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“Let’s take the girls out to di
“She said she was taking a nap,” I replied.
“She’ll be up by now, and call that Mormon sister of yours. She won’t turn down a meal. And don’t miss the goddamned light!” he yelled as we approached an intersection with a yellow light.
“Goddammit, Chelsea!” he screamed when I did the unthinkable and decelerated instead of stepping on the gas and gu
CHAPTER FIVE
After sleeping around for the better part of my twenties, it somehow occurred to me that I wasn’t giving everyone a fair shot. There were men I’d encounter who I wouldn’t think twice about having sex with based on their appearance alone. I knew that if I ever had a chance at becoming a respectable ambassador for countries such as Uganda, Kazakhstan, or the Tropic of Cancer, I would really have to be more of an egalitarian. I had slept with a handful of black boys in my late teens, and knew that I would have to open my borders even further in order to be taken seriously by any third-world government. It was time for a redhead.
Along with the 97 percent of women who can see, I have never been a fan of redheaded men. First of all, I am unclear as to why they are called redheads when, for the most part, their hair is bright orange. Obviously, bright orange-head doesn’t roll off the tongue the same way, but in all honesty, it should either be “orange-head” or “Hawaiian Punch-head.”
For a woman, being a redhead is a completely acceptable trait. Oftentimes it can be extremely attractive. Conversely, being a redheaded man is pretty much a lose-lose situation. It’s incredibly hard to take redheaded men seriously, never mind think of them in any sort of sexual capacity. Obviously, it’s not their fault that they were born with red hair. However, it is their responsibility to change that hair color once they have access to a convenience store or supermarket. It’s one thing to have a harelip, or even a leg that’s a couple of inches shorter than the other, but if you’re a man with red hair and don’t opt to do everything in your power to alter that, then obviously you’re not serious about experiencing all life has to offer.
My theory on the redheaded race is that they have no positive role models paving the way for them. It’s not like Ronald McDonald or Carrot Top have really helped their cause. Who are they supposed to model themselves after? Da
I did not set out to find a redhead; I was fortunate enough to have one come my way. My manager, Dave, had called to tell me a screenwriter he knew was coming to see me do stand-up. He was interested in basing a character on me in his new film. My manager didn’t mention that this guy had red hair, which I think would be a fairly reasonable thing to mention, especially if his hair took up more square footage than a Mini Cooper.
His name was Austin, and he introduced himself to me after I performed at a bar on Sunset that has since changed names four times over. Austin was about six-two with a completely beautiful body. He was really muscular-and not in a ripped, infomercial kind of way. He was built, but softer. I liked his body instantly. His head was a completely different story. “How,” I wanted to ask, “could you think that a bright orange Afro was acceptable?” It looked like he had gone bobbing for apples in a barrel filled with Fanta orange soda.
Despite his appearance, he was seemingly coherent as we made introductions and then took a seat at the bar. I kept waiting for him to stutter or have a bout of Tourette’s-something to back up his decision to leave the house in what could have very well been a clown’s wig. But there were no such symptoms. He was perfectly normal, bright, and chivalrous. He pulled out a bar stool for me, asked me what I wanted to drink, and ordered.
He was cute in a way. And the more I talked to him, the more I found him attractive for having enough confidence to walk around with a lid like that.
Now don’t get me wrong, I have some very serious shortcomings of my own. I know that I have a tendency to drink heavily at night. I know that my body, specifically my midsection, has trouble staying where I put it, and I also know that I am pretty much useless when it comes to TiVo or anything involving road maps. I’ve learned that on both of those fronts, it’s just better not to get involved. But most important, I know that I don’t want anyone to ever look at me and think, What the fuck happened to her hair?
Austin and I proceeded to knock back a couple of Ketel One and grapefruit juices, which happened to be my drink of the moment. Someone told me that grapefruit was a great detoxifier and I decided I wanted to start cleaning out my liver while I was having a cocktail. I liked that Austin didn’t just order a beer of some sort, or, God forbid, wine. There’s nothing more a
Doesn’t everybody know that wine is supposed to go with food? I’ve never in my life finished a long day of work and thought, Gee whiz, I can’t wait to get my hands on a bottle of lukewarm Cabernet. I have a bunch of girlfriends who love wine and I’ve never really been able to relate. I mean, yeah, maybe if you’re stranded on an island and the only other option is coconut milk. Or if it’s a really nice bottle of wine and you’re having a really nice meal. Other than that, I don’t see the point. I’d rather have water. And by the way, I’m not a huge fan of water, either.
After our third drink I learned that Big Red knew people from my high school. That was certainly a red flag, considering I didn’t remember having any actual friends in high school. I had a couple of girlfriends, but no one who I thought would have anything positive to say about me. I didn’t really spend much time with anyone my own age during high school because I believed my true calling would be representing New Jersey in the U.S. Senate, and if that didn’t work out, I could always fall back on becoming an Olympic pole vaulter.
I thought I was completely too cool for my classmates, and couldn’t comprehend how they could hang out at malls on the weekend. I much preferred spending romantic weekends in Hoboken with my twenty-one-year-old accountant boyfriend who would wine and dine me at T.G.I. Fridays. I had no involvement with any extracurricular activities at school, mostly because the one time I tried out for cheerleading I was summoned to the nurse’s office the next morning to be tested for scoliosis.
Sometime after our fourth Ketel One and grapefruit, he mentioned that he was going after Sha
By the way he reacted, you would have thought I told him that slavery never happened. He laid into me with the same gusto as a right-wing political pundit on the O’Reilly Factor defending President’s Bush right to vacation six days out of the week.
His insane passion for a person who not only starred in a television show about witchcraft but also worked at a place called The Peach Pit intrigued me to no end. I love people who have such passion for complete nonsense. When I told him that most people are well aware of the fact that she’s difficult to work with, he launched into a promotional campaign with a fervor I hadn’t seen since A