Friday afternoon. He hasn't called you in four days. He hasn't even emailed, that jerk. You wonder if you're still going out tonight and assume you're not, but just in case, you get ready anyway because at the very least, you can look good for the little Indian kid who will be delivering the samosas you have to order for dinner for yourself later. The phone rings. He's in his car outside and he just wants you to "Come down." Holy shit! You take five minutes to throw on jeans and the cleanest tank top you can find in the pile on your floor, and smack on some lip gloss on the way down in the elevator. You're pissed because he never called. You're pissed because he just showed up. You're pissed because you look like you just stepped out of the shower, and you like to "look cute," even if he never tells you that. In fact, he sort of has temper and as soon as you open the cardoor, he wants to know "What the f--k took so damn long?!" He takes you to dinner to his favorite steakhouse. You've mentioned about 56 times that you're not eating red meat right now, but he thinks that's okay because you can eat his side salad, but not the tomatoes because he loves those. Dinner didn't taste good, but the cocktails did, and after dinner was, well, let's just say that dessert was delicious.
That was Number One. He's basically a Jerk. But a totally hot, totally delicious, Jerk.
Friday afternoon. He calls you at 2:00, after lunch because he remembers that you like to work hard through Friday lunch, mindlessly slupring through instant ramen, sometimes not eating anything at all because on Fridays, you just. Wanna. Get. Outta. There. He's just making sure that coming by your place at 7:30 is okay. It is. He shows up at 7:30 on the dot. He has a bottle of Pinot Grigio because even though he loves a Chardonnay, you hate it. He pours you a glass and leaves it on the table for you because you're still getting ready, but he doesn't mind and tells you to take your time. You emerge from the bedroom in an adorable wrap-dress, and of course you look fabulous, but he says it out loud anyway because he can't help himself. You look stunning. He opens the door for you. He closes it for you. It's your fault that you're late, but he calls the restaurant that you said you've been wanting to try for months, and politely asks them if it would be too much trouble to hold the reservation for 15 minutes? Of course. Dinner is delicious. The evening is, well, it's just lovely.
That was Number Two. He's just absolutely lovely. He's a gentleman. You shut the door behind you with a lovely *sigh*.
But all you can think about is Jerk Number One.
Why, oh, why?
Whyohwhyohwhyohwhy....why do I do this?
Why do I defy all logic and just *stupidstupidstupid* punish myself?
We could have picked up something quick and easy as we checked out of the hotel in San Francisco. No, I wanted to make the drive back to LA as long and painful as I could. I want to exit the freeway, tacking on at least an additional 30 minutes to our drive. I want to stop in Berkeley! We could have stopped somewhere quick, right off the freeway. No, I want to make it an absolutely unnecessarily out-of-the-way detour, damaging my tires over surface street potholes, dis-aligning my alignment on lopsided speedbumps, dodging hippies, homeless and hungover students, and go all the way into the heart of Berkeley, where we will spend at least 20 minutes looking for street parking that has so many restrictions we need a fucking PhD to figure out if we can actually park there. I want to re-eat my glory days! We could have gone to Intermezzo and had a light and healthy salad with poppy seed dressing and Dutch crunch bread. We could have gone to Smart Alec's and had an anti-oxidant rich vegetarian veggie vegetable. We could have gone to Steve's BBQ and had a protein-packed, bird-flu-fighting bulgogi and kimchee. No. No. No.
I want Top Dog.
And not just the healthier, lower fat, lower cholesterol, mild-mannered, thoughtful, generous, gentlemanly, polite poultry Lemon Chicken with a bit of sauerkraut, which is as much of an avian flu antidote as kimchee. I want the Hot Link.
The Hot Link is hot. It's tempered. The Hot Link has a very bad attitude. And as if that weren't enough, I want to skip along the condiment counter, passing over all the weaksauce, and drown my Hot Link in the Russian mustard that says "sweet," in English but is really Russian for "don't come crying to us when you weep hellfire from your eyes and your nostrils."
*stupidstupidstupid* was delicious. I wept so much hel
lfire that we bought a jar of the Russian mustard to punish ourselves at home.
2534 Durant Avenue
Berkeley, CA 94704
** a year ago today, you could never be jello. or panna cotta **