Later, she contacted me and Jonathon and ran some of the cartoons by us because she didn’t want to make us uncomfortable. She takes reality and pushes it to that next absurd level, so that it’s not exactly what actually-actually happened, but it’s almost what happened. But it was always fun, and funnier for having gone through Jennie’s mind and onto the paper.
I realized that here were two artists experiencing the same weekend, but taking entirely different things away from it. It was eye-opening, refreshing, and made me look at things anew. The experience, like much of this last year, helped me lighten up somewhat, but it also confirmed that I would never be truly light and fluffy. It’s just not my speed, and at the end of the year I was content with that, happy even with my lighter shade of dark.
Skip ahead a few months, from winter to summer, and Jonathon and I were back visiting Wendi and Daven. It was at the end of the visit and we were catching a late lunch or an early supper (aka “lup per”), before they drove us to the airport. We were all sitting in a U-shaped booth at a restaurant where we’d gone before with them. It was nice, comfy.
The waiter came to take our orders. He had his little notepad out, pen poised. He asked what we wanted for drinks. I think Jonathon and I ordered first, and then it was Daven’s turn; Wendi was on the other side of him. Daven had been studying his menu and only then looked up. I swear, he only looked up and gave the waiter his full face, nothing more. The waiter went from reasonably intelligent, competent, human being to stuttering idiot.
Have I mentioned yet that Daven is six foot three with long, thick hair down to his waist? It’s brown, but it’s that kind of brown that has natural gold highlights all through it. He has these great big hazel eyes that are truly brown and gray and a little green all at the same time, depending on his mood. He has a Vandyke beard and mustache that he grew so he’d look old enough to date his age group and stop getting hit on by so many men, when all he wanted was to date women. All this is to say that Daven is pretty, very pretty. Oh, and just to add to the treat of it all, his wife, Wendi, is six foot one, blond with huge, soft, blue eyes, and enough curves to make straight men weep and gay women beg. If you are at all insecure about yourself these are not the two people you want to be standing next to.
I knew intellectually that they were pretty, and I knew that Daven flirted at a black-belt level, but I hadn’t until that moment understood the impact he could have simply by looking up. But once Daven realized the reaction, he smiled at the waiter. And the waiter just fell to pieces. I almost felt sorry for him—almost.
The waiter said, “Um, ah, wh . . . what, I . . .” Out of desperation he sputtered, “Drinks, I can bring you drinks.”
All four of us nodded in unison, and said, “Yes, bring us drinks.”
The waiter fled.
Daven turned to Wendi and practically bounced in his seat, almost clapping his hands together in excitement. “Can I play with him, please?”
“No,” said Wendi.
Pouting, Daven said, “Why not?” I’m not sure I can explain to you how a man that tall, that broad-shouldered, can bounce in his seat and pout and have it work for him, but he does, and it does.
“Because we’ll either get great service, or we’ll never get our food,” Wendi said.
The waiter returned with water for all of us, which was great since we all wanted water. He then asked for our food orders. But he took our orders while staring at Daven, as if the rest of us didn’t exist. Daven just looked up at him with that beatific smile on his face.
I don’t remember why the waiter kept coming back to the table. All I know is we never had to ask for our drinks to be refilled, they just were, and bread never ran out, and, well, the waiter kept coming back and he never looked at anyone except Daven.
Now, I have no problem with both my friends being gorgeous. I usually just enjoy the world’s reaction to them, especially to Daven, who just has an aura of charisma that’s hard to explain. But I was sitting within inches of Daven. Jonathon and Wendi were at the edges of the U, but I was right there, and the waiter stared at Daven’s smiling face. Did I mention yet that I’d asked Daven how he did his charming thing earlier on this trip? I had, and he had explained it to me. It was a technique I would later use to good effect on camera for the commercial and interview for my book Skin Trade , but this day, at that moment, I trotted it out for something nearer and more immediate.
I lifted my face up, and because I’m a petite woman, I did the slight head tilt and smiled. The waiter just kept staring at Daven, and I admit that I moved a touch closer to Daven and made certain that the waiter couldn’t ignore the fact that I have curves of my own. The only question was, did he only like boys, or did breasts hold some appeal? I waited to see. He did that little eye flick, and then he was dividing his attention between the two of us. I honestly don’t think it was that I was flirting that well, but that the waiter had actually realized he hadn’t made eye contact with anyone else at the table. He could look at me and still see Daven, because we were beside each other. He couldn’t look at either Wendi or Jonathon and still see Daven. My husband is his own share of pretty (shoulder-length waves of strawberry-blond hair), and he grew his own Vandyke beard and mustache that is true orange-red for much the same reason Daven grew his, because he looked twelve and wanted to date his own age group and was tired of fending off more offers from men than women. Cap it with almond-shaped blue eyes like an exotic Viking, and his much cozier size for me (five-eight), and, well, any more description would be oversharing . . . The most important thing I learned about flirting is that it’s not just the equipment you have, but how you use it. Daven and I were willing to use what we had on the waiter; our spouses were not willing to stoop to those levels. One must simply tip a hat to the strength of their character, and go back to tormenting the waiter.