unleashing one of his dopey guffaws. “You know, like The Donald, only cooler.”
“So, you’re what they’re calling the adventure bachelor,” Dagmar said without any of the energy an entertainment reporter clone should bring to the table. “So what exactly does that entail?” Dagmar’s eyes seemed to glaze over in snobbishness.
“Basically, Dags, unlike the other Single Guys, I kick ass,” Craig said with another cheesy guffaw. “No, seriously, I’ll be taking the girls climbing, snow-boarding, heli-skiing, you name it, to determine which one is right for me. We’re stepping it up and she’s got to keep up. You want to go first?”
Her? No! I ski. I snowboard. I climb. Why wasn’t I good enough? Was it really possible that I was still brooding over this guy? No, Jane, stop it, my little voice said in desperation. It’s just the IDEA of Craig you like, not the actual Craig.
“The Craig?!” Toni gasped. “Is that clown for real? He’s worse than that cheese-ball Jake Pavelka!”
“He’s disgusting,” I said, though not sure I meant it.
“And what about Dagmar?” Toni laughed. “She’ll stop at nothing! Her own TV show and now CWT’s reporter? Gag. This better be a one-off—like they haven’t hired her, I hope.” Toni was lit up like a Tiki torch at a luau, excited to be frontline for all this TV gossip. “She really is a media whore, isn’t she?”
“I don’t feel so good,” I sulked. “Maybe we should leave.”
“Oh no you don’t!” Toni said defiantly. “To hell with him. Don’t even go there,” she said, grabbing my cheeks. “Remember, you’ve got Grant. And Alex!”
“Well, actually, Grant was supposed to call. It’s been almost a week and I haven’t—”
“Screw it! Let’s have some fun.” Toni licked her lips. “Hey, maybe those hotties from Outrageous Race are here.” She did a quick scan, ignoring me.
Who could blame her? I was tired of listening to me too. Craig was old news. Well, technically, he was new news, but old news for me.
“Ew, there’s Evan Merriott or whatever his name is,” Toni groaned. “I can’t believe he’s still on the scene. Ain’t his 15 minutes up? He’s with that drunky-drunk Bizarre Life girl,” she continued.
Toni knew every reality star since the genre had launched. To her, life began when reality TV began, in the year 2000, with Survivor Borneo, though I always said the genre was born earlier with MTV’s Real World.
“Now that’s a match made in the world of has-beens,” she said as we walked by Ewan. “Damn he’s cute, but I hear he’s dumb.” Toni was oblivious to the fact I was in my own world.
I was still self-consciously watching Craig. The light from the camera reflected off his hair like a golden halo. Girls were ogling him, hungry to get their claws in to him. I hoped he wouldn’t see me.
“There he is!” Toni said, pointing to some tall, dark-haired guy with a soul-patch and an earring. “It’s that babe from The Race!”
“Go for it,” I said, attempting to forget I had just seen Craig.
“No way,” she said, her cheeks turning rosy. “I can’t just approach him.”
“Since when are you shy?” I asked as she gave me one of her help-me-out pouts. “All right. Let’s get a drink and get this done.”
And that was that. Roger, last year’s winner from The Race, eventually waltzed up to the bar for a drink. Toni introduced herself. And they were locked in conversation. It was that simple, which was strange, because it was never that simple. Toni and her new pseudo-celebrity suitor were well on their way to something.
Meanwhile, I sat back with a Corona, alone, wondering if I should have stayed home, wondering why the hell Craig had to be here, and wondering why Grant hadn’t called me yet. Maybe I knew. On our last date, almost a week ago, he went straight home after dinner, didn’t even walk me to the door, and claimed “nothing was wrong.”
“Jane, let’s get out of here,” Toni said, catching her breath. “Let’s go have drinks at our place.” She nudged me as she did one of her cheesy growls: “Check out Roger’s friend Kyle. Well?”
On a scale of 1-10 of out-and-out poseurs, he was a ten.
“Well, what? I have a guy,” I said, not completely convinced I did.
Before I could decline or deny, Toni, Roger, some very-hot, way-too-young kid named Kyle, and I were standing curbside at the Grammy Party valet station, waiting for a guy in a red vest to bring my trusty 1991 Volvo around