The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series) (13 page)

“Come in,” I say as I sit up on the bed. The door opens and Karen walks in with a breakfast tray filled with fruit, toast, a plate of scrambled eggs, and juice. This must be the royal treatment that every person who is involved in disco ball fiascos gets. I’ve only been home for a day. Granted, I only stayed in the hospital for about eleven hours, but still. I haven’t had breakfast in bed since … well, since Victor. He used to be a romantic; that is until he became a raging, psychotic douchebag that completely ruined my life.

“Good morning, sunshine!” Karen says cheerfully as she sets the food on my lap. She adjusts the blinds and opens up my window. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I answer. I have been feeling quite drowsy since the doctor had me take these pain relievers. All I’ve wanted to do is sleep.

Karen sits on the bed and eats with me. “It looks like that bump is getting a little bit better.” I bite into a piece of toast and nod.

“Yeah, it looks like it’s going down a bit,” I reply as crumbs scatter on my bed. I try and brush them off. “It’s like I had a fighting match with a disco ball … and the disco ball won.”

Karen laughs. “Not everyone can be a dancing queen,” she says. “It’s really not that bad, though,” she tells me as she sips my juice. “You can always wear bangs to cover it up.”

“Good point.” I haven’t even thought of that. Anything to disguise the humiliation that is me and the raging disco ball.

“So, what are your plans for today?” she asks. “Are you going to look for a job?” I point to the mini disco ball on my forehead.

“With this thing?” I ask. “Hell no.”

“Understandable,” she replies.

“Yup,
” I reply as I eat some of the eggs. I take a sip of juice. “Karen?”

“Yes, Les?”

“Where would you be if you didn’t have Russ?” I ask. She thinks for a moment.

“Hmmm … well, career-wise I wo
uld be in the same place,
” she says. “With or without Russ, I would’ve still gotten my doctorate. It’s always something that I wanted to do.”

“Oh,” I say and continue to eat.

Karen smirks. “Why’d you ask me that?”

“Just a question,” I say to her as it’s merely just a question.

“Well, this is what I think,” Karen starts. “Men and relationships aren’t everything. In this day and age, women can not revolve their lives around men. If we did that, then we wouldn’t have strong, independent female examples—”

“Such as?”

“Such as Oprah, Michelle Obama, Hilary Clinton … Martha Stewart … oooh, and Beyonce. Can’t forget about Beyonce.”

“Yeah …” I say unsure if I agree with all of her strong, female examples. Didn’t Martha Stewart go to jail? What kind of example is that?

“Well, anyway, men aren’t everything,” Karen says. “Though I did get lucky. I love Russ to death. His penis is like this godly stick of pleasure.”

“Ugh, I didn’t need to know that,” I say with a disgusted look on my face. “But, what about the women who all of their lives they’ve been looking for love? You know, they’re more concerned about getting married and having a family rather than having a career.”

“You mean like gold diggers and trophy wives?” Karen asks and I shake my head. “I’m confused.”

“I’m talking about the women that are looking for true love in their lives, but have no clue how to find it,” I say.

“Loners and crazy cat ladies?” Karen asks and I shake my head frustratingly.

“No, not loners and crazy cat ladies!” I exclaim. “The women who are alone and know absolutely nothing about men, yet they really want to be in a relationship.” She just doesn’t get it. I’m trying to have a revolutionary breakthrough here and she’s ruining it. Just damn near ruining it. “Anyway, so I was thinking …” I say as I rise from the bed and begin to pace around the room. Karen continues to eat my breakfast.

“See, now that’s where you went wrong,” she says
. “When you start thinking all H
ell breaks loose.”

“I started thinking about my past relationships,” I ramble. “You know, my relationship with Victor, my relationships in college, my relationships in high school if you can even call them relationships, and then I realized that I know absolutely
nothing
about men, and maybe this is why
nothing
works out for me.”

Karen looks at me, confused. “Um, that head injury might be a little more severe than we thought,” she says. “You’re talking crazy. None of those breakups were your fault.”

“Exactly!” I exclaim. “Why am I always getting dumped by men?” I pause. “It’s because I know nothing about them.”

“OK …”

“So, my visit to the hospital really got me thinking,” I say, “and then I remember you using the word ‘experiment—’”

“Yeah, a personal hygiene experiment that has nothing to do with men,” Karen interrupts. “But, if you’re into that type of thing, who am I to judge?”

“So then I thought ‘EXPERIMENT!’” I exclaim. “It’s a genius idea! I can conduct this experiment on what men really want out of women and how I, the quintessential single woman, could give it to them and possibly find my true love!” I clutch my chest, smile, and spin around. “Isn’t that the most perfect idea that you ever heard? I would be like a
scientist, a scientist of love.”

Karen rolls her eyes at my idea. “And how, O Great One, will you conduct this experiment? You gonna observe my fiancé while he’s playing the Xbox or watch Eric and Mike at a bar with their womanizing tactics?”

“Nope,” I say, smiling. “I got it all planned out.” I pull my completed poster board from underneath my bed and I hold it up for Karen to see. She, once again, looks confused.

“What the hell is that?” she asks, sighing.

“It’s my experiment,” I say excitedly. “I’m going scientific on their asses. It’s called ‘The BACHELORETTE Project.’ How I will conduct the experiment is shown here.” I point to the different sections of the board. “I will go on a series of dates using different tactics in different environments to find out what works for women and what doesn’t.”

“I’m listening,” Karen says as she leans forward.

“In the process, I will study the men that I date, categorize them and see what their likes and dislikes are thereby unlocking the many secrets of the male species.”

“Oh, I can tell you the secrets of men,” Karen says, smirking. “It’s sex, food, video games, and sports. If a man has those four things, then he’s a happy man.” I guess that makes sense. You know, the ‘four things philosophy,’ but I’m just certain that there has to be more. It can’t be
that
easy or I wouldn’t be single … right?

“Well, I’m still conducting my experiment,” I say confidently. “Maybe there are more than just four secrets. Maybe there are seven secrets.” As I nod my head, I convince myself that there has to be more. Not everything is just sex, food, video games, and sports.

”All right,” Karen starts, “so when does your little experiment start?”

“As soon as possible,” I tell her. “So now all I need is
a trusty assistant, s
omeone who will conduct the series of dates with me so I can record their experiences as well.”

“Oooh!” Karen raises her hand. “I’ll do it.”

“You can’t do it,” I say. “My trusty assistant has to be single, and you’re not single. In fact, you’ve been off the single circuit for awhile.”

Karen laughs. “Yeah, thank God!” she says, not realizing the words that just came out of her mouth. I glare at her. “Oh, sorry,” she says. So annoying. I believe that every girl that’s single has a friend that’s not single and they always have to parade their boyfriends and fiancés in your face. But, of course that used to be me with Victor so I’m guessing that this is just karma full circle.

“Anyway, I need to find someone whom I’ve known for a while and will be up for the challenge,” I say, thinking. “Who can I ask? Who can I ask?” I chant to myself until finally I’ve come up with the perfect person in mind. The light bulb goes off over my head. “I got it!” I say. “Annie.”

“Annie?” Karen questions. “Who’s Annie?” she thinks for a second and I smile. A look of worry erupts over Karen’s face. “Oh, no. Not Annie,” Karen says. “No.”

“Yes,
” I say, smiling. “She’s perfect, she’s my friend, and more than likely she’s single.” Ah, Annie! A great candidate as my trusty assistant. We met during our college days and became the best of friends, which Karen hated. Unfortunately for Annie, she had to drop out of school because she got pregnant by her cheating, loser boyfriend. Just another example as to why life can truly suck.

“OK,” Karen starts, “First off, Annie’s not perfect, second off, Annie is not a
true
friend. She’s a manipulator and a troublemaker, and third of all, yes, she’s probably single but that’s not because men don’t like her. It’s because
nobody
likes her.”

“Karen, she is not that bad,” I assure her. “Besides, we’re all ten years older now. We are more mature and more forgiving, right?
”

“Hmph, no,” Karen says crossing her arms. “She tried to hit on Russ when we were in college and I do
not
appreciate that.”

“Karen,” I say. “You weren’t even with him at the time. Besides, you’re MARRYING him now so why does it even matter?”

She smiles. “Yeah, that’s right,” Karen says. “Now Annie will have to find her
own
overgrown Jew because Russ …” she wiggles her left ring finger around, “is mine!” It’s almost comical how long Karen can hold her grudges. She could be 80 years old and will still hate Annie all because she once flirted with Karen’s present fiancé. I wouldn’t put it past Karen to tell her own grandchildren about Annie.

“Calm down, crazy,” I say to Karen. “Annie’s not going to try and steal your man. She really isn’t that bad.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever
,” Karen says as she picks up a piece of fruit from the tray. “Ann
ie is an asshole with a big, fat ‘A.’”
Ding dong!
The doorbell rings. Karen looks at me. “Were you expecting someone?”
Honk! Honk!
We hear from a car outside. “Who the hell is that?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say shrugging my shoulders. We leave my room and walk down the stairs. “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” I tell Karen as we stand behind the front door.

“Ooh, maybe it’s Dr. Patel!” Karen says excitedly. “Maybe he’s doing a li
ttle ‘house call,’” she says as
she nudges me.

“I doubt it,
” I reply as I open the door only to find my dreaded parents waiting outside on the street with the worst surprise ever.

“Leslee!” my Mom yells from the street. “Leslee, come here!” She and my father wave as they stand in front of my old car from high school: a 1985, two-tone Ford Escort equipped with its own dents, and scratches to match. I put my head down in shame. Why did they do this to me?

“Mom,” I s
ay as I walk towards the car, “w
hy would you bring this
thing
here?”

“You need
a
vehicle to get around
the
city,” she tells me as little hints of smoke seep from the hood of the car. “We save
d
it just for you.”

“But Mom,” I whine. “I can’t
drive this thing
. People would
point and laugh at me.” I motion
to the fender then the door. “Mom, it has two different colors. It’s
orange
… and
RED
!” I exclaim.

“Leslee, you’re going to need something to drive to interviews in,” my Dad says sternly. “This car works just fine. All it needs is a little tender love and care.”

“It needs more than that, Dad,” I say. “It needs a complete makeover.”

“That’s just crazy talk, Leslee,” he says as he rubs his hands over the hood. “This is an American classic.” I hear laughing in the background and I turn around quickly. Karen covers her mouth to stifle the laughter.

“I’m sorry,” she says through her annoying cackles. “I’m just so … elated with joy.”

I turn back to my parents. “Dad, I can’t accept this,” I say. “I don’t even have money for car insurance right now.”

“Oh, we took care of that,” Dad chimes in.

“Of course you have,” I say under my breath.

“Now you have your own little ‘wheels of steel, ’” he says as he pats the hood. A cloud of smoke emerges from the car as it makes a big banging noise. The front hubcaps fall to the ground. Perfect. It’s already falling apart.

My father hands me an envelope. “It’s just some gas money to get you going, and it may need an oil change. It’s been awhile.”

“Oh, yeah I remember the last time I changed the oil in this thing,” I say nodding my head.

“When was that?” Mom asks.

“When I was in high school a decade ago!” I exclaim. “Didn’t I tell you guys to just donate the damn thing when I got to college?”

“Oh, we couldn’t do that,” my father says shaking his head. My father, the hoarder. Tisk, tisk. “Well, here’s the spare key,” he says as he puts it in my hand. “Have fun, baby girl.” He pats me on the back and heads to his car with my mother, their br
and spanking-new and blue Mercedes
. I sigh. I can still hear Karen laughing in the background.