#15 The R.O.D.
Real name: Rod Verdicchio.
Booty-call Boyfriend.
Obsessed with his D.O.G.
*Beep*
Del, this is Mom. Elisabeth herself sent you on a special, top-secret assignment? How exciting!
Have fun traveling, dear, and don’t forget—drink lots of water and moisturize liberally. Airplanes really dehydrate your skin, which is something you can’t afford. I noticed you’ve been getting some fine lines around your eyes. Have fun!
*Beep*
Hey, it’s Daisy. Got your message. I’m so jealous you’re going away—Mom’s driving me crazy. Call me.
the R.O.D.
wednesday, april 6
After slipping a check for one hundred fifty dollars under Colin’s door, I leave early the next morning. Philadelphia is a good city to start my search in for one main reason: it’s close to New York and I’m a really bad driver. I’m okay when it comes to driving around town (I find comfort in all the stopping and going that goes along with it), but what I don’t like is driving on the highway. Not only am I afraid to go fast, but when things get too still, like when I’m cruising along with all the other drivers, I become paranoid. I hear funny noises—clicks, hums, and rattles—that aren’t really there, and I assume that a tire’s about to fall off or the engine’s about to blow. Because of this fear, I’m cautious when driving, perhaps too cautious. I’m the driver everyone hates on the highway, the one who drives forty miles per hour in a fifty-five mile zone, with my hands at “ten and two.” I’m a total mess.
Since I didn’t want the simple fact that I can’t drive to prevent me from going on this road trip, I convinced myself that all I need is a little practice. Until I get more comfortable, to help deter my mind from obsessing, as well as to drown out the clicks, hums, and rattles, I tune my iPod to the playlist that contains songs from the year 2000, for that’s when I met the reason I’m going to Philly. As sounds of *NSYNC fill my ears, I say “Baby, bye, bye, bye” to New York, and begin to remember #15 on my list, Rod Verdicchio.
I don’t know if dated is the right word to use when describing my relationship with Rod. He wasn’t a one-night stand, but he wasn’t a boyfriend either. In fact, he never even took me to dinner. What can I say, guys like this happen.
I was twenty-five years old at the time and had a very active social life. Every weekend my friends and I went out to whatever the hottest Manhattan club was of the moment and danced our sweaty booties off ’till dawn. Everywhere we went, no matter where it was in the city, we always ran into Rod and his friends. The reason we initially noticed them was because they were big guys, guys who didn’t fit in with the rest of the scene. You see, when a place in Manhattan is considered hot, the average Joe just can’t walk in off the street and have a drink. In order to get inside, either you have to know someone and get your name on a list, or you have to look amazing and impress the doorman, which is easier said than done because he’s usually an asshole, especially to guys. Rod and his friends weren’t pretty boys, nor did they dress particularly well, so I’m not sure how they got into half the places they did. But whatever the reason, they were at every club, every opening, every party.
Rod was over six feet tall and about two hundred pounds. He was Italian, really Italian, born and bred in South Philly. He was a little bit of a meathead, however, not in the “I like to work out” kind of way but more in the “I like to pig out” kind of way. He liked pizza and power tools, football and fixing things, which is actually the reason I was attracted to him. In New York, a city of metrosexuals, Rod was one of the few “guys” left.
Rod and I always said hello to each other and therefore quickly became friends. He was a born salesman and was very charming. One night he invited me back to his place after the bar closed for a nightcap, and I eagerly accepted. We kissed and hooked up that evening, but didn’t end up sleeping together. Before I left, we exchanged phone numbers, but neither of us called the other. I’m not sure of Rod’s reason for not doing so, but as for me, although I liked him, I didn’t get butterflies in my stomach when I saw him. He was just a funny, nice guy, someone to hook up with.
The next time we ran into each other, the same thing happened. We went back to his place after the bar closed, hooked up, and then neither of us called the other. This proceeded to happen again and then again—both times with no post-hookup phone call. The phone calls didn’t start until we slept together. As much as I’d like to say they were daytime “What are you doing this weekend?” phone calls, I can’t because they were nighttime “Do you wanna have sex?” phone calls. Yes, Rod was my booty-call boyfriend.
For as much fun as I had with Rod, I knew I’d never develop feelings for him because I found him slightly irritating, which is why he was perfect for this. For some reason, he’d always refer to himself in the third person, and would spell out his name while doing so. For example, if we were out and he wanted to go home, he’d say, “The R.O.D. wants to leave.” Or if he was telling me about a particularly grueling day, he’d say, “The R.O.D. is wiped.” This kind of talk bothered the D.E.L.I.L.A.H. (It doesn’t work as well with longer names.)
Another thing that bugged me about the R.O.D. was that he was completely obsessed with his D.O.G., a black L.A.B. named M.A.X. Apparently, Max had a medical problem and almost died when he was a puppy, and ever since, Rod had admittedly become infatuated with him. “I almost lost him,” he’d say, when recalling the gruesome details of Max’s lifesaving surgery. Rod worshiped Max. He talked about him all the time and took him everywhere he went. They were inseparable, the two of them. Case in point: Rod allowed Max to sit on his bed while we were having sex. It was so awkward. He’d hang out down by our feet and watch, I swear.
Because Max totally ruined the mood for me, I asked Rod if he could make him wait outside the bedroom until we were finished. When I did, he, of course, said no and pointed out, “You’re in his bed, you know.” Yeah, it was covered in dog hair, I knew.
After weeks of begging, I was finally able to convince Rod to at least make Max get off the bed during sex; however doing so backfired on me. Realizing he was being slighted, Max would sit at the edge of the bed and stare at me. Holding his head one foot away from mine, he’d breathe his smelly dog breath on me and occasionally drool on the sheets. It was horrible.
“Just ignore him,” Rod would say. Pump, pump, pump.
Ignore him? I couldn’t ignore him. Every so often I felt his cold wet nose rub against my elbow, and one time he even leaned over and gave me a kiss.1 Eventually I started to hate Max, and I like dogs too, so that’s saying a lot. My hatred ran deep, so deep in fact that it freaked me out because I didn’t know where it came from. As time went on, however, as Rod and I continued to have sex, I slowly figured it out. I didn’t hate Max because he was always hanging around; I hated him because he got more of Rod’s attention than I did. I was jealous.
When I got involved with Rod, I knew what I was getting into. It was just sex—he didn’t want anything from me, and I didn’t want anything from him. But when I saw the way he acted with his dog, when I saw how much he cared for him, I couldn’t help but feel something more. It was attractive the way he took care of Max. In the morning he’d take him for a walk and make him a steak breakfast, and then afterward, he’d rub his belly and brush his coat until it was shiny. Rod never did any of those things for me. He never rubbed my belly, never fed me steak, never brushed my hair. I wanted the attention Rod gave Max.
It’s a funny thing. When it comes to having sex, I try to convince myself that every once in a while I can have it like a man, with no strings attached. Sex is fun; it can be purely physical. I’m a single working woman in New York City, for God’s sake; I need to work off stress. But more often than not, doing this backfires on me, much like making Max get off the bed during sex did. I’m not a man, I’m a woman, and we aren’t wired the same way, it’s a fact. We have a hormone (oxytocin) that makes it difficult to have unemotional sex.2 I’m not saying all women are helpless romantics who fall in love with every guy they sleep with, but it’s not as easy to shut off your emotions as it seems. This is what happened with Rod. I went in thinking it was just sex but ended up developing feelings; I ended up wanting more.
I didn’t want to put Rod on the spot and tell him how I felt because I didn’t think it was fair. I signed up for a booty-call relationship, after all; it was wrong for me to expect anything but. Because of this, I hinted to him a couple of times about us doing something when it was light outside, but he didn’t really respond to the idea, so I let it go.
Since I kept thinking and hoping that Rod would fall in love with me, I didn’t put an end to the booty calls. I still went to his apartment at all hours of the night and still had sex with him while his dog watched and waited for us to finish. And afterward, sometimes, I’d lie in his bed and feel sorry for myself.
Then a funny thing happened. One morning, while I was doing just this, Rod got up to take a shower. When he did, I looked down at Max, who was lying at my feet, and gave him a sad little smile. When I did, Max wagged his tail, and then came over and licked my arm. It was like he was giving me a kiss, telling me it was going to be okay. It was so sweet. I never realized how cute he was until that moment.
When Rod got out of the shower, for some reason, Max stopped what he was doing and hurried back down to the foot of the bed. Once I smoothed out the covers, we both closed our eyes like we had been sleeping the whole time Rod was gone. When he came back to his room and got dressed, Max and I peeked at each other at a couple of times, like we knew we had shared a moment, but neither of us wanted Rod to know. I’m not sure what Max’s reasons were, but I didn’t want Rod to think I was using his dog to get closer to him, like “Your dog likes me, so you should, too.”
The next time I was at Rod’s, it happened again. When Rod went to the kitchen to get something to eat, Max laid down next to me and the two of us hugged. It was great—not only was Max warm and cuddly but he had a lovely scent to him too. He smelled a little bit like butterscotch. Once again, when we heard Rod walking toward the bedroom, Max hauled ass back down to the foot of the bed again, just like he did the previous time.
From this point, things spiraled out of control. I started booty-calling Rod more and more, just so I could see his dog. And every night after sex, rather than feel sorry for myself, I’d look forward to morning, look forward to Rod’s shower, look forward to having another quickie with Max, my little Maxi-pad. During the time we spent together, I told Max all about my life, all about my problems. I talked and talked and talked, and he blinked. Max knew about my friends, about my family—Rod didn’t know about any of those things. For once it was so nice to have someone who listened.
As I started delving into deeper issues with Max, I realized that Rod’s showers weren’t long enough. (Ten minutes is hardly enough time to contemplate your self-worth, you know?) To allow myself more time with him, I started doing things to get Rod out of the apartment. I sent him out for coffee and doughnuts in the morning I even hid his box of condoms and one night, forced him to go out and get more. Poor Rod had no idea what was going on; it was like Max and I were having an affair behind his back.
One day I realized that I didn’t care about Rod anymore. All the feelings I thought I had for him were gone. But I didn’t want to stop the booty calls, no way—I was too attached to Max to do that. I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck between a dog and hard place.
Then once again a funny thing happened. One night Rod got a little carried away during sex. Right before he was about to . . . get there, he yelled, “Give it to the R.O.D! Right-O!!!!!” at the top of his lungs. Max must have thought Rod was hurting me because he started barking ferociously at him—he even bared his teeth. It was awkward. Rod’s dog turned on him to protect me.
That was the last time I saw either of them. Not only did Rod ask me to not stay the night that evening, but the next time I booty-called him he said he didn’t think it was a good idea if we saw each other anymore. Just like that, our relationship was over. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little saddened by the demise of Rod’s and my relationship, but I’m pretty sure I missed the company of Rod more than I missed Rod himself. I mean, sometimes it’s just nice to be with someone, even if you know he isn’t the one.
Right around the same time, my friends and I stopped going out every weekend. I got sick of the scene, sick of getting decked out, sick of the same old, same old. I was getting older and didn’t find it as exciting as I once did.
According to Brody, P.I. (insert bad ’80s TV theme song here), Rod and Max have been living in Philadelphia since 2002. Despite the awkward way things ended, I still have fond memories of the time we spent together. I miss his warm body next to mine and I’m excited to see him again. Rod too.
My drive to Philadelphia goes off without a hitch, but as I pull up to my hotel, I quickly realize booking it before I left New York might not have been such a good idea. Although it’s not far from where Rod lives, the locale leaves something to be desired. Situated in South Philly by the stadium, the neighborhood looks like the one Rocky used to live in before he beat Apollo Creed’s ass and moved into the mansion. However, I’m not going to be high-maintenance. I can stay in a room that smells like smoke in a gross hotel in a rough neighborhood, I can. I’m not on a vacay; I’m on a mission.
After settling in, I decide to drive by Rod’s house, so I put on my sunglasses/baseball hat disguise and head out. He lives in a neighborhood off Passayunk, a main street that runs through South Philly, and the closer I get to it, the nicer the scenery becomes.
Rod is obviously doing well for himself. He lives in a beautiful brownstone on a tree-lined street. Flower boxes bursting with color hang from his windows. After finding a parking spot across the street, I pull in, turn off the engine and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
By ten o’clock that evening, Rod still hasn’t made an appearance, so I head back to the hotel. From what I remember, he used to take Max for his morning walk around seven o’clock, so I decide to go back then.
The next morning, sure enough, Rod emerges from his house with Max at seven o’clock on the dot. When I see them, an enormous smile comes across my face. I can’t help it—this is all so exciting! As I watch them walk down the street, I notice that both of them seem to have put on a little weight. However, they don’t look bad—they look good.
When Rod and Max disappear around the corner at the end of the block, I turn on my car and nervously follow. Michelle was right. Saying I was going to do this was one thing, actually doing it is quite another. My hands are shaking so much that I can barely hold the wheel. Two blocks away, they enter what seems to be a dog park, so I pull my car over to the side of the road and watch them play for the next twenty minutes or so.
Rod seems confident, which to me is the biggest turn-on. Confidence has a way of making me want to tear the clothes off of even the most average-looking man.3 After deciding he’s worth a second chance, I ponder my next step. I believe our relationship ended because Rod thought Max liked me better, because Rod felt Max’s loyalty might have resided with me and not him. I came between them, and I need something to show Rod that it won’t happen again. It’s clear to me what I need, it is . . .
I need my own dog.
bitches and studs
Later that morning, around ten o’clock, I walk into a pet store on Passayunk and begin to look for my new best friend. I know I can be impulsive, but getting a dog is something I’ve thought about for a while, ever since Max, actually. The only reason I never took the plunge is because I was working so much. But I don’t have that problem anymore. Yes, I realize that a road trip probably isn’t the best time to get a dog, but that’s beside the point.
Since I live in a small apartment, I think a little dog is the best way to go. However, to avoid comparisons to irritating people like Paris Hilton and Tinkerbell (Sorry, Tinks . . . your mom bugs me way more than you do), I will not dress my dog up like a doll, carry it around in a bag like an accessory, or raise my voice a gazillion octaves and talk to it like a baby (“puppy-talk”)—because it’s not any of those things. In my opinion, “puppy-talking” is the worst of these crimes—it’s demeaning to both you and the dog. I never spoke to Max that way, and I think he respected me for it.
Toward the back of the store, behind a big glass wall, are dozens of puppies sitting on display, waiting for someone to take them home. There are puppies of every color—puppies playing, puppies sleeping, puppies pooping—puppies, puppies, puppies everywhere. As they look out at me with their big dark eyes, I can’t help but feel sorry for them, I mean, they’re all cute, every one of them, it’s just how cute they are compared to the others that determines whether or not someone takes them home. It’s all about the competition in a pet store, just like it was in all those Manhattan clubs I’d go to when I met Rod. You feel confident and sexy when the doorman gives you the green-light to enter, but once you get inside and realize you’re one sexy person amongst a thousand and experience just how fierce the competition really is, it’s a bit disappointing.
Working my way down the cages, I pass three Malteses sleeping on top of one another, two Jack Russell Terriers chewing each other’s ears, one Bulldog taking a dump, and oh wow . . . the cutest chocolate-colored Lab ever. Yes, I want a small dog, but this one sure is a cutie! When I kneel down to take a good look, the dog wags its tail and presses its nose to the glass, then lies down and rolls over on his back to expose his belly and—
Oh, Jesus!
The dog—obviously a boy—is very excited. I quickly look away, feeling like I’ve just seen the centerfold in Puppy Playgirl.
Standing back up, I leave the chocolate Lab hanging in the breeze (both figuratively and literally) when a young kid who works in the store walks over to me. Maybe eighteen years old, he has pimples on his chin, a pair of Harry Potter glasses on his nose, and a silver smile (braces) that stretches from ear to ear. He’s wearing a name tag, but I don’t look at it because I don’t want to know his name. For some reason, I’ve decided that his name is going to be the Kid.
“Can I show you a puppy?” the Kid asks.
“Yeah . . . but I’m not sure which one I want to see yet. The only thing I’m sure about is that I don’t want a boy dog. I want a girl dog.” No way am I getting a boy, not after what I just saw.
Before the Kid has a chance to respond, I hear a scary, shrilly voice come from behind me. “You mean you want a bitch!” When I turn around, I see an ugly, old hag of a lady standing behind a counter.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“They’re not called girl dogs,” she huffs, correcting me. “They’re called bitches! And the boy dogs are called males!”
Bitches and males? That doesn’t seem fair. “Why aren’t the boy dogs called bastards?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” the old lady says defensively, throwing her hands in the air. “Sometimes they’re called studs—it’s just the way things are.” Bitches and studs? That’s even worse.
“Well, it’s not right,” I tell her. “And I’m not gonna perpetuate it.” I turn back to the Kid and speak loudly. “I’d like to see a girl dog, please.” the Kid smiles.
“I have a really great girl dog downstairs, let me go get her.”
As I wait for the Kid to return, I think of two more similarities between why this place and one of those Manhattan clubs. Not only are they both filled with bitches and studs, both also come equipped with an asshole. The Manhattan hot spot usually has one at the door; this place has one behind the counter.
The Kid returns and motions for me to come to the back of the store. When I arrive to a one-on-one puppy playroom, he’s holds up a tiny black and brown Yorkie for me to see. “She weighs four pounds,” he says.
Although she’s a little scruffy and scraggly, she’s cute, so I take her from him. When I do, she looks up at me. Long eyelashes frame her big brown eyes, and her button nose is as black as they come. She looks like Chewbacca with one heck of a handlebar mustache.
“She’s cute,” I tell the Kid, “but I was hoping for something a little bigger than four pounds.” Hearing me say this, the Yorkie begins blinking incessantly. It’s like she can understand me and is batting her eyelashes, flirting, trying her hardest to show me how adorable she is. Seeing her work it makes me smile. When I do, I swear to God . . . she smiles too. My mouth drops open.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, looking up at the Kid. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“She smiled at me—I swear, she did!”
“Oh, you don’t have to convince me—she does it all the time. That’s why I wanted you to see her. If you look back down at her, she’ll do it again.”
I do what the Kid says and look back down at the puppy, and sure enough, she smiles again. Suddenly a voice comes out of my mouth that I do not recognize: “Hewwwo you wittle poopy poopy poo!” I screech. “Who’s so pwetty today? Whooo? You are, dat’s whooo!” Looking up, I cover my mouth in horror. “I always said I’d never do that!” I say to the Kid, in my normal voice.
“It happens.”
I look back down. “Whooo’s my butter wutter babycakes?” I squeal again. “You are, dat’s whooo!” By God, he’s right.
Hearing my high-pitched voice makes the puppy cock her head. Call me crazy, but I think she can understand what I’m saying. “She’s so adorable,” I say, laying her in the crook of my arm. I then rock her like a baby. When I bring my finger up to her nose, she bats it with her paws and tries to bite it. “How much is she?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure she’s on sale,” the Kid says. “The old lady marked her down.”
Bending over, I put her on the ground. Holding her head high in the air, she scampers around like a princess. “Marked her down?” That’s odd. “Why?”
“Because she’s old.”
“Old?” Reaching down, I turn her collar until I can read her birthday. She was born six months ago. “You’re not old,” I tell her. She stops and stares at me intensely. A few seconds later, she backs up ever so slowly and then charges toward me like a bull.
Ruff, ruff, ruff!
Oh my, she’s got the most ferocious bark I’ve ever heard.
“Compared to the other dogs here she is,” the Kid says. “Most of them are around three months.”
Scooping the puppy back up, I stand. “So she’s been banished to the basement and marked down? How horrible!” I look at her. Poor thing, pushed out by all the younger bitches, kept downstairs in the basement because she’s older than all the other available pups. Telepathically, I tell her that I know how she feels. I felt the same way after Rod and I stopped seeing each other, when I stopped going out. I was older than all the available bitches out there too, and the competition just got too fierce.
“I don’t know why she’s still here,” the Kid continues. “A lot of people play with her, but for some reason, no one commits.” A lot of people play with her, but no one commits? Once again, I telepathically tell her that I know how she feels. As she bats her eyelashes at me again, I can’t help but feel like I’m looking into a mirror. If dogs lived in a parallel universe, then this puppy would be me.
“So what do you think?” the Kid asks.
What do I think? I think the connection I have to this dog is too deep for me to leave her here, no way, not after learning her story. They say people get dogs that resemble themselves, but I always thought they meant in the looks department. I look up at the Kid. “I’ll take her.”
“Oh goodie!” he exclaims, smiling a smile that’s so big the bad overhead lighting reflects in his braces and practically blinds me. “I’m so happy she’s finally getting a home!” He reaches out to take her.
“No!” I snap, pulling her in close. “I’m just gonna hold her. She needs that. Trust me, I know.”
The Kid smiles; he understands.
Since a new dog isn’t in my budget, I hand over my credit card. (She’s one of life’s little emergencies.) After filling out the paperwork and signing on the dotted line, I parade my pup past all the other bitches on display. I know it’s not their fault for being so young and cute, but I want them to know just who’s going home today.
On my way out, I glare at the ornery old lady behind the counter. “No one puts baby in the corner!” I yell to her. “Or the basement!”
bringing up baby
friday, april 8
“Baby” is from Budapest, that’s what the Kid told me. I don’t know why and I don’t want to know why, so I didn’t ask. All I know is that I’m going to be getting some Hungarian papers in the mail instead of AKC papers. To be honest, I think it’s kind of cool and I feel proud that I’m creating a family that’s culturally diverse. I feel like Angelina Jolie.
When I first learned about Baby’s past, I pictured her wearing a babushka and talking with an accent, but then I decided that she’s much too fabulous for a babushka. Baby’s more like a Gabor—both Zsa Zsa and Eva are from Budapest.4 In fact, I’m going to name her after one of them—Baby can be her nickname. Hmm. Eva or Zsa Zsa, Eva or Zsa Zsa . . .
Okay, I’ve decided.
Drumroll, please! (Drumroll begins.)
Everyone, I’d now like to introduce, direct from Budapest via South Philly . . . Eva Gabor, the four-pound Yorkie!
(Deafening applause.)
The next morning, after praising Eva for sleeping through the night, I shower and change into a casual outfit to wear to the dog park—low-waisted jeans, a pink T-shirt and super-cute, open-toed sandals. After that, Eva and I head out the door. On the drive there, she sits on my lap, which kind of freaks me out. I mean, if someone were to hit me because I was . . . let’s say . . . driving too slowly or something, she’d fly right through the windshield. Eva needs a baby seat—it’s as simple as that.
After parking my car around the block, I attach a leash to Eva’s harness and attempt to walk her, but quickly realize that walking on a leash isn’t something that’s instinctual with dogs. After running around in a circle and darting from left to right, she’s plopped down in the middle of the sidewalk and started chewing on her leash. Thinking she’ll catch on, I give her a little tug and try to walk forward, but I end up dragging her. Realizing this is going to take some practice, I pick Eva up and carry her.
Rod and Max are already at the dog park when we arrive, as are five other dogs and owners. Since I’m not exactly sure what I should do, I decide to wait for Rod to recognize me, so I put Eva down on the ground to play. When I do, all the dogs in the park, including Max, run over and head-butt one another as they try to get close to her butt. When I say hello to Max, he kisses my hand over and over again—I’m sure he remembers me. Although I get tears in my eyes, I fight them back. I can’t get too attached to him. I have my own dog now. I need to leave that space in my heart open for her.
In the end, an Italian Greyhound wins out and ends up getting the most intense sniff of Eva’s butt. As he does, the people in the park walk over to claim their dogs, including Rod. The closer he gets to where I’m standing, the more nervous I become. As he grabs Max by the collar and pulls him away from Eva, he looks up. This is it, the moment I’ve been waiting for. He’s going to see me and be pleasantly surprised. I hope. He’s going to tell me how good I look. I hope. He’s going to tell me that he misses me. I hope.
“Sorry,” Rod says. He then turns and walks away.
Okay, that didn’t go exactly as I imagined. I know he saw me, he looked me straight in the eye. Why didn’t he say hello? Before he gets too far away, I realize I have to make a move.
“Cute dog,” I say, trying to initiate conversation.
Glancing over his shoulder, Rod looks me in the eye again, and smiles. “Thanks.” He then turns around and continues to walk away.
Why is he doing this? Is he doing that thing people do when they see someone they don’t want to see . . . gosh, what’s it called? Oh yes—ignore them. Is that what he’s doing? If so, I’m not going to let him get away with it. I stayed two nights in a shitty hotel and bought a dog for him, damn it—he’s going to talk to me! I boldly call out to him. “Rod?” He turns around. He looks confused.
“Do we know each other?” he asks. I let out a pathetic laugh.
“Yeah, you could say we do.”
Suddenly having a moment of realization, Rod hits himself in the head with the palm of his hand. “I’m so sorry!” he exclaims. A sense of relief comes over me. I mean, if he didn’t remember me, it would be the most embarrassing thing ever. “It’s Darcy, right?” Not remembering my name, however, runs a pretty close second.
“Delilah,” I respond smugly. I mean, is he kidding?
Rod hits himself in the head again. “Delilah, right. Gosh . . . sorry. I’m not good at remembering names and faces.”
“How about hooters?” I ask, as I lift up my blouse to flash him. Kidding, I don’t really say or do this.
Rod bends down to look at Eva. “Is this your dog?”
I nod. “Yeah, isn’t she cute?”
“She sure is,” he says, picking her up. “She’s so little. How old is she?”
“Six months. I just got her yesterday.”
“Yesterday? Wow . . .” Eva looks like a football in Rod’s big hands. “What’s her name?”
“Eva Gabor.”
“Hewwwo Miss Eva Gabor!” Rod says in an extremely high-pitched puppy-talk voice. I laugh. It’s funny to hear him talk like this, he’s such a big guy.
“Sorry,” Rod says, slightly blushing. He puts Eva down. “It happens.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
Rod looks me up and down for a second, and then shakes his head. “Delilah . . . wow. What a surprise. You look great.”
Now I blush. “Thanks,” I say, “so do you.”
Rod points to a nearby bench. “Hey, do you want to go sit down and catch up? I’d love to hear what’s going on in your life.”
“Sure.”
For the next two hours, Rod and I chat happily. He tells me all about how he moved back to Philly a few years ago for a job and how he’s happy to be here, as is Max. If he remembers what happened the last night we were together, he doesn’t let on or seem threatened by me being near Max in the least. When he asks why I’m in Philadelphia, I tell him pretty much the same story I told my mom and Daisy—that I’m here staking out locations for a possible store Elisabeth is thinking about opening. As for why I’m in this particular dog park, I wing it and tell him that my accommodations got screwed up and I got stuck staying in a crappy cheap hotel by the stadium. Although Rod buys my stories, he expresses concern for the security of my job, since the future of ESD is so up in the air.
“With everything I keep reading about Elisabeth in the paper, you should have a backup plan, you know, in case you lose your job. Do you have one?”
You mean other than to chase down all the men I’ve ever had sex with? “No,” I say.
“Well, you should. I’ve been through enough jobs to know that losing one isn’t fun. It’s important that you be in control of your future.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
“I am right. Don’t let someone else predict your life. Take it into your own hands. I’m serious.”
Rod seems genuinely concerned about me, and I can’t help but be touched. I think he’s interested in me, too. When I complain that my back is sore from the crappy mattress at the crappy hotel, he offers to rub it for me. And when we play with Max and Eva, he tackles me. (Yes, I land very close to a large pile of dog poop when he does, but still.) Looking at Rod, I think I could be happy with him. He could be the one.
Around nine o’clock or so, Rod says he has a big day of running errands ahead of him and gets ready to leave. As he does, he turns to me. “Hey, listen, if you’re not busy tonight, I’d love it if you joined me for dinner.”
Dinner? Really? I smile. “That’d be great!”
“Awesome.” Rod punches both my cell and hotel phone numbers into his phone and says he’ll call with details.
After saying good-bye, I watch Rod and Max walk out of the dog park and disappear around the corner. When they do, I turn to Eva. “Can you believe it? He’s finally taking me to dinner.”
puttin’ on the ritz
After driving to Center City (a nicer part of Philly), I find a cute boutique and buy a pink and green argyle dog bag for Eva. Yes, I realize that doing so brings me thismuchcloser to being compared to Paris Hilton, but since I’m buying the bag for safety reasons, I decide it’s okay. My thinking is that I can put Eva in the bag, and then secure it to the passenger seat with the seatbelt. That way she’s not bouncing all over creation every time we drive somewhere.
The bag might also make sneaking her in and out of the hotel easier to do, which I’m about to find out because I’ve just walked inside and am heading toward the elevator. After successfully making my way there (A victory! Hoorah!), I push the button and wait for a car when suddenly, the front desk attendant calls out to me. Worried I’ve been busted, I slowly turn my head around. “Yes?”
“A note arrived for you,” he says, walking over to me. He hands me an envelope.
“Oh, thanks.” As the man nods and walks away, the elevator doors open, so I quickly jump inside. While riding up to my floor, I open the envelope and read the note inside.
Delilah,
I’ve arranged for you to stay in a nicer hotel in Philly, guaranteed to have a mattress that won’t make your back ache tomorrow morning. Check out of that dive you’re in immediately, and go to the large white marble building @ 10 Avenue of the Arts. Everything else will be taken care of.
Rod
P.S. Meet me in the lobby @ 8:00 for dinner.
Oh my . . . dinner and a nicer hotel? What’s gotten into Rod? Is he trying to make sure I’ll sleep with him tonight? If so, here’s a newsflash Rod—I’m kinda easy. I don’t know if you picked up on that during the relationship that we didn’t have, but I am.
To be honest, although I’m unsure of Rod’s intentions or if he even has any, I’m tickled pink that he cares so much about me and my back to do something like this! He must really regret brushing off my suggestion to do something when it was light outside. He must really like me! My plan is working! Yippie!
After quickly packing and checking out, I drive to the address on the note and pull up to a building that looks like the Pantheon in Greece. Huge columns support the front and a big ol’ dome rests on top. As I give my car to the valet out front, he tells me that the building was built over a hundred years ago and is a historic landmark. Apparently it used to be a bank, but today . . . it’s a Ritz-Carlton! Sweet Bejesus! I’ve never stayed at a Ritz before in my life—this is so cool!
The Ritz is dog friendly, so I don’t have to hide Eva. As I parade her through the lobby, several people stop me to say how cute she is, making me feel like a proud mother. When I check in, the woman behind the counter says they’ve been expecting me and hands me a key. That’s it—no credit card on file, nothing. They just hand over a key and that’s it. Nice.
When Eva and I get to our room, we can hardly contain our excitement. Decorated in peachy tones, it’s warm and inviting. I immediately plop down on the big fluffy bed, and am thrilled to find it comfortable. What a difference, what a dream. While lying down, I notice a large gift basket filled with all sorts of beauty products sitting on the dresser, so I stand up and walk over to it. I see a small gift card attached, so I open it up and read.
Delilah,
Enjoy! Also, as part of the Ritz’s pet program, I’ve arranged for Eva to get the works. Her appointment begins at 3:00, someone will come up to get her.
Rod
Dinner and a nicer hotel and a gift basket? My life rocks.
I call Rod to thank him, but he doesn’t answer, so I leave a message. When I’m done, someone from the hotel comes to take Eva (I feel so bad giving her away—she didn’t want to leave), so I draw one of my own in the large tub and begin to unwind, begin to work out the kinks in my back. I feel like a princess.
A little before eight o’clock, as I’m just about ready to go, I hear a knock on the door and open it to see a Yorkie that I do not recognize. Not only did the Ritz give Eva a bath and haircut, but they tied a little scarf around her neck and painted her nails red. It’s like she’s Cinderella—she’s the most beautiful puppy I’ve ever seen in my life!
I’m so touched by all this—the hotel room, the basket, the puppy bath—that I suddenly begin to worry. What if I do something tonight to blow it? I’ve never been one of those women who expects things from men. Boyfriends don’t give me credit cards, they don’t send me shopping. But all this is so nice—the R.O.D.’s come a long way.
After giving myself a once-over in the mirror (black skirt, fuzzy blue sweater and heels that are sex-kitten purrrrfect—Meow!), I give my Chinese love bracelet a little rub for good luck and head downstairs.
Rod takes me to a small, romantic Italian restaurant in South Philly that’s very crowded and dimly lit. They’re expecting us when we arrive and show us to a table in the corner. He smells good tonight, like cologne, and it’s a huge turn-on. Guys don’t seem to wear as much cologne today as I remember them doing when I was little. I mean, yes, my grandpa still wears Old Spice, but I’m talking about guys my age and I’m talking about good cologne.
“So, how’d you like the basket?” Rod asks, once we get settled.
“Oh, I loved it, thank you!”
He smiles. “Nice stuff inside, right?”
“Oh yes! It was all so wonderful!”
Since Rod’s been to the restaurant before, he orders for us. Generously, I might add. In addition to splitting a bottle of wine, we have steamed mussels, a fennel salad, goat cheese tortellini, grilled prawns, and, for dessert, chocolate hazelnut cake with a warm orange sauce. The food is delicious and I’m stuffed by the time we’re through.
As for the conversation, it couldn’t go better. It’s like Rod and I are on the same wavelength. We talk about our hopes and dreams and what we want out of life—the same stuff I used to talk about with Max, actually. I never knew Rod could be so deep. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe the candlelight, but he looks so cute tonight, so handsome, and I’m incredibly attracted to him. We have such a connection.
After dessert, Rod orders two shots of Sambuca and says he wants to talk to me about something important. I get both nervous and excited. “Delilah, you might have noticed that I wasn’t rushing off to work when I left the dog park this morning. Do you wanna know why?” I nod. “Because I make my own hours, that’s why. Life’s too important to live by someone else’s schedule. If I wanna go golfing, then I go golfing. If I wanna take a long weekend, then I take a long weekend. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“Absolutely, Rod.”
“Great. Let me ask you something. Do you wanna work less?”
“Well sure, yes.”
“Do you wanna live life to the fullest?”
“Most definitely.”
“Do you want kids?”
Kids?
Whoa, wait.
“Rod, where are you going with this?” I have to admit, I’m a little taken aback.
“Delilah, I’m asking you all these things because I want you to know that my lifestyle can be yours.”
His lifestyle can be mine? As Rod reaches across the table and takes my hands in his, my heart goes pitter-patter. Is he going to ask me to move in with him? To have kids with him? To share his life? To become his wife? “Rod, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a partnership, Delilah.”
A partnership?
He is asking me to move in with him, to have his kids, to share his life, to become his wife! He must be going through the same phase I am. He must be sick of the game and ready to settle down too. I can barely contain my excitement, and Rod can tell—he smiles.
“Does that sounds like something you’d be interested in?” he asks.
“Oh yes, absolutely!” I exclaim. I mean, I’m booming. I can’t believe this thing worked on the first try! Michelle is going to eat her words.
“Great,” Rod says. “Del, when I see something I want, I go after it, and I see that same thing in you.”
I mean, I know it’s all very sudden, but I’m so ready to try to make this work with Rod. I can already imagine our life together—Rod and Max, me and Eva—the four of us will make such a happy family.
“In fact,” Rod continues, “that’s why I brought you here tonight. I wanna tell you about a great opportunity.”
Rod will make us all breakfast in the morning and then—
Whoa, wait.
Great opportunity? I’m confused. “What do you mean by that?”
“Delilah, have you ever heard of Amway?” Rod asks.
Amway? Oh no. “You mean like Amway, the pyramid scheme?”
“Well, we prefer to call it a business opportunity. Pyramid schemes are illegal, and there’s nothing illegal about Amway. It’s a multilevel marketing system.”
Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Please tell me what I think is happening isn’t happening.
For all the multilevel marketing-system-challenged people out there, Amway is a company that makes and sells all sorts of products—beauty products, vitamins, home care products, and such—and then sells those products to distributors. The distributors make money by not only reselling these products to consumers (they get a percentage of their sales), but by also recruiting their friends to become distributors as well (they get a percentage of their friends’ sales too)—that’s the “multilevel” part. It’s like Mary-Kay or Avon.
“Yeah, I’ve heard if it,” I tell Rod. “What’s your point?”
“Well, my point is that, I think you’ve got a lot of potential. You’re charismatic, personable—”
I cut him off. “Rod, did you invite me here to get me to sell Amway?”
“Well, yes. Yes, I did, Delilah.”
Oh. My. God. What I think is happening is really happening.
I almost laugh. And then I almost cry.
“The products are wonderful,” Rod continues, going for the hard sell. “In fact, that whole basket I gave you was filled with them. Did you try them out? What was your favorite?”
“My fah-fah-favorite?” Rod nods. “Well, the bubble bath was nice.”
I mean, I don’t get it. He rubbed my back, he got me a hotel room—I just don’t understand.
“How about the foot lotion?” Rod asks. “Did you try that?’
“Yes.”
I can’t believe myself—I’m so stupid. I should’ve realized this. To think Rod would’ve changed, to think he would all of the sudden want a relationship with me.
“Good, you’ll find it does wonders for those scratchy feet of yours.”
Rod never wanted anything with me when we were together. Why would I think he’d want something now. Wait . . . what did he just say?
“My scratchy feet?” I mean, did I hear him correctly?
“Yeah,” Rod says, nodding. “From what I remember, those things were like sandpaper! Scraaaa-cheee!”
“No, they weren’t!” I yell, defending myself. “No, they’re not! My feet are not scratchy!”
“Well, to each his own,” Rod says, raising his eyebrows. “Our definition of scratchy must be different. But anyway, like I said, I put stuff in the basket that I knew you could use.” As Rod says this, the contents suddenly rush through my mind. The basket was filled with bottles of face lotion for oily skin, wrinkle cream, vitamins to increase metabolism, teeth-whitening gum, products for dry, brittle hair with split ends, and . . . Oh my God . . . cellulite cream. Suddenly my ears ring, my face gets hot, and I can’t help myself—I hurl a leftover roll at Rod’s head. “You asshole!” I scream.
“Hey! What’s your problem?” Rod yells, holding up his hands to deflect anymore food that may come flying his way. People sitting at nearby tables stare as I stand up.
“My problem? My problem is you, Rod!” I begin to gather my belongings. I’m so outta here!
“I don’t understand, What did I do? Why am I the problem?”
“Rod, you didn’t bring me here because you liked me or because you wanted to spend time with me. You brought me here because you want to sell me stuff and get me to sell stuff for, for . . .” I begin hyperventilating. “Fat people! That’s why you’re my problem, Rod!” Rod’s eyes widen—he finally gets it.
“Delilah, I’m so sorry. Did you think I asked you here on a date?”
“Yes!” I scream. “And why shouldn’t I have thought that? I mean you rubbed my back; you got me a room at the Ritz. Wait—Why did you get me a room at the Ritz if you just want me to sell Amway?”
“Well, if you signed up to be a distributor . . . I could’ve comped it.”
Comped it? Okay, I’m not just embarrassed anymore, I’m angry now too. Looking at Rod, I don’t know what to say, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Max liked me better than you when we were sleeping together!”
“What?”
“You heard me!” I scream. “You’re dog liked me better! He did! When you showered, we would cuddle and he would listen to my problems.”
Rod looks at me like I’m crazy, which basically, I am. As I turn around and leave, I hear him behind me. “Delilah, wait.” But I don’t stop. I don’t wait. I walk right out the front door and hop into the first available taxi I see.
When I get back to my room, I collapse on the fabulous mattress and cry into the fluffy pillows. I don’t cry because I care about Rod but because I feel like an idiot. I mean, what am I doing? Seriously? Seeing my face scrunch up makes Eva nervous. Sitting next to me on the bed, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She keeps looking at me skittishly, not sure if she should approach. When she finally musters up the courage to do so, she sniffs my face for a couple of seconds and then backs away and begins to pant.
For the next hour, Rod calls my cell and the room phone, but I don’t answer. I don’t want to talk to him—I don’t have anything to say. Around midnight, the calls finally stop and I begin to feel better. As my sadness turns back into anger and adrenaline pumps through my body, I become motivated. I want to get out of here. I want to get out of the Ritz. I want to get out of Philly. With that, I pack my belongings, making sure to leave the gift basket, but clear out the minibar.
Comp that, you asshole.
$3,766, 39 days, 15 guys left.
1 I have a friend who was having sex once, and in the middle of it, felt something wet on his rear. When he turned around to see what it was, he realized his dog had just licked his butt cheek. Different cheek, but a similar story. Pets and sex don’t mix; they just don’t.
2 Men have it too, but their testosterone reduces its effects.
3 Note to men: There’s a very fine line between confidence and arrogance. Don’t mistake the latter for the former.
4 As is their forgotten older sister, Magda.