Sarah Mlynowski - Milkrun

“Seems fair. But you still have to be my maid of honor. If I ever have time to date again, that is.” Wendy has been unwillingly practicing abstinence since she started her job.

“Of course I’ll be your maid of honor! I’ve already written my maid of honor speech,” I tell her. Well, not all of it. But sometimes really funny things happen, and if I don’t write them down right away, I’ll never remember everything I should have said and then…fine. I’m a geek.

“I’m sure you have. So, who’s the future Mr. Norris?”

I pause for effect. “Jonathan Gradinger.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“My God! Where did you see him? Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” It wasn’t a dream. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a dream. Was it a dream? I look around my room for evidence of the Orgasm excursion. My black skirt is lying on the floor where I dropped it last night. I grab it. It smells like smoke and Sex on the Beach. P-hew.

“How did that happen?” she asks.

“He saw me at the bar.” I leave out how that came about. “We talked. He asked me for my number.”

“That’s amazing! Is he still a fox?”

“Of course. Maybe not the fox, but still foxy.”

“Has he called yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh.”

Oh? What does she mean, oh? “He wouldn’t have, Wen. What guy calls the next morning? He’ll probably call tomorrow night. At 8:30. After The Simpsons.”

“Not if he wants to go out tonight.”

“He’s not going to ask me out for tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because then he would look desperate. Trust me, Wen, that’s not the way the game is played.” Dear sweet Wendy. Dear sweet, naive Wendy.

“How do you know how the game is played? You’ve been on the dating scene for one day.”

Hey, I can remember L.B.J. (Life Before Jer). I did have a life, you know. “He’ll call me on Sunday and ask me out for Tuesday, so he can see me on Tuesday and ask me out for next Saturday. See?”

“I see. Where do you think he’ll take you?”

“On Tuesday or Saturday?”

Wendy doesn’t answer. I can tell that all this is getting a little too complicated for her. Not dating in over a year has started to melt her brain.

“Sherri Burns is going to die,” she says.

“I know! Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Would she ever find out? Besides by reading the wedding announcement in the Times, of course.”

“I was thinking of taking a picture on our date and posting it on the Stapley Internet site.”

“Not a bad plan. Uh-oh. I have a meeting. Gotta go.”

“A meeting? Who else is in the office on Saturday?”

“Who’s not in the office?”

“Poor you. You sure you don’t want a normal job?”

“I am far from sure. We’ll chat later.”

“Bye.”

What should I do now? Probably get up. It’s already two.

“Hello?” I call from my bed. “Anyone home?”

“Hi!” Sam hollers. “I’m cleaning the bathroom.” I’m pretty sure she cleans her bathroom every day. I’ve seen her sneak into the bathroom with disinfectant after a guest uses it. She’s just as psycho with the fridge. She has a bit of an expiry fetish. She spills out her milk exactly three days after it’s been opened. It doesn’t matter what the expiration date says, either. For some reason I can’t seem to convince her that the expiration date refers to the date you buy the stuff, not when you have to throw it out. “You’re not really going to eat that?” she asked me yesterday, staring in disgust at my six-day-old package of sliced turkey. Um…I was. If I did things Sam’s way, everything I own would be in the trash can or down the toilet.

I throw off my duvet and slide my feet onto the floor. The cold floor. Where are my slippers? Do I have slippers? No, I do not have slippers. Why don’t I have slippers? Where are my socks?

I slip on some shorts. Not even Sam wants to see my Granny panties. I walk into her room. “Morning.”

“Afternoon,” she says. She is using some sort of contraption to scrub the tiles. “Late night?”

“Yeah. Very fun.”

“Good. I’m almost done. You can borrow my supplies if you want to clean your bathroom.”

I’m not sure, but I think that’s a hint. Oh, well, I have nothing else to do today, anyway. And my bathroom is pretty gross. The last time I cleaned it was…let me think. Have I ever cleaned it? “Thanks. I’ll do it right after breakfast. I mean lunch.”

I make myself a sandwich. A pretty lame sandwich because now that I have no turkey left, all I have left is lettuce. Okay, I’ll clean the bathroom right after lunch and an hour of TV.

What’s on? Click, click. A Cheers rerun! That Diane. So literary. I always kind of hoped she and Frasier would stay together. Lilith/Helen didn’t deserve him. As soon as I got to Boston, my first excursion was to the Cheers bar. Quite disappointing. No one screamed “Jack!” when I walked in. Okay. Three o’clock. Time to clean. But Blind Date is on. I love that show. Maybe I’ll just watch until the first commercial…

It’s five o’clock and I haven’t moved. My butt feels asleep. I really should get up. Sam left all the cleaning supplies on my bathroom floor.

Why hasn’t he called yet?

Six-thirty. I’m hungry. Macaroni and cheese? I have no milk left. I hate when it’s too margariney. I order a pizza. Extra pepperoni. What am I going to do tonight? Natalie mentioned The G-Spot. I should call her. At the next commercial.

Seven-fifteen. I’m still hungry. Where’s my pizza? What happened to thirty minutes, fast and free? I dial Natalie’s number.

“Hi, Jack,” she answers.

“What’s up?”

“Not much. I’m just getting dressed.”

“Where are you going?”

“For dinner. With E-reek.”

“Who’s Eric?”

“E-reek. The guy I was talking to last night.”

Wait a second. A guy she met yesterday has already called? “The guy in the Armani?”

“That’s him. He called this morning. I think he might be royalty, but I’m not sure.”

I ignore her latter comment and focus on the more surprising element of her declaration. “He called this morning?”

“Yup.”

This morning? “And he asked you out and you said yes? For tonight?”

“Yeah. Should I have said no? He actually asked me last night, and I said we’ll see, but he called me at eleven to confirm, so I said, Why not?”

Why not? What am I supposed to do tonight? “Didn’t we have plans?”

“Oh…did we? I didn’t think you’d care.”

“Well, I do.” Knowing quite well that if the situation were reversed, I’d do the same. Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 1: let no man come between two best friends. And let no man come between two mediocre friends unless he’s really hot. I mean, let’s face it; why else would you go to a bar with a mediocre girlfriend on a Saturday night in the first place? To discuss politics? So, when a guy like my Jonathan calls, you expect your friend to be understanding, even if you don’t like it when she does it to you. Not that someone as cool as my Jonathan Gradinger would call so soon.

“You don’t want me to cancel, do you?”

Yes, I do. “No, go. Have fun.”

“You can still go to The G-Spot.”

Who goes to The G-Spot alone? I’d have to wait in line for three hours by myself. And then I’d have to talk to myself at the bar. “No. It’s okay. I’m tired, anyway.” Someone knocks on my door. “The pizza’s here. Gotta go.”

“Swear you’re not mad?”

I’m mad. “I’m not mad.”

“Good. Love ya, hon! Have fun!”

I was only going to eat half the pizza and save the rest for Monday’s lunch, but now that I don’t have to wear anything tight tonight, I’m going to eat the whole thing and stuff myself with misery. I hate my life. I’m spending an entire Saturday in front of the TV. Jeremy doesn’t love me. Jonathan Gradinger doesn’t want me. Natalie’s guy called the next day.