Has Anyone Seen My Pants? (15 page)

“Did you just say
after-party
?” I asked. First she said “tits,” now, “after-party”? It was like the world as I knew it was ending.

“Yeah, we are groupies now, you need to learn the lingo,” she explained.

We opted against actually trying to track down an “after-party,” mostly because my mom had been so well behaved and
I didn’t want to watch her go off the deep end. We went back to the hotel and checked to see if the bar was open for a nightcap, but it was closed. So we went back upstairs and got in bed.

“Oh my God, Luke Bryan tweetered about me!” my mom yelled from the double bed next to me.

“What? It’s
tweeted
.
And . . . you have a Twitter account?”

“Yeah but I don’t twat—”

“TWEET.”

“Well I don’t tweet, I just use it to follow you and Luke. But, look!”

I had tweeted that we had a great time at Luke’s show and he wrote back, “Thanks, darlin’, your momma is the best.”

“
See!
He tweetered about me!”

“He called me
darlin’
,” I marveled.

We both went to sleep with big smiles on our faces.

The next morning, I drove my mom back to Arkansas, then boarded a plane home to Los Angeles. As the plane took off, I thought about the previous night. Of all the relationships that I worry have suffered because I haven’t been around to put the time into them, it had never occurred to me that my mom might be one of them. But spending time with her like that made me crave more of it, and I made a note to myself to remember the feeling I had that weekend. For the first time in a while, I’d had fun. I’d felt happy.

I walked into my apartment and went right to bed—that night, I didn’t need a cigarette or a glass of wine to get me to sleep.

Reverse Catfishing

T
o celebrate my upcoming thirty-ninth birthday (which everyone would be out of town for), I went out to dinner with three of my closest girlfriends: Jackie, Tilley, and Erika, the same three girls who came over when I had to have my cat murdered—see, we do fun things together, too! I’ve known all of them for a very long time, so it’s interesting to look around the table at that point in our lives and see how each person’s life has changed.

Jackie and I met when we were both bartending. She got married once, on a whim in Mexico, way too quickly, and ended up sleeping on my couch for a while during the divorce—which wasn’t really a divorce because their marriage wasn’t even legal in the United States. She was always attracted to the kinds of guys who don’t make great boyfriends (no car or job or the ability to fill out proper paperwork to get married in Mexico). But she grew out of that and is now with the
man who I believe is her soul mate. They even have this whole sappy romantic story about how they dated many years ago and found each other again. It’s pretty gross. But it’s also pretty great.

Tilley has had a few serious relationships but none that were ever quite the right fit. She came close a couple times, but there was usually something that kept the relationship from being “the one.” But she’s now married to “the one” and happy as can be. Her husband is truly her partner and best friend in every way. They have great conversations, they have great sex (from what she tells me; I haven’t watched or anything), and they even take spin classes together, which I do like to make fun of because I think that couples who work out together are assholes.

And Erika has been single for quite a while but has recently started dating someone she has known for many, many years and is happier than I’ve seen her in any previous relationship. He also seems very happy and he seems to worship her, which I approve of wholeheartedly.

So, at this table full of close friends, I was the odd one out with no husband, no boyfriend, and no prospect in the wings. I don’t mind being the single friend most of the time, I really don’t. It only bothers me occasionally, when a voice creeps into my head and says, “What if you just never meet anyone ever again?”

That exact thought ran through my mind as we sat, sipping cocktails, celebrating the final year of my ability to turn an age
that begins with the number “three,” when the subject of my dating life inevitably came up.

“It’s just impossible for me to meet people,” I explained to my three friends as if they hadn’t heard this speech before. “Seriously. Impossible.”

“I don’t think it’s
impossible
,” Tilley replied.

“It is,” I said, hoping to put an end to this particular conversation.

“I think you could meet someone if you wanted to,” Jackie chimed in.

“Me too,” Tilley agreed.

“Where?” I asked, annoyed. “At a comedy club? When I’m working? That’s not the way to meet people. It’s work.”

“Well, you met that one guy in Florida who told you to get his dick,” Jackie said.

“Yes. And that little romp scarred me for life. Sometimes when I go to sleep I hear that weird voice in my head saying, ‘Get that dick, get that dick,’ and I break out into a cold sweat.”

“There have to be places where you can meet someone,” Tilley said, pressing me.

“Okay, where? On the plane on my way home from a gig? That only happens in movies with Meg Ryan and her previous face.”

“I agree with Colonna,” Erika interjected. “I was not meeting anyone anywhere. The only reason Derek and I worked out is because we’ve known each other for years.”

“You’re both wrong,” Tilley said as she sipped her white wine. “I bet you could meet someone if you wanted to. I think you’re just closed off to it.”

It occurred to me that Jackie said basically the same thing to me in Cabo. But I wasn’t about to bring that up. So instead I said: “I’m not closed off to it! I just don’t want to date another comic or an audience member or a gay male flight attendant. And for the past three years or so, those are the only people I meet.”

“Because you’re closed off to it,” Jackie threw in.

“Isn’t this supposed to be my birthday dinner? Can we change the subject?”

“What about online dating?” Tilley asked.

“Okay, I guess we can’t change the subject,” I sighed.

“Seriously,” Tilley went on, “lots of girls I know at work meet guys online all the time.”

“It’s too much work. I don’t have time to sit on my computer and make fucking pen pals.”

“Then let me do it for you,” Tilley offered.

“Yeah right,” I laughed.

“I’m dead serious.”

“You want to go online and pretend to be me? Isn’t that ‘catfishing’? I’ve seen that shit on MTV and it never works out well.”

“Well, it’s not really catfishing because you’d actually show up on the dates. When people catfish they’re pretending to be someone that doesn’t exist,” Erika explained, sort of.

“So it’s reverse catfishing,” I said.

“I think so,” Jackie said. We were all confused.

“Call it whatever you want, just let me do it,” Tilley demanded. “For three months, let me run your dating life. I’m going to use online dating sites, talk to matchmakers, find out about social events where you can meet people . . .”

“Wow, it sounds like you’ve thought about this for a while,” I told her. “Which is both sweet and creepy.”

“I have thought about it; I just didn’t think you’d let me do it.”

“Well, I haven’t said yes yet,” I reminded her.

“It’s easy! I’ll do everything. You just have to show up on the dates I set up and you have to do what I tell you to do. You have to be open to different things that are out of your comfort zone. For six months, just let me—”

“Wait, a minute ago you said three months!”

“I know, but I’m going to need six months. It’s going to be a process,” she said. She had switched into Business Tilley, the organized, strategic Tilley who has a huge job in a giant corporation—the Tilley whom none of us see that often.

“Is this what you’re like at work?” Jackie asked.

“I guess so,” Tilley laughed.

“No wonder you have such a good job. You’re scary,” I told her.

“So are you in?” she demanded.

“I think you should let The Advisor do this,” Erika suggested, referring to Tilley’s nickname.

“The Advisor” was a name we came up with for her during a girls’ weekend in Palm Springs. Tilley, always very careful to protect her face from the sun, walked out to the pool at the house we were renting wearing one of those giant visors I’ve only ever seen gardeners and little old Asian ladies wearing. We all made fun of her while she delicately climbed onto a raft and floated around with her face well shaded.

“Whatever, laugh all you want. We’ll see who still looks good in twenty years,” she said, unfazed by our teasing.

Later that afternoon, we sat by the pool discussing one of the other girls’ relationship problems. Tilley got very serious at one point and began breaking down the reasons behind the girl’s current issues, and as usual, she was spot-on. By the time she was finished, the girl was on the phone with her boyfriend and they were having a great, honest conversation.

“You’re really good at giving advice,” Jackie marveled.

“Seriously, you’re a really good ad-visor,” Erika laughed. “Get it? Ad-
visor
!”

We all thought this was the funniest thing in the world, immediately dismantling Tilley’s hard work and insight, going right back to making fun of her hat and suggesting she open up a little booth with a sign that said
THE ADVISOR
on it.

But I agreed with Erika. If anybody could find the right guy for me, it was The Advisor.

“Okay, fine. I’m in,” I promised her. “But only because your neck veins are kind of bulging right now and I’m afraid to say no.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” she said as she signaled the waiter to bring us another round of drinks. “This is going to be great. You have to do what I say, though. Promise?”

“I promise,” I laughed. I actually kind of liked the idea of someone doing all that work for me and just telling me where to be and who I’d be meeting. Plus, what did I have to lose?

“Awesome,” Tilley said, pleased. “I’m going to need your credit card information.”

“Wait, why?”

“To join a couple of dating websites, dumbass. We aren’t going the ‘free profile’ route—you’ll never meet anyone that way.”

“Okay. Just don’t put me on FarmersOnly or anything weird like that.”

“If I was single I would totally be on FarmersOnly,” Erika interjected. “I wouldn’t mind dating a farmer. You’d always have nice vegetables.”

“But you’re not a farmer,” I explained.

“You have to be a farmer to be on that website?” Erika asked.

“Yeah. That’s why it’s called FarmersOnly,” I explained, “because it’s for farmers.
Only.
”

“Ohhhhh, I just thought it was a place you could meet farmers if you wanted to,” Erika went on.

“You’re thinking of JDate. You don’t have to be Jewish to find a Jew on that site; farmers are clearly more exclusive,” explained Jackie.

“Don’t worry, I won’t put you on there. I’m going to research the ones with the best success rates and go from there.”

“How’ll you have time to do all of this?” I asked.

“I’ll do it at night. I’m going to get Thomas”—Thomas is Tilley’s husband—“involved. He loves this kind of shit. We’ll drink wine and look at guys’ profiles for you.”

“That sounds romantic,” I said.

“It’ll be nice bonding time for us.”

The night rounded out with the four of us going to our favorite old local spot in Hollywood and getting really drunk. You know, like adults.

A couple of days later, Tilley e-mailed me. “What is the last book you read? And don’t ask any questions, just answer.”

Geez, she is really bossy. And I like it.

“
Home Front
by Kristin Hannah,” I wrote back. “I would ask how you’re doing but you told me not to ask any questions.”

“I forgot to put ‘smart-ass’ in your ‘About Me’ section.”

About a week later, Tilley called me. Since she’s well aware I’m not a phone person, I figured she had news.

“What’s up?” I answered.

“Okay, we’ve got a couple of things brewing here: a couple of guys who seem pretty awesome. One of them is going to text you. I’ll send you all of your correspondence with him so far so you know what you guys have talked about.”

“This is so weird but also amazing.”

“I know. I’ll also send you a picture of him now that you’ve
agreed to go out with him. Remember to keep an open mind,” she warned me.

“Well, that doesn’t sound good.”

“That’s not what I mean. He’s cute, he’s just not your typical type, but that’s good because your typical type usually turn out to be assholes.”

“Ugh, okay. Can you just tell me what you mean by ‘cute’?” I asked.

“I just sent you the picture. Look at your e-mail.”

“Okay, stay on the phone with me,” I said as I walked over to my computer and opened the e-mail.

“Well?” she asked impatiently.

“Hmmmm. I don’t know. I mean, I guess he’s kind of cute? But he looks like he might be pretty chubby. Is there a full-body photo on his profile?”

“No.”

“Exactly. He’s hiding something. And that something is his body.”

“Well, he might be a little chubby but that’s okay. You’re branching out. No more athletes. No more guys with six-packs.”

“But why?” I whined.

“How many good guys do you know who have six-packs?” Tilley demanded.

“Point taken. But that doesn’t mean I have to date someone who’s in the ‘heart attack danger’ weight zone.”

“Oh, stop. He doesn’t look like he’s that big.”

“Then why is he hiding his body?”

“Because of people like you who may not give him a chance and meet him in person!”

“Ugh. Fine. I’ll meet him. What does he do?”

“I’m not sure what his job is.”

“Ugh.”

“But he seems really funny and he has a similar sense of humor as you. Just go on one stupid date with him. He’s really into live music, too, and I know how much you like going to concerts. And look at his hair! He has a great head of hair.”

“Are you sure
you
don’t want to go out with him?”

“Be quiet. I have to go, text me when you hear from him,” she said before abruptly hanging up the phone. She was either busy or didn’t want to risk my talking myself out of the date.

About an hour later, I received a text from live-music-lover guy: “Hi Sarah, it’s Philip. Just wanted to touch base with you. Can I call you?”

I immediately texted Tilley. “He wants to call me. What should I say?”

“Say yes,” she wrote back immediately.

“But I hate talking on the phone. Why can’t he just keep texting me?”

“Because some people think it’s rude not to talk on the phone, Colonna. He’s trying to be a gentleman. I think that’s a good sign.”

“I know, but can’t I just write back that I hate talking on the phone and we can just text instead?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I told you to say he can call you and you promised to do whatever I tell you to do,” she shot back.

“Fine. You’re mean,” I responded. “But also I love you and thank you for trying to make sure I don’t die alone.”

“You’re welcome.”

So I took a deep breath and texted Philip back. “Sure, I’m around now if you wanna talk.”

A few seconds later, my phone rang.
Ugh, I have to answer. It would be really weird to tell him I’m free now and not answer. Right?
I asked myself.
Right.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” the voice on the other end said, followed by complete silence.

I waited for him to announce himself or say something else . . . but he didn’t.

“Um, is this Philip?” I asked.

“Yes,” Philip responded.

More complete silence.

“Okay, great,” I said, not sure what the fuck was going on. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing.”

More complete silence.

“Okay, great,” I repeated.