Who's That Girl...

When she wanted something and knew it would be hard to get, she stomped her foot. It was mostly involuntary and beyond her control, and had been her way since she’d been two. Everyone thought it was cute back then, but they were more than a little afraid of her now. 

Shop girls shuddered when she walked in the door. Baristas and bartenders, too. It wasn’t that she was a brat; she simply despised incompetence, low-confidence, long lines, and poorly made drinks. And it wasn’t entirely her fault; her father had always told her – morning, noon, and night – that she was the best, and that she should expect the best. 

So she’d grown up dead-sure that the best was always waiting around every corner. And it was. She had the best job, the best friends, the best loft, the best ideas, and the best shoes with which to stomp. She had the best boyfriends, too. And when they were no longer the best, they were also no longer her boyfriends. It was a wonderful life.

You know how this story goes, don’t you? She meets a man. The best man. A man to replace the man she’d had before him, and one who would probably be the best until he wasn’t any longer. A man who was utterly wonderful and perfect in every way except one: he doesn’t want her.

This had never happened to her before. Never. He ignored all her hints, didn’t answer her calls, and appeared confused when her friends asked him what he thought of her.

“I don’t.” he answered simply and with a shrug.

And so the story goes for weeks and weeks and months and months until she couldn’t take it anymore. Against her better judgment, she dressed in her killer best and showed up at his house. Took a long, deep breath and rang his bell. 

After her second attempt, she heard a window slide open two floors up. She stepped back into the street and stared at him, at his beautiful face and gorgeous black-as-night eyes and lashes she could count from two stories down. He smiled lazily, and called to her, “Hey, Karen...”

“Carinna,” she corrected, her heart sinking for the first time in her life. It made her feel like she was drowning and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

She asked if he’d like to go for coffee. He said he didn’t think he would. She asked if he wanted to have dinner sometime. He didn’t. A movie? Nope.

“Listen,” she said. “I've never done this before...I've never had to, actually. But I think we’d be great together. And I can’t understand why you won’t give me a chance.”

He just stared at her and kept his smile in place. “Tell me what you want from me,” he said.

“Well…” she didn’t know what to say. “Just…a date. Just…hanging out.”

I mean, what else could she tell him? That she thought of no one and nothing else but him? How it crushed her that he didn’t remember her name? How it killed her that he didn’t love her already? That she thought- no, hoped and dreamed - that he was the one?

“Ahhh,” his smile finally disappearing. “And here I thought you’d finally grown up. These things you want from me…dinner, a date…hanging out? You can get that from anyone. I wanted more from you. And I’ve been waiting for you to realize that you do, too.”

And with that, he disappeared back inside and closed the window.

He’s coming downstairs, she thought to herself, smiling. Well. That had worked out perfectly. For the best. As usual. She’d gotten what she’d wanted one more time.

Five minutes later, he still wasn’t downstairs. When seven minutes passed, she finally understood that things hadn’t worked out perfectly and for the best. And so, exactly nine minutes later, she did the only thing she knew to do.

Stomped her expensive shoe on that street, marched right up to his door again, and buzzed until he let her in.

The rest of the story is history. But I will tell you this much; they now have twin girls who inherited his black-as-night eyes and lush lashes, as well as her penchant for foot-stomping when they want what they want.

And, as their father tells them morning, noon, and night, they deserve the world.

Who's That Girl...

He saw her first from across a crowded room. He'd tell that story at least a dozen times in the next three days, and always end with the obvious; that he couldn't miss her because she was hard-to-miss in a room full of five-year olds.

Her official job title was Instructor, made more specific depending on the hour and the dance and the age of her students. Mostly, her little ladies and two little men called her Miss Butterfly, because even when she was standing perfectly still, she looked like she was fluttering. It was the strangest thing.

He was picking up his daughter after a frantic call from his ex. He didn't mind one bit; any time he could spend with his little butterfly was welcome. And as soon as he tore his gaze away from the instructor - a nearly impossible feat - he found his girl and smiled for the first time all day.

She saw him first from across a crowded room. She'd tell that story at least a dozen times in the next three days, and always end with the wonderful; that the second she saw his smile, she wanted one all her own.

Long, complicated, and hot story shorter, they met for an early dinner four days later. It was the longest four days of their lives. And when he gave her a hug in the restaurant lobby, he didn't want to let her go. She wouldn't have minded if he didn't.

Their first kiss was a double firework. He didn't want his lips to be away from hers ever again, but there they were in the valet line with three surfer boys in ties staring at their goodbyes. When he pulled away, she gasped, covered her lips with her fingers, and fluttered with wanting him. And he couldn't help but smile - all for her and all her own - and murmur "Well, damn. I certainly can't leave you like this, Butterfly."

And, much to the delight of the three surfer boys in ties, he didn't.

This girl deserved a story. Hope you loved this one. And Happy Monday, you beautiful things!

Who's That Girl...

She was supposed to be getting ready for her blind date. She'd scheduled a manicure, sunshine streaks added to her mane, and a much-needed wax. But given her past record of saying all the wrong things to all the right boys on all of her first and last first dates, no one but she and Mina would be ogling that wax.

Her sister called with a favor, though, as she usually did on Saturdays. It was normally not a problem, since her Saturdays were always free. That was the problem.

But she said yes, as she always did on Saturdays. Which is how it came to be that she spent the five hours before her date in the company of her nieces.

And which is why, when her date arrived on her doorstep holding a bouquet of chubby daisies and carnival-sized lollipops, she wasn't exactly ready. He didn't seem to notice.

He completely missed her nails, fluorescent and colored outside the lines. But that was one of the promises she'd made her lovelies promise that day and she'd had no time to erase that lesson; always, always break the rules and don't worry about making a mess. Life is messy. And when it's really good, life is incredibly messy. And blindingly bright.

He didn't see the pink streaks in her mane. He saw a glow that reminded him of everything beautiful he'd ever seen in his life. The night sky in Venice, the sands in Saudi, and the way everyone looked up at the Eiffel Tower. Damned if he didn't add her as his Eighth Wonder right then and there.

He couldn't tell from where the jingling was coming because his eyes never made it to her wrist, stacked with every bauble that caught her lovelies' eyes. She said yes to them all because she was a big believer in more is more, plus also she wanted her nieces to understand how valued were their ideas. No matter how more they were.

He didn't know it yet, but from that moment on every time that boy heard jewelry sing its song, he found himself smiling. He found himself wishing for more. And he didn't know it yet, but he'd be smiling about this moment for the rest of his life.

She learned two things about herself that night with that boy. First, she'd been wrong about herself and her past disastrous blind date history. She hadn't been saying all the wrong things to all the right boys. She'd been saying all the right things to all the wrong boys.

He was right. And she was, too.

Also? She and her esthetician were not the only ones who ogled her wax that night.

A lovely collection of arm candy found via Audrey Kitching.

Who's That Girl...

Her name might be Georgia. Maybe even Frankie. She was named for her father, the scoundrel who ran out on them when she and her sisters were still young enough to miss him. Now, she only misses his Manicotti. He always doubled the Asiago and Cayenne because, in his Italian-accented words, "Good food is meant to be tasted long after it's over." Damn, but she felt the same way about life.

She had sex last night, but made sweet love this morning. She skipped breakfast without fail, and liked to do the same with unnecessary staff meetings. She played mind games with her barista, trying to confuse him with her mad concoctions and flurry of skinny and split shot and triples and wet and with legs. Someday, she'd walk in and order what she really wanted. Coffee. Black. Two sugars. But she was too young, still, for life to be that simple. She was planning on embracing the complicated for a few more years.

She carried only credit cards, cigarettes, rose-tinted lip balm, and a vintage DVF wrap dress folded into a tiny square in her huge bag. It had been a gift from her favorite companion - the one with whom she'd shared the past twelve delightful hours and past three delightful years - and she carried it despite her apathy toward "It" bags. Instead, she carried it because he was it...they were it...and she couldn't wait to fill it with everything important. Like a marriage license or tickets to Vegas or brand new credit cards with a different last name that the scoundrel's. And diapers. Someday, she would need to carry diapers.

What else can I tell you about her? She was fair and polite. She loved anyone who shared kindness. Wrote all others off in permanent marker. She'd saved her first stuffed animal and nearly every cork from every meaningful celebration. She dreamed of collecting old maps and globes, but she'd never really been anywhere besides LA; such a collection might poke fun at her instead of fulfilling her, don't you agree? She'd stick to corks until she figured out how to fly away.

She was sure of everything, and of nothing at all. She knew this, deep down. Except maybe...maybe she was sure of one thing. Maybe even two.

She would name her babies after scoundrels. That, and she'd make her love Manicotti tonight. Doubled Asiago and Cayenne.