How to Meet Cute Boys (7 page)

I had … Two … Messages. The first was sent … today … at … eight … twenty-two …
P.M
. … Damn, it was from the Mother. “Have you given any thought to what you want to do for the bridal shower? Martha says that
starting to plan right away is crucial …” I pressed 3 and erased. The second message was sent … today … at … nine … forty-seven
…
P.M
. “Hey, it’s Max.”

No way
.

“What’s up with you? I’m about to head out to some club thing …

Hey, Stu? Where’s it at?” I heard someone shout back an answer. “It’s at Deluxe,” Max said.

Where is Deluxe?
I thought.
What is Deluxe? Why didn’t we go to Deluxe?

“Okay. Whatever. Want to get dinner or something one night this week? I’ll try you from work tomorrow.”

“He called?” Kiki asked when I returned to the table with a grin. “See?” she said. “I
knew
he was going to call. I just knew it.”

“It must feel good to be validated with a phone call,” Nina said with a nod. Then she looked at her watch. “Oh my, it’s past
eleven.” She stood up, and said, “We’re going to have to stop.”

Like she was my therapist, and our time was up.

FILLY
QUIZ

BY BENJAMINA FRANKLIN

So you think he could be The One, but then the questions start. Why hasn’t he called? Maybe you should do a drive-by and see
if he’s home? Should you call from your cell and ask if he wants to have lunch? If you get the voicemail, should you hang
up? Here’s the real question you should be asking: Are you a stalker who’s bound to drive him away because you can’t stop
obsessing? Take our quiz!

1.
On your monthly phone bill, you pay:

a.
$132 for caller ID, voicemail, and long-distance calls to your best friend from high school, who usually wants to discuss
why some guy hasn’t answered her last Instant Message.

b.
$102 for voicemail, charges for the obligatory Sunday-night calls to Mom, and that’s about it. You don’t chitchat on the
phone much because you’re way too busy.

c.
$167 for voicemail, caller ID (so you know if that hang-up on your voicemail was him), call waiting caller ID (in case that’s
him on the other line), caller ID block (so he won’t know when you call him seven times in a row), and 1-900-2morrow calls,
during which you ask a clairvoyant whether or not he’ll marry you.

2.
When you call your best friend you:

a.
Get her voicemail, again. She’s sick of listening to you talk about him morning, noon, and night, but this doesn’t stop you
from leaving a message that says, “Mayday! Mayday! I just drove by his house and there was this strange car in the drive-way.
Do you think it’s another woman?”

b.
Ask her how she is, then say you need advice because he hasn’t called back in forty-eight hours and you’re wondering if you
should leave another message with his pot-smoking roommate.

c.
Tell her you can’t go out on Friday night because you forgot you had plans with the new guy to meet his parents. (Which is
weird—it’s not like you’re his girlfriend or anything.)→

3.
When you throw a party you:

a.
Send an e-mail to your friends, plus the guy you’re dating, plus a guy who has a crush on you, plus an ex who’ll do in a
pinch, and prepare yourself to have one hell of a good time.

b.
Make up an excuse to have a party in the first place. (“
Of course
I can have a housewarming even though I’ve been living here for a year.”) Casually ask him if he’ll come, then call your
friends and tell them they have to come because he’s coming. Drop $950 on a designer dress from the Colette Web site. Then
spend the day of the party desperately trying to whip up spanakopita and lobster spring rolls.

c.
Send an Evite to all your friends, including the guy you like, telling them what time and when. Then buy hummus, pita bread,
beer, and wine, and make sure you have enough toilet paper in the bathroom.

4.
The morning after a first date you’re most likely to:

a.
Wake him for another quickie, then bid him adieu by saying, “I’ll give you a call,” even though you secretly suspect you
won’t bother—he didn’t exactly flip your switch.

b.
Go to brunch with the girls, where you happily dish on what he was wearing, what he ordered, what he said when he kissed
you good night.

c.
Skip brunch to stay home by the phone in case he calls, getting so frustrated by 5
P.M
. that you call him to say, “So, what? You’re never going to call again,
is that it
?”

5.
He takes you out to dinner with a group of his friends, and they all start talking about a rock show they’re going to that
weekend (and you haven’t been invited). You:

a.
Spend the next day frantically trying to get tickets, and when you do, pretend bumping into him at the show is some kind
of crazy coincidence.

b.
Don’t care. You have a date that night with someone else anyway.

c.
Feel hurt but figure it’s fair—truth is you sometimes go out with your friends and don’t invite him.

I called Max back the next day, and he asked if I was free for dinner that night. Now, I should have said I was busy to sound
more in-demand, but I couldn’t help myself. (Okay, I muttered something about having
had
dinner plans, but said they were canceled. Like he fell for that.) He asked me what I was working on. I didn’t feel like
I could tell him I was sitting on my couch eating Cheetos, watching
The Princess Bride
on DVD for the umpteenth time, and nursing a killer hangover. So I said I was finishing a story. He said what story, so I
lied again and said it was a profile I’d already turned in on an actress who’s famous for wearing skimpy bikinis in all her
films.

Naturally, he asked me what she was really like. I hate this question. Not because I don’t understand why people ask it; I
do. But if I really told the world how badly their beloved celebrities behave sometimes, their publicists would never let
me interview their clients again. Which would be bad. This particular star was so snooty—acted as though my interviewing her
was some sort of assault on her dignity, refusing to tell me why she broke up with her last boyfriend (“I don’t talk about
my personal life”) even though
she
was the one who brought it up … I told Kiki I wanted the headline to be “Swimming in the Shallow End.” She said no. I guess
that’s why she’s the editor. It’s called
diplomacy
.

But you know that sinking feeling when you realize the only voice you’ve heard for, oh, the last ten or fifteen minutes is
your own? I couldn’t stop talking. I just went on and on, and on and on, and
on and on,
about this actress. And nobody cares that much, not even me. When I finally came up for air, Max jumped in to say he had
to get back to work.

“Oh, right,” I said.
“Me, too!”

As I see it, first dates are extremely important, fashion-wise. One can’t try too hard. One mustn’t overdress. The idea is
to look your best, but the kind of best where it appears that you look that good every day—that you didn’t make any special
effort. I wanted to wear something intriguing, but not overstated. Sexy, but not skanky. I stood in the doorway of my closet
for a full fifteen minutes, wondering,
What is this something?
When I’d spoken to Max, he said we’d “grab something to eat.” This meant he wasn’t going to make a reservation, and
that
meant I didn’t know where we were going. I’d have to wing my outfit.

I put on a dress. Too prissy. I put on a pair of pants with a skimpy top. Too body-conscious. I emptied my closet of everything
I owned, tried on every shoe, and
still
couldn’t find anything to wear. My clothing crisis was like a tsunami—it swept from my mind any sense of perspective. I actually
felt like I was going to cry. Still not sure what to wear, I decided I should at least start on my makeup—I could pick my
outfit when I calmed down—but my hands were shaking and I smeared eye shadow all over my face and had to wash it off and redo
it. Everything was taking too long—I was supposed to be there in twenty minutes, and I hadn’t even dried my hair yet. I didn’t
think I had enough time to tweeze. I needed King Solomon, reincarnated as a beauty editor, to help me decide which part of
my beauty regimen I should skip.
Tweeze or dry?
I wondered.
Tweeze or dry? TWEEZE OR DRY?
I didn’t shave my legs but that, at least, was on purpose—I’m a firm believer that if you shaved your legs you jinxed the
date. Desperate not to be late, I finally threw my hair in a ponytail and frantically tweezed. I put on an old, standby pair
of Levi’s that I hoped accentuated the positives and hid the negatives. Next I added a camisole that Kiki once said she thought
made my boobs look bigger, and threw on a blazer, a knit scarf, and sneakers. Funky casual—that’s what I was hoping for. Too
bad I didn’t notice until dinner with Max was half over and I made a trip to the ladies room that I was only wearing one earring
and my camisole was on inside out.

Anyway. Once I was dressed I made a mad dash for my car. I was going to overlook the fact that Max hadn’t offered to pick
me up because I was curious to see where he lived. Besides, his place was only a few minutes away.

I wasn’t disappointed. It was a large, contemporary house, built in the midfifties, complete with a huge redwood deck, glass
all around, and a view of Griffith Park Observatory.
Max may be even more than boyfriend material,
I thought while I parked my car out front.
Max is Move-In-Together material
…

He greeted me at the door and gave me a quick tour. The house was filled with a mix of postwar furniture (Saarinen chairs,
Nelson lamps) and I-found-this-on-the-street-corner cool. It was perfect. But I didn’t say much—I was trying not to talk his
ear off after my performance on the phone.

“Okay,” Max said, pausing in his bedroom to put his wallet, cigarettes, and keys in his pocket. “I guess we better hit it.”