Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin [23]
July 14, 1999
11:59 p.m.
She just said it again. You go, girl! That’s my baby! I knew she’d come around. I wasn’t worried. THAT’S MY GIRL! She is the loveliest little creature on the face of the earth. Fucking said, “Daddy”! High five to myself! Angie was so jealous. She said, “I carried her for nine months, nursed her from my bosom, changed almost all of her dirty diapers, and her first word is ‘daddy’?”
She’ll get over it. She’s just a baby.
Lesson#10
Keep Some Secret Admirers Secret
by Eric Slovin
I love getting invitations in the mail. It’s always a thrill to find expensive stationary hiding out amidst the usual bills and junk mail. And I’ve never tired of seeing my name written in calligraphy on a high-grade envelope. It makes me feel fancy, like a Victorian dandy. But I’m never surprised by these invites. I always see them coming. A friend who I know is getting married sends me an e-mail asking for my home address, and a week later, an envelope comes in the mail. It’s nice, but no surprise.
I was surprised once, though. It was great. It came out of nowhere. I took my time and savored the envelope before opening it. My name and address were written by the hand of a real calligraphy artist. Not printed on a computer. That meant genuine personal attention! The return address was Park Avenue. That meant top-shelf liquor! I opened it slowly and read:
Now, for me, that was a real surprise! I can’t tell you how flattered I was that Eileen Silverman wanted me to come to her cocktail party so badly she actually hired a professional calligraphist to write my name on an envelope for what must have taken, I don’t know, ten solid minutes of serious calligriphization. I really appreciated that. I just had one question: Who the hell was Eileen Silverman?! The name meant nothing to me. I was left with the panic of having completely forgotten a person who liked me enough to hire a tradesman with an antiquated skill to write my name on an expensive envelope. I decided to call the RSVP number immediately.
First, let me be honest. The name Eileen Silverman isn’t real. I made it up to protect the actual person. But I think it gives a good sense of the social-demographic and religious affiliation that we’re dealing with here. Actually, now that I think about it, Eileen Silverman is a little too strong. I should tone it down a bit. Let’s call her . . . Rebecca Schwartz.
A woman picked up the phone.
“Hello,” I said, “I’m calling for Rebecca Schwartz.”
“I’m Rebecca Schwartz.”
“Hi, Rebecca, this is Eric Slovin calling.”
“Eric!!!” she screamed. “I’m so glad you called!! I guess you got the invite!”
Shit! Obviously, Rebecca Schwartz was my dear friend, and I had forgotten her completely.
“Rebecca, I’m so sorry, but, uh, could you remind me how we know each other?”
“Know each other?!! We don’t know each other!” she squealed with delight.
“We don’t?” I asked, relieved. “Then why did you invite me to your party?”
And then she explained it. Rebecca and her girlfriends threw monthly cocktail parties to which they invited only a very exclusive list of high-caliber single men. The only way to be invited to a party was to be handpicked and vetted by the hostess herself. It couldn’t be expressed clearly enough how extraordinary a man needed to be to merit invitation. One of Rebecca’s friends knew me and felt that I fit the profile.
“But who invited me?” I asked.
This seemed to confuse her.
“What do you mean who invited you? Don’t you know?”
“No. I don’t know anything about this.”
“Well . . . that can only mean one thing,” she said, her voice turning mischievous.
“Uhhh . . . yeah?”
“You have a secret admirer!!!”
“I have a what?! Who is she?!”
But no matter how much I pleaded, Rebecca Schwartz refused to tell me. She said she didn’t even know, but that she wouldn’t tell me even if she did.
“The only way you’re gonna to find out is if you come to the party. You have to come!”
Did I, though? Did I really need to put myself in that position? Did I really want to show up alone at some strange cocktail party thrown by