Okay, I’ll admit it; I, Shoshanna Yolanda Rosenblatt was a spoiled Jewish princess.I’ve never eaten at a Taco Bell, or had a home perm (who does those?) and I don’t believe a guy can really love you without giving you at least one piece of decent jewelry.Usually the jewelry was more satisfying than the guy, anyway.But in my own defense, you have to understand that a Jewish Princess is not made, but born into her position and never, ever without a solid role model.
Other than absolute necessities, I didn’t cook, didn’t clean and my idea of getting outside meant a trip to the mall.I was definitely a walking stereotype.
My family is considered upper middle class, although my dad, the lawyer (I know, how cliché) always said we’re comfortable.I couldn’t understand how comfortable equates to one’s financial status.To me, comfortable was my Uggs, bought before Oprah outed them, before they were so hip.I stopped wearing them in public, for the most part.But they were still great for around the apartment.
Anyway, my life was pretty good; I was looking the best I ever had at a perfect size two. My hair had finally grown out after an insane encounter with a new stylist who had somehow convinced me that a short razor cut would suit me.Needless to say, after that debacle, he’d been cut from my life.
But all that was behind me and I sported shoulder-length hair fringed with ends that didn’t dare split and perfect highlights that were maintained more regularly than the space shuttle.On top of that, I had a decent job working as the receptionist for an upscale spa in Toronto, a great condo in Oakville (a short train ride from said job in Toronto) that I rented from my Dad which Mom had decorated.If I could jut keep my constantly shedding cat, Armani off the furniture, my abode would be approaching sublime.
A frequent visitor to the condo was a jeweler named Max Levine who called himself my boyfriend.I was dripping with gold and diamonds, except, of course, on that finger but other than that, I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
Well maybe a little.I could have asked to not be so Goddamn bored with my life.
Mom and Dad’s divorce had been final for over a year, so thankfully, most of that drama was over.Now every Tuesday evening was spent with Mom in Toronto over cocktails and sushi and Sunday mornings consisted of brunch with Dad at a greasy spoon in Burlington, near where he lived with his fiancé, Susan Weinman.
Dad had bought the house after Mom cleaned him out, making her more comfortable than he.She had gone back to interior decorating full time and had been generous enough to offer to decorate Dad’s new place for him at half her regular rate.Dad had respectfully declined.
Mom now lived in a condo in Toronto to be close to her clients.She was very involved in the artsy scene, going to galas and openings almost every night of the week, but dad and I knew her well enough to know she was very unhappy.Her most stable relationship was with her therapist and even that was tenuous at best.But there was only so much I could take of mom; she had always been as much a drama queen as I was a spoiled fashionista, and there was no changing a leopard’s spots.
Or so I used to think.
Chapter 1
It had been especially tiresome evening spent at a restaurant opening (Mom had been a consultant on the project), where the food had been a heinous fusion of Mexican and Japanese cooking. I lay in bed with Max at his apartment.He was still breathing heavy, long after we’d finished having sex.A sexual dynamo, he was not.
I looked over at him; his eyes closed as he tried to catch his breath.A bead of drool threatened to escape the corner of his mouth.He was truly disgusting.It was then that I realized just how bored I was.How my life had turned so shitty when I wasn’t looking.
“That was horrific,” I said out loud.
“Huh?” Max grunted.
“What? You climb on top of me like I’m a horse, ride me for six minutes and that’s it?”
“Maybe if you didn’t just lay there like a dead horse, I’d have something to work with.” He shot back, not even bothering to open his eyes.
“Whatever,” I said and got out of bed to take a shower.Go to sleep you loser, like you always do, I thought.I hopped into the shower, rinsing the memory of his clumsy hands on my flesh down the drain.Is this all there is?There’s gotta be something better in the stars for me.I began to seriously weigh the pros and cons of Max Levine.
Pro: the jewelry
Con: he’s an utter bore
Pro: the diamonds
Con: he’s a clumsy oaf in bed
Pro: his parents are very wealthy
Con: his parents are insufferable
Pro: oh, who am I kidding; it’s all about the jewelry.That’s all there is.I make my own money and if I need anything beyond my means, I just guilt one of my parents into providing it for me.I am, after all, the product of a broken home…
By the time I emerged from the steamy bathroom, fully dressed, towel dried hair throw up into a ponytail, I had made up my mind.Max Levine was history.As predicted, he lay on his back, snoring loud enough for the Shapiro’s in the next condo over to hear.I grabbed my purse on my way out, considered writing him an explanatory letter, but didn’t see a pen within easy reach and I couldn’t be bothered to go searching one out.So I just left.He should have just been happy that he got a goodbye fuck, even though he had been right; I did just lay there, waiting for him to heave a few times and fall on top of me with his post-orgasm grunt the way he always did.I had never been a dead lay before; how could I have allowed it to get like this?
No he didn’t need a letter; he was smart, he’d catch on in a day or two.I glanced down at my tennis bracelet; but damn it all, I’d sure miss the jewelry.
