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The fake wife
May 28th, 2008 | 7:12 pm
I'm single and I've been single for a long time. I'm fairly good at it, I think. Now maybe too good.
I work with Greg. He is not single. He is gay and has a husband, Al. I've never met Al. Greg never brings him
to any of the Work Events. Greg always shows up "single" and so do I, only there are no quotes around my
single.
Before Greg was out, or maybe before it was acceptable, he worked at a bank and wore a wedding ring and
told his co-workers he was married to a lady named Kathy.
Greg and I are standing on the red carpet at the Universal Globe Theater when he tells me this.
Universal City is on top of a mountain northwest of Hollywood and no matter the season, there's always a
chilly wind blowing up there, but my strapless dress black and white plaid dress with a sweetheart bodice is
too precious to cover up. It's another Work Event and we're drinking greyhounds with free vouchers and
feeling tipsy and daring.
The theme of the evening is "This is New York" and Greg and I stand there looking like Sex and the City--
we're always the best dressed. Tourists take photos of us from behind the maroon velvet rope. They have no
idea that we're not famous. We do nothing to discourage them.
"You had a fake wife called Kathy?" I ask, happily shocked.
"Yes, she was a model," he replies, almost arrogantly.
"Like a runway model?" I ask.
"No. Print.. She was a Virginia Slims model back in the early 80's."
"Wow, she must have been sexy."
"Yes, she was. Tall and thin and big 80's hair."
Suddenly, I feel a bit jealous.
"You've come a long way, baby. How come I didn't know this?"
"You never asked," he says casually sipping his drink out of the tiny red mixing straw on the side of his mouth.
"I'm supposed to ask people if they have fake wives?"
A cute young server-boy passes us with a tray of tiny hot dogs and we each grab one and dip it in the grainy
mustard.
"In the end, she left me, " he says, with a little regret in his voice.
"Because you told people you were gay?"
"No, because I quit my job at the bank.
Another cute young server-boy passes with tiny pizzas. They are so tiny that there's room for only one round
pepperoni slice.
A while back I had a fake boyfriend. I forget his name (no, it wasn't George Glass) and he was a semi-pro
basketball player. I'm not sure exactly what that is, except it meant he was tall and fairly muscular, but
probably didn't drive a Bentley. I made him up because a creepy man called Farnoosh at Work asked me out
too many times. Then, for three years, I thought I had a real boyfriend, so I'd show up to these events
comfortably "single," except the "relationship" was not even in name, as he refused to ever call me his
"girlfriend." He told me he didn't like the word, but it was the concept that scared him.
Thus, the "single" and now just single.
Another co-worker, Susan, approaches us with her fiance, Stan.
Susan was famously broken up with because a guy she started dating last summer, Tall Paul, got sick with
a terrible cold, and Susan brought him chicken soup and some tea bags with honey, sugar, splenda, and
sweet-n-lo. She didn't know which he preferred. To Tall Paul it was excessive. After he recovered, he never
called her again. Months later, they ran into each other and he told her that he didn't call her back because of
"the large selection of sugar packets". They frightened him. He felt that the next step in their relationship
would have been her moving in... because chronologically, that's what happens: You bring the sugar packets
and then your toothbrush and tampons and your 83 pairs of shoes and bam, and you're in, suppressing poor
Tall Paul and everything that was once good about his life. How can a man be free to fuck around if someone
is plying, nay, guilting him with sugar packets?
Now Susan is engaged to Stan. Stan likes Susan's homemade coffee cake and sunrise dates at the beach
and yes, even her all of her sugar packets. Stans are rare.
I'm a sugar packets kind of gal. I'm generous, loving, I'll probably give thoughtful gifts and bring hot tea with a
selection of sugar packets when you're sick, if I don't know you very well. If I know you, I'll already know you
like real honey and fresh lemon. If we are a couple, I'll be the best girlfriend you've ever had and I'll be proud
to tell the world about you. I'm not going to change that about myself, and I like that.
I'm wise enough to know not to expect a Stan.
I know now how men are wired. Most single men over a certain age are wired like Tall Paul. What's also
good about now, though, is I know how I'm wired. I like the concept of friend, Saturday night date, confidant,
sexy sleepmate, dog-walker, truth-teller, passagiata-taker, romantic dinner-eater, travelling companion,
newspaper-sharer, all in one. I know this is a reasonable, yet rich request. So until someone meets these
criteria, and I meet theirs, I'm going to have to go fake.
Especially after the news about Greg and Kathy, I love the possibilities of My Fake Boyfriend. I think I might
want him to have a powerful job, like zapping tumors with a gamma knife. Or maybe he's in special ops in
The War (I don't know where, it's classified!). His importance explains why he can't be at my Work Events
drinking cosmopolitans at the Beverly Hilton or at a golf tournament, winking at me each time I drive the cart
past his foursome. Hey, he might even use a gamma knife in The War!
His name will be something like a superhero... I'm thinking J Parker. I haven't decided what the J stands for
yet. J Parker won't question why I want to be with him. My generosity and enthusiasm won't make him
uncomfortable. My expectations will inspire him, not imprison him. He'll think: Now here's a gal with great
taste. And I'll think: Now here's a brave guy who knows what he wants.
J Parker will eventually become my fake fiance with a rather dramatic marriage proposal possibly involving
an accordion player and a balcony. Soon after, he will take his vows as my fake husband in a private
ceremony on a beach somewhere. And I might show you pictures of our honeymoon to Machu Picchu or
Patagonia. He's not in the photos because he was taking them. And oh, he said the funniest thing last night.
I'll hang out with the Gregs of the world at the Universal Globe and all of the other Work Events and we'll
stand there like fake celebrities, "single." We'll work the red carpet and laugh wickedly and remark, "How
unfortunate," about the over-the-hills wearing ankle boots with mini-dresses. Then the Gregs will go home to
their Als, the Susans will go home to their Stans, and I'll go home to Little Dog and a head full of ideas about
The Amazing J Parker.
The best thing about J Parker? Better than Kathy and her Virginia Slims? Better than The War and the
gamma knife and his graciousness and all of his other insanely special qualities? He thinks I'm sweet. He
likes my sugar packets.
Comments
May 28th, 2008 | 7:12 pm
I'm single and I've been single for a long time. I'm fairly good at it, I think. Now maybe too good.
I work with Greg. He is not single. He is gay and has a husband, Al. I've never met Al. Greg never brings him
to any of the Work Events. Greg always shows up "single" and so do I, only there are no quotes around my
single.
Before Greg was out, or maybe before it was acceptable, he worked at a bank and wore a wedding ring and
told his co-workers he was married to a lady named Kathy.
Greg and I are standing on the red carpet at the Universal Globe Theater when he tells me this.
Universal City is on top of a mountain northwest of Hollywood and no matter the season, there's always a
chilly wind blowing up there, but my strapless dress black and white plaid dress with a sweetheart bodice is
too precious to cover up. It's another Work Event and we're drinking greyhounds with free vouchers and
feeling tipsy and daring.
The theme of the evening is "This is New York" and Greg and I stand there looking like Sex and the City--
we're always the best dressed. Tourists take photos of us from behind the maroon velvet rope. They have no
idea that we're not famous. We do nothing to discourage them.
"You had a fake wife called Kathy?" I ask, happily shocked.
"Yes, she was a model," he replies, almost arrogantly.
"Like a runway model?" I ask.
"No. Print.. She was a Virginia Slims model back in the early 80's."
"Wow, she must have been sexy."
"Yes, she was. Tall and thin and big 80's hair."
Suddenly, I feel a bit jealous.
"You've come a long way, baby. How come I didn't know this?"
"You never asked," he says casually sipping his drink out of the tiny red mixing straw on the side of his mouth.
"I'm supposed to ask people if they have fake wives?"
A cute young server-boy passes us with a tray of tiny hot dogs and we each grab one and dip it in the grainy
mustard.
"In the end, she left me, " he says, with a little regret in his voice.
"Because you told people you were gay?"
"No, because I quit my job at the bank.
Another cute young server-boy passes with tiny pizzas. They are so tiny that there's room for only one round
pepperoni slice.
A while back I had a fake boyfriend. I forget his name (no, it wasn't George Glass) and he was a semi-pro
basketball player. I'm not sure exactly what that is, except it meant he was tall and fairly muscular, but
probably didn't drive a Bentley. I made him up because a creepy man called Farnoosh at Work asked me out
too many times. Then, for three years, I thought I had a real boyfriend, so I'd show up to these events
comfortably "single," except the "relationship" was not even in name, as he refused to ever call me his
"girlfriend." He told me he didn't like the word, but it was the concept that scared him.
Thus, the "single" and now just single.
Another co-worker, Susan, approaches us with her fiance, Stan.
Susan was famously broken up with because a guy she started dating last summer, Tall Paul, got sick with
a terrible cold, and Susan brought him chicken soup and some tea bags with honey, sugar, splenda, and
sweet-n-lo. She didn't know which he preferred. To Tall Paul it was excessive. After he recovered, he never
called her again. Months later, they ran into each other and he told her that he didn't call her back because of
"the large selection of sugar packets". They frightened him. He felt that the next step in their relationship
would have been her moving in... because chronologically, that's what happens: You bring the sugar packets
and then your toothbrush and tampons and your 83 pairs of shoes and bam, and you're in, suppressing poor
Tall Paul and everything that was once good about his life. How can a man be free to fuck around if someone
is plying, nay, guilting him with sugar packets?
Now Susan is engaged to Stan. Stan likes Susan's homemade coffee cake and sunrise dates at the beach
and yes, even her all of her sugar packets. Stans are rare.
I'm a sugar packets kind of gal. I'm generous, loving, I'll probably give thoughtful gifts and bring hot tea with a
selection of sugar packets when you're sick, if I don't know you very well. If I know you, I'll already know you
like real honey and fresh lemon. If we are a couple, I'll be the best girlfriend you've ever had and I'll be proud
to tell the world about you. I'm not going to change that about myself, and I like that.
I'm wise enough to know not to expect a Stan.
I know now how men are wired. Most single men over a certain age are wired like Tall Paul. What's also
good about now, though, is I know how I'm wired. I like the concept of friend, Saturday night date, confidant,
sexy sleepmate, dog-walker, truth-teller, passagiata-taker, romantic dinner-eater, travelling companion,
newspaper-sharer, all in one. I know this is a reasonable, yet rich request. So until someone meets these
criteria, and I meet theirs, I'm going to have to go fake.
Especially after the news about Greg and Kathy, I love the possibilities of My Fake Boyfriend. I think I might
want him to have a powerful job, like zapping tumors with a gamma knife. Or maybe he's in special ops in
The War (I don't know where, it's classified!). His importance explains why he can't be at my Work Events
drinking cosmopolitans at the Beverly Hilton or at a golf tournament, winking at me each time I drive the cart
past his foursome. Hey, he might even use a gamma knife in The War!
His name will be something like a superhero... I'm thinking J Parker. I haven't decided what the J stands for
yet. J Parker won't question why I want to be with him. My generosity and enthusiasm won't make him
uncomfortable. My expectations will inspire him, not imprison him. He'll think: Now here's a gal with great
taste. And I'll think: Now here's a brave guy who knows what he wants.
J Parker will eventually become my fake fiance with a rather dramatic marriage proposal possibly involving
an accordion player and a balcony. Soon after, he will take his vows as my fake husband in a private
ceremony on a beach somewhere. And I might show you pictures of our honeymoon to Machu Picchu or
Patagonia. He's not in the photos because he was taking them. And oh, he said the funniest thing last night.
I'll hang out with the Gregs of the world at the Universal Globe and all of the other Work Events and we'll
stand there like fake celebrities, "single." We'll work the red carpet and laugh wickedly and remark, "How
unfortunate," about the over-the-hills wearing ankle boots with mini-dresses. Then the Gregs will go home to
their Als, the Susans will go home to their Stans, and I'll go home to Little Dog and a head full of ideas about
The Amazing J Parker.
The best thing about J Parker? Better than Kathy and her Virginia Slims? Better than The War and the
gamma knife and his graciousness and all of his other insanely special qualities? He thinks I'm sweet. He
likes my sugar packets.
Comments
