Once Upon a Time - Part 2

Let Down Your Hair...

(Part two of a novella fairy tale)

Chapter 2
Freaky Friday
    I was not looking forward to Friday. La-ura was more stressed out than usual and like an evil stepmother, took it out on her underlings. But, Friday was looking forward to me.
    I heard the last ding of the elevator take its final cargo of the day, sans me,
on to brighter, happier, drinkier pastures. Dates, dinners, movies, hook-ups, were all going to be happening without me in the mix. I sighed and pulled my hair back in a ponytail, until I reached up and remembered ponytail was such a strong word in relation to my hair--an eleven month-old baby would have had a larger cluster of curls to clutch. Had I tried to pull it back with a scrunchie, the scrunchie would have fallen to the floor. Oh well. It would grow--or so I’d been telling myself that for the past eight months.
    When I didn’t change my name, I had made the next logical, radical move and had my hair chopped. Seriously, that was the name of the cut, the Chop. I went to the uber-trendiest salon in the Loop. Can’t remember it’s name, since I threw away my stylist’s business card before I was even finished trying to re-comb what I called the Hack. I had done a better job cutting my own hair--when I was seven. They were so trendy, they didn’t take tips and saved all the shorn hair to recycle--into placemats or something. Here’s a tip, no one wants to eat off of placemats MADE OF HAIR. While six foot tall runway models can pull off the Chop, five-foot-three-ish, brownish-haired with cowlicks, MaryBeths with freckles, have a much tougher time. Well, at least my blow-drying time had been cut in half. Who was I kidding? It took me all of four minutes.
    Back to the drawing board. Miracle of miracles, Miracle actually stood a good chance of winning a really good account; instead of the kitty litter or organic soup crap we’d been dealing with, Dino had actually helped put us in the running to do the marketing for a new celebrity fragrance. I can’t name names, let’s just say it’s a world recognized rock star with a wicked sense of humor, or unfortunate drug habit; how else to explain the name of the fragrance, Rapunzel. 
    We just received a sample that afternoon, which was why I had to spend a good part of my evening trying to slam down some catchphrases. I always tried to get the bad stuff out of the way first. I also always used pen to paper, believing that I was more creative with a direct physical sensation flowing from my brain, down my arm, through my fingers, drawing out the words, before doing clean-up on the computer. In a pinch, I would use magic markers on watercolor paper--it was as fun as coloring.
    I made my list of possible catchphrase candidates for Rapunzel, knowing that even the stinkers could trigger a winner. I got the obvious out of the way first:
Let Down Your Hair
    I knew La-ura would think it too trite, and heaven forbid a copy writer ever gets branded for being too trite.
Happy Endings
    Alluding to the fairy tale, I didn’t think Happy Endings would fly either; conjuring up seedy back room massage parlors with a payoff, was the last thing this celebrity would want to tout.
Three...Third Item...Starting Now...La Di Dah...Hmmmmm....
    I colored and shaded my initials, drew a heart around it and added a TLA with Dino’s name. I was so paranoid I spent another five minuted blocking out his name. All I could come up with for bad idea number 3 was Rapunzel...Rap, Rapture...nothing. Damn. Why can’t I use my powers for good? I even tried writing with my left hand. So much for that theory of using the non-dominant side of your body to explore new horizons. The only other thing I could come up with was Once Upon A Time. I could hear La-ura now, “Been there, done that.”
     I decided to do some research. I read the ingredients list from the lab that came along in the little white cardboard box. The perfume itself was in a nondescript brown medicine bottle--the design of the container would theoretically coincide with the marketing branding and image, or simply be decided based on a huge discount of perfume vials from the manufacturer. The vial was wrapped in a folded, white sheet of paper that contained a typed list of ingredients. It itemized the usual suspects, bergamot, ylang-ylang, vanilla, sassafras; interesting choice--who doesn’t love the smell of root beer, I thought, as I continued to scan. Along with vetiver, which is used in over 90 percent of most perfumes, it looked like a pretty standard recipe. I had learned and surprisingly retained a little bit of my fragrance formulation knowledge from the dog perfume campaign we had done last year. The jingle would still occasionally get stuck in my head. “I think I “ruff” you...” sung to the tune of the old Partridge Family hit. It had been a disturbing promotion featuring television commercials with the owner falling in love with his pooch, sharing his bed and licks of his ice cream cone.
    I shook my head. Focus. I continued reading to see if there was anything else that could help spark some sort of idea here. Though the ingredients were listed, dosages and amounts were, of course, never revealed, guarded as closely as celebrities’ real ages and weight. Insider trading and espionage didn’t only happen on Wall Street. What the? Something caught my eye.There were a bunch of ingredients I didn’t recognize, ending with -ynols, peptides, blah-bety-blah nucleosis sounding words. There was even a warning in fine print at the bottom of the page. I read it aloud.  
 “Patent Pending: PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL! Proprietary information related to formulation and subsequent distillation may not be discussed or disseminated among public or private parties, and is available only upon approved request, subject to legal review. Pheromone technology may or may not be contained in above formulation and is the sole right and property of the manufacturer. Pheromone adaptations obtained legally through organic compounding thereby not subject to regulatory mandates will be heretofore referred to as Ph-uX: Ph-uX is considered the legal and intellectual property of aforementioned formulary and not available to be used, distributed, manufactured, or copied in any way, without the express written consent of owner.”
    Hello? Ph-uX? I would imagine it was meant to be referred to by the individual letters: “P-H-dash-U-X. I did have to wonder which rocket scientist came up with that moniker. I could just picture a room full of scientists who had never in their lives been on a date; sitting their in their wrinkled white lab coats, greasy hair and dirty glasses guffawing about their new secret ingredient that will change the world. Either they were so far gone down their self-absorbed scientific journey of discovery and had no idea what they were naming their magic ingredient, or there was one, lone guy with a chance, with a sense of humor. “Ph-uX!” I said out loud. “Me likee!”
    All I knew about pheromones were that they were the holy grail of sex--a chemical signal of attraction, odiferous clues used to entice and/or select a mate. La-ura had said something about a new compound that was very exciting, meaning she hadn’t read the report or understood what she read. I’m guessing Rapunzel was operating on the premise of a guarantee to get laid.
    Rapunzel was to be an androgynous perfume, for both teams looking for love. The warning only served to pique my interest. What if it was truly an aphrodisiac? Since the Middle Ages, just as alchemists tried to turn base metals into gold, herbalists had tried to distill that most elusive elixir of all, sexual desire. Given a choice, I would bet any scientist worth their salt would go for the passion-producing perfume of sex appeal every time, over a little cold, gold rock.
    I shook the bottle and held it up to my computer screen. It was a pure liquid, no sediment stirring. I unscrewed the top and took a deep breath. I dabbed a little at the pressure points on my wrist. I sniffed. The top notes were crisp and clean smelling. I couldn’t stand sweet, overbearing perfume. I waved my arms around, letting the perfume settle, and interact with my skin chemistry. While I waited, I looked around the empty office, far from being creepy, it was awesome being all alone and having the power to do whatever I wanted. I kicked off my shoes, cursing the sadists who lusted after the first woman to stand on her tiptoes and subsequently decided to imprison the rest of us in heels, and punched up Pandora on my laptop. In homage to my one true love, I play-listed a bunch of Dean Martin songs to try help get my creative juices flowing. Other assorted juices of mine apparently needed no help.
    I started dancing around. Sometimes motion helps knock loose a few brain cells, forcing them to do a little work. I dabbed a few more wafts of perfume on some more pressure points, not much pressure between my cleavage, but there you go, and one at the hollow of my neck and one little dribble behind my ears. I am not usually a perfume girl. I had been blessed, or cursed, with a hyper-olfactory system. I go through periods when fake scents can gross me out, but I was enjoying this formulation and waiting for inspiration. The middle notes of the scent were addictive, and I almost hyperventilated, sniffing and sniffing.
    I wasn’t sure if what I had read had planted those seeds of the promise of being indescribably alluring, or if I was just hypersensitive, inhaling the new aroma, trying to get a feel for it.
    The base note of the formulation, or theme of the perfume, was elusive. I was gyrating around, belting out a loud and proud “Everybody Loves Somebody...” and trying to think about what I was smelling. It was good, but I couldn’t say why.
    The music was so loud, the perfume so strong, my mind so scattered I never noticed the announcing ding of the elevator. It took a full second to realize someone was clapping. At me! “Bravo, bravo,” said the man of my dreams. I stopped mid-twirl.
    “Dino,” I said. “What are you doing here?” I clapped my hand to my chest and inched over to my computer to turn down the music.
    “I forgot my phone, can you believe it?” Dino said. “You’re working on the perfume, huh?” He walked closer. “Let me have a smell.”
    I cannot to this day believe my audacity, but I lifted my head and threw out my neck, as if issuing an invitation to a vampire. He leaned in and over, his dark head of glossy curls brushed my chin as he inhaled my scent. I was so sensitive to him, I could feel the draw of his breath whooshing back up his nose. His lips were slightly parted and felt like a kiss on my collar bone. I think I may have whimpered. I locked my knees so that I wouldn’t dip into another curtsy; and hoped I wouldn’t swoon.
    Dino stood back up. “Nice.” He stared at me for a second and leaned back in. “That’s really great. You smell awesome.”
    While Dean Martin segued into “Memories Are Made of This,” Dino segued into my heart, and personal space, drawing up my hands to his chest.
    “May I have this dance?”
    I giggled and we sashayed and spun and tangoed around the office. Even though I was stone cold sober, I felt I had never danced better before. Sometimes we’d catch each other eyes and just grin; sometimes he’d pull me close. Nuzzled into his embrace I could hear his heart beating, before he sent me off into a spin, his warm hand confidently twirling me away, before pulling me back.
    The song ended along with the best four minutes of my life. I held my breath, as Dino held my hand. “MaryBeth.”
    I tilted my head and smiled, trying not to leer.
    “You wanna...” Dino began.
    I had no idea what he was going to ask me, because we pulled together, a magnetic force greater than the both of us, kissing, kissing, kissing as if to save our lives. Hell yeah, I wanna, my hormones hulaed.
    He broke the kiss but not contact. His cheek rubbed against mine, his hands caressed up and down my arms. He took my right hand with his left and squeezed. I squeezed back and he pulled me down the hall behind him.
    I am not ashamed to say I was so aflame with desire, I would have done it on his desk. Props to him that he had a little more class than that and steered us out to the alcove in front of the elevator.
    Waiting for the elevator could have been a little awkward but our love coach arrived right on cue. He pushed me in ahead of him, jabbed the lobby button and we commenced making out. I pushed him away for a split second, to look at him, to capture this magic moment, and also to make sure he saw me. He lowered his head and looked at me, his eyes darting back and forth; no words were needed. His shy smile was chased away by my kiss.
    This was the best four minutes of my life, and no matter what happens, I will always have special feelings for that elevator. Some elevators are tricky. Any engineer of any building is first concerned with safety, weight, capacity, drag. That’s a given.
    A good engineer will require extra safety features, going above and beyond standard specifications and recommendations. Maintenance protocols are followed to a T, knowing that precious cargo is being transported day in and day out, and the efficacy of any building is its access.
    But a great engineer, a great engineer will not neglect the feng shui of the insides of an elevator. Soft lighting will cascade from the ground up, not glare down harshly from above, like a lone naked lightbulb in a police interrogation setting. Industrial lighting, while sufficient, serves to highlight shadows of too long noses, breakouts on the chin, and features the shaded shifty eyeballs of the desperate, rendering a gaunt expression as if to reveal what someone would look like as a skeleton.
    A great engineer will sped a few more dollars to have soft carpet. He or she will choose soothing complimentary colors, preferably from nature, but not green because green is tricky and not everyone can pull off green, especially in low light. A great engineer will make the inside of an elevator look as if it were lit by candlelight, a place where magic can, and will, happen.
    We bounced around the three walls of that elevator, kissing, licking, sucking. Forget Dino’s desk, it would have been awesome to have done it then and there; the thought of a security camera only making it seem that much more thrilling. Dino pushed me back against the wall, grinding into me. I knew I would end up with bruises, and I couldn’t wait to witness proof of our love; badges of honor.
    I usually ride the El, but Dino hailed a cab. We ended up at my place in about fifteen minutes. I lived in a fourth floor one bedroom walk up. Since I didn’t have a boyfriend or anything, I had nothing but time to make sure it was kept clean enough. It wouldn’t have mattered. Dino didn’t notice. We had held hands the whole ride home. Walking up the sixty-five sets of steps, I felt as if I got to know everything about him based on the push, pull, caress, and interlocking squeeze plays of our fingers.
    As soon as my front door slammed behind us, we lost all control. I could no longer smell the perfume, although perhaps I had become inured to it. Dino unbuttoned my blouse, nuzzled my throat and groaned. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.” His hands grabbed at the short ends of my hair and pulled and pulled. He cupped my head and squeezed it, murmuring how sweet I was. I would never forget how he said my name. “MaryBeth,” he had breathed. “Oh, God.”
    I tucked my fingers inside the starched collar of his shirt. I had no idea where his suit jacket went. The backs of my fingers tickled inside his collar, down his thick neck, parting his shirt to kiss his neck. I pulled him down to the couch and reached for his belt. Time stood still as I undid the button of his pants. He held his breath as I pulled his zipper down. I love that part.
    I always thought I looked much better in my bra and panties than full on nude, but my nipples were thrusting for his attention, and Dino’s mouth, like a heat-seeking missile, zoomed in to them. In the soft glow filtering from the kitchen light, backlighting Dino kneeling before me, he looked like he could have been Rapunzel’s prince. OK, there were a few details missing: long locks for him to erotically entwine himself in, for one. Didn’t seem to present a problem. In fact, I loved how he was massaging my head, his fingertips even taking the time to gently rub the tips of my stubby curls between the pads of his fingers. I swear, that hardly perceptible touch made me shiver. He then moved on to caress my breasts before kissing all the way from my ticklish bellybutton down...
    As I breathed in, my mouth parted and I could smell and taste Dino. If he had worn aftershave or cologne, it had long worn off, leaving behind the much more erotic theme of his own chemistry. His skin temperature was elevated, his arms warm and slick with sweat. I licked his bare shoulder, causing him to clamber back up my body. He cradled my head with both hands again, crushing his sculpted torso against the full length of my lascivious body. I felt each cell strain to lift and cushion his weight. “MaryBeth,” he whispered again. I was so glad I didn’t change my name to Mystery. This felt so right, so real. He skimmed his lips across my jawline and m-m-m’d on my ear lobe. “You are so beautiful. What are you doing to me?”
    I heard something drop to the floor. As I glanced down, even in the dim light I could see it was the vial of perfume. I must have tossed it into my purse without even thinking. I grinned. Time for a little more fuel to the fire. Dino groaned as I stroked my hands down his back. I let my left hand drift off, fingers wafting to reach the bottle on the floor.
    I wedged my hand with the perfume between us. “What do you think, Dino? Do you like this new perfume?”
    He nudged the bottle away with his cheek to kiss me deeply. He pulled away. “I think I like you better.”
    I unscrewed the cap. “Smell it,” I said.
    He took a quick whiff and then burrowed between my breasts. “Ah, God. You are driving me crazy. You smell better that any perfume.” I felt and heard him draw a deep breath. His right hand reached up to bat away the bottle. It spilled, splashing the remaining precious drops on his hand.
    We laughed and I tried not to think of how I was going to explain to La-ura that I needed another sample. All I could think about was that I wanted to pre-order a case load.
    Dino’s hand, still damp from the potion, worked its way under the lace of my panties. He knew his way around my body as if we had done this may times before. Maybe it was his perfect pressure, or the synchronicity of his caressing friction, or maybe it was all enhanced by the power of the perfume, and that crazy Ph-uX ingredient; I had never felt so close to perfection before. My writhing panting paused as I felt that hollowed out vacuum feeling in my ears, which always happens right before I...
    “Dino!” I whimpered and said his name again. I may have even screamed. Once. Or twice. Dino joined me in his own greedy, orgiastic hootenanny, a strange exhausting primitive experience where we were both abandoned of all etiquette. “Ph-uX,” I whispered, which seemed to send Dino into an even greater frenzy. I do believe that is my new favorite word. “Ph-uX.”
    Unbelievably, I fell asleep. I have no idea how long I slumbered, missing out on my very own real life dream. How dare I? In what universe would I go to sleep after achieving nirvana? I had just remembered feeling so complete, I had had no control.
    My eyelids fluttered as I felt a kiss swoop down on my brow. “Hey, sleepyhead,” Dino said. We were on my couch, laying sideways but facing each other, with Dino cradling his arms around me. Even in that position I wasted time multitasking, kicking myself for wasting precious seconds. How could I have fallen asleep? The defining moment of my life? The apogee of my dreams come true and I’m snoring on Prince Charming? Oh dear God, I hope I didn’t drool. I licked my lips.
    He kissed the tip of my nose. “You are so sweet.”
    “How long have I been sleeping?”
    “Too long. Play with me some more.” He kissed my lips.
    I stared up at him. He smiled. “What?” he asked. “You don’t snore. You didn’t blurt out embarrassing requests like, ‘spank me, pull my hair, make me call you daddy,’ or anything.”
    My stomach rippled as I laughed. “Thank goodness for that.” I was embarrassed to have fallen asleep. It almost seemed more intimate than what went on right before I fell into a coma. Almost...but not quite.
    “I say we move our headquarters,” I said.
    “Right behind you,” Dino agreed. He held my hand as we moved into my bedroom.
    The time for shyness had long gone; its mast had set sail, rutting into my thigh right about the first time our tongues had said a ‘howdy-do’ to each other. Yet, I found myself holding my breath as I invited Dino into my boudoir. I didn’t have much money, but heaven knows what little I had added up to incredible wealth compared to my talent for designing. I worried that he wouldn’t like the haven I had created for myself.
    As long as you didn’t peer into the corners too closely or strain your neck checking out the ceiling line, I had done a decent enough job painting my room. I chose the paint based simply on the name, Periwinkle Pearl. I should note that I do not have a great track record pulling stunts like that; I once had to ruin a perfectly good manicure because the ‘Pink: Love Guaranteed’ nail polish color I had once chosen was anything but pink, and guaranteed nothing but ten days of anguish.
    The only thing special about my bedroom, other than the palest pearlized blush of the bluish-lilac shimmering color, captured from the sky mere seconds before dawn in springtime, was that it was celibate monk cell clean. By not trying to design or decorate I had come up with a style that was perfect for me. I had finally gotten a headboard the year before, yay, welcome to adulthood. My mom had donated two ancient round end tables that had been butt ugly in my family’s living room my whole life, but when placed on either side of my bed as night stands, they managed to grab a second chance at funky chic. I had simply replaced the drawer pulls on an old, mismatched brown dresser with shiny stainless steel knobs. The only other furniture in the room was a giant rectangular mirror, framed in a wide band of silvery curlicues, standing on one end on the floor. My comforter and sheets were a wonderful crisp clean boring white. I always felt like I was entering a spa when I came into my bedroom. Unfortunately my zen-ness did not extend to my drawers or closet; enter at your own risk.
    Dino seemed to like it well enough, but truth be told, at the time I was flattered that he only had eyes for me. I could have made out with him forever, but like most guys, Dino played to win. At risk of downplaying the most important moment of my life with a sports metaphor, I was his biggest cheerleader.
    Dino was gone the next morning when I finally woke up. I stretched and smiled and reached for my cell. He had left me a message. I kissed my phone as I played it. “Hey MaryBeth,” his message began. “Wow. You are amazing. I had such a great time last night.”
    “Hee hee hee,” I laughed.
    “Um, listen, though...”
    Da da dum...I heard the ominous drum beats of doom begin. What the Ph-uX? I heard him clear his throat on his message. “I really like you and want to see you, but it will be awkward right now so we need to be careful.”
    Hm. Awkward? How? And for whom? I thought we were in love. What happened last night just doesn’t happen to everybody. OK, ass. How ya gonna get out of this one?
    “Let’s just take it slow, and keep this between us, OK?” He said. I guess I could see his point. La-ura was our boss and it could get ugly. One of us could even be fired and it didn’t take a genius to realize that I wasn’t the one playing hide-the-sausage with La-ura, or the one she’d miss most...if at all.
    “I have some plans that I can’t get out of this weekend, but we’ll definitely talk this week.” Long pause. Then he hung up.
    I do not know how I made it through the weekend. It certainly wasn’t by coming up with any new slogans for Rapunzel. Susie came over on Sunday and I made her listen to Dino’s message fourteen times.
    She blew out a breath. “You know, MaryBeth. He almost had me, until the part about ‘we’ll definitely talk this week.’ Why the word ‘definitely’? Why hasn’t he called back and talked to you in person. And, finally, he never said his name, or La-ura’s name, so you can’t even blackmail him.”
    “I don’t want to blackmail him!” I said. “I just want to be with him. Limbo sucks. This not knowing. Does he like me? Is he going to break it off with La-ura? He does have to worry about his career, you know.”
    “Just seems like he could be a little more gallant about it all,” Susie said.
    “I’m not giving up yet. Who knows what Dino could do next?” I said.

Stay tuned for part three...

Once Upon a Time...

Let Down Your Hair...

(Part one of a novella fairy tale)

Chapter 1
Rapunzel
    Just because I’m a whiz at repairing the copy machine, it doesn’t mean that is the sum total of my talents, or aspirations. Just because I met the Object of my Affections at work and he’s dating my boss, doesn’t mean I’ve given up on my dream, or fantasies. OA, as I call him in code in text messages to my friends for fear of discovery, (like if I lost my cell phone and OA finds it for me, reads some texts to determine whose phone it is and busts me mackin’ on him big time), may not know I’m alive, but then he hasn’t rejected me, either.
    Since his name is Dean Dineno, le sigh, if he ever found my cell he would never be able to put two and two together and realize he is the Object of my Affections. My long-suffering-from-boredom friends respect my need for secrecy, but feel entitled to code name him Fantasy Man, since they a. have to hear all of my erotic escapades I dream about, and b. have gently tried to nudge me onto a more realistic love life. Not gonna happen. I know Dino and I are meant to be together, it’s just a matter of time. To the haters that refer to him as LOL, just because of that one time I called him the Love of my Life, suck it.
    “Ding!” The elevator bounced to a stop at my floor, interrupting my daydreaming. Not that I was a stalker or anything, but I timed my errands downstairs with a 60 to 70% chance of hitching a ride on the Dino train. Not that it did any good. When success happened, I was usually so tongue-tied I could usually only manage to swallow my saliva while trying not to choke. I let my yearning do the talking for me; my face, a mood-ring of emotions, probably looked like a rising thermometer, shades of mottled pink rising into hot red she’s-gonna-blow territory. How exactly can he not notice?
    The highlight of our one conversation, that I have memorized, certain there are missing clues of undeclared love there, has become my daily grace--as in I even recite it before meals. “Bless us Oh Lord” and these Thy gifts of eighteen magical words that spilled from his Michael Corleone lips are seared into my psyche, that I could recite like a rosary.
    A few months ago, I had headed on downstairs to the supply room at roughly 3:10pm. This timing had proven to be fortuitous on more than one occasion as Dino occasionally had 3:00pm meetings, to which he was inevitably late. Though I was only going down four floors, he would be traveling another six, down to the fourth floor. Not that I had any control over it, I was happy enough with the logistics, since it would give him a chance to admire my best feature, and I’m not talking my hair or the worn out heel of my right foot driving shoe. I wouldn’t have even noticed that visual, if I hadn’t run home after work that evening and set up a complicated positioning of mirrors to get the full effect of what Dino would have seen. Of course I had been so self-conscious with Dino in the elevator, when I made my exit it felt like I was doing the robot or something. Unhappy face here.
    Back to our encounter. It was a story I practiced, embellished, and even imagined telling my first-born granddaughter. Dino and I worked on the same floor, but in separate universes. We worked for Miracles Advertising Company, or as a lot of the employees, not me, liked to say, it’s a Miracle people ever believed this shit.
    I was in Creative Services, a lofty, high-groovy-factor and fun-sounding sentence of servitude but low brow copy writer position in actuality. Bad ideas were rubbed in my face; good ideas were stolen, embellished and launched. It was a win-win situation for management. Dino was an account manager, a suit-wearing long-lunch schmoozing high priced salesman. But alas, as with all love triangles, which is how I thought of our situation, there’s always a third party. The wicked witch of the west: Dino’s--God, I can hardly even stand to say it--girlfriend, Laura. Or La-ura as she likes to pronounce it. Nothing wrong with anyone’s hearing, her parents were freaks, rich ones at that, and that apparently allowed them to add extra syllables, letters, what have you, to gild the lily, garnish the garbanzo, make underlined and italicized double-sure the rest of the world knows how exquisitely exceptional she was. La-ura’s sister was Peyton. No, scratch that, P-e-i-g-h-t-a-h-n. I kid you not. (Ever since being dumped by a guy named Hugh, I have remained suspicious of people with two “h’s” in their name.) I think the trauma of kindergarten when she had to learn how to write her name was what screwed Peightahn up. No idea what La-ura’s problem was.
    I always thought if maybe I had a different, more impressive name, my life could have turned out so differently. When I had first moved away from Hicksville to Chicago, I had even toyed with changing my name. MaryBeth is so midwestern. “MaryBeth, shuck the corn. MaryBeth, your ground baloney sandwich is ready. MaryBeth, it’s time for church.” A rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but I have to disagree with the Bard here; it would seriously be no fun receiving a bouquet of toe jam.
    I had a name all picked out, too. I would have kept the same initial, and same number of syllables. People usually do when they change their name, whether for legit or nefarious reasons--I think it must be some sort of subliminal nod of respect to the original name. In any event, I’m sure I didn’t need the hysterical mockery of my friends to sway me from my new pseudonym: Mystery.
    In a classic twist of fate, La-ura is my boss. Heavy sigh. I don’t hate-her, hate-her, I just really really really don’t like her, or get her appeal. She’s skinny, guys dig that, I get that. She has a killer wardrobe, but seems to think dressing for success is spelled sucksex. I’m not saying she slept her way to the top, but only because I’m sure there was very little sleep involved. She is the Creative Director of our company and if she’s had one creative thought since I’ve been here, I’d like to know about it. I take that back, even though she thinks Miracle Whip is a dominatrix implement, she did mandate the candy bonus. At brainstorming sessions she would mete out chocolate for innovative ideas as if she were training Shamu. We would all bark like a seal if we had to; the woman had exquisite taste in chocolate. In spite of, or probably because of her so-called leadership, we were a pretty productive bunch. C-est la vie. As my grandma always said, “Stoopid people don’t know they’re stoopid.”
    Her breasts seem ideal, but that could be because they came that way, right out of the box the surgeon pulled them from. Meow. Her hair could be featured on a Disney princess, the ones with long flowing locks that look enchanted. She spends more on her waist length mane than I do on health insurance. It’s never tangled, never snarled, and is so blonde one can’t help but think she must be better than the rest of us. She gets a brazilian blow out faithfully every three months to keep her tresses smooth and shiny, and while I can’t attest to any brazilian bikini wax, not having had the pleasure of seeing her hike up her thigh-highs first hand, as she liked to do in meetings when she was supposedly ‘gettin’ her creative on’, I wouldn’t drop dead from shock if she patronized the landing strip motif down there.    
    Nevermind about me and OA. Our relationship was doomed. Star-crossed from the start. There’s no way I could ever compete with La-ura. With extraordinary will power, I pushed OA out of my mind; well, at least I stored him in the dark recesses, right behind my dream of appearing on Oprah, hanging next to the killer dress I would wear should that ever happen, and underneath my uber-secret wish to be fluent in Italian. I didn’t want to go through all the trouble of learning it, mind you, I just wanted to be fluent in it. From garlic to deep fried mozzarella to Dean Dineno himself, my genetic code was hardwired to embrace all that was Italiano.
    I stood my pens to balance on their caps on top of my desk, lining them up like true and loyal soldiers, and shoved my chair back. I needed some reinforcement. I sailed down the hall, the path familiar enough for me to navigate in the dark, and jumped into my waiting carriage, no sign of Prince Charming. I shoved the lobby elevator button ten times, and those of you who think that has no impact on the speed of dispatch are sorely mistaken.
    “No Dino sighting today?” A voice whispered in my ear as I waited for my latte.
    I jumped. “Shh! Geez! Knock it off, will you?” I looked around making sure no one had heard my friend, Susie’s, insidious words. I waited for my coffee and then went and sat down by Susie, who had gotten there first. Susie works in real estate, poor girl, in the building next door, but poor girl, her building had no Coffeeteria like mine did. We met up as often as we could, which, I don’t mean to be paranoid or anything, seemed to be less and less, ever since I realized I was in love with Dino.
    “God, you don’t need this. You are so pretty,” my friend Susie greeted me. “When are you going to get over this unhealthy obsession? You need closure so you can embrace what the universe holds for you.”
    I donned my practiced Mona Lisa smile. “I didn’t know his Holiness the Dalai Lama was joining us today.”
    “So help me, MaryBeth, if you go over your meeting with Dino one more time, I’ll scream.” She tried to smile but I knew it was fake because her eyebrows didn’t budge a smidgeon. “Come on,” she said. “He’s cute, but not all that.”
    Them’s fightin’ words, as she full well knew. “Susie. You’re talking about the father of my children.” At least she laughed, for real.
    “MaryBeth. Look at you. You’re cute, you have a great shape...” I noticed she didn’t say skinny. That’s a true friend for you, though, she didn’t say chubby, either. “You are the smartest girl I know, which is why I just don’t understand your obsession with this guy. You need to move on.”
    “Susie, this is it.” I told her. “There is no moving on. He is the one. He is the one. He is the one.”
    She took the plastic lid off of her coffee cup and blew at the foam. “I don’t care how you say it, or how often you say it, you don’t know that.” She waved her hand in front of me as if to make me flinch and wipe the look of pity I was giving her off of my face. “You can’t know that.”
    “I cannot tell you what it was like in that elevator when we met.”
    “I’m sure you cannot, just as I’m sure you will try.” She took a sip. “Again.” She wearily swirled her hand, a good friend generously giving me permission to repeat myself.
    I looked over her head as if I could see Dino and his sparkly brown eyes, liking what he saw, looking back at me. “I had just started working here...about eight months ago...” I made my voice all flirty and sexy.
    “So now you’re Australian?” Susie asked me.
    I cleared my throat and didn’t even bother giving her a dirty look, although I did shove my voice back to its normal register. “It was about eight months ago...” I repeated.
    Susie took another sip of her latte, and I could have sworn I heard her mutter, “...four days, five hours, and nine billion repetitions ago...”
    “...When I met Dino. I was waiting for the elevator and as the doors opened,” I raised my hand high over the little coffee table, spreading my fingers wide like a fairy godmother’s wand. “It was magic,” I said. I breathed out, noticing Susie mouth the phrase with me. “The lights in the elevator shone on him, like spotlights.”
    “Did you hear music?” Susie asked, pretending to care.
    I frowned at her. “Yes. I am not kidding. It was almost like a cartoon sounding xylophone riff or something. Ba da dee doo!”
    “I’m sure it was his ringtone,” Miss Smart Ass said.
    “Susie, that’s not very nice. Besides, you know, with his being so Italian, and his name and all, he usually sports Dean Martin tunes.”
    “OK, OK,” Susie said. “The world stood still, yet you felt your soul tremble.”
    “Oh, dear God, I never said that. Did I?”
    She burst out laughing. “Afraid so.”
    “Well, I’ve never felt anything like this before, Susie. How can I make you understand? Maybe we are star-crossed lovers from another lifetime. You know, like Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, or Cleopatra and Mark Antony?”
    “So, like washerwomen or scullery maids never fall in love?” Susie asked. “Why doesn’t anyone ever appreciate the love lives of the less fortunate?”
    “Not now, Susie. Not now. You know what I mean. There was this vibration between us, a recognition. He had to have felt it, too. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
    “And the earth-shattering words he spoke...”
    “Knock it off. He said, ‘Hi. Dean Dineno, at your service’.” Then he shook my hand. Have you ever noticed his hands? They are so strong, and big. His fingers crushed me in their grip. You can tell he works out, yet he was gentle at the same time.”
    “Gently crushing, gotcha.” Susie said.
    “And I, well, I couldn’t remember my name to introduce myself,” I said, “but I clung onto his hand and felt like he was saving me from something, and pulling me into his world. I said, ‘pleased to meet you,’ and he said, ‘the pleasure is all mine.’” I looked at Susie. “We laughed then, like at our formality or something, and I curtsied.” I dropped my head into my hands. “Can you believe I curtsied? Who curtsies?”
    “It is a lost art,” Susie said, lamenting.
    “It was just a little curtsy. He probably didn’t even notice.”
    “Probably not,” Susie said.
    “Are you texting someone? While I’m spilling my guts to you?” Even though I had my own cell cradled in my left hand, my very own grown-up pacifier, I certainly wasn’t utilizing it. I may have checked the time, or tried to see if I had any messages once, or twice. But, geeze. Susie was being just plain rude. “I find your blase-faire insulting, to say nothing of irritating. Listen to me. Put that down.” I covered her phone screen and pushed it down into her lap.
    “Well quit making up words,” she told me. “And maybe quit making up worlds while you’re at it.” She smirked, looking all proud of herself.
    “Really? Really?” I showed her my perfected arched-eyebrow look. “
    “Sorry,” she said. She shoved her phone in her purse and leaned forward, looking way too interested.
    I reached for my finale. “Whether he saw the curtsy or not, we were staring hard at each other. And he added, ‘and they all lived: Happily. Ever. After.’ Come on that has to mean something!”
    “Well, it’s no abracadabra or open sesame,” Susie said.
    “It’s not your standard greeting,” I argued.
    “Maybe your curtsy threw him. I mean what do you say when some chick curtsies at you?”
    “No. It means something. Something on a deeper level, that we are love struck characters, fated to be together.”
    “You got the character part right.”
    “You know what I mean. Who says ‘happily ever after’?”
    “That would be you.”
    “It has to mean something,” I said.
    “It means that you had the usual terrible teenagerhood growing up, filled with acne, hand-me-downs, and bad haircuts, and fought back with fantasies and fairy tales,” Susie said. “Somewhere along the way your tenuous grip on reality followed the yellow brick road on a detour through the enchanted forest. MaryBeth, please. Wake up! There are good guys out there, you just have to put yourself out there and give them a chance.”
    “How’s your psych degree coming, Dr. Susie?”
    “Very funny,” Susie said. “I couldn’t get the class I needed this semester. But listen to me, you don’t need a psychology degree to see how unhappy you are, and to see that you are just headed for heartache. He’s dating La-ura. You’re boss. Nothing is going to change that. You have a great job with a lot of potential. Once your hair grows out...”
    I smacked the table with my hand. It teetered. “I cut my hair eight months ago, right before my job interview!” I pushed the shorn pieces that would still move back behind my ears. “I’m like poor Samson; I swear I lost all my powers when my locks were shorn.”
    “Obscure biblical references aren’t doing you any favors, either,” she said, sneaking a peak at the phone in her purse. “Besides, you’re hair is looking a lot better,” my good friend said. “Anyway. Derek wants you to double date with me and him Friday night. His cousin is in town...”
    “There’s five words you never want to hear. Derek’s Cousin Is In Town.” I counted the phrase out on my fingers. In my eyes, Derek was no prize himself, so sue me for being gun-shy about any unclaimed cousin. “No deal. I am not interested. Besides, I’m busy Friday night.”
    “Doing what?”
    “I told La-ura I’d stay late and have a bunch of slogans for the new account we’re going after on her desk first thing Monday morning. We’re supposed to be getting some super secret new product, details are hush-hush.”
    “Are you sure you don’t mean ‘flush-flush’?” Susie asked me, referring to my last toilet paper project.    
    “Nope. It’s supposed to be good. I’m kind of excited.”
    “Alright,” Susie said, standing up. “I have to get back to work. Just please, try not to obsess too much, OK?”
    “What, me obsess?” I heard her laugh as I headed toward the elevator, back up to the magic kingdom where my One True dwelt, his lips bent toward the same water gushing from the drinking fountain, his fingerprint DNA smudged with mine on the start button on the microwave. I scooted my ass to the rear of the elevator against the very same grab bar I’d seen him lean against. Get a room, I told myself. I wish I could, I answered myself.

Stay tuned for part two...

Lavage

Lavage is such a pretty word, if you can hear it, that is. Lavage, lavage...kind of rhymes with massage, and conjures up some whimsical luxury, maybe even a warm, creamy cheese. And now it's about to get gross. Lavage is what they do to clean out plugged up ears, and I'm addicted to it. You can take your good cry, productive cough, liberating sneeze, they have nothing on debris removal of impacted gold, (the kind you CAN grow potatoes in). It should be scary, a hot rushing tidal wave of water bearing down on your innermost thoughts. "Do it again, do it again!"

Vitamin B

This is a test, only a test...A double-blind study, even, since my quest is two-fold: 1. To see if my husband ever notices I just got a snootful of Botox, and 2. If he doesn't, is that a good thing?

Flirt Alert

I think a guy at the gym was flirting with me today. Don't get me wrong, as those occurrences become rarer and rarer, I should be thankful. But this morning, as my limber Lothario strutted his stuff a mere two feet in front of my face, prancing around like some bird fanning his feathers before busting into full on splits (euw...) I have to admit, I wasn't flattered. I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to work really hard on my abs, before heading out of the gym. As I was leaving, I saw suburban-version Jason Statham, bench pressing like 700 pounds. I slowed my pace, pulled out my ponytail, shook my head and stuck my butt out as I took a sip of water. He ignored me, as usual.

iGive Up...

She's really skinny, a little bitty thing. She speaks god knows how many languages. Nobody knows more sports trivia. She gives vision to his nonstop inane meandering thoughts. If she had opposable thumbs our relationship would be officially doomed. I'm sure there's an app for that, too. I hope they'll be very happy together.

The Girl Who Ate Too Many Potato Chips...

...while devouring The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.