Spooning (40 page)

“Uh, hey Charlotte, this is Dan … you know the guy from the car in traffic.” Oh my God, it was Dan! Dan the Man from the BMW was calling me and leaving me a voicemail.

“So I was just calling to say hi and see what you were up to.” He was calling to see what I was up to! He was interested in me. Points for Dan.

“And I was thinking that we could maybe, um, get together if you have time in that busy social calendar of yours.” Listening to his message, my heart started to flutter. First of all, his voice was just as sexy as I'd remembered—a tad throaty, but very strong and convincing.

“In case you lost my number, I'll give it to you again, but I don't expect you to call because the ball is in my court. Right? Well, here you go … I hope you had enough time to get a pen and a piece of paper: 646–555–5555. Okay, well in case you missed that, it was 646–555–5555.” I grabbed the only thing I could find, a lip liner pencil on my nightstand, and scribbled down his digits on my hand.

“So Charlie, hope all is well and I look forward to hearing, I mean talking to you soon.” I flopped down on my bed and began to squeal like a schoolgirl.

“Dan-Dan-Dan!” I repeated over in a cheerleader type of mantra. “He called! The guy from the BMW called!” I screamed to the roomies. Funny how a phone call from a cute boy could banish post-drinking blues in a snap. Syd came running in holding two rather large cantaloupes.

“Who called?”

“Dan, the enigma. You know, the guy from the car. He just left me a message.”

“That's fantastic, Charlie. I love it. So what did he say?”

“You know the usual, but he was so cute about everything. He was like, ‘I don't expect you to call because the ball is in my court,’ and stuff like that.”

“Oooh, I like him. A man who puts the woman first. He could be the perfect guy, Charlie. The first couple of spoonfuls are looking good.” She tried to balance the big balls of fruit in each hand.

“Why are you holding cantaloupes, Syd?” I asked.

“Oh, it's my turn to make the main dish for our Cooking Club meeting tonight. So I'm trying something fresh and healthy: Thai Chicken Salad. It's my mom's recipe and she's all about presentation so she told me to serve the salad inside a half of a cantaloupe. I know, it sounds all frou-frou, but at least it looks legit. And really, it's actually quite tasty. It's got pineapple, grapes, curry, mayo, and water chestnuts. Sounds good, right?”

“Sounds great,” I said. “I'm starving. I could use a little chicken salad to pick me up. Well, maybe later that is,” I concluded as my stomach lurched in tandem with the pounding in my head.

“Did you say Thai chicken salad?” Tara poked her head back in to my room. “It's a perfect day for it because Charlie and I are going shoooppppinnggg on Canal Street. God, I love themes! You ready to go, girl?”

“Sure thing!” I sprang off my bed and no longer felt the aches and pains. “I'll pick up some chopsticks for tonight's meeting … It's all about presentation, right Syd?”

“Our mothers would be so proud!” she yelled from the kitchen.

“Do you need anything else while we are down on Canal Street?” I asked Syd. “Bok choy, peanut sauce, how about some green tea?” I was on a roll for the Cooking Club rendezvous. Dan's phone call had transformed me into a giddy and excited schoolgirl in a matter of seconds. You gotta love the energy of possibility. Bring it on, Dan!

“No, I'm all set in the kitchen,” she said wiping her hands on her apron. “But you should totally pick yourself up a cute cheap bag or something for your big date with Danny boy. Oh, but you can do one thing for me.”

“What's that?” I said.

“Don't be late for dinner,” she said in her best mother voice while waving a finger at us. “Okay, off to cut more cantaloupes. Ta-ta.”

O
ur favorite Saturday ritual was to wander around the neighborhood flea market. It was window shopping at its best. You could search for that perfect three-way lamp (which you didn't need) for your couch table (which you didn't have) that would rest on your antique Persian rug (which you couldn't afford, even at a flea market). From one-of-a-kind crystal broaches and vintage Chanel bags circa 1950 to perfectly handcrafted mahogany dressers and antique tiled mirrors, the flea market was a shabby chic paradise where you could strike gold. And when you found it, you could haggle the price down, and then walk away needing “more time to think about it.” Our standard big splurge was on a cup of steaming cider made from pressed apples trucked in from the country. The flea market was one of the rare places in NYC where you could show up in
dirty sweats, with a baseball hat thrown over gnarly hair, and scuffle around in last year's boyfriend's flip-flops without shame.

Having temporarily lost Tara somewhere between the faux Tiffany jewelry and the discounted makeup, I wandered up and down the aisles by myself. Just when I was admiring a pair of chandelier earrings made from broken mirrors (Note to self: Street trash transformed by pure genius), I caught a familiar whiff of exotic perfume. Now, I'm not one to notice other women's scents, except for one. Back in February, I had accosted the makeup artists at
S&S
after J. Lo's appearance. Not only did I aspire to dress like J. Lo, cook like J. Lo, and love like J. Lo, but I wanted to smell like her too. Alas, Monique the makeup artist said that Jennifer had arrived at the studio smelling oh-so-sweetly, and that Monique's own collection of powders and sprays didn't contain anything close.

I spun around, nearly sloshing myself with cider, and there hidden behind tinted Fendi glasses, checking out the vintage New York photographs, was her highness, J. Lo herself. I blinked and looked again. It was like looking at one of those snapshots you see in tabloid magazines where someone famous is doing something so normal. She was accompanied by her sister, Linda Lopez, an entertainment reporter for one of the local New York television stations. I bit my lip to keep from squealing. Where was Tara? She would die right now! Unable to control myself, I inched closer to them to try to listen to what they were talking about.

“Scarves, pashminas, wraps, but where's the caffeine? I need a caffeine fix. What about you?” Linda asked her big sis.

“Sounds good. But I hear the apple cider they sell here is supposed to be amazing,” J. Lo responded.

How about that? J. Lo liked the same flea market pressed cider as I did. This was getting better by the minute. I followed closely behind them as they snaked in and out of the different vendor setups. As they made their way toward the cider stand, they slowed down to check out the offerings of different dealers, which gave me the perfect opportunity to continue my eavesdropping. The girls were going to have a conniption fit when they heard about this tonight at the Cooking Club meeting!

“God, I love flea markets. No one's even noticed me yet,” J. Lo commented as she slid her arms into a vintage, faux fur- trimmed jacket. She gave a sigh of pleasure as she spun a 360 in front of a small mirror. I quickly crouched down in the stall next to them to pretend to admire some worn-looking purple cowboy boots. I didn't want to be the first gawker of the morning.

“Remember how Mom and me used to comb these markets on weekends?” J. Lo said as the sisters headed my way. “Hey, look at this antique crescent end table. Can you see it inside the front door in Miami?”

“This one? With all those dings? Honey, it's so scarred! Take off those sunglasses before you pull out your wallet,” Linda laughed. J. Lo slid her oversized rims up on her head while scowling in a playful manner.

“No, but imagine it refinished. Sometimes scars … they just take some extra care, you know?”

“You and Mom. Helpless romantics!” Linda chided.

“God, Mom and I used to walk these markets from one end to the other,” J. Lo grabbed her sister's hand and they continued to walk. “She'd look at each and every piece. There was this one time, when it was probably ten degrees below zero,
and I had tears frozen to my face because I had just broken up with Ty—remember him?” Linda nodded. “Mom knew better than to indulge me about that breakup, but she did pass on some valuable advice. While eyeing a three-legged chair, she managed to tie her whole philosophy of bargain hunting to love.” J. Lo peeked inside a Victorian armoire before continuing.

“I can still hear her: ‘Jenny, there is a distinct difference between vintage and junk. Vintage has been gently worn but it's classic, timeless. It's solid, with a good structure and a beauty that defies the glitz of trends,’” J. Lo twirled some sequined purses by their straps.

“Ah, Mom and her flea market wisdom,” her sister joked.

J. Lo pinched Linda's cheek and said in a mock-parental tone, “‘Jenny, you don't want to grab something or someone just because they are shiny and new. Just because something looks pretty on the surface doesn't mean it's well-made, you know? You need to do your homework, honey, and figure out if it's a solid investment for your future. Most importantly, does it make you smile?’” Linda began to smile. Still in character, J. Lo continued.

“‘There's that sunshine we can't be without,
mi hija
. Smile! It makes people wonder what you've been up to!’” Both sisters began to giggle like teenagers.

“All of that over a three-legged chair?”

“I don't know if it was the chair or Ty that set her off. But she didn't stop there—”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yeah!” J. Lo began waving her finger in the air. “She was like, ‘Now, beware of plain old junk—junk that has been
damaged beyond repair. Even though it may have some redeeming qualities, it will never be what you want it to be. Don't waste your money … don't waste your time.’”

“God. Some of us are just drawn to those shiny or damaged goods, aren't we, sis?” Linda said with a knowing smile. J. Lo glanced down at a set of cracked Limoges teacups and gave a sad smile. I practically tripped over a barrel full of old flowerpots and gardening tools. Had that been a poke at J. Lo's past dating scandals? Oh, this was getting good.

“Yep, a discerning eye is crucial in
all
areas of life,” J. Lo said. “Two ciders please.” The apple man ladled out the cider into two paper cups. He barely looked up—obviously not recognizing the singer's true identity.

“Now, about that table back there. What do you think, seriously?”

“Jenny, if it will make you smile, grab it. Otherwise, never settle for anything less.”

“Right,” J. Lo said. She walked back and took a second look, running her hand around the edge. As the table wobbled like a drunken sailor, she wrinkled her nose.

“Nah, I think I'll pass. No buyer's remorse here, you know?” And with that final thought, the two sisters turned and walked away.

I was stunned. I couldn't move. One, because I had just seen Jennifer Lopez in the flesh at my flea market. What were the odds? And two, what J. Lo had just said to her sister had somehow resonated with every aspect of my life. She'd hit the nail dead on. I was having another J. Lo epiphany. Yes, I'd had one a few months back, but sometimes we do need to be hit over the head twice. Was I really willing to settle for anything
that didn't make me smile? I stood there in silence soaking in the true diva's words of wisdom, when suddenly someone grabbed me from behind.

“Where the heck have you been?” shrieked Tara, her hands filled with plastic bags. “I have been trying to find you. You're never going to believe who's supposedly here.”

“J. Lo,” I muttered still in a daze.

“You saw her? Oh my God. So she really is here. I totally didn't believe it when I heard these two girls gabbing about her. Where'd she go?” She spun around widely, straining to look.

“Over there,” I said, pointing toward the entrance to the flea market. Tara grabbed my hand and we raced to the front. We got there just as J. Lo and her sister were getting into a black sedan.

“Nuts! We missed her,” Tara said disappointed.

Tara might have missed her, but I sure hadn't. I was lucky. J. Lo had given me the secrets of her ineffable spirit and success not once, but twice. But this time around it was different. This time around I was going to take action.

For the past eight months, I had been so caught up with Mr. J. P. Morgan's pretty package that I had lost sight of all the wonderful things I had to offer. I'd been so caught up with the idea of him, that I'd overlooked a million glaring flaws. I'd even let that asshole Brad make me feel small even though he was clearly a fool. I was finally ready for someone of true value— mostly because I was ready to value myself. I had to stop trying to close the deal on worthless items. I had to take charge. With each empowering thought, I could feel myself grow stronger and stronger inside. Good-bye shiny objects, good-bye junk. Hello vintage, hello timeless! Thank you, Jennifer.