*Beep*
Del, it’s Mom. Listen, hope you’re not upset Daisy got engaged before you. Green’s never been your color . . . it makes you look more washed out than you already are. Can’t wait to see you tonight at the party. Bye!
*Beep*
Hi, Mom again. I meant to tell you . . . Patsy was in Manhattan recently and thought she saw you buying a dozen cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery. She waved but said you didn’t wave back. You must not have seen her. In any case, she said it’s normal for people to overeat when they’re depressed, and thought you were looking a bit hippy. Like I said, hope Daisy’s engagement isn’t upsetting you. Okay, see you tonight.
a list by delilah darling
friday, april 1
A list. Tony Robbins is telling me I need to make a list. A list of things that are wrong with me. Issues. Problems that need fixing. You see, I don’t have a therapist, so I rely heavily on self-help books (usually the audio version, downloaded into my iPod) to work out my problems. I wouldn’t make a list for just any self-help guru, but Tony’s my favorite, not only because he uses sexy phrases like “pathway to power” and “avenue of excellence” but also because he’s freakishly huge and has really white teeth. According to him, if a man with artificial hands can play a piano (which apparently, he can), then a perfectly healthy woman such as myself can overcome a few issues. But first I need to come up with a list.
Since I’m at the office I probably shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s late Friday afternoon and a mandatory staff meeting is beginning in twenty minutes so it’s useless to start a new work project. What’s not useless, however, is to start a personal project, so I grab a piece of paper and begin writing. Time is tight, but I think I can finish my list before the meeting begins; I just need to focus.
Things Wrong with Me
A list by Delilah Darling
1. I can’t focus.
2. My boss Roger is a lying, fat pig who is holding me back. I’m too judgmental.
3. I’m jealous of my younger sister, Daisy. (I’m not really, but my mom thinks I am, so I should look into it just in case.)
4. I’m starting to look more and more like Sally Struthers every day.
There, finished. To be honest, this is usually where I stop. Although I say I “rely heavily” on self-help books, I usually just read/listen to whatever the guru has to say and nod in agreement, like “Yep, that’s me. I sure am a mess!” I don’t actually take the necessary steps to fix whatever problem I’m addressing; I usually lose interest by that point. It’s part of the first thing on my list, not being able to focus. But today is the day I’m going to change all that. Today is the day I’m going to explore these issues a bit further.
Okay, one, the focusing problem. I think the reason I can’t focus is because I have a mild case of undiagnosed ADD. I’m not sure if ADD just didn’t exist when I was younger or if my doctor was a complete moron, but whatever the reason, I’m pretty sure I have it. For example, I can simultaneously play computer solitaire, read Glamour, instant message multiple people, paint my nails, talk on the phone, and work better than anyone else I know. I call this multitasking. I also have a hard time finishing things I start, like projects, for example. Considering my job title is “project manager,” this can be a bit of a problem.
I work at a company called Elisabeth Sterling Design (ESD for short), a company that designs and manufactures a popular line of household products. Elisabeth Sterling, a woman from humble beginnings, started her now-public company just fifteen years ago in a small Harlem studio apartment. She’s an artist who painted modern geometric designs on dishes that she sold through neighborhood boutiques. The dishes became all the rage in New York City, so much in fact, that she couldn’t keep up with the demand. Being the savvy businesswoman she was, rather than just hire an apprentice to help keep up, she hired a publicist to create some more hype and then a manufacturer and distributor to produce the dishes in mass quantities. Soon thereafter, Elisabeth Sterling Design was born.
To make a long story short, the line that began as dishes today includes just about every household product you can imagine—from cleaning to decorating to gardening—and is available exclusively at Target stores across the country. Four years ago, in what has become one of the biggest IPOs in history, Elisabeth took the company public and became a billionaire. Elisabeth Sterling is a household name. Elisabeth Sterling is an icon.
But let’s get back to me not focusing.
In addition to multitasking and not finishing projects, I tend to go off on tangents and speak in circles. (I sometimes speak in parentheses too.) And also, footnotes.1
Okay, now that I’ve explored one, let’s move on to two. Yes, I feel like I’m being held back at work, but after re-reading what I wrote about my boss being a lying fat pig, I feel like I should address the fact that I’m a tad judgmental first. I know it’s wrong to judge others, but when it comes to people like Roger, I feel like doing so is justified because he’s a slime ball who once tried to steal an idea from me. About six months ago, I had to come up with a unique color name for a pair of light green oven mitts that my team had just designed (to Elisabeth nothing is ever just orange, it’s pumpkin or persimmon or harvest moon) and was looking out the window, staring at the Statue of Liberty when suddenly, it came to me. “Oxidized copper,” I said aloud. Although “oxidized copper” might initially evoke thoughts of something rust-colored, copper turns green when it oxidizes, which the Statue of Liberty so beautifully demonstrates. “Oxidized copper.” It’s a smart and clever color name, and I knew Elisabeth would love it because she’s smart and clever herself.
Since Roger is my immediate boss, I report to him, and then he reports to Elisabeth. When he told her about the color name for the mitts, she loved it so much that he somehow ended up taking credit for it. When I found out and confronted him, he started whining pathetically saying, “She didn’t give me a chance to explain, and now it’s too late . . .” and blah blah blah. Lucky for me, my best friend and coworker Michelle is a tough cookie from Queens who refused to let Roger get away with what he did. To help me get the credit I deserved, she and her frizzy red hair marched into Roger’s office and demanded that he confess to Elisabeth, saying she had proof that I came up with the color name and not him.
“What kind of proof?” Roger asked nervously.
“If you must know,” Michelle warned. “I was testing out the memo recorder on a new interactive date book that my team is designing and happened to be in Delilah’s office recording when she came up with the name.”
Yes, it was a farfetched lie, but being the gullible sap he is, Roger believed it and fessed up to Elisabeth the next day. Although she was angry when he did, she didn’t fire him because she said she believed in giving people second chances.
Anyway, this is why it should be okay to call Roger a lying, fat pig. This is why it should be okay to make fun of his toupee and bad fashion sense.2 This is why it should be okay to send him evil subliminal messages.3 Roger is trying to hold me back. I want to be a designer, not a project manager; that’s what I went to school for. A project manager is a middleman. All I do all day is shuffle papers; it’s hardly an outlet for all my creative energy.
You know, the more I think about this, the more I think being too judgmental isn’t such an issue after all. Yes, in addition to Roger, I sometimes judge other people, but I don’t do it very often, and when I do, I do it only in my head and who’s that hurting? No one. In fact, it might be helping people because every time I say or think something really evil, I give money to charity to balance out any bad karma it might bring. If I stopped, the food supply in Third World countries might be negatively impacted. Looking at it this way, I think it’s clear what the real issue is:
Things Wrong with Me
A list by Delilah Darling
1. I can’t focus.
2. My boss Roger is a lying, fat pig who is holding me back. I’m too judgmental. My Catholic guilt is out of control.
3. I’m jealous of my younger sister, Daisy. (I’m not really, but my mom thinks I am, so I should look into it just in case.)
4. I’m starting to look more and more like Sally Struthers every day.
I mean, come on—that’s really what the problem is. Every time I do or think something that’s not considered “nice,” I think God is going to strike me down. Twelve years of Catholic school didn’t teach me much, but it sure did ingrain in me the fear of eternal damnation. I haven’t been to church in years, either. I’ve forgotten the Ten Commandments, I’ve forgotten the Seven Deadly Sins—I’ve obviously forgotten about the evils of premarital sex—why can’t I forget about burning in hell? I mean, there’s really no reason I should be hanging on to this.
Anyway, on to three. I’m not jealous of my sister, Daisy, and I know it. Yes, she’s younger than me, and, yes, she’s getting married before me, but I’m not bothered by it. What I am bothered by is that, like my mom demonstrated in her voice mails, everyone assumes I’m jealous and/or upset by this and therefore feels sorry for me. Tonight, my mom is throwing an engagement party for Daisy and her fiancé at her place in Connecticut, and I’m dreading going for this very reason. It’s going to be one big celebration for Daisy and one big pity party for me. Back pats and words of encouragement are going to be lurking around every corner.
To be honest, ever since I’ve been a little girl, things have always come more easily to Daisy than to me, and I’ve gotten used to it. For example, she doesn’t have the greatest job in the world (she sells wallets at Saks Fifth Avenue), but she never has money problems; she lives in a huge loft apartment in the West Village but barely pays any rent (it’s rent-stabilized); and she never diets or exercises but has the body of a supermodel (she could be Cindy Crawford’s twin). Daisy’s blessed, yes, but she’s so friendly and down-to-earth that it’s impossible to hate her for being lucky. So there, that’s settled. I’m not jealous. Once again, looking at this issue more deeply, I think it’s clear what the true problem is:
Things Wrong with Me
A list by Delilah Darling
1. I can’t focus.
2. My boss Roger is a lying, fat pig who is holding me back. I’m too judgmental. My Catholic guilt is out of control.
3. I’m jealous of my younger sister, Daisy. (I’m not really, but my mom thinks I am, so I should look into it just in case.) My mom is crazy.
4. I’m starting to look more and more like Sally Struthers every day.
She is, believe me.
Finally, on to four. I’m getting fat. Not fat fat, just chunky fat. I look a little like Sally Struthers looked in all those feed the children commercials she did, a little bloated. You can still see the thin person floating around inside me, so I’m thankfully not a lost cause, but if I don’t do something about my weight soon, I will be. (Just to make it clear, this is the only similarity I have to Sally Struthers; I look nothing like her otherwise. I stand about 5 feet 5 inches tall, and have long brown hair and big brown eyes.)
Anyway, I know why I’m getting chunky. Ever since I decided to stop the insanity, I began consuming large amounts of chocolate because I heard that doing so releases the same feel-good endorphins into the brain as having sex does. My thinking is this: If eating chocolate keeps a steady supply of these endorphins pumping through my brain while I hold out for Mr. Right, then I’ll be less likely to seek out other ways to activate those endorphins, i.e., having sex with another Mr. Right Now.
Women use all sorts of methods to keep themselves from having sex. Some wear grandma panties when they go on dates; others put off bikini waxes and refuse to shave their legs.4 I eat chocolate. It’s my version of the patch.
So that’s it. Those are my issues, things I’d like to change about myself. Although I didn’t come up with ways to fix these problems, I still feel a sense of accomplishment because I was able to focus long enough to finish exploring them before my meeting begins. I’m already making progress. Tony Robbins would be proud, I bet. And you know, in some strange way, I think the man with artificial hands who can play the piano would be proud too.
evildoers
The meeting is being held in the large conference room, so Michelle and I walk there together. We both started working at the company around the same time three years ago and have been inseparable ever since. We eat lunch together, we take breaks together, and since we live in the same East Village apartment building (she lived there first and gave me a heads-up when the old lady above her died), we frequently travel to and from work together as well. Michelle’s good people, which is why she’s my friend. She’s a very practical person with a strong voice of reason who always expresses her opinion about what I do, whether I like it or not. This can be irritating, but at the same time, it’s nice to have a friend who cares.
Although we aren’t exactly sure what today’s meeting is going to be about, we have a pretty good idea. About a year ago the company’s CFO, Barry Feinstein, was indicted on several counts of fraud for allegedly reporting inflated company profits to shareholders. According to the newspapers, the SEC has evidence that will likely convict Barry, but offered to lessen the charges against him if he cooperated with their investigation. He agreed and ratted out Elisabeth, saying she pressured him into fixing the books. Because of this, Elisabeth was indicted as well and has since stepped down as the company’s CEO.
Although not everyone believes it, rumor is that Elisabeth is innocent, that Barry ratted her out only to save his own ass. I believe the rumor and feel bad for Elisabeth. Not only is she on the verge of losing control of the company she built, but she’s also on the verge of losing her good name. The trial is set to begin in a couple of months.
After giving our names to a human resources lady taking attendance at the door, Michelle and I take two empty seats near a large picture window. As I look around the room, I can’t help but think that a few things about this meeting are strange. First, not everyone on the staff was invited. Second, the people who were invited are an oddly selected group—a few from this department, a few from that department. And third, I can’t remember the last time attendance was taken at a meeting, or if it ever has been. Although I would normally worry about this, I decide not to. Things have been so weird here lately, there’s no point in trying to make sense of it.
At quarter after four the meeting finally begins. As Roger wobbles up to the front of the room, the human resources lady passes out envelopes to everyone, asking us to wait to open them until she’s finished. Since I’ve never been good at waiting, I ignore her request. My guess (and hope) is that there’s a bonus or gift certificate inside, rewarding us dedicated employees for sticking with the company through this trying time. Elisabeth’s always doing nice things like this for the staff. After tearing the envelope open I pull out the enclosed piece of paper and begin reading, and—
Whoa, wait.
This isn’t a bonus; nor is it a gift certificate. In big bold letters across the top of the page are the words termination of employment. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Suddenly it’s like I have Tourette’s. “What the motherfuck is this?” I yell.
Oops!
I quickly cover my mouth but do so too late. Everyone in the room has already turned to stare at me, including the human resources lady, including Roger. Looking back down, I quickly scan the rest of the memo. (The ADD makes it difficult to read anything completely from beginning to end.) From what I gather, owing to a decline in profits, the company is downsizing and laying off 25 percent of the staff.
Oh. My. God.
I look back up. “We’re getting fired?” I ask. “Are you kidding me?”
Roger looks at me with pity. “We prefer to call it being laid off.”
“Oh yeah? Well, I prefer to call it bullshit.”
Roger shakes his head. “Delilah, I understand your frustration, but please watch your language.” He turns to the group. “Listen, I know this might come as a shocker to most of you, but there’s nothing anyone could’ve done to prevent it from happening. These layoffs were inevitable. This isn’t your fault.”
No, it’s not my fault; nor does it have anything to do with my multitasking, as I briefly suspected when I read “Termination of Employment.” For a split second I wondered if it was possible that someone was monitoring my computer use, reading my instant messages. I wondered if maybe there was a hidden camera in my office, behind my desk, watching me read Glamour, watching me paint my nails. But no, none of that has been happening because this isn’t my fault.
I look around the room. Since no one else is speaking up, I appoint myself the spokesperson. “So what are we supposed to do now?” A few coworkers nod when I speak. I feel proud to be their leader.
“Well, I’m sure you all wanna run right out of here, call your family and friends, and fill them in on what’s going on,” Roger says. “But I shouldn’t have to remind anyone about the confidentiality agreement you signed when this whole mess began. Please avoid talking to anyone about this, particularly the media. The last thing I want is for the details of this meeting to end up on Page Six and—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but I wasn’t asking how we should break the bad news to our loved ones and the press. I meant what are we supposed to do now? Like when’s our last day?”
“Today’s your last day,” Roger says quietly.
Today? I’m so shocked I can’t respond.
“Listen, I know this is hard for everyone to understand,” Roger continues, “but please know that this wasn’t an easy decision for us to make. This is something we’ve been mulling over for the past few weeks. The company’s tight on money; these layoffs were inevitable.”
Inevitable? My head begins to spin, I get dizzy with anger. A few weeks ago, when rumors of a possible layoff circulated, Roger denied them, saying they weren’t true. Now all of a sudden they were inevitable? I stand up.
“Then you shouldn’t have lied to us a few weeks ago,” I say angrily. “We’re loyal employees who stuck with this company during uncertain times when we could’ve been out looking for more secure jobs. How can you let this happen? How can Elisabeth let this happen?”
“Elisabeth fought this tooth and nail, but she’s no longer in control of this company. The board overruled her.”
“Well then the board needs to do something more to take care of us.”
As a few coworkers yell out from the back of the room, I suddenly begin to feel like Sally Field in that one movie where she works in a factory and starts a union. What’s it called? Norma Rae. Yes, that’s it.
I am Norma Rae.
The attendance-taking human resources lady must sense that the “union” is about to take over because she cuts Roger off and explains to everyone that employees who’ve been at the company for over three years will receive a severance check equal to two weeks’ pay for each year of employment. I quickly do the math in my head but can’t remember when I started. It was at least two years ago, but was it three? It’s hard to say.
“What if we haven’t been here for three years?” I ask on behalf of my union members and myself.
“Those who don’t receive a severance check can file for unemployment.” She then gleefully points out, “It’s up to four hundred dollars a week now!”
Four hundred dollars a week? Ooh party! Four hundred dollars a week in New York is pennies. This is not good, not good at all. Not only do I not have a savings account, I also don’t have any investments. The only thing I’ve ever invested in is a good pair of black pants.
I glare at Roger. He’s such a liar. He’s an evildoer, I tell you! Who does he think he is, standing up there in his high-waisted khaki Dockers that balloon at the knee from being worn too many times? He looks like a carnival act, for God’s sake, a clown. I wouldn’t be surprised if at any minute he started making balloon animals. And that belt he’s wearing . . . that ugly braided belt. Who wears braided belts anymore? Who has since 1995? No one, that’s who. It’s so horrible, the way it’s pulled too tightly around his fat belly, pinching him in the middle—it makes him look like the number eight.
When other people begin asking questions, I stop channeling Norma Rae and stare out the window at a large white cloud that’s hovering in the distance. If I could hop on it and fly away from this mess, I’d fly past all the office buildings in Manhattan, watch other people being fired, other people aside from me, and offer them words of encouragement.
“We’ll all be okay,” I’d say. And then they’d smile. And then we’d all go back to my place, work on our résumés, and write one another letters of recommendation. We’d help one another fill out job applications, and in the empty space after Desired Salary, we’d write “$1,000,000” and have a good laugh at our witty reply.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but eventually the meeting ends. When it does, two ladies from human resources begin calling everyone in the room over to a table alphabetically to answer questions and let us know if we’ve made the severance check cut. As Michelle and I wait for our turn, we debate when we started working for the company. I started a few days before she did, but neither of us is sure if it was over three years ago.
Michelle and I end up getting called over to the table at the same time. Her last name is Davis, so she always comes right after me in anything alphabetical. After waiting anxiously for the human resources lady to review what I assume is my file, I find out that I made the cut by four days.
Kick. Ass.
Not only will I get a check equivalent to six weeks’ salary in the mail sometime next week, but my health insurance will also last six more weeks. After thanking the lady, I turn to Michelle, who’s standing next to me.
“I made it by four days,” I sigh, relieved. She looks up.
“I missed it by two.”
By the look on her face, I can tell she’s disappointed and feels horrible about it. We do the same thing here—we’re both project managers. It doesn’t seem fair that I should get severance pay and not her.
“I’ll split my check with you,” I say quickly. “And you can split your unemployment check with me. We’ll pool all our money together and cut it right down the middle. That way we’ll make the same amount for the next six weeks.”
Michelle shakes her head. “I’m not taking your money Delilah, that’s not right.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, grabbing her by the shoulders. I try to reason with her. “You’ve helped me out so many times that I probably wouldn’t still have this job if it wasn’t for you.” It’s true. She’s always keeping me on track, always reminding me of things. “I owe you for that. Please let me do this.”
Michelle stares at me. I know she wants to take the money but feels bad. She needs to be pushed.
“Michelle, have you ever read Chicken Soup for the Soul at Work?” I ask.
“No,” she says, rolling her eyes. She hates when I quote self-help books.
“Well, I did, and in that book was a quote by a very wise woman named Sally Koch. Do you wanna know what she said?”
Michelle nods, indulging my need to share the wisdom.
“She said, ‘Great opportunities to help others seldom come, but small ones surround us daily.’”
A smile creeps across Michelle’s face. “You’re crazy, you know that?”
“Yes,” I respond, “yes I do.”
“Okay, fine,” she says, giving in. “You can give me your money if that’s what you wanna do.” She then leans over and gives me a hug. “Seriously, thanks,” she whispers. “It means a lot. I’ll figure out a way to make it up.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
After wiping away a few tears, Michelle and I clean out our desks in twenty minutes flat—there’s no reason to hang around the office any longer than necessary. Even though part of me wants to do something bad before I go, like leave a piece of meat in a desk drawer or put a ham steak in the drop ceiling, but I decide against it. I’m a nice Connecticut girl who only thinks of bad things—I don’t actually do them.
Rumor around the office is that everyone, fired or not, is going to a bar in Midtown known for its relaxed atmosphere and stiff margaritas. Although I don’t have much time before having to hop the train to Connecticut for Daisy’s engagement party, I figure I can squeeze in one drink. I want a drink, I need a drink, I deserve a drink . . .
pity party
. . . or four.
When I get to my mom’s house around nine o’clock, I find that I can’t focus and realize it has nothing to do with my ADD and everything to do with my LOM—my love of margaritas, that is. Yes, I’m drunk. And not only that, but as a bonus, because I’m clumsy and didn’t go home to change, I’m wrinkled and covered in tequila. I know it’s wrong to show up at my sister’s engagement party in this condition, but if I didn’t come up? Daisy would be disappointed and people would begin to speculate.
“She just couldn’t bear it.”
“Yeah, I hear she’s eating herself silly.”
“And to lose her job on top of it . . . what a life, that poor girl.”
Details of the big layoff topped the evening newscasts, so I’m no longer just the single, older sister, I’m now the jobless, single, older sister.
My mom and step-dad, Victor, live in the same large, white Colonial house I grew up in, forty miles north of New York City in the woodsy town of New Canaan, Connecticut. The party looks hopping, so without hesitation I head inside to join the fun.
When I open the front door, an overwhelming smell of garlic and perfume fills my nose. I almost sneeze but don’t, which irritates me. Almost sneezing is like almost having an orgasm. Sure it tickles getting there, but if you don’t get the release you were hoping for at the end, then what’s the point?
I see Daisy standing in the corner and head her way. She looks fabulous—a thin layer of tulle is peeking out from underneath the cream-colored circle skirt she’s wearing; the rhinestone buttons on her pink cardigan are sparkling. Engrossed in conversation with someone I don’t know, she doesn’t see me sneak up. I whisper softly in her ear. “There’s more St. John in here than a Park Avenue plastic surgeon’s office.” When she hears my voice, Daisy jumps and turns around.
“Delilah!” she screeches. Her teeth are as white as the china, her beautiful brown hair as bouncy as her boobs. She flings her arms around me. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I say, giving my sister a big squeeze. And I mean it. Despite my apprehension about coming, I wouldn’t have missed this party for the world.
“Let me ask you something,” Daisy says, turning us both around to face the crowd. “If this party is for me, then why aren’t any of my friends here?”
As I look out into a sea of middle-agers, all who look like they walked right out of Town & Country magazine, I smile. It’s so like my mom to throw a party for Daisy or me yet invite only her friends, many of whom we don’t even know. (It’s not that my mom doesn’t keep old friends, she’s just always making new ones.)
“Who are these people?” I ask, only half-joking.
Daisy shakes her head. “I have no idea.”
“Oh, Daisy, Mom’s just proud and wants to show you off.” I mean this—she and her friends are always trying to one-up one another with their kids.
Daisy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.”
“Hey, is Grandpa here?” I ask, looking around.
“No,” Daisy replies, looking slightly disappointed. “Apparently there was some schedule mishap at work.”
Our dad died in a car accident when we were younger, right after Daisy was born in fact. When he did, our grandpa—his dad—became like our father. He signed report cards, went to parent/teacher conferences—you name it. He was around more than some of our friends’ dads, always making sure we didn’t miss out by not having a father. Daisy and I were in grade school when my mom started dating Victor. When they decided to get married, my grandpa didn’t take it very well. Thinking Victor would try to take his place, he pulled both Daisy and me out of class one day and tried to convince us to move to California with him. He wasn’t trying to kidnap us or anything, it wasn’t anything creepy like that, it was more funny and sweet than anything else. Funny because, to this day, my grandpa rarely leaves the East Coast. Sweet because, when Daisy and I told him that no one could take his place, he smiled and then cried.
“He said he’d try to get off early,” Daisy continues, “but wasn’t sure he’d be able to.” Grandpa’s a bagger at the A & P grocery store in Danbury. It’s his retirement job, the thing he does to keep himself from going crazy with boredom. I’m disappointed he’s not here, but I have a feeling the reason has more to do with the fact that he doesn’t care for the hoity-toity New Canaan crowd my mom and Victor hang out with, than a schedule mishap at work. My grandpa’s very blue collar, very practical. Suddenly, my stomach grumbles loudly.
“Gee, hungry?” Daisy asks, her eyes widening.
“Starved,” I say, snatching a beef-kabob off a tray on a table behind us. My mom owns a catering company—Kitty Cannon’s Catering—so I’ve had the kabobs before. They’re pretty darn tasty. As I pop the large piece of steak into my mouth, Daisy holds her left hand out in front of my face. Hanging off her finger is quite possibly the largest, most brilliant diamond I’ve ever seen. I practically choke.
“Four carats,” Daisy says matter-of-factly, as the diamond sparkles in her eyes.
“Fourmf? Ohmf . . . wowmf,” I say, with a mouth full of meat.
“I know. I almost passed out when Edward gave it to me. It’s almost too big, you know?”
Ignoring Daisy’s comment, I listen to the Rock Report (four carats, Asscher cut, platinum band) and then anxiously look around for Edward. I haven’t yet met him; no one in the family has. Daisy and he have had a bit of a whirlwind romance—they met just six weeks ago. I feel stupid not knowing anything about him, but every time the two of us talk, Daisy gushes so much about how fabulous he is that by the time she regains her composure, her other line rings or something else happens and one of us has to go. The only thing anyone in the family really knows about him is that his name is Edward Barnett, he works on Wall Street somewhere, and he’s ten years older than Daisy.
“So where is he?” I ask. “Is he here?”
“Of course he’s here,” Daisy says, looking around. Smiling when she spots him, she nods in his direction. “He’s over there talking to Victor.”
I turn around and spot Victor in the corner talking to a man wearing a light blue shirt. Although his back is facing me, from what I can tell, he appears to be tall, dark, and handsome, and—oh yippee! He’s turning around. I get a better look at him. Sure enough, he’s tall, dark, and—
Whoa, wait.
Edward’s not just dark—he’s black. My eyes light up. Well, hallelujah, Daisy!
Turning back to my sister, I see a cheeky grin come across her face.
“Okay, this is so not a big deal,” I say, “but I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
Daisy laughs. “I know, I know,” she says quickly, “and I knew you wouldn’t care, it’s just that I didn’t want Mom knowing until she met him.”
“What did she say? Tell me everything!” My mom isn’t racist by any means, it’s just that not many black people live in New Canaan.
“Well, when I first introduced them, she stared at him for a few seconds with her mouth slightly ajar, but then I kicked her and she snapped right out of it!”
“Daisy, be serious!”
“Okay, fine, I didn’t kick her, but she did stare for a bit.”
“And?”
“And honestly . . . she’s fine with it. You know, I’m an adult, he’s an adult—she could care less. But Patsy on the other hand . . .”
As Daisy says this, I look over at Patsy—our bitchy, humorless, no-doubt sexless neighbor—and see her scowling at Edward. Patsy has never liked Daisy and me, so her obvious distaste for Edward probably has more to do with the fact that he’s made one of us happy than anything else.
After turning back to Daisy, I listen to her go on and on yet again about how in love she is, when it suddenly dawns on me that she can probably shed light on whether there’s any truth to a very popular myth.
“So is it true what they say?” I ask coyly when she finally exhales.
Daisy gives me a confused look. “True about what?”
I didn’t think I needed to explain what I was referring to, but apparently I did. “About his . . . you know. Is it big?”
Daisy’s cheeks turn red. “Delilah! I can’t believe you’d ask me something like that!” She quickly looks around to make sure no one heard my question.
“Well, sorry,” I say, defending my curiosity. “But since he’s only known you a month and already knows he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, I assume you did something right.”
“For your information,” Daisy sniffs, “we’re waiting to sleep together until we get married.” Holding her shoulders high in the air, she stands as tall as she can.
“Waiting? Why on earth would you do a thing like that?” Obviously, this concept is foreign to me.
“Because we have a lifetime to have sex, that’s why. Why rush it?”
I have to admit, Daisy’s behavior goes against the image I had of her. She dates way more than I do—way more—and I’m not saying that I think she’s easy, but only a prude would hold out on her fiancé. I’m going to get to the bottom of this . . . in a roundabout way.
“Hey, did you read the results of that sex survey in the Post a few months ago?”
Daisy shakes her head. “No, what survey?”
“It was really interesting. It said the average person first has sex at the age of seventeen.”
Daisy thinks about this for a second and then nods. “That sounds about right.”
“It also said the average person has 10.5 sexual partners in their lifetime.”
“10.5?” Daisy wrinkles her nose.
“Yeah . . . that doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“No, not at all!”
I’m instantly filled with relief. Maybe the survey is way off. Maybe having a number like nineteen isn’t that bad and I’ve been worrying for nothing. But on the other hand, if Daisy is saying this because she thinks 10.5 is too high, then I’m worse off than I thought.
“Wait—What do you mean by that?” I ask.
“I mean only a total tramp would sleep with that many guys.”
“A total tramp?”
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no!
I begin to feel sick.
“Yeah. I mean, between you and me,” she whispers, “I’ve only slept with four men.”
Four men?
FOUR?
Holy Sweet Mother of God!!!
Before I have a chance to ask Daisy if she’s kidding (Oh who am I kidding?—I’m sure she’s not), a breathy voice interrupts us.
“Delilah . . . you don’t return my phone calls . . . you’ve got me worried sick!”
It’s my mom. Reluctantly I turn around and find her staring at me pathetically. Her hair is perfectly coiffed and colored, her head slightly lowered.
“Mom!” I exclaim, raising my voice an octave, trying to sound excited to see her. “How are you?”
“Never mind me,” she says, patting down the wrinkles in my shirt. “You. How are you?”
“I’m—”
“Come,” she says, not letting me finish, “come to Mama.”
As my mom embraces me, she hugs me hard, squeezing me so intensely that I can barely breathe. Although I try to pull away, I can’t, so for the next minute, I find myself gasping for air as she silently rocks me back and forth. Even though she’s not saying anything, I know her well enough to know that her inner dialogue is jabbering away. You see, in her world, if a woman is single and thirty, it’s because she’s either a lesbian or a loser. Since my thirtieth birthday is three months away, she’s trying to figure out which it is and, more importantly, what she should tell her friends.
“What’s wrong with Delilah? Why can’t she meet a man? Is she a lesbian? No, no, she’s not a lesbian, she can’t be. Although she did like Joan Jett an awful lot when she was younger. And I swear I caught her listening to Melissa Etheridge the time she was home. I sure hope she wasn’t fired today, because if she was, then my excuse as to why she’s still single—she works too much—is no longer valid, which means that all my friends will assume she’s single because she’s a lesbian. It’s not that I don’t like lesbians, I do. Lesbians are funny. Look at Ellen DeGeneres. They can be successful too. Look at Hillary Clinton. Oops, she’s not a lesbian . . .”
Yes, the pity party has officially begun.
“Honey,” she says, finally breaking her silence. “Did you lose your job today?” She’s talking to me like I’m a dog.
“Lose her job?” Daisy pipes in, confused. “Why would she lose her job?”
“Daisy honey, watch the news once in a while, will you?” my mom says, as she finally (thankfully) releases her hold on me. “There were big layoffs today at ESD.”
“Layoffs?” Daisy gasps loudly. Glaring at me, she then slugs my arm. Hard.
“Ouch!” I scream.
“Oh ouch nothing!” Daisy says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know,” I say quietly. “I didn’t—”
Suddenly sensing we’re not alone, I stop talking and turn around. Just as I suspected, all of my mom’s friends have gathered around, waiting to hear what I have to say. Like I said, Elisabeth is an icon, so to hear the scoop on the day’s events from an actual staff member is exciting. All of their big owlish eyes (the result of overzealous plastic surgeons) are on me. All of their big black pupils (the result of one too many Vicodins) make me nervous. I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone or in Rosemary’s Baby. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to say, so . . . I lie.
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t lose my job.”
My mom lets out a huge sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord!” she exclaims. “When the news said almost twenty-five percent of the staff was let go, I thought for sure you were a goner!”
“Thanks for the confidence, Mom,” I mutter. Ignoring me, she turns around to address her friends.
“Did you all hear that?” she says gleefully. “She said she didn’t lose her job!”
As my mom’s friends come up to congratulate her, I turn back to Daisy and roll my eyes.
“C’mon,” she says, putting her arm around me, “let’s go meet Edward.”
After chatting with Edward for the next hour (who couldn’t be more perfect, by the way), I spot waiters making rounds with my mom’s famous chocolate bonbons and excuse myself to go to the kitchen, to the source. Since I’ve started using chocolate as my patch, I’ve built up quite a tolerance and know one won’t be enough. After grabbing a handful, I head upstairs to eat them alone in my old bedroom, and pass by Patsy on my way there. Glancing down at the pile of bonbons I’m holding, she shakes her head in disgust. Slightly embarrassed, I ignore her and continue on my way.
When I get to my room, I close the door behind me and take a deep breath. Gosh, what a day, what a night. Leaning against the door, I look around and become melancholy. My room hasn’t changed since the day I left home for college. The Laura Ashley wallpaper still matches the Laura Ashley bedspread which still matches the Laura Ashley curtains. Posters of REM and Pearl Jam still hang on the wall. It’s a room frozen in time, a room frozen at a time in my life when the world was one big opportunity waiting to happen.
Thinking about my life, I can’t help but feel like a loser. I mean, I always imagined things would be perfect by now. I wouldn’t just have a job—I’d own my own company. I wouldn’t just rent an apartment on the fourth floor of an East Village walkup—I’d own my own loft in Tribeca. I wouldn’t still be single—I’d be happily married with a big family.
Looking at my dresser, I see a pile of stationery sitting on top, so I walk over and pick it up. Covered in stars, it says FROM THE DESK OF LITTLE DARLING along the top. Little Darling, my grandpa used to call Daisy and me that when we were little girls. It was his nickname for us. Looking up, I gaze into the mirror and wonder if the girl who used to live in this room—Little Darling—could write a letter on this star-studded stationery today, I wonder what she’d say to me. After thinking about this for a minute, I plop down on the edge of my bed and reach for a bonbon. Instead of eating it right away, I stare at it for a while and feel sorry for myself. Then, a few moments later, something hits me—a thought.
I’m pathetic! I’m completely, utterly and totally pathetic!
What kind of loser sulks in a childhood bedroom while eating bonbons on a Friday night? Moping about what I don’t have and what I didn’t do isn’t going to make life any better. Neither is eating a dozen bonbons. I just lost my job, for God’s sake. I should be out with my friends and coworkers, letting loose and acting like an idiot, not sitting alone contemplating my self-worth. I can deal with the real world tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that.
Although I was planning on staying the night, I decide not to and call Michelle to see if she’s still out. Sure enough, she is, as are all my coworkers. Deciding I should be with them, I stand up and throw all the bonbons out the window. I don’t need food—I need a drink!
I tell my mom and Daisy that I received an emergency phone call from work and have to leave immediately to prepare for an early morning crisis-control meeting. They’re both very understanding. After that, I call a taxi to take me back to the train station and hop on the 11:40 train back to Manhattan. I arrive at Grand Central just before one o’clock and head straight out to meet Michelle at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen.
For the rest of the night (morning?), Michelle, my former coworkers, and I reminisce about the past, toast to the future, laugh, cry, and eventually . . . sing karaoke. After that, we go to a bar in the Meatpacking District, then to another in Chelsea, and then . . . then I’m not so sure what happens.
1 I wonder if people with ADD are eligible for workers’ comp. If so, then I need to get a proper diagnosis right away so I can take advantage of the perks.
2 Roger is a holiday dresser of the worst kind. Some of the offending accessories I’ve seen him sport include a Santa tie, reindeer horns, a blinking shamrock button, Easter bunny ears, Dracula fangs, American flag suspenders, and, yes, a pilgrim hat.
3 I frequently stare at the permanent eyeglass indentions above his ears while silently chanting the word “loser.”
4 I once met a girl who would write the word “slut” in permanent marker on her belly before every first date to prevent herself from hooking up. Harsh? Yes. But effective? Absolutely.