Unwifeable(19)

Hannibal: Was yesterday our first date?

Me: yes—only 29 more to go and then we do it.

Hannibal: Taxi!

Me: hahahahha

Me: I also like your ipod franz ferdinand joke—& I like that it tests ur theory of all u need 2 do is say franz ferdinand 2 hipsters & they laugh

Hannibal: I’m full of hipster references. I’m buying your hat today.

But I never take him seriously. He is twenty-three. I am thirty.

Besides, it’s also incredibly clear that we should just be friends.

Still, my phone chats with Hannibal are far smoother than my other attempts at connecting with men.

During one night out on the town with Jessica Cutler after profiling her in my blogs-to-Hollywood piece, we notice David Cross out at Three Kings, and go up to him and say hi. He has totally heard of the Washingtonienne’s infamy in blog-land, and I offer to buy everyone drinks and expense them.

“Can you really expense them?” he asks, seeing through my bravado. “Because otherwise, I’m buying.”

He talks about the crappy sound guy who screwed up his set with Jon Benjamin when the two of them danced around to “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About,” and before too long we all move on to a place called the Magician on the Lower East Side.

Jessica doesn’t have her ID with her, though, so she gets left behind. Inside, we meet Gavin McInnes.

“Wait, Gavin from Vice?” I ask after he introduces himself.

“That’s the one,” he says, smiling, as it’s clear he’s done many times in response to the question.

I have this theory that Vice is evil (old indoctrination from my husband), and after leaving the bar, walking with David Cross solo now back to his apartment, knowing what comes next, I tell him exactly that.

“Vice is evil,” I say by way of small chat.

“If you think that, you can just leave right now,” he says and stops walking.

Whoa.

I take it back, and we keep going.

Back at his apartment, I make myself comfortable on his couch, then we kiss for a little while, and all I can think of is the many images of his face in my head from watching Mr. Show. Am I in a sketch? I cannot believe this is happening. There are few greater gods in comedy to me than David Cross.

We take a break, and I pick up the Wonder Showzen DVD he has lying out.

“I’ve never seen it,” I say.

“Best show on television,” he says.

“Oh, hey, I’ve got an idea, why don’t you put on MTV?” I say. “I can dance sexy.”

He gives me the kind of look that a man gives when he fears you might actually be a crazy person. This makes me nervous, which inspires me to keep talking, change the subject, really open up.

“I probably shouldn’t have sex,” I continue, filling the silence. “Because I just got my period for the first time in like six months. I’m so excited.”

His face has now definitely changed. I am for sure a crazy person. What is happening? Why can’t I stop talking?

“Can I use the bathroom?” I ask, trying to make him forget all the weird shit I’ve just said. I go into his bathroom, look at the chipped toilet cover, and think to myself, This is David Cross’s toilet seat. He’s just like us. I splash water onto my face and try to will myself to stop saying stupid things.

I am literally the worst starfucker ever. I am a self-cock-blocking one by virtue of the insanity coming out of my mouth. I return to his living room. I sit on the couch. I keep to my pledge of silence.

“Hey, it’s getting late,” he says, and it is—it’s nearly six in the morning.

“Okay,” I say. “Do you want my number?”

He replies, with a distinctive question mark in his voice: “Sure?”

I jot my still-773 digits down on the back of my business card and leave it on his coffee table.

Then I stumble in as dignified a manner as I can muster out of his place, beeline straight to a bodega that is open, get a pint of double-fudge ice cream, and eat the entire thing on the cab ride home.

So begins a pattern. My deeply destructive binge-and-fast cycle. Since my period is so erratic, I finally go to yet another doctor, who tells me plainly what is wrong.

“You’re anorexic,” he says. He is not amused by my recounting of the Divorce Diet.

I deal with his diagnosis by getting wasted and sloppy drunk during the evening, then telling myself that eating a ton of food is actually good for me.

But once I open that dark Pandora’s Refrigerator Box, I can’t seem to close it.

The Divorce Diet had been something I could follow and contain like an inner pain that you starve and deprive, but when I begin to fill it up with one little bite of ice cream—just like with drinking—I can’t seem to stop. So many late nights, I come home and raid the lesbians’ refrigerator, sampling cereal and jars of olives, until I finally visit the twenty-four-hour bodega in the wee early-morning hours, loading up on cookies and candy, stuffing them in my face until I feel satisfied to the point of pain and disgusted with myself to the point of incapacitation. Sometimes, I even chronicle the wreckage in my diary: “6 mozzarella sticks, 1 diet cola, 1 16 oz. Tasti D-Lite with 2 toppings, 3 bowls of Lucky Charms, 1 pint of Chunky Monkey.” Looking at it now, it makes me want to puke all over again.