassing moment of my life.

Until now.

“Hon, come out from under the covers,” Steve says.

“No.”

“Hon, it was funny. It made good television.”

“That was not good television.”

“I can’t hear you, your voice is muffled.”

“I’m never coming out. You’ll have to slide my meals between the sheets. I recommend no liquids.”

Steven joins me under the covers and lies on top of me. “You’re acting crazy. No one will even remember it by next week. It’s just a silly TV show.”

I hate TV. How could they show that? I’m never leaving the house again. “I just menstruated on national television. I’m surprised people didn’t throw tampons and scream at me to plug it up.”

“Hey, that’s what happened in
Carrie.
”

“See? It’s the stuff horror movies are made of. Maybe next episode they’ll elect me bar queen and drop a bucket of pig’s blood on my head.”

Steve laughs. Then I start laughing. It’s too hot under here. “I can’t breathe,” I say.

He tosses the sheets off our faces. Ah. Better.

“Sun, it’ll be fine. I’m telling you, who cares? I don’t understand why there’s so much secrecy around women’s periods. I mean, all women get it, right? Isn’t it a good thing? Shows you can bear children? Why is it such a secret? Why is it any grosser than snot?”

He doesn’t get it. The point, I mean. Obviously not the monthlies, or he would so understand.

“If your nose is dripping, you’re not embarrassed to pull out a tissue, are you?” he presses on. “My dad blows his nose in a hankie, then puts it back in his pocket. Is that any worse?”

“I wouldn’t want my nose dripping on national TV, either.” I pull the covers back over my head. Oooooh. “Was my nose dripping, too?”

“Why do you care about what other people think?”

“I don’t.” Do I? “This is different. This is TV.”

“You shouldn’t care about what anyone thinks but yourself.”

Whatever, big talker. “Hi, no one’s here to take your call right now. Certainly not Sunny, because she doesn’t live with me.” I uncover my face and smirk. “Who do your parents think share your apartment, exactly?”

Steve tries to tickle my waist. “That’s different. I’m trying to spare their feelings.”

“Your mom called yesterday, did I tell you? She said, ‘Hi, dear, it’s me. I just want to see how you’re doing. Is Sunny liking New York? The Weinbergs told me they met her and she was just adorable.’ Did you hear? I’m adorable. Stop it.” I try to tickle him simultaneously but he straddles my hips, lifts my arms over my head with his left hand and tickles me with his right. I can’t stop giggling. “I hate it, stop.”

He squeezes my wrists together. “Maybe we should get a pair of handcuffs. I like you like this.”

“I think you’re a bit of a sketch-ball.” Miche used that word. I like it. “I’m not sure if I’m the handcuff type of girl.”

“What type of girl are you?”

“The kind of girl who makes a public fool of herself.” Oooooh.

“You should only care about what you think.” He kisses me lightly on the lips. “And what I think.”

“And what do you think?”

He smiles. “I think we should get handcuffs. And I think we should start planning tomorrow night. I’m leaving work at six so we can spend the evening together. What do you want to do? Something special? Naughty, I hope.”

Apparently he hasn’t made the synapse jump from “has period” to “no sex.” I don’t mind gratifying his less kinky desires, but I draw the line at playing vampire.

“Sunny! Guess what!” Carrie yells into the phone.

It’s Monday morning and Steve and I are still in bed. Since I’ve met Carrie, I no longer need an alarm clock.

“What?” When the phone rang, I was dreaming about having telekinetic powers.

“You’re going to be in
Personality
magazine.”

Am I still dreaming? “What? Why?”

“Can you believe it? Isn’t that amazing?”

“I don’t understand. Just me? Is it an interview?”

“It’s an ad. You’re going to be famous!”

“An ad for the show?”

“Not exactly.” She pauses. “Okay. TRS is owned by Metro United, right?”

“Right.”

“Metro United also owns Rooster Cosmetics. And they’re in the middle of planning their media campaign for their tampon brand, Purity.”

No, no, no.

“Anyway,” she continues, oblivious to the plummeting feeling in my stomach. “The retail marketing VP at Purity saw the show last night and loved it. Loved the leakage part. He wants to use one of the shots of you walking to the bathroom with the sweater wrapped around your waist as an ad. You know, a don’t-let-this-happen-to-you campaign. It’s going to run in next Friday’s issue. Isn’t that incredible?”

I pull the covers back over my head. “I’m going to be the tampon girl?”

Carrie laughs. Hah, hah. “No publicity is bad publicity.”

Hmm. Models make a lot of money don’t they? Being Tampon Girl isn’t so bad if I’m Rich Tampon Girl. “How much do they pay me for this?”

“Pay? They pay nothing. It’s part of your contract. Any of TRS’s affiliates are allowed to use your image for marketing and promotional purposes.”

Note to self: must read fine print on contracts more carefully.

Steve is just as dubious as I am but for different reasons. “They’re putting a picture of you in that skimpy outfit in a magazine?”

“I don’t think the skimpy outfit is the point, Steve.”

His eyebrows scrunch together and he turns bright red. “But I don’t want guys drooling over your picture. Your boobs were popping out of your top. Those are my boobs. What if some asshole jerks off to it or something?”

“Steve, that’s disgusting. It’s
Personality
not
Playboy,
okay?” I say, suddenly defensive.

Dana’s reaction is also lacking in enthusiasm. “Don’t you remember that e-mail you sent me about Purity?”

I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“About how they put asbestos in their tampons to cause additional bleeding?”

Oh…right.

“Sunny, I’ve been doing some research, and I have to tell you their intentions aren’t looking so pure. My article is going to be explosive, you’ll be so proud. I’m definitely going to step on some toes.”

Suddenly panicked that Dana is going to ruin everything, I ask, “Would you mind shelving that article for a bit?” Stepping on the toes that subsidize my rent can’t be a good plan. “I know I was the one to tell you to write about it in the first place, but I don’t think it will look too good if the Purity poster girl’s flesh and blood slams the product in the press. And Rooster is owned by M.U., the same conglomerate who owns TRS. I could get fired.”

“Sunny, I can’t believe you don’t think printing this article isn’t more important than a stupid TV show. These things might be dangerous. They could seriously hurt someone.”

When did the show become so important to me? Is it important to me? “Listen,” I say. “It was just a chain letter. I’m sure it’s full of crap. Tampons are tested all the time. They wouldn’t be selling them if they were dangerous. Can’t you hold the article until I’m no longer their poster girl? I’m sure there are a million other companies for you to expose.”

Dana sighs. “Fine, but I’m not happy about it. And isn’t there some kind of law that says you have to use the product you endorse?”

I don’t care what the contract’s fine lines say, those Purity tampons hurt.

Well I think Steve and Dana can go screw themselves. I like Millie’s reaction better:

“
Personality?
You’re so famous. Do you know how many hits your name gets on the Internet? It’s insane. You are a celebrity. You’re by far the most famous person I know. Even more famous than Marla Tannenbaum.” Marla Tannenbaum
wrote a book about the rave culture. It was nonfiction and was published three years ago and we hated her in high school, and had to see her name whenever we went to the bookstore and it was highly annoying.

Millie’s right. So what if I’m the tampon girl? I’m in
Personality,
which is very cool.

Take that, Marla.

By one that afternoon I feel confident enough to leave the house without a bag over my head. I head over to Gourmet Market with the list of ingredients required for the recipes I found online under “Romantic Dinner.” I’m making heart-shaped smoked salmon for my appetizer, spinach and almond salad for my salad, fennel fusilli with chicken and pine nuts for my entrée, and strawberry fondue for my dessert.

Words like
fennel, diced, minced
and
grape tomato
(can there be a more blatant marketing attempt to make tomatoes friendlier?) jump up at me and give me a heart attack. I feel like I’m taking a multiple-choice exam and I don’t recognize any of the options.

Why is it always so cold in here?

Two hours in the grocery store and twenty minutes at the wine store later (sudden brainstorm: for our next anniversary, our one year, I’m signing us up for a wine-tasting class—Steve is always saying he wished he were more of a wine connoisseur), I’m back home, remembering why I don’t do this more often. It’s scary. Really. I don’t want to poison him. And it takes forever. Why bother? So far, the only fun part was using my expense account at the cash register. I burn my hand on the boiling olive oil. I cut my finger while slicing the grape tomatoes.

After I’ve done all the prep I can, I tidy up. Maybe I can clean up the rest of the apartment before Steve gets home.

Dana would make fun of me for hours, for my housewife activities.

I start by attacking the caked grime in the bathtub with Comet. Has he ever cleaned in here? I bet his roommate never
cleaned, either. Vile. I’m cleaning Greg’s grime. Surrounding the toothbrush holder is a stream of crusty white. Steve needs to learn proper toothbrush cleansing technique. He brushes, dabbles it under the water and then puts the brush away, allowing the remaining suds to drip grotesquely down the sides. Once, catching him in the act, I held him steady in the rinsing position for twenty seconds and then, still guiding his hand, shook the brush dry.

Of course, by the next morning, he was back to his regular routine, leaving a waterfall of toothpaste suds in his wake.

Is he never going to clean? I don’t want to ask him to clean. That’s so naggy. I’m not his mother. But otherwise, it’ll be my job for the rest of my life.

Is that what he expects?

His mother does the cleaning. Maybe he just thinks I’ll take over. Am I going to have to spend the rest of my life cleaning?

Next. Like a cat being petted, the floor seems to purr with the touch of my mop.

On to the bedroom. I remove the once black, now gray sheets. I’m not sure he even owns another set until I search in the back of his linen closet. And find another gray, probably once black set.

I collect the laundry and drag it across the street. The best part about New York is that other people do your laundry for you. While at first thought, paying someone to clean your clothes seems like a waste of money. But if your load is big enough you can actually save, since the mini washing machine in the basement costs two-seventy a load.

Of course most of Steve’s restaurant clothes need to be dry-cleaned. All of his stuff comes back covered in plastic. When I get my stuff back, the first thing I do is remove the piece of clothing from the crappy wire hanger and plastic covering, throwing them both in the garbage. Then I hang up the clothes properly on a real, purchased, plastic hanger. But Steve?

I open the closet door. Steve’s half of the closet is an overflowing wall of plastic and extra hangers. He shoves his dry
cleaning inside, directly beside his unused proper hanger. And when he wants to wear the piece of clothing, the plastic somehow finds its way to the floor.