Year of the Chick (9 page)

“No my name is NOT Parveen.” I looked at everything but him as I tried to pick out Laura, Amy, Eleanor, or anyone else who’d been forced to attend my party.

“But you’re Indian right?” His hairy-knuckled hand played with his collar, as if to woo me with the treasures that beckoned from beneath the fabric.

“Yeah I’m Indian.” I sighed.
Where are the girls? Good wingmen my ass.
“But I was born in Canada, so I guess I’m a little of both.” I didn’t even know why I hadn’t walked away yet. Perhaps it was a mix of boredom and sick curiosity.

“I KNEW you were an Indian princess!” He leaned in close. “So tell me...what village are your parents from?”

Oh no, not the village question
. In every bar I’d been to, every dance club, every innocent daytime patio excursion, these fellows always used the Indian heritage topic as an “in.” Since I knew the next step from the village question was a grab of the ass or worse, I released the vodka cocktail from my hand, sending it to the floor with a crash.

“Crap!” I said. “Now I need another drink!”

As the creepy Indian stared at the floor with his uni-brow bunched up in horror, I quietly slipped into the crowd. I soon found Eleanor and Amy on a white leather couch near the back of the club. It seemed like I was right on time, as Eleanor was passing out some shots.

“A birthday toast to Romi!” she exclaimed. “May you live to a hundred and twenty. And afford lots of plastic surgery!” She laughed and clinked her shot glass with mine.

I can drink to that.

As this latest burst of alcohol worked its way into my bloodstream, I stared at the ground and my smile slowly disappeared.
It’s my birthday and I’m sulking.

Laura quickly made her way over, her blond curls bouncing in tune with her strides, and the light glinting off her sparkly blue tank top.

“Dude it’s your birthday, so how come you’re acting like your cat just died?”

I shook my head. “No I’m not. I’m just not feeling happy-drunk, you know?” I sighed. “But I do feel the urge to punch people, or make fun of ugly babies. It’s only a mood swing…right?”

I quickly reflected on the last month or so of my quest. Scenes of bar-hopping with Laura played in my head. In most of the scenes she was smothered by dudes while I frowned by the corner of the bar. And my excursions with Eleanor had been much the same.

It’s not even a simple observation anymore. I need uglier friends.

I emerged from memory-lane as Laura put her arm around my shoulder. “Maybe you’re frustrated because you don’t have any prospects. And maybe you don’t have any prospects…because you’re kind of a bitch at the bar.”

Oh really?

“Hear me out before you punch me in the face,” she said.

I was pouring out venom with my eyes, but decided to give her a listen.

“Think back to our last time out. How many times did I spot you at the bar with your arms crossed? It makes you seem closed off, psychologically. Guys don’t go for that.”

That’s funny, I never knew Laura had a Psych degree.

“I cross my arms because the guys around me are creepy.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is it that? Or could it possibly be that you’re still not over Peter? This current idea of an ANCIENT Peter which is still tattooed in your brain!”

“Don’t say his name! We call him the ‘latte guy.’“ The simple mention of his name was enough to make me almost run away. Somewhere far where no one could find me. Like Botswana.

Suddenly Eleanor and Amy were huddled in close, enthralled by this intervention.

“Why can’t you say his name?” asked Eleanor. “That’s unhealthy, you know.”

So now EVERYONE has a psych degree?

I folded my hands in my lap and cleared my throat. “As long as I call him ‘latte guy’ he’s just a nice memory. But as soon as I call him ‘Peter’ he’s an actual guy I had once, and who I don’t have anymore.” My eyes started watering. “And then I have to miss him.”

I watched the mist form in three pairs of eyes.
Find an answer for THAT in your psychology book!

Eleanor shook her head and stood up with a jolt. “Holy shit, it’s your birthday; you cannot be depressed on your birthday!
 
I’m getting us more shots.” She wobbled away, as any guy with eyeballs ogled shamelessly at her ass in the mini-dress.

“Okay, okay.” Laura was leaning over me now. “Forget about Peter and look ahead. It’s only April you know.”

“What difference does it make that it’s April? I’m terrible at this.” I wiped my eyes while envisioning Peter’s dimples.
 

“Just try to be more open!” she insisted.
 
“You don’t have to limit it to bars but I mean everywhere. Smile at guys in the supermarket, hang out in the bookstore. And don’t cross your arms anymore!”

Who smiles at guys in the supermarket?

Eleanor returned with a sexy male bartender and a tray of turquoise shots.

I smiled at him as he wished me a happy birthday.
Okay fine, it’s not that hard to smile.
Those shots would lead to an additional round, and another after that.

Which is pretty much the way my twenty-eighth birthday kind of went...

***

My birthday evening led to a monstrous hangover, which led to Laura’s words repeating in my head non-stop: “
Don’t be a bitch to guys!
”

The only single girls who could get away with “bitchy” were the ones with legs up to here and boobs out to there. With neither of those traits at my disposal, I spent the next two weeks being way more open.

For starters I approached the beefed-up dudes in the health food section of the supermarket, asking them what “whey” is all about.

Then I loitered around the men’s magazines at the bookstore, which led to an exposure of three guys per cubic foot.

I even went to Home Depot in search of nails, and asked the male associate a series of nail-related queries.

All of this was only a sample from the two-week test, but the sum of my success was little more than a smile, a nod of acknowledgement, or an “Is there anything else you’d like to know about whey/nails?” follow-up.

I even went out to the bar for another night out. But just my luck, every guy I talked to had a girlfriend.

So if I couldn’t meet a guy in broad daylight, and I couldn’t meet a guy at a bar, what was left?

Internet-dating?

I backed my car out of the driveway and laughed, a nice loud laugh to break up the misery of my early-morning drive to the train.

If you’re gonna start dating Internet-creeps, you might as well get an arranged marriage…

***

The laundry was done, the dishes were done, and the blogging was done. What next?

I thought about the quarter of vanilla layer cake that remained in the freezer, and rose from my bed to pursue it.

I didn’t make it very far, since my legs turned to lead when I was halfway down the stairs. That’s when I remembered that along with being open for the last couple weeks, I’d also been going to the gym. I’d even lost two whole pounds. Layer cake was not worth the damage to my progress, so I brushed my teeth instead. This guaranteed my stomach it was out of cakey options for the night.

I returned to my bed and set my alarm for yet another Monday morning, and yet another damn week of being clueless in the dating scene.

The final thing to do was shut down my laptop, but not before one last narcissistic e-mail check. My narcissism was rewarded with a brand new comment on my blog, from someone named James Caldwell.

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Hello Romi,

What a funny blog you have. Keep up the good work...

James, a distant fan

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I sat there for a moment, as my face turned upwards in a smile I couldn’t help. It was strange, because for all the comments I’d received from creepy men, no guy had ever thought to mention my sense of humour. And this one didn’t even smother me with flirting.

I’m intrigued.

I could see that James Caldwell had a blog of his own, so I immediately clicked for a read.

I sat there frozen for the next five minutes. By the end my eyes were over-flowing with tears. As the tears started dripping down my cheeks, I wiped them away in disbelief. How on earth could seven hundred words about a guy’s first love affect me so profoundly?

And who wrote lines like: “
When everything else has been taken away, all that’s left is the truth.
”

James did!

I scrolled further down his page. “
Tomorrow is never guaranteed like yesterday always is.
”

This guy was deep.

I switched to the Personal Bio page. He was an ex-pat living in Barcelona, but I couldn’t care less about the details. Not when his picture left my mouth hanging open.

In a small but close-up jpeg was a super-hot dude, against the backdrop of a bright blue sky. I was shocked to even see it, since the majority of bloggers never even published a photo. I didn’t have a picture either, and it’s not like I was hiding three nostrils or a giant hairy wart. It just wasn’t common.

Once I moved past the idea of a picture, I was mostly shocked to see an actual writer who was sexy. Before I could fall into a state of drippy drool, I smartened up to the fact that his picture was of course a fake. And how could it not be? Sexy guys didn’t have blogs, and sexy guys didn’t know how to write. Even in the smallest chance that the picture was actually real, how did I know it was current? His generic blue golf shirt, short sandy hair and plain black shades were inconclusive.

Maybe it’s a file photo from 1987.

Despite my doubts the truth didn’t seem to matter, since his profile page was filled with comments. Most of his comments were from female bloggers, and they sure didn’t mind letting loose with all the horny propositions.

I laughed at the thought of this psycho-freak, reeling in the women with his hot-ass, fake-ass picture.

Even so, I too left a flirty-ass comment on his page, if only to compete with all the other drooling bitches.

***

The next day I checked my e-mail before even getting out of bed. To my pleasant surprise, another blog comment from James Caldwell awaited. So I danced my way to his blog and left another one for him.

Yes Mr. Creepo, you have my attention.

***

Where has James Caldwell gone?

We’d been bouncing comments for days, but suddenly James had disappeared. He wasn’t even posting new material.

Maybe he’s dead.

Even though I knew this guy was probably a psycho, I missed his funny comments in my life.

This feels unhealthy.

I thought about it some more as I finished my healthy dessert of blueberries and a large bowl of ice cream (
at least it’s low-fat
). I knew I had to dig a little deeper, but I couldn’t keep leaving comments on the same posts over and over.

Maybe I should send him an e-mail.

I audibly gasped at this psycho move.

Then I bounded up the stairs to do it.

I already had his e-mail address, since readers were obliged to provide it when they left me a blog comment. But to actually abuse that personal information with a message?

You only live once…is that what rapists and murderers say?

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Hey James,

Where have you been? Your groupies are getting restless. Come back soon before we go into withdrawal ;-)

Romi

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I fell asleep expecting nothing (besides a possible restraining order), so when I woke up to find a friendly e-mail from James I was thrilled.

It started off “Hello Romi,” carried on with a mention of a screenplay he’d been writing (
wow, a screenwriter?
), and ended with a promise to come back soon.

I sat still in bed with my hair in full morning disarray.

What’s my next move?

Could I, the aspiring writer, actually ignore the screenwriter mention?

Yeah right, I’m already obsessed.

I would at least try to keep my return message brief.

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Hey James,

Wow, you’re a SCREENWRITER?

Now I feel embarrassed that you’re reading such a novice blog. What a dream it would be to write all day long! But I suppose it takes more than a silly dream…

Okay, I’ll try to stop drooling over your career choice now.

:-)