Diary of a Working Girl (35 page)

This is totally new territory here. So, of course, this is a totally different scenario. Of course I need the list. Where else can I turn?

I need guidance, and I just told you about my fairy godmother, so obviously I’m not getting any help there.

And so I scan the list. As I open to a clean checklist I get a flush of warmth, like coming home. Why did I ever think I needed to grow up? Obviously I do know about love—look I’m getting $7,500 just to write about it! They wouldn’t pay that to just anybody.

“Ha!” I laugh out loud as I begin reading over the boxes at speed-reader pace to find one—just one (!)—that Tom might, possibly, at a certain angle, fall under. I feel one would do. Yes, one would definitely do. Only I do not have to speed-read. I know every single item by heart. And in seconds flat I know there are none to be checked off. None. Tom is none of those things I wrote.

Checklist #129 Tom Reiner

1. Reads
NYTimes:
®

Notes:
Wall Street Journal
devotee.

2. Has job that will allow for romantic trips to exotic locales; always insists we fly first class, feeding each other sorbet with a tiny silver spoon: ®

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(but wonderful for assistants who will no longer have to convert currencies).

3. Puts passion above common sense/practicality: ®

Notes: Dressing-less salad?

4. Is British (depending on nature of remainder of checklist, this can, on occasion be fulfilled with valid British heritage documented on family tree, but British accent is most desirable): ®

Notes: This item is, from this moment on, officially struck from the checklist!!!!!!!!!!!!!

5. Makes me get That Feeling: ®

Notes. Shopping, dining, post-meeting, did experience momentary twinges of strangeness in his presence. But cannot one hundred percent testify to the particularities . . . Well, err . . . definitely premature.

6. Knows how to be direct, e.g. Richard Gere,
Pretty
Woman
: ®

Notes: Actually, have no idea how he feels about me. Shit!

Wouldn’t be pulling strands from my scalp in frustration if I did.

Ouch!

7. Has roses waiting for me when I get home (even when I am working at home he always finds a way): ®

Notes: Gave me flowers on first day. Also, there was the framing of the article and the dinner we were supposed to have, but which was ruined for obvious reasons (See checklist

#128!!!!!!!!!!). Still, none were technically delivered to my residence.

8. I am unable to pass a Victoria’s Secret without dashing inside to find some new lacy, sexy thing with all sorts of straps that go God-knows-where to surprise him with, and when I 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 278

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do, he never says something as ridiculous as, “You must get dressed now, we are meeting my parents in ten minutes”: ®

Notes: I could definitely see myself showing up at his office to test this item. On his part, this is barely applicable, although he did compliment the color of my underwear on my first day.

9. He is so beautiful, maybe not to everyone, but to me, that I wake up in the middle of the night and spend hours just staring at the angle of his jawline, the arch of his brow. ®

Notes: Haven’t yet, but have also been obsessed with #128.

10. If we ever do argue, it is always with bitter rage, arms flailing, and tears burning in front of a fountain in Central Park or by the tree in Rockefeller Center, or somewhere equally cinematic. But, then, without fail, we make amends—always meeting in the middle of the route between his home and mine (as we both have the urge for reconciliation at the same moment); and come together in the most passionate lovemaking both of us have ever experienced (once we’ve gotten inside, of course); and thank God that we have found each other. After, we spend the evening laughing uncontrollably at the littlest things, like the way he says, parents with the same A sound as in apple and coming to unique realizations about things—like how amazing it is that people now only drink bottled water, when before they’d never thought twice about drinking from a tap: ®

Notes: When Liam did this it was so much fun. I remember this ancient, shrunken woman wearing the largest red glasses I have ever seen stopped right in front of us at the fountain and so he screamed, “I would have died for you Lane Silverman!

How could you have made love to my best friend while I was in a coma in a hospital bed in Paris?” Oy. Have no comment yet for Tom. Perhaps could count pretzel argument?

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11. Witty statements are always on tip of his tongue. ˛

Notes: Now this is definitely true.

12. He teaches me things I never even knew I had to learn: ®

Notes: Firewalls? Did not really have to learn, though. I mean, when will this ever be of use to me?

13. I love the way he looks in his gray boxer briefs: ®

Notes: Although am now kicking myself for not having done so, could have snuck a peak at Calvin Klein, as flimsy dressing room curtain was not exactly the height of security.

Unfortunately, missed the opportunity, and therefore unsure if he even wears boxer briefs(?) Hopefully, does not wear those ugly red bikinis with mesh . . . On brighter side, he has a much talked about nice butt.

So he is actually the one item I hadn’t memorized—witty. But, now that I think of it, one out of thirteen is not a fantastic score. It wouldn’t get you a passing grade in algebra, it wouldn’t get you a driver’s license, a thumbs-up on a psychological exam, or a dis-charge from a hospital bed.

I scan through the older checklists. You know what? Every guy I’ve ever dated, liked, pined over, appeared to be all of those things I held so important.

There might, possibly, be some flaw in my logic. I briefly thank God that I have already written my article and that it is not a video docudrama I am creating here, in which people would be able to see that I am at this moment violating every single thing I “learned.”

I scan my apartment for cameras and lower the shades just in case—you never know.

You know what though? After the initial disappointment of realizing that Tom fits into only one single category, (but if you 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 280

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think about it, actually tons of penciled in ones—“excellent diet;”

“nice boss;” “provides wonderful nickname;” “is great candidate for a makeover story,” and dialing my grandmother to discuss this (she is the only one up at this hour and tends to agree with everything I say); I realize something awful.

Tom has a girlfriend. A girlfriend who takes Glamour Shots. A girlfriend who doesn’t like to eat in pubs. A girlfriend who has nails the length of the Nile River. Still, a girlfriend all the same.

I’m tearing through my closet for my most woe-is-me attire, something befitting an unrequited lover (purple, maybe?) when it hits me. She’s the sort of girlfriend who takes Glamour Shots. A girlfriend who doesn’t like to eat in pubs. What I’m saying is, I am
so
much better suited to Tom than she is! Anyone can see that.

I’ll win him over. And that will fulfill a whole new check box—

that will make him “a challenge!” I can do it. I am now scanning my closet for challenge-ready garments (red, definitely) with which to begin my venture. And just when I get to a skirt that I never even knew I owned that is really sort of ugly, but the only red item I can find, it dawns on me—I don’t have any idea if Tom likes
me
.

How will I get to the bottom of this? I’m now tossing the skirt onto the floor over the purple dress, ready to search for something in the Sherlock Holmes range (a wool blazer—it is spring, but you know what they say about fashion and function) when my eye catches the printout of
Diary of a Working Girl
on my floor.

And, I realize with a jolt of excitement that I have recorded every single thing that Tom has ever said or done for me ever since day one at Smith Barney in
Diary of a Working Girl
! Genius! Now I’ve got the outfit—a wool blazer and matching pants, a great tweed hat with front and back bills and a string that ties on top (don’t ask me why I own this), and even this pipe I’d gotten at a Dunhill event (it’s so great when I find a use for these random 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 281

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freebies)—
and
all of my clues ready. I’ll just have to read between the lines a bit, which is just my specialty, something I have been doing my entire lifetime. Maybe after this, I will be so good at spotting clues I can start to write mystery novels in the manner of Nancy Drew. I used to love those when I was younger.

So I get dressed, grab the printout, three colored highlighters (you have to color code for organization), and a portable Post-it flag pop-up gadget, and I go where any girl would go when she needs a trusted friend to take her through a challenging journey—

to the café, for one very large latte and one warm, always loyal friend, a chocolate croissant.

As I take a seat outside the café on my block, I am delighted at the sensation of home, of belonging, that I feel in my tiny corner of the universe. This is, indeed, another thing I had taken for granted during all of those years working at home. I mean, where else in the world could I sit in the glaring sunlight on a very warm May morning in head-to-toe wool without anyone batting an eye? (It’s actually getting a little toasty under all this wool but it really looks great.) Across the street a group of people are walking, loaded up with shopping bags, and I remember how much I loved the lunch hours I would take right here, playing Guess What They Bought. I see the young and would-be fit drinking their fat-free morning coffees in their designer workout gear and running sneakers (toting the spinning and après-workout sneakers in logo’d gym bags) on the way to overpriced gyms chosen because the owner is known for helping models drop ten pounds before catwalk jaunts.

And here I recall all of the days I promised myself I would run upstairs to go to the gym, but just ordered another cafe mocha instead, rationalizing that I can’t very well go to the gym when I am smack in the middle of a writing streak. You just don’t have the benefit of those sorts of excuses when you are doing the nine-to-five 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 282

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thing. I am thinking how peaceful this whole scene is when a deliv-eryman from my corner deli passes by.

“Where have you been,
chica
? We’ve missed you!” he says.

“Oh, you know, I’m
sooo
busy these days,” I say affecting fabulousness.

“The big writer girl! We miss our celebrity. You haven’t gotten so big that you’ve forgotten about us, have you?”

In my little world, I am a big fish. I am “the writer.” I’m the one who runs into the deli to share my newest article about how to lose five pounds in five days with the sandwich makers, who are truly excited to see my name in print, and never once say they’ve never seen that magazine before. If I take a seat at a table at my deli, with a draft printout and a red pen, they will lower the music so I can concentrate. But in the big world, I am a little fish—I am the one who writes for, “who is that again, Laney-pooh?” And you know, there’s definitely something to be said for the former.

“Of course I could never forget you. I’ve been gone for a while, but, you know what? I’m back now. I am back,” I say, to myself, rather than to him, partly because I am so happy to be done with the article (providing Joanne doesn’t say it absolutely sucks) and partly because I am so caught up in my Sherlock Holmes persona that I feel pregnant with purpose and renewed energy.

He winks and waves me off, and I watch as his familiar figure—

white shirt and pants, blue apron strings tied about his neck and back—gets smaller and smaller. And with that comforting image fading in the distance, I get to reading. I am prepared for this venture.

My highlighter awaits, uncapped and ready to pop out the clues.

I am so enraptured by my reading (Did I mention how good this is? Too bad they hadn’t asked for a novel rather than just an article) that when my cell phone rings, I jump roughly 10,625 feet in the air, and when I have returned to earth, I am amazed I have not 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:06 AM Page 283

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bumped my head on a stray bird or a small helicopter. It’s Joanne.

Strangely, I feel confident about her answers. And then I lose the confidence. And then I tell myself to get some confidence. And then I regain some once again.

“What’s up?” I ask when I can’t take the back-and-forth game my mind is playing anymore. “Well, I’ve read your piece and the
Diary of a Working Girl
and I have some feedback for you.”

“O-kay,” I drag this out, wondering why she is acting so un-Joanne and not coming right out with it. In a panic, I begin to consider that maybe it is the worst collection of words ever to hit a page and that Joanne is holding back because she is afraid she will burst out laughing if she speaks too quickly. Perhaps my elation caused me to see everything through rose-colored glasses (I hate this saying, because I actually have rose-colored glasses and just because the color is different, I still get the same reaction from things, but it seems to fit here) and the piece was actually crap. I mean, after all, hadn’t I just shoved all of my teachings aside the very morning after I’d written them? I am a sham. I am a fake. I have let my people down. I didn’t even have them yet and already I let them down. People like me should never have their own people. It should be right on your driver’s license: “Under no circumstances should this human being ever acquire any
people.
”