Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir (2 page)

It was a newsflash to me that dating as a pre-thirty divorcette was as bad as having herpes. And now, along with a perfume atomizer, a curiously thick stack of business cards, and plastic poop bags for my furkid Linus, I get to tote around the stigma of being a divorcée in my diminutive Marc Jacobs clutch. Dating-engine-minded men uncheck “divorced” in their online search preferences for a mate.

That April, I sorted match.com profiles with an open mind. So he looked like Al Borland from
Tool Time
…so that could be cute in a “let’s cuddle in matching flannel” kind of way. I was done with hot. Hot was The
Was
band. Hot didn’t exactly take. I was looking for someone just good looking enough to get me aroused. Excess leads to torment.

The date with The Tool was set. We talked on the phone for hours, and I of course conjured up the wrong image of this cuddly man. My Mister Tool Time would “fix” things. I wasn’t shy about my recent past. Details were shared with a stranger—a stranger whom I hoped would be a brilliant replacement. He was emotionally available and compassionate. He seemed evolved and to possess excellent communication skills. He had feelings beyond anger because the ref made a bad call.

It was unseasonably freezing for April, but I felt beautiful in my new cream coat and cashmere wrap as I waited in the cold watching my breath disappear as if it were smoke. Exhale. As the bearded man approached, all I could think was “uncle.” He was not my uncle, but he was asexual in an uncle sort of way. My shoulders fell; I smiled harder to conceal my disappointment. I imagined his kitchen cabinets filled with microwavable soups for one. He was the kind of man who liked cats, both the animal and the musical. We exchanged an awkward cheek kiss and walked to Payard Patisserie. I downed two glasses of pinot.

That’s better.

Okay, let me make the most of this. He did go to Columbia, was a banker and a film critic. There were things to say. I hadn’t anticipated what happened next.

“So Stephanie, thanks for meeting me.” His body seemed built to lift heavy things, but his nervous voice conveyed that he hired someone to install his window screens. “I’ve been sad lately, see, and, well. Ya know. Well, tomorrow is my birthday, and I have no one to go out with. Will you please have dinner with me?”

Freeze-frame there for a sec.

I’m on a pseudo-date with The Tool right then, and I’m not feeling him. And now, in my emotionally tender state, I have to commit to another date? No way, right? I have plans, would love to, sorry. Wrong. “Of course I will.” I was rubbernecking with my mouth agape, as I saw my Saturday night pass me by. I really needed a good twelve-step. The man knew I was into sushi. It said so in my profile, so he promised a spectacular sushi dinner. It was his birthday. How could I cancel on the poor guy’s birthday?

When he called the next day, it was too fast.

“I’ll pick you up in my car and take us there. Be ready at seven-thirty.”

Click. He emphasized
my car
the way someone refers to his vacation home, Swiss account, or private jet. A car doesn’t necessarily warrant a tone. If there were time to e-mail, I’d send “unsubscribe.”

I had him pick me up at my friend Hannah’s apartment on the Upper East Side. I needed wine. Hannah had converted her armoire into storage for her French reds ending in “Pape.” Hannah had a married sugar daddy, nineteen years her senior, who shipped her wine, clothing, and shoes from Europe on a regular basis. The wine was helping. “It’s sushi for chrissake. How bad can it be? You know there’s more to a man than his looks.” Hannah said as she twisted her wrist, her new gold bangles clinking.

The Tool and I buzzed west in his red flag. Flag, Ferrari, same diff. Okay, now his Ferrari warranted a tone. Where can he be taking me? Fujiyama-Mama? My mind reeled through Zagat pages. Haru? There’s a Haru on the East Side. Then it became clear when we neared the West Side Highway. “Are we going to New Jersey?” Instinctively, I gripped the door handle.

Okay, so if he were cute, the gesture of bad sushi with a great Manhattan skyline view would have been romantic in a whimsical, clumsy way. “How creative is he? He put so much thought into our date. What effort…” Friends would swoon. When you’re not into the guy, it’s: “Can you even believe he took me to JERSEY for sushi?!” Friends shake their heads and repeat “Jersey” in a whisper.

Thankfully, the fates were aligned, and our waiter was new—he didn’t know to stagger the entrée from the appetizers. All at once, our food arrived. Thank you, maestro. God love you. During our meal, however, The Tool asked to see my hand. He wanted to hold it, I knew. To avoid this, and to give him an out, I offered, “Why, you want to tell my fortune?”

“No,” he countered, “I want to hold it.”

I’m certain I flinched. But just to clear up any perceived misconceptions, I whispered, “I’m sorry, I’m just not comfortable with that.” You could hear the buzz as the anvil dropped off the cliff. Splat.

After dinner he suggested a stroll on the pier. Clearly, the table rejection wasn’t enough pain. He’d sprung back into action. He was Wile E. Coyote in the next scene. It was freezing out, and had I been into the guy, I would have walked slowly, clinging to him. I would have hardly noticed my fingers had no feeling. “No, I really just want to get home. I’m exhausted.” I might have actually pushed out a convincing yawn.

He dropped me off. I unrolled my scarf, entered my apartment, flung my handbag onto the floor, and began to cry. This is what’s out there? This is what’s left now that I’ve squandered my time away with a two-and-a-half-year starter marriage? No wonder women learn to look the other way. And this was only the beginning.

Teary-eyed I leaned before the mirror. I knew I had to face the shit out of this, and facing it meant moving forward. It meant hideous dates and misleading men, but as pathetic as any date could ever be, nothing would be more pathetic than running backward. I couldn’t go back to Gabe. “He lied to you and didn’t know your worth. He was a boy. You will find a man, Stephanie.” I was suddenly a self-help book, chanting in the mirror. I didn’t believe what I was saying. Gabe was a handsome, wealthy, educated charmer, a Jewish urologist. I worried I’d never do better. I worried I would have to settle.

Being married to a liar is settling. Being alone might be unsettling, but it’s temporary, a yellow ribbon woven through a rope of hair. At least you’ve got the hope of a healthy relationship in the future to keep you company. See, I’m good once I’m
in
a relationship. I’m good with “afraid,” “hurt,” and “frustrated” over “McFucker Coward Bastard Go Die.” I’ve honed my communication skills to a very sharp point. I know to not bring up the past, mention his bald spot, or use “you always.” I’ll even give him the last word. I will too. The problem? My knuckles turned white in every relationship once I realized it was over. I’d latch on to “wrong” because the wrong relationship was better than “alone”; it was better, even, than dating. I stayed because I feared Tool Time moments.

I lay in bed, too tired to peel off the too-good-for-you outfit. I stared at the phone. My friend Dulce (yes, as in
de leche
) would cheer, “You should learn to make yourself happy first.” She’d whine, “You know you won’t find it as long as you’re looking for it.” I knew I couldn’t call her. I’d want to throw the phone…or worse, hang up and dial an ex.

Before marrying Gabe, I kept a string of ex-boyfriends on the back burner. We’d meet for lunch and chat on my office phone. Exes were “in case.” They were my mother in the middle of the night. My pacifier. But I’d outgrown my baby shoes. They’re in bronze on my grandfather’s dresser beside my graduation photo. I worried I hadn’t graduated, not really. Because I should have learned strength and “what you deserve” in school. I remembered a + b = c, but I didn’t remember how I got there, to divorce. Yet, there I was, fully dressed, lying in bed, trembling every time I looked in the mirror trying to smile. How can this be it? How did it get to this point?

It was fear. Fear was governing my decisions. Until I faced what terrified me, I’d cozy up to unhealthy, and I’d never find happiness. But I didn’t know this then. When I heard, “You need to face alone, work on your neediness, and not date for at least a year.” I’d agree aloud, shaking my head. Yeah, right. There was no way I’d not date for a year.

Clothed in bed, I realized I was the one suffering from an anvil injury. “It’s time to stand on your own” is what I ought to have said to the mirror. I should have unsubscribed from all of it. Instead, I updated my online profile: Love Manhattan Sushi. Disdain for dining in Jersey. Ixnay on the eard-bay.

IT WAS MY SIXTH DATE WITH DAVID MINETTI SINCE MEETING
at Compass, a neighborhood restaurant with killer Parmesan bread-sticks. There was no beard, no Jersey, and he was definitely not an uncle. Admittedly, The Tool made for great starter conversation on my initial date with David. Worst-date-ever scenarios give everyone hope. “Well at least I’m not that bad.” David was the third “try” in “try and try again.”

So here I was, date six, but I’d been too lazy the day prior for necessary dating errands. So I scrambled and raced through appointments. As a single woman, I’m concerned with the bottom line…my bikini line. I know the men I date are playing the field. Mine might as well be mowed. Bikini waxing is as essential as a firm handshake at an interview. You’re not going to get any type of job if you’re not buttoned-up once you’ve been unbuttoned.

Prior to arriving at the salon, I shot down three Advil to ward off the inevitable swelling. Helga (yes, Helga) was running late. I dug through my heavy Celine bag for the to-do list. Helga told me to undress in room five. Relax, this isn’t
Porn Stories
by Klein. Not yet. In the room, there was a cold doctor’s chair, the metal kind with a short
pleather
back, that’s hardly a back, more like a strolling stool with a Tootsie Roll for back support. The chair was sandwiched between a massage table and an overflowing trash pail. Admittedly, it wasn’t the J Sisters Salon. Still, it wasn’t some hole-in-the-wall nail place tampering in waxing and tanning. The “massage table” was also the kind you see in doctor’s exam rooms—with the white translucent paper attached to a roll covering the table for sanitary reasons. Except that day, the paper was flecked with baby powder and stained with oil and yellow wax. The stuffed garbage container screamed “Used,” filled with balls of translucent paper and cloth strips covered in thick yellow wax with short black hairs poking through the yellow lines. I walked outside my room and summoned Helga with, “Um, I don’t think the room is ready.”

Helga tidied up the room somehow. She Russian-shuffled, like a housekeeper making her way under the sink for a rag. I was extended a polite half-smile and told to get undressed and lie down. She left the room. There was no robe. I was torn. Did she mean take off my underwear completely? Usually, I left it on, but since I was going Brazilian, I figured, well, when in Brazil…so I flicked off my heels, wiggled free from my jeans, and dropped the slingshot. I got on the doctor’s table, paper cringing and crinkling with me as I waited.

Helga rubbed powder into her hands like a gymnast. With her hands fanned, she spread the powder onto my exposed skin, along my inner thighs, sprinkles on my mound. She proceeded to dip a thick popsicle stick into hot wax, allowing the excess to drip off, then blew on the stick, with the expertise of a daily soup drinker. Spread it on thick, pushed cloth atop the wax, and smoothed out the fabric with the palm of one hand, then tap tap tap, she slapped the cloth and then ripped it off. Okay, this had been done before; this is old territory.

We get to the lips. My God, the lips. I had to stretch against where she was working, so the skin would be taut, so the fabric would catch and lift the wax. I was touching myself, holding inner parts, labia minora, grabbing my thighs. It was not, I assure you, as fun as it sounds. I told her to leave a square of hair on the top only, smaller than a Triscuit, larger than a Wheat Thin. I made sure, though, the square was not connected to anything. It was floating almost, like a buoy. I couldn’t believe I was going to let her rip the hair from the top bridge of my inner lips. Then as soon as I felt the warmed wax approaching what felt like it had to be my clitoris, I thought, oh my God, is it too late? Is there any way I can change my mind? I exhaled and became religious in prayer.

“Zat’s a good gurl. Very good gurl.” I believed it had to be over. She had even taken out pointed tweezers and a magnifying glass to lift the strays. Nope. “Okay, now onto stomach. Zat’s it. Okay, hold here, sweetie. Can you pull zees apart?” Helga asked me to spread my ass cheeks to her. She then began to dig—I mean really dig, the way you look for loose change in a slim evening clutch—with her probing warm popsicle stick. “Clean as a vistle. All done,” she chanted as she spread warm baby oil over my swollen hoo-hoo, legs, and ass crack. Done. Thank the good Lord; there was more cleaning to do. I hoped David was worth all this new religion.

At home I realized my armpits smelled fine, but my apartment was a mess. I began with the bedside table—it speaks volumes. It’s like your choice of shoes. I rearranged my bedside table book arrangement, placing the French soapbox filled with condoms to the top of the stack. Some might check the book titles for anything scary:
Father Hunger
,
Overcoming Overeating
,
The Needy and Greedy
, and be quick to shove them in the sock drawer. But since I’m frighteningly open, I left them on display. A vase with Gerber daisies, a carafe of drinking water, my eye mask, and the pill were now somehow orderly. Dusting wouldn’t hurt. I was naked cleaning my apartment. I couldn’t decide what to wear, but I knew I couldn’t even think wardrobe until the apartment was tidy. I wouldn’t invite him in unless the place was representative of the me I wanted to be.