Warren Piece
Sorry for posting events out of order so much lately, but I felt strongly about writing up what happened last night right away. Just to be clear, today's entry happened four days ago.
Sunday I sleep in even later than usual. After an extremely busy and somewhat distressing night at the Bar serving drinks and watching the Yankees shit the playoff bed for the sixth year in a row, I've left a note for my roommates Cassie and Jill asking them not to wake me up for bagel brunch, but letting them know I'll join them when I wake up on my own.
By the time I do, and I shuffle out into the living room in my pajamas, it's almost two in the afternoon, and our Netflix DVD of "Paycheck" is playing on the TV, with Cassie, Jill, and Vince strewn about the Comfy Couch, and remnants of brunch strewn about the room. Vince and Jill, I notice, are strategically sharing just one complete pair of pajamas; how economical, I think to myself.
I pour myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, then I come back and sit on the floor, resting my head against Cassie's knees. "Where's Olimpio, honey?"
Cassie scritches my hair. "He went to the Giants game with his brother. Thank God, because he hates Ben Affleck."
"I'm not such a big fan of him myself," says Vince.
"Why not?" Jill asks.
"That Red-Sox-loving, can't-hold-onto-J.Lo, knock-up-his-girlfriend, not-worthy-to-wipe-Matt-Damon's-ass pretty boy?"
"Yeah, him," I say. "Why not?" That gets a small laugh.
Cassie says, "He's worthy of Uma Thurman in this movie, and that's saying a lot."
I squint at the screen a little, studying the woman who's about to sit down across from Ben in some cafe. "That's not Uma Thurman."
"I think that's kind of the point," Vince says. "That's what you get for sleeping in, bedhead."
I try to follow the story, but he's right, I missed what must have been some vitally essential explanation of the absurd stuff that's going on. So I sit there for a little while eating a bagel with lox tofu (seriously, you can barely tell the difference from lox cream cheese, and there's much less fat) and sipping my coffee, but when I'm done, I wander into the kitchen and start pulling stuff out of the fridge and the cabinets.
I told Warren I would bring dessert to our date tonight, and on the advice of a friend, and because I keep picturing myself feeding them to him one by one, I'm making chocolate-covered strawberries. It doesn't even take that long to prepare them, though they have to sit in the refrigerator for a while. Because I know they've been able to smell the chocolate from the living room, after I'm done dipping the strawberries I bring the rest of the melted chocolate out to my friends and let them have at the pot.
Vince rips a chunk off a cinnamon-raisin bagel, and scoops up some chocolate with it. "Seriously, Debra, between the food and your roommate, this is the best barbacking job I've ever had." Jill smacks him on his bare chest.
I go into my room to read for a while, but I have a hard time concentrating. I keep thinking about what I learned nine days ago when Warren and I finally had a chance to see each other again. He's got children. And they've got a mother. Were they married? Was it an accident? Was it an ugly split-up? What kind of father is he? How old is he? How old are they? If we keep dating, will he expect me to meet them and participate when he has them for the weekend? I'm still in my mid-twenties; even if Warren and I end up staying together, am I ready to take on something like helping to raise some kids because I'm in a relationship with their father?
For that matter, do I feel prepared to be anybody's mother, ever, given that my role-model for motherhood disappeared while her only child was going through puberty?
I keep reminding myself it's just a first date, and try to force myself to wonder about more basic first date stuff. What's he making for dinner? What's his apartment like? Will I be able to think of anything to say? Is he going to try to kiss me? Am I ready for children, children, children?!
Eventually I give up on reading, and I wander through the living room on my way to the shower. "Don't seal it up and send it back yet, okay? I want to watch this one," I ask of my roommates.
At seven o'clock that evening, I find myself in an elevator on my way up to Warren's apartment after checking in at the front desk. The concept of a doorman building where somebody greets you and then announces your presence to the person you're visiting doesn't intimidate me nearly as much as it used to when I first moved to New York City, partly because I live in one myself, and I don't think Cassie, Jill, and I are exactly the stuffy type. But this building is a little different. There's a doorman and a concierge at a desk, and more elevators, and everything is just a little more opulent looking than where we live.
I step off the elevator and head down the hallway, carrying my wrapped dessert plate, and hoping I look okay. I'm wearing a simple black dress, wondering if you can still see what's left of my tan, wondering if it's too dressy for a first date for a casual dinner at someone's apartment, hoping to hell he likes it, starting to wonder what I'm doing here, we're at completely different places in our lives, we had a couple of good flirtations, the five weeks of anticipation and the hundreds of blog readers have built it up into this thing, what am I doing here?! and then I knock on his door.
Warren opens his door, and he's standing there with a dishtowel in his hand, dressed in the nicest of the three suits I've seen him in yet, an incredibly smart navy pinstripe number with a freshly-ironed sky-blue shirt and the most gorgeous deep pink knit silk necktie I've ever laid eyes on. He looks so good I can barely remember that I'm supposed to say something. And after a moment I realize he's kind of staring at me.
"Wow," he says, and I smile and look down. "Come in, please." I do, and he closes the door behind me, then shows me into the kitchen so I can set down the dessert plate. "I was just opening some wine, would you like some?"
"Yes, please," I reply.
Warren pours a red into two large-bowl glasses from a bottle I can't read from where I'm standing, then sets the bottle down, and instead of picking up the glasses, just stands there for a minute. He turns to me, and says, "I haven't been on a date in a very, very long time. I don't remember what it's supposed to be."
"Trust me, you're doing just fine. And it's been a little while for me, too."
He still just stands there, and after a minute of looking into my eyes, he says, "Debra?"
I take his tie in between my thumb and forefingers and slide my hand down a few inches. "Starch Boy?"
"I don't want any wine just yet."
I pull on the necktie very gently, and as it moves toward me, he follows close behind.
Sunday I sleep in even later than usual. After an extremely busy and somewhat distressing night at the Bar serving drinks and watching the Yankees shit the playoff bed for the sixth year in a row, I've left a note for my roommates Cassie and Jill asking them not to wake me up for bagel brunch, but letting them know I'll join them when I wake up on my own.
By the time I do, and I shuffle out into the living room in my pajamas, it's almost two in the afternoon, and our Netflix DVD of "Paycheck" is playing on the TV, with Cassie, Jill, and Vince strewn about the Comfy Couch, and remnants of brunch strewn about the room. Vince and Jill, I notice, are strategically sharing just one complete pair of pajamas; how economical, I think to myself.
I pour myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, then I come back and sit on the floor, resting my head against Cassie's knees. "Where's Olimpio, honey?"
Cassie scritches my hair. "He went to the Giants game with his brother. Thank God, because he hates Ben Affleck."
"I'm not such a big fan of him myself," says Vince.
"Why not?" Jill asks.
"That Red-Sox-loving, can't-hold-onto-J.Lo, knock-up-his-girlfriend, not-worthy-to-wipe-Matt-Damon's-ass pretty boy?"
"Yeah, him," I say. "Why not?" That gets a small laugh.
Cassie says, "He's worthy of Uma Thurman in this movie, and that's saying a lot."
I squint at the screen a little, studying the woman who's about to sit down across from Ben in some cafe. "That's not Uma Thurman."
"I think that's kind of the point," Vince says. "That's what you get for sleeping in, bedhead."
I try to follow the story, but he's right, I missed what must have been some vitally essential explanation of the absurd stuff that's going on. So I sit there for a little while eating a bagel with lox tofu (seriously, you can barely tell the difference from lox cream cheese, and there's much less fat) and sipping my coffee, but when I'm done, I wander into the kitchen and start pulling stuff out of the fridge and the cabinets.
I told Warren I would bring dessert to our date tonight, and on the advice of a friend, and because I keep picturing myself feeding them to him one by one, I'm making chocolate-covered strawberries. It doesn't even take that long to prepare them, though they have to sit in the refrigerator for a while. Because I know they've been able to smell the chocolate from the living room, after I'm done dipping the strawberries I bring the rest of the melted chocolate out to my friends and let them have at the pot.
Vince rips a chunk off a cinnamon-raisin bagel, and scoops up some chocolate with it. "Seriously, Debra, between the food and your roommate, this is the best barbacking job I've ever had." Jill smacks him on his bare chest.
I go into my room to read for a while, but I have a hard time concentrating. I keep thinking about what I learned nine days ago when Warren and I finally had a chance to see each other again. He's got children. And they've got a mother. Were they married? Was it an accident? Was it an ugly split-up? What kind of father is he? How old is he? How old are they? If we keep dating, will he expect me to meet them and participate when he has them for the weekend? I'm still in my mid-twenties; even if Warren and I end up staying together, am I ready to take on something like helping to raise some kids because I'm in a relationship with their father?
For that matter, do I feel prepared to be anybody's mother, ever, given that my role-model for motherhood disappeared while her only child was going through puberty?
I keep reminding myself it's just a first date, and try to force myself to wonder about more basic first date stuff. What's he making for dinner? What's his apartment like? Will I be able to think of anything to say? Is he going to try to kiss me? Am I ready for children, children, children?!
Eventually I give up on reading, and I wander through the living room on my way to the shower. "Don't seal it up and send it back yet, okay? I want to watch this one," I ask of my roommates.
At seven o'clock that evening, I find myself in an elevator on my way up to Warren's apartment after checking in at the front desk. The concept of a doorman building where somebody greets you and then announces your presence to the person you're visiting doesn't intimidate me nearly as much as it used to when I first moved to New York City, partly because I live in one myself, and I don't think Cassie, Jill, and I are exactly the stuffy type. But this building is a little different. There's a doorman and a concierge at a desk, and more elevators, and everything is just a little more opulent looking than where we live.
I step off the elevator and head down the hallway, carrying my wrapped dessert plate, and hoping I look okay. I'm wearing a simple black dress, wondering if you can still see what's left of my tan, wondering if it's too dressy for a first date for a casual dinner at someone's apartment, hoping to hell he likes it, starting to wonder what I'm doing here, we're at completely different places in our lives, we had a couple of good flirtations, the five weeks of anticipation and the hundreds of blog readers have built it up into this thing, what am I doing here?! and then I knock on his door.
Warren opens his door, and he's standing there with a dishtowel in his hand, dressed in the nicest of the three suits I've seen him in yet, an incredibly smart navy pinstripe number with a freshly-ironed sky-blue shirt and the most gorgeous deep pink knit silk necktie I've ever laid eyes on. He looks so good I can barely remember that I'm supposed to say something. And after a moment I realize he's kind of staring at me.
"Wow," he says, and I smile and look down. "Come in, please." I do, and he closes the door behind me, then shows me into the kitchen so I can set down the dessert plate. "I was just opening some wine, would you like some?"
"Yes, please," I reply.
Warren pours a red into two large-bowl glasses from a bottle I can't read from where I'm standing, then sets the bottle down, and instead of picking up the glasses, just stands there for a minute. He turns to me, and says, "I haven't been on a date in a very, very long time. I don't remember what it's supposed to be."
"Trust me, you're doing just fine. And it's been a little while for me, too."
He still just stands there, and after a minute of looking into my eyes, he says, "Debra?"
I take his tie in between my thumb and forefingers and slide my hand down a few inches. "Starch Boy?"
"I don't want any wine just yet."
I pull on the necktie very gently, and as it moves toward me, he follows close behind.