How to Meet Cute Boys (15 page)

I WANT MONEY THAT’S WHAT I WANT

In L.A. you see a gazillion girls at trendy clubs talking to wealthy-looking guys who buy them free drinks and appear to dig
their crass attitude. Meanwhile, when I go out on a date I’m usually worried if he pays too often he’ll think I’m only after
his dough. What gives? Does being a money-grubbing bi-atch turn them away, or turn them on?

Setting:
Les Deux Cafes, where I act like a Money-Grubbing Bi-atch on a date with the guy I’m actually seeing. Because I want him
to keep dating me, we’ll ID him as Cute Boy #3.

Cute Boy #3:
[Upon reading the menu, which prices salads at $14; the chicken, the cheapest dish, is over $30.]
This is a nice restaurant.

Me:
Isn’t it? I was thinking that we should go to nice dinners more often.

CB 3:
Yeah, if it’s a special occasion … Is this a special occasion?

Me:
Just another night out.

He asks me if I want to split a salad, I tell him I’m getting the foie gras, then the steak.

Me:
So, I was thinking. You should take me to Hawaii. There’s a hotel I want to check out that’s supposed to be fabulous.
[I smile fetchingly.]

CB 3:
[Laughing.]
What do you mean “take you”?

Me:
You don’t want to take me on vacation?
[I do my best imitation of a pout.]

CB 3:
You don’t want to take
me
on vacation?

Me:
You’re the guy. I would think that you would want to pay. You’re buying me dinner, right?

CB 3:
Didn’t you say you wanted to take
me
to dinner?
[Lighting a cigarette, looking disturbed.]

Me:
[Smiling sweetly and shrugging the way I suspect money-grubbing girls do.]
I forgot my wallet.

CB 3:
Are you mad at me or something?

Terrified that if I go one step farther he’ll never talk to me again, I apologize profusely, telling CB 3 I’m doing research
for an article and can expense the check. I ask him if my money-grubbing made him feel like more of a man. He assures me it
didn’t. I then ask if he would continue to date me if I always acted like this, and he says, “I adore you, B, but I don’t
think I could afford it.”

DO I LOOK FAT? NO, SERIOUSLY, DO I LOOK LIKE A COW?

“I hate how gorgeous girls are always asking me how they look,” confides Art Ablang, a marketing exec for a shoe company.
“They complain about their appearance but really they’re fishing for compliments.” This is a tough one—what girl doesn’t worry
that her ass looks too big in her new pants? And self-deprecation
can
be charming …

The Setting:
As Self-Conscious Suzie, I stroll Melrose Boulevard on a Saturday afternoon wearing a T-shirt that reads
DOES THIS SHIRT MAKE ME LOOK FAT
?

Me:
[Approaching Cute Boy #4, who’s window-shopping and looks like Johnny Depp.]
Does this shirt make me look fat?

Cute Boy #4:
[Giving an accusatory stare.]
Why?

Me:
I’m just wondering if you like it.

CB 4:
[Extremely hostile.]
Go away! I don’t want to have this conversation!

Humiliated, I proceed to the nearby Starbucks and Cute Boy #5, who’s drinking an iced coffee and reading the paper.

Me:
Does this shirt make me look fat?

Cute Boy #5:
Oh. I don’t think so.

Me:
Do you like it?

CB 5:
It’s kind of ironic. I think it’s funny.

Me:
Does my ass look fat in these pants?

CB 5:
Not really.
[Laughing.]
You sound like my ex-girlfriend.

Me:
Did she annoy you?

CB 5:
Well, we broke up.
[Goes back to reading paper.]

Now I’m walking down the street, and I come across Cute Boy #6, who has a crew cut and is walking in the opposite direction.
He reads my shirt from a distance, staring as I get closer. Before I can say anything, he points at my chest and says: “Yes.”

It seems one guy’s nightmare is another’s potential scam. When I was Needy Girl, Cute Boy #1 didn’t give up until I started
to act like the psycho from hell, and Cute Boy #2
did
call Total ’Ho and ask her out for a drink. Then again, the guy I’m currently dating would probably have stopped returning
my calls if I didn’t have a really good explanation for why I was being a Money-Grubbing Bi-atch. And as for all the guys
who saw my
FAT
T-shirt, I think we can safely say asking them how I looked antagonized them beyond all reason. Just the same, I spend so
much time trying to hide all the annoying and embarrassing things about myself, it was liberating to let my inner craziness
out. So why not put all your faults front and center and stick like Krazy Glue to the one guy who can still stand you? Because
honestly, we all have a
little
bit of Needy Girl, Total ’Ho, Money-Grubbing Bi-atch, and Self-Conscious Suzie in each and every one of us. I say, ladies,
let your inner bitches and ’hos roar
.

When I woke up I was still obsessing about the tape. I stood in my dining room and stared with deep resentment at the CDs
I’d recorded, still coverless and stacked (probably getting scratched) on my dining room table. There were five serious trouble
spots:

1. “Venus as a Boy,” Bjork. Mellifluous, romantic meditation on how the guy she’s in love with is so beautiful he could be
compared to da Vinci’s
Venus de Milo
. Shit.

2. “Gigantic,” The Pixies. Some say it was Kim Deal rhapsodizing about the size of her boyfriend’s penis; others claim she
was singing about her immense feelings for him. Big problem either way …

3. “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out,” The Smiths. Sample lyric: “To die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die.”
A particularly bad choice.

4. “God Only Knows,” The Beach Boys. Maybe I’d squeak by on this one since I’d spied a Brian Wilson autobiography on his nightstand
the last time I’d slept over.

5. Last, but certainly not least, “Answering Machine,” The Replacements. Sample lyric: “How do you say I love you to an answering
machine?” Better question: What was I, fucking nuts?

I may as well have stood up on his Eames coffee table, bared my chest, beat it like a mad gorilla, and screamed “I LOVE YOU,
MAX!” five times. I may as well have hired a plane to fly over his house to sky-write it at five thousand feet. I may as well
have gotten Casey Kasem himself to show up at Max’s damn office to do an in-person “I love you” dedication. Unwittingly, I
broke my own rule.
My own damn rule
. Never say I love you! Never!

Next possible steps … I could casually ask Max how he liked the mix tape and gauge his reaction. I could be counterintuitive
and start using the L-word in Max’s presence constantly (I
love
this song on the radio, I
love
pizza, I
love
Q-tips) so as to demystify and disempower it. Or I could pretend the mix tape didn’t exist.

I called Kiki at the office but she was MIA. Where could she be? In a panic, I called Nina on her cell. She said she had just
enough time between classes for coffee, so I met her on the patio outside Starbucks near UCLA. Surrounded by students with
interesting facial hair who were somberly poking at their laptop computers, Nina listened as I ranted.

“The Pixies song is going to just
fuck me,
” I said, head in hand. “It
fucks me
.”

“I don’t know that group,” Nina said, taking a sip of iced chai. “But I think you’re dodging the main issue here.”

“What main issue?”

“The fact that you’ve made a declaration of love and now you are uncertain of how it will be received.” She removed her straw
and absently chewed the end. She was still not smoking, which made me murderous.

“So what do I do?”

“I would advise you to address this problem head-on. Tell Max that while you do have feelings for him, you hope that he doesn’t
read more into the tape than what was intended, as you were thinking about it and realized that he might.”

“But, if I do that, then isn’t it like I’m saying,
Oh, in case you’re wondering whether or not I’m in love with you I’m really not,
in which case I’m going to sound like I really am?”

“I’m not following you, Ben.” Nina leaned in. Her voice took on a soothing cadence that grated on my nerves. “Talk about how
this conversation is making you feel.”

I took a deep breath. “What about my idea that I should pretend the mix tape doesn’t exist? What’s wrong with that?”

“I think you’re going to find it difficult, because it’s not what your psyche wants.” She sat back.

“What does my psyche want?”

“What do
you
think your psyche wants?”

“Please don’t start that. You know I hate that.”

“Listen, Ben, you’re being very defensive, and I have a class starting in a few minutes so we’re going to have to wrap this
up. All I’m saying is that, on some level,
you
wanted to confront the issue.
You
created this situation, intentionally, even if it was unconsciously.”

For some reason, this made me angry. So I said, “Nina, are you going to be experimenting with people soon, or are you going
to stick with rats? Because, at this point, I think rats are the safer option.”

“Are you being passive aggressive because you’re angry with me, or because you’re angry with yourself?” She leaned forward
again. “Or perhaps your sister?”

“What are you
on?
”

She ticked the reasons off for me. “She’s getting married. You’re not. You’re angry with her on a macro level because she
makes you feel inadequate. Which makes me think you may be turning your relationship with Max into a kind of competition.
Or you may be trying to get him to compensate for your own feelings of inferiority. And when I tell you this, you take your
anger out on me. It’s called transference, Ben, and I think it’s very interesting.”

“I’m not
transferring
shit!”

Nina raised her eyebrows and sat back with her arms folded across her chest. I decided if she told me I was having a breakthrough
I was going to scream. Then I realized I had hurt Nina’s feelings.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll be a willing patient, a good patient, and I’m asking you, please … Why would I have intentionally
created this situation I’m in with Max?”

She didn’t answer.

“Earth to Nina?”

She looked over my shoulder at the street.

“Oh, so you can be passive aggressive but I can’t be a transferer, or whatever you call it?” That did it.

“All I’m saying is
you wouldn’t have created a whole ninety-minute tape full of fucking love songs unless you wanted him to know that you love
him so you could find out if he loves you back!
Jesus fucking Christ!”

A table full of Delta Gammas in monogrammed sweatshirts turned and stared. Nina rubbed her temples, trying to get back into
her professional place. She took a deep breath, smoothed her brown hair into its low ponytail. “Look, this is the entrée you
needed to open up a discussion that may give you the results you want,” she said once she regained her composure. “Or not.
But if you talk to him about it at least you will know where you stand. Which was probably your goal in the first place.”

“I don’t know …”

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, Ben, but a cigar is never just a cigar.” Nina got up, removed the cigarette from
my lips, and put it out in the ashtray, saying, “You should really get a prescription for Zyban. An additional benefit is
it might help with some of the free-floating anxiety.”

“I’m sorry, Nina,” I said.

She smiled. “I forgive you.” She checked the time. “Oh fuck. I’m late.”

With that, she packed up her battered copy of Freud’s
Civilization and Its Discontents,
her chai, her cell phone, and she left. I watched her head toward campus. It was funny—as Nina strode down the sidewalk,
all the other passersby quickly stepped out of her way.