On My Knees (9 page)

If you’re having a one-night stand, don’t linger around and snuggle and start getting delusional about the fact that you’re having a one-night stand. If you’re fucking some guy the first night you hang out with him, you damn well better be prepared for the fact that you are, most likely, having a one-night stand. And let’s be very, very clear here. I don’t think that you shouldn’t have sex on the first date. I don’t think there is anything wrong with having sex on the first date. What I
do
think is that if you’re having sex on the first date, it should be because you want to have sex.
Not
because you have expectations for something else. Sex is not a promise for anything. It’s not a promise for a phone call the next day; it’s not a promise for breakfast; it’s not even a promise for sex again. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. In fact I think it’s fantastic. But don’t delude yourself into thinking it’s something it’s not.

When people show you who they are, you should believe them. If you don’t, that’s your problem. Dan revealed his deceptive nature almost immediately and Hanna chose to proceed with him anyway. She was upset early on, because she only heard from him once a week. This had been going on for a few months now. And every week she would call me and say, “I’m panicking.”

And every week, I would ask, “Why are you panicking?”

And she would say, “I’m never going to hear from him again. I know I’m never going to hear from him again.”

But of course he always wound up calling her and why wouldn’t he? All he had to do was pick up the phone to get laid, and there she was. And while he did call her, it was hardly as often as she would have liked. And he continued to do things that upset her and yet she continued to hang out with him. For example, after a night of drinking and hanging out and having sex, he told her
not
to sleep over and she slept over anyway. Then he woke up super early the next morning and basically kicked her out of his apartment. This was about a week ago and she hadn’t heard from him since, so now she was in panic mode. Again.

I was like, “Hanna, listen to me very carefully. I am telling you, from my experience with Nico, which is not identical but similar enough that it makes me want to throw up, that I would strongly advise you to pay close attention to what I am saying right now. This guy is
out
. O-U-T. Do you know what that means? It means that you are not to answer your phone if he calls you. It means that you should be dating other people, or better yet you shouldn’t be dating at all. You’re allowing this guy to treat you like shit, which is exactly
why
he is treating you like shit. You have to change your behavior. You can’t change his behavior. You can only change your own. People treat you the way you allow them to.”

As I was getting my last sentence out, Hanna received a text message from him. “Wanna meet up?”

Hanna looked at me. I was like, “Do not write back. You are not, under
any
circumstances allowed to write back.”

Hanna glared at me. “What? Why not! I’ve been waiting for this text all week!”

I was like, “Honestly, are you fucking retarded? Have you not heard a word I said? It’s a total booty call. If you’re cool with that, then great, but you’re obviously
not
cool with that. You don’t want to be his booty call. You want to be his girlfriend.”

“No,” she’s going, “he wants to see me. He wouldn’t get in touch with me if he didn’t want to see me. I think you’re wrong.”

I was like, “Hanna, trust me, I’m
not
wrong. Anyone who sends you a message at eleven o’clock at night after not having called you in a week is obviously under the impression that you’re having casual sex. If you want to be having casual sex with him, then that’s fine. But if what you’re telling me is true, then you
don’t
want to be having casual sex with him. And so the only thing you are doing is perpetuating his behavior.”

Hanna glared at me. She said, “I think you’re projecting. Are we talking about Nico or Dan?”

I went on, “Hanna, give me a break. This has nothing to do with Nico. Anyone who knows anything about the world knows that there are two reasons people get in touch with you at odd hours of the night: sex and drugs. So unless he’s in the market for an eight ball, the only thing this guy is interested in is sex. If that’s not okay with you, then
do not
write him back. It took him a week to get in touch with you and now that he has, it’s almost midnight. And did he ask you how your week was? No. Did he ask you to see an art show with him? No. Did he ask you out to dinner next week? No. He wants to hang out with you and when does he want to hang out with you? Right now. It’s the dictionary definition of a booty call.”

Hanna, glaring at me again: “It’s not midnight! It’s eleven o’clock.”

Me: “Jesus fucking Christ. Fine, it’s eleven o’clock, whatever. It’s closer to midnight than it is to any other time. Give me a break.”

Hanna: “I really think he wants to see me.”

Me: “Of course he wants to see you. Why wouldn’t he want to see you? He has to
see
you in order to fuck you. He wants to fuck you. But that’s
all
he wants from you. How do you not get that?”

I got up to go to the bathroom.

When I came back, Hanna was fiddling around with her phone. I was like, “What are you doing?”

Hanna: “Nothing.”

Me: “You wrote him back, didn’t you?”

Hanna: “Yes, but I told him I couldn’t hang out tonight.”

Me: “I can’t believe you. I seriously cannot believe you.”

Hanna, ballistic: “I told him I couldn’t hang out! I did what you said! I told him I wasn’t available!!”

I was like, “Hanna! Don’t you understand that it doesn’t matter
what
you told him. It doesn’t matter that you told him you couldn’t hang out! The fact that you texted him back means you
are
available. I don’t know why you’re asking me for advice if you’re not going to take it.”

I know that was kind of an unfair thing to say, but it was so fucking infuriating to sit there and watch her be so self-destructive. It was also, obviously, hitting way too close to home.

Hanna: “Why are you being so judgmental?”

Me: “I am
not
being judgmental. Okay. Maybe I am being a little bit judgmental. Maybe I’m judging myself. Either way, you’re being really defensive!”

Hanna: “Well, I think you’re wrong. I think I need to tell Dan that I
want
him to get in touch with me more often. How is he supposed to know that I want to talk to him more if I don’t tell him?”

Me: “If someone wants to talk to you, they will call you. If you need to
tell
someone that you want them to call you, that is not a good sign. Haven’t you read that book
He’s Just Not That Into You
?”

Hanna, almost foaming at the mouth: “You’re acting like you know what you would do if you were in my situation. You don’t know what you would do if you were in my situation!”

My lapse in judgment with Nico notwithstanding, you can be shit fucking sure that I knew what I would do if I were in her situation. I knew
exactly
what I would do if I were in her situation. And beyond that, if I hadn’t been emotionally ravaged, I wouldn’t be in her situation. Obviously I had made some piss-poor decisions, but at least I had an excuse.

Hanna eventually left to go meet Dan. She actually
did
that. I was dumbstruck by her stupidity but I ultimately gave up. She was like, “Are you
sure
you don’t mind if I go? He said he really wants to see me. And he sent me a smiley face.”

I shook my head in despair. I actually felt sorry for her. At a certain point, there was really nothing else for me to say or do. She was a grown woman, after all. She was a moron, but she was a good kid, just a little bit misguided. She’d figure it out. I hoped.

Plus, I had bigger fish to fry. I had to get my ass in gear to move. As I was tossing out a few lamps and other odds and ends I had hidden from Uncle Bark, the phone rang. It was Roy. I said, “I’m so happy you called! I have big news! I found an apartment! And you’re going to be so proud of me, I haven’t even spoken to Nico in weeks!”

Roy: “Are you sitting down?”

Me, heart pounding: “Yeah, why?”

Roy: “Are you sitting on that disgusting plastic-covered couch?”

Me: “Fuck you. My couch is amazing.”

Roy: “It’s amazing for a nursing home.”

Me: “Is this why you called me? To talk shit about my couch?”

Roy: “Merav is pregnant.”

Me: “Holy shit.”

Roy: “And we’re getting married.”

Me: “
Holy shit
. Are you serious?!”

I couldn’t fucking believe it. I knew that after he returned from New York, they had started talking again, but I hadn’t realized they got back together. I said, “What happened? You saw what a mess my life was and figured, ‘Fuck it, maybe the grass isn’t actually greener on the other side’?”

Roy: “Pretty much. Anyway, you better get your sorry ass here for the wedding. It’s in three months.”

Me: “Three months!? Oh my God. I can’t believe this.”

Roy: “Well believe it. And be there.”

Me: “I promise you, I will definitely, definitely be there, no matter what. I’m ready for an adventure!”

9

Everything Is Perfect

M
oving day.

Because I had given Noam the vast majority of what we had gathered after a decade together, I had very little to be moved by way of furniture. He had moved into a bare apartment and needed furniture more than I did but beyond that, I hadn’t really wanted any of it. It was too painful to look at it. And now I was pretty happy about it because I got to buy all new stuff and it was a lot easier to move when you hardly had anything
to
move. The only thing I was taking with me from grandmother’s apartment was the pink couch, which was still covered in plastic. I just couldn’t bear to part with it.

Upon hearing I was taking the couch, Uncle Bark, who had said in no uncertain terms that “anything you want is yours,” started to hem and haw that now maybe he wanted it. I was like, “Uncle Bark, you live in a five-bedroom furnished home and you’re constantly complaining that you have no room as it is. What in the world are you going to do with this couch?”

He relented. My mother, on the other hand, having seen my new apartment, was less amenable to this idea. I brought her and my father over before I actually moved in to the apartment to show it to them. I thought they would be as excited as I was. My father, upon seeing the neighborhood, said, “Well, I guess you won’t have a problem getting Chinese food.”

My mother, upon entering the whorehouse-like hallway and seeing all the garbage bags lined up against the walls, was like, “Oh my God! Is it
legal
to store garbage here? This could be a real fire hazard.”

Me: “Really, Mommy? How the fuck is this a fire hazard, exactly?”

My mother: “Peri, do you really need to use such language! It’s dangerous to have so much garbage in the entrance of a building. Not to mention unsanitary.”

Me: “Uh, Mommy, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in
Chinatown.
The owners of this building are
Chinese.
Have you ever
been
to China? I have, and believe me, being sanitary isn’t one of their strong points.”

My mother: “Well, I think this is disgusting. I don’t know how you’re going to live like this.” She turned to my father. “Michael, can you believe this? How is she going to live like this?”

My father ignored her. When my mother starts on one of her rants, my father usually ignores her. My father, of course, could have cared less either way. He was happy I wasn’t doing anything “illegal” anymore and really just wanted the same thing he usually wanted—for me and my mother to shut up and stop arguing.

My mother went on, “Are there rats here? There could be an infestation of rats here, with all this garbage. How do you know there are no rats here? Peri, did you ask the landlord if there are rats in this building?”

I looked at my father for help. He looked back at me, as though to say, “I’ve got nothing for ya, kid.”

Me: “Yeah, Mommy, right before I signed the lease, I asked Jonny if there were rats—”

My mother, interrupting me: “Your landlord’s name is Jonny? I thought you said your landlord was Chinese.”

Me: “He
is
Chinese!”

My mother, turning to my father: “Michael, have you ever heard of a Chinese man’s name being Jonny? Why is his name Jonny?”

My father continued to ignore my mother. I, like a moron, engaged her.

Me: “I don’t know why his name is Jonny! Why is your name Eve? Who gives a shit why his name is Jonny!”

This all really happened. My mother really asked these questions. My mother really asked questions like these
all the time
and actually expected answers. And she could just keep going on and on. No one else even needed to be in the room. She’d go on for hours.

My mother: “So he said there were no rats?”

Me: “No, Mommy, he told me the place was infested.”

My mother: “I’m glad you think this is funny. Rats carry all sorts of horrible diseases.”

My father, speaking for the first time: “Maybe they cook them in the bakery next door.” And then he started cracking up.

After we got past the rats, my mother, who is an interior designer and thinks she is the only person in the entire world who knows anything about what furniture and apartments and houses should look like, went bananas when I told her I was taking Grandma’s couch. She was like, “Oh, Peri, don’t. It’s so ugly.”

Me: “It is
not
ugly! It’s cool.”

My mother: “Oh, yeah, very cool. Especially the plastic. That’s my favorite part.”

Me: “It just needs to be reupholstered.”

My mother: “Oh, sure! I forgot how wealthy you are and that you know all about furniture! Do you have any idea how much it costs to reupholster a couch? And besides, that couch is going to look ridiculous in here. It’s going to make the rest of the apartment look even more miniature than it does already!”

I can always count on my mother to say exactly what I don’t want to hear. I thought the apartment was a relatively nice size. Granted it was the size of a very wealthy person’s walk-in closet, but still.

I was like, “Thank you, Mommy, for all of your valuable input. I’m sure the couch will fit perfectly.”

“And,” my mother added, “I don’t know how in the world you are going to manage with those stairs. They’re insane.”

The movers, upon arriving at my new den of iniquity, agreed with my mother. I could tell by the looks on their faces that they were less than pleased when they saw the stairs. They complained, but ultimately they brought all the boxes up the stairs pretty easily. The couch, on the other hand, was proving to be a bit of a problem. After about forty minutes of futzing with it, they gave up. One of them, the taller, bald one, Dennis, was like, “Sorry, lady.”

I hate it when people call me “lady.” I was like, “What do you mean, ‘sorry’?”

Dennis: “It don’t fit.”

Me: “What do you mean, ‘it don’t fit’?”

Dennis shrugged his shoulders, like he couldn’t have cared less, which was probably very much the case. He repeated, “The couch. It don’t fit through the door.”

Me: “Well, what do you propose to do about that?”

Dennis: “Ain’t much I can do.”

This incensed me. I was like, “I’m not sure what ‘ain’t much I can do’ means. I’m pretty sure that you’re not doing me a personal favor. I mean I’m fairly certain that your job—and by job, I mean, specifically what I hired to you to do, in fact, quite literally, what I am paying you to do—is to move my shit. I could shrug my shoulders my fucking self.”

Dennis stared at me like I was a patient in a mental ward. I continued, “Couches are built to be
in
apartments, right?”

I waited for an answer to this rhetorical question.

Dennis: “Yeah, I guess.”

Me: “So then the couch should fit through the door.”

He pulled his tape measure out and shook it at me. “Maybe it
should
fit, but it don’t fit.
You
got any ideas how to
make
it fit?”

With minor exception, most people are lazy. They don’t want to do more than is absolutely necessary. And so, because almost everyone’s first answer is almost always no as a general rule, I usually ignore people’s first answer.

I looked at Dennis and started talking to him like a small child. “You’re telling me that the couch doesn’t fit because it’s too wide to fit through the door, right?”

Dennis wasn’t sure where I was going with this. He looked at me like
, That’s what I just said, isn’t it?
“Uh, yeah.”

So I said, “Well, why don’t you try taking the door off?”

Dennis started to say something but thought better of it.

I broke it down. I was like, “Listen, Dennis, I know that you’re hot and you’re tired and those stairs are a bitch, but you and I both know that no one is going anywhere until you get that couch into my apartment, so let’s try to keep the bullshit to a minimum. The sooner you get it in, the sooner you get out of here.”

I laid a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

Dennis walked into the hallway, where the other mover was standing with the couch. I don’t know what he said to him but within fifteen minutes the couch miraculously made its way through the front door.

Suddenly, this couch, which moments earlier
didn’t
fit into the apartment, was sitting in the middle of my living room. Suddenly, as quickly as the hundred dollars materialized, this couch, which moments earlier was too big, too wide, too whatever, to fit through the door, miraculously shrank, or the doorway became larger. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea. They didn’t have to take the door off its hinges, or do anything but exert a tiny bit of fucking effort.

This couch, which had taken on all sorts of meaning in my life, was finally mine. It had so much history. My grandmother, who had it for more than half a century, thought it was so precious that she actually had the plastic cover custom-made for it. And then she spent so many years sitting in the same place that there was a spot in the corner where it was worn in the shape of her butt. This was the couch on which I had languished for nine long months, on which I had cried my eyes out and eaten boxes upon boxes of frozen pizza and watched hundreds, if not thousands, of episodes of
Law and Order: Special Victims Unit
.

This was the couch the fat, hairy Canadian Jew had ejaculated on. It was the couch on which I kissed Nico for the first time. And it was the couch on which I had laid as I nursed my heart and my soul back to emotional health. I had become so obsessed with this fucking couch that I had actually paid the movers an extra hundred dollars just so it could be part of my new life.

The moment had finally arrived.

Success!

I was triumphant, once again.

And God continued to have a wonderful sense of humor. While I was busy telling Dennis how to do his job, God was apparently kicked back on a cushy white cloud, laughing his ass off. The second the couch was actually
in
my apartment, the only thing I could think of was how I was going to get it out. It was a complete albatross. It looked like a normal-size couch at my grandmother’s, because my grandmother lived in a normal-size apartment. My new apartment was miniscule, so it literally took up half the living room and looked like a piece of furniture from
Pee-wee’s Playhouse
or
Alice in Wonderland.

But I was too elated to care. That night I slept on a mattress on the floor in the bedroom. Because I didn’t have curtains or blinds yet, I woke up at like five in the morning, sweltering hot. The sun was shining so brightly and the apartment was so small that the entire place was lit up. Even though I felt like I had sun blisters all over my face, I felt like a giant weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It suddenly occurred to me how unhealthy it had been for me to live at my grandmother’s and for the first time in a very long time, I finally felt like me again.

A couple of short months later, I had managed to turn the apartment into an adorable little nest for myself. In creating a home, I had figuratively and literally rebuilt my life. Noam and I were on speaking terms but it was infrequent and while it was friendly, we were both very guarded. I had even seen Nico a couple of times for work and while I had been civil, I still kind of hated him. But mostly I was really happy about my new apartment and I was totally preoccupied with my upcoming trip to Israel. I hadn’t been there in fifteen years and I was literally giddy with excitement. It felt like I was going home again.

All in all, things were looking up.

Even Hanna seemed to be pulling her shit together. She had finally gotten rid of Dan after she found an ad he had put online. She discovered that he didn’t actually have a girlfriend. He had, like, ten. And, as it turned out, he was also a sex addict. Granted she found the ad while she was looking for a hookup herself but that’s beside the point. Plus, she said, it was all in her past now. While I was packing for my trip to Israel she came over and told me she was planning a trip of her own. She said, “I think I’m going to go to India for a spiritual retreat. It’s four hours of yoga a day and a one-hour lecture every evening. What do you think?”

Me: “I think it sounds like the best idea you have ever had.”

Hanna: “My mother is going to kill me.”

Me: “What do you mean, your mother is going to kill you?”

Hanna: “If I’m not actively searching for a husband, she thinks everything I do is a waste of time.”

Spiritual enrichment, personal fulfillment—a waste of time? Brilliant. With a mother who says things like that, with a mother who thinks a trip to India is a
waste of time,
it’s a miracle Hanna isn’t
more
fucked-up than she is. It’s no wonder she has some idiotic notion that the “perfect guy,” a “nice Jewish boy,” is lurking out there just waiting for her to find him. Her mother and all her coaches had brainwashed her to think that if she just looks hard enough, she’s going to find him. I have told her time and time again that this is not how life works. Things rarely work out the way you expect them to. And thank fucking God.

Me, screaming: “Shakespeare, Hanna, Shakespeare! ‘To thine own self be true!’ For the love of God, for once go do something positive for yourself! Go to India.”

Hanna: “I think I’m going to.”

Me: “And another thing. I just wanted to thank you. You really helped me out of my hole and I really appreciate it. I think you’re brilliant and wonderful and I’m sorry if I was harsh on you. And I love you.”

As we said good-bye, she hugged me extra tight and said, “I hope you have an amazing time in Israel.”

I winked at her on her way out and said, “I have every intention to.”