Emily's Reasons Why Not (3 page)

Grace is the friend that I know is my ticket to heaven. She saves everyone from homeless crack addicts to her perpetually single girlfriends. She is the one who comes over when I am PMSing and drowning in a single, bottle of pinot, self-pity party. She reminds me that indeed there is love out there for me, and on a good day she can be pretty convincing.

“Go ahead and smile,” Reilly shoots back in at Grace. “But if you’re so smart, why’d you take on one hundred thousand dollars in student loans to get ‘Doctor’ before your name so you could make forty thousand dollars a year counseling junkies and freeloaders? Where’s the fucking sense in that?” Reilly blows smoke from her Marlboro Light into the night air.

“They’re homeless, and I am trying to make them be productive citizens.” Grace shakes her head.

“Save it for the pearly gates,” Reilly says as she finishes her smoke.

“Em, is Josh coming out with us?” Grace changes the subject.

“Hot, rich, loving, great taste …,” Reilly says. “Such a waste of a perfectly good penis.”

“No, he has some new boyfriend. They’re going to some new club in Boy’s Town. Although he did say, for my birth
day, that he would be my donor if I needed to breed in the next decade.”

“You could do worse,” Reilly smiles at me.

“I think I actually want the penetration.”

In reality, I don’t think having a donor backup plan is such a bad idea. I mean, with Josh, at least I know he’s going to be my friend forever. He’s going to love me when my boobs are saggy, when I am PMSing and the baby is crying. I know that he’ll take the kids to soccer practice and cheerleading tryouts and he’ll help our daughter pick out the perfect prom dress. I mean, it seems a lot more reliable than believing that love, passion, and monogamy are going to last forever.

“Red or pink?” I hold up two lip liners as we wait in 10:00 P.M. gridlock.

“Definitely red. Red says take me, I need it, and I need it bad on my birthday,” Reilly laughs.

“For God’s sake, we’re heading out into the wilderness of Los Angeles on a Saturday night, wear the red,” Grace backs Reilly up.

I check the red lipstick in the rearview mirror as the Mustang waits on little Santa Monica Boulevard behind a convertible BMW full of twentysomething-backless-shirt-wearing model types and an oversized black SUV with a P. Diddy look-alike bumping to rap music behind us. We finally reach the valet stand outside the Beverly Hills YMCA.

Who knew they even had YMCAs in Beverly Hills?

We enter the Y and the doorman directs us to the gymnasium. We walk through the metal doors of the gym and immediately
notice that it is decorated like a high school prom in the eighties. I start to itch.

I hated all the insecurity that came along with being a sixteen-year-old in braces whose breasts had yet to develop. I had hives all through my sophomore year and now I remember why. This gym has thrust me into the past and suddenly I am feeling like an awkward, knock-kneed geek. I am wishing I was home watching reruns of
Magnum, PI
. in my pajamas with Sam.

Scanning the room, I make out all the familiar faces, and it dawns on me that Hollywood is exactly like high school. There are the popular kids. The jocks. The freaks. And the annoying student council types trying to get ahead—only now they are agents, studio executives, managers, publicists, and lawyers.

They are all crammed together in Armani trousers, Hugo Boss sweaters, and backless shirts. They are the same two hundred people that I witnessed four nights ago pouring out of a premiere at the Director’s Guild theater as I sat in the Mustang at a stoplight watching them all smoke cigarettes and discuss the pros and cons of film noir.

Two hundred of exactly the same people, only now they are crouched together smoking cigarettes and trying to figure out who is more important than whom, which isn’t Reilly, Grace, or me.

We make a beeline for the bar. Reilly fires up her second Marlboro Light and blows her smoke into the chest of George Clooney.

Wow. George Clooney is a babe. Keep moving. I look over my shoulder at him and he smiles.

“Actors,” Reilly says with disdain.

“I don’t know, he has the sexiest eyes,” I defend him.

“He is the epitome of the American bachelor and makes no bones about it. He never wants to get married. Never wants kids.” Grace lays it out like it is.

“George is another example of perfectly good genes going to waste,” Reilly realizes.

George … I could love George, with his perfect hair, sly smile, and strong forearms, a perpetual prankster. I could fall madly in love with a man who professes to find marriage the ultimate death for men. George, a man whose longest caretaking relationship is with a potbellied pig. George, who would rather spend Sundays shooting hoops with his buddies or riding his Harley than lie naked with me watching
The Way We Were
. But I could change him. Teach him about the benefits of intimacy, nurturing, and commitment. JESUS! George is the exact type of man that I am attracted to for all of the wrong reasons. George easily has ten reasons why NOT to date him. How much clearer does a man need to be to me? He printed his disdain for monogamy in
People
magazine!

“But he’s so utterly, completely beautiful,” I say. We all nod in agreement as we watch his tight butt sashay away in 501s.

After downing my entire drink in one gulp I ask the girls, “One lap, you ready?”

Reilly unbuttons the top of her sweater, revealing her very large cleavage, smiles at us, and mimics in a lusty, bar-wench tone, “Oh, I’m ready.”

We go on the move, cutting in and out of the groups of
popular kids, hoping to find one trinket of possibility that love exists in L.A. and is just waiting for me to stumble into it.

I pass by Patrick Whitman, a super-hottie superagent to stars like Matt and Ben. He flirts a little with me while eyeing Reilly’s cleavage. Grace looks bored. Patrick’s flirting quickly ends when he spies an actress who is firmer, younger, and much richer than any of us.

“We should get together,” I murmur under my breath.

Still eyeballing the actress over my shoulder, he says, “Yeah, sure, have your assistant call mine. We’ll put something on the books.” And he walks away.

I turn and look at Grace. “Can you get right on that?” I say with disbelief.

“Yeah, right after I book the church for your wedding to Clooney.” She shakes her head.

What is wrong with these people? The phenomenon of not being able to have a conversation while looking you directly in the eye never ceases to blow me away. The constant need to look around for someone better is worse than deplorable. Over your head, shoulder, arm, back, while you are trying to have a meaningful or not-so-meaningful chat with them, is a special form of crazy-making L.A. torture. I wonder if this neck-craning disorder is entertainment-industry specific or if it happens everywhere. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s my conversation skills. Whatever it is, I am reminded why I didn’t want to go out tonight.

I take Grace’s hand. “Is it me, or are all of these guys complete dickheads?”

She hands me another cocktail. “It’s not you. Here, have a vodka crème soda.”

Thank God for the girls.

We make our way under a heat lamp and I see George Clooney again. He is talking to a group of guys, one of whom is his equally hot friend, Waldo.

SHIT. I get nailed staring right at him. Jesus, how long have I been looking at him with these horny thoughts running through my head? To George, I now appear to be a party stalker. Instead of smiling at me he gives me a quick, puzzled look that may be fear-based.

I look for a diversion and notice two random guys standing off in the corner behind George. I smile and wave at the taller of the two. George looks from me to the guys and his face fills with relief.

I head toward the two guys, dragging Reilly and Grace behind and telling them, “Trust me.” We saddle up to the strangers. Please let them be normal. Let them be nice. Let them be single. Let them not be a couple.

“Hi, I’m Emily, and this is Reilly and Grace.”

My boondoggle seems to have relaxed George and now my immediate thought is how the hell do I get out of here, although the taller guy, up close, is really cute. He’s got short dark hair, gray-blue eyes, and one of those shirts Vince Vaughn wore in
Swingers
. His lips part in slow motion, and he has the most perfect teeth I have ever seen, straight, white, and large, which amounts to a great big dangerous smile. He sticks out his hand. “Stan, and this
is my friend, Adam.” Reilly instantly hates them both.

“Drink?” Reilly asks Grace as she grabs her arm and drags her away, leaving me standing there.

Tons of thoughts continue to flood my brain like a flash flood in the Arizona desert.
Shoooosh!
Thoughts like,
Please don’t let this guy be in the entertainment business. Please let him look me directly in the eye
. Who is he? Where did he come from? Why is my heart racing?

Flitter, flutter
.

Huh, not quite a “flutter, flutter.” But a
“flitter
, flutter.” Oh, shit! I have a damaged flutter.

Wow, in five minutes or less, my internal warning system, or my internal sex meter, has gone off.

Two A.M. and I have been sitting on the patio talking to Laguna Beach stockbroker Stan for over two hours.

“I have to find my friends.” I run my finger over the rim of my empty vodka crème soda glass.

“They left about an hour ago, waved and gestured that they were leaving. The blonde gave me a big thumbs-up,” he says.

“Really?” I raise my eyebrow.

“Would I lie?” he says, raising his eyebrow, comically matching mine.

Hmmmmm, would a man lie? Silly, silly question. Of course he’d lie. Men will lie about anything to avoid anger or confrontation with a woman.

I set my drink down. “I don’t know, would you?”

“No, not to you.”

I like him already.

Chapter two

Keep It Out of the Office

P
eople who are late annoy me. Aren’t we all in a hurry? Isn’t all of our time valuable? So I try to be on time. Call it respect … for myself, for who I’m meeting. Just be on time. Living in Los Angeles, you leave an extra forty-five minutes to get anywhere, knowing that you will inevitably be stuck in traffic.

I am never late. Yet I’m late for Dr. D.’s office, as I’d rather lose twenty dollars of therapy than sit in the lobby, waiting, running the risk of being subjected to inappropriate “bridal” reading materials. I know it’s silly and a waste, but I’m willing to pay it.

Rushing into the inner lobby, I push the button outside his door to let him know I’m here and pace around because I don’t want to sit. I can see that … that … bridal magazine,
but I shake it off. Shake it off. The door opens. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It’s your time,” he says, opening the door to his office. In my spot on the burgundy sofa I already feel more relaxed this visit. The cuckoo clock actually brings a grin to my face.

“I met someone.”

“Did you get the flutter, flutter?”

“No, I got a
flitter
, flutter … but, yeah, I guess I got the flutter.”

Dr. D. sighs. “Did you sleep with him?”

“No, I am a self-respecting woman.”

I leave out the fact that I really, really wanted to, as it has been too long since I have even been kissed.

“Did you do your reasons for him yet?”

“No, but I did notice his eyebrows are waxed. Not really a reason, but it was weird, he has these really groomed eyebrows. They come to a perfect point at the end. It’s a little off. I mean, for a guy. At what point did men go from being the Marlboro Man to arching their brows like Ru Paul? It’s not really a reason, more a question.”

“I want to hear about the new flitter guy, but more importantly, did you bring your list?” Referring to my homework assignment from last week.

“I did,” I say, reaching into my Kate Spade bag. “The list of ten reasons that I guess I should have known or at least thought about before dating David.”

“That’s good.” Dr. D. gestures for the list and I hand it over like a teacher’s pet. He glances at it, places it on his yellow
legal pad, and takes his place across from me. “Tell me about him.”

As I start to remember David, it seems like I’ve already been through it in my head a thousand times. Within a few sentences I am back in that place and time, reliving it.

Four and a half years ago, Asheville, North Carolina, day one of our entertainment company retreat. Josh, my gay friend, and I are late for our first meeting of the morning. I spent the last hour lying on the double bed in Josh’s hotel room while he e-mailed his boyfriend, Ronald.

I am reduced to vicariously living through my gay male relationship for testosterone intake. Frankly, I think Ronald is a jerk who doesn’t deserve Josh, but then again, I don’t know who would be good enough for Josh. We’ve been friends since I moved to L.A. in the early nineties. He’s from Nebraska and always says he’s the only gay Jew from the state. We’re both single, both in PR, both looking for men. He’s my date to any social function where a girlfriend is unacceptable, unless of course you are Melissa Etheridge, Ellen, or Rosie.

I look at Josh as we run down the hotel corridor holding hands. He is the perfect specimen for me, if only he weren’t gay. But maybe that is why we are so close. There is no pretense, no hiding who we really are in hopes of getting the other naked. Just two people with similar morals, ethics, and senses of humor.

I would probably have an easier time getting him to say 10 Hail Marys and take Jesus as his favorite savior than I ever
would getting him to visit my little man in the canoe, my flower, my whoo-whoo.

We’re late for a presentation on corporate collaboration by our new CEO and president. I tug on Josh’s hand. “Come on!”

He barks back at me as we hurry down the hall holding hands, “Five minutes is fashionable, not late! Always the company do-gooder.”

“If I didn’t have to wait for you to instant-message Ronald, the sausage king, we wouldn’t be late,” I say, out of breath.