Romantically Challenged

by Beth Orsoff

  “Well it’s about time,” my mother said. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

  “I was working, Mom. I told you I had to work today.”

  “You don’t answer your phone?”

  “I had to go to a meeting outside the office which took longer than expected. I just got back.”

  “Why didn’t you check your messages? You knew we’d be calling.”

  Deep cleansing breaths. “This is the first chance I’ve had, Mom,” I said in a voice I reserved for difficult children and childish adults. “Where are you?”

  “We’re parked outside your apartment building. We’ve been here for twenty minutes waiting for you to call us back. Were you planning on coming home soon or should we just fly out tonight?”

  Please do. “I’m leaving now but I won’t be home for at least half an hour. Probably longer with traffic. Why don’t you and Dad go to the mall for an hour and come back.” I live in the shopping mecca of the world. Surely she could find something she liked.

  “I don’t feel like shopping.”

  I counted to five backwards. “Well you could always take a walk. I know you and Dad do a lot of walking at home.”

  I could hear her ask my father if he wanted to take a walk and his sleepy no in response. He must’ve been napping in the car. “Your father doesn’t want to take a walk.”

  “Fine, then sit in the car and wait.” Now I was the childish one.

  “Don’t you have an extra key somewhere?” my mother asked.

  “Where Mom? Under the mat? This isn’t Mayberry.”

  “Don’t get angry, I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  Her standard routine. She pushes me over the edge then tries to pull me back from the abyss. It worked. “I can call my landlady and see if she’s home. Maybe she can let you in.”

  * * *

  Luckily, Mrs. Klein, my always helpful, seventy-six-year-old landlady answered the phone and agreed to let my parents into my apartment. I’d driven halfway home before I realized that I’d forgotten to warn my mother that my apartment was a mess and I had no food in the refrigerator. I thought of calling her back, but it was already too late. Thank God at least I’d remembered to put Elmo away. My parents just wouldn’t understand.

  * * *

  When I unlocked my front door, I found my father lying on the couch watching television and my mother making noise in the kitchen. My father stood up long enough to give me a hug, then returned to CNN. My mother came out to the living room and also gave me a hug. She then waited a whole ten seconds before she nodded towards last Sunday’s newspaper strewn across my living room floor and said, “I really like what you’ve done to the place.”

  That was a new record, even for her. My father sighed. He knew where we were headed.

  “Nice to see you too, Mom,” I said, picking up the newspapers and throwing them in the kitchen trash. I noticed that my dirty spoon and coffee mug were no longer in the sink. My mother must’ve put them in the dishwasher. I would’ve thanked her if she hadn’t made that crack about the newspapers.

  “Aren’t you going to thank me?” my mom said standing in the entrance to my galley-style kitchen.

  “For what?”

  “I cleaned your kitchen.”

  I looked around. Except for the empty sink, it looked the same. Okay, maybe the chrome on the faucet was a little bit shinier, but otherwise it really did look exactly the same. The kitchen was the one room in the apartment I always kept clean. I was afraid if I didn’t, I’d get bugs.

  “It looks the same, Mom.”

  Instead of answering me, she turned around and stomped back into the living room to pout.

  My father had no choice but to get involved. “So what do you ladies want for dinner?”

  For a few seconds, neither of us answered, then my mother said, “We’ll have to go out somewhere. You know your daughter doesn’t cook.” Now I was his daughter.

  “I can cook,” my father said. The man barbecues steaks and cooks turkey on Thanksgiving and he thinks he’s a seasoned chef.

  “Well then you’ll have to go to the grocery store first,” my mother said, “because she doesn’t have any food either.”

  “That’s not true.” I walked into the kitchen and opened my freezer. “I have two Lean Cuisines and a box of popsicles.”

  “Gourmet all the way,” my mother said.

  “Well some of us have jobs and are too busy to cook.”

  Silence. I’d played my trump card. My mother hadn’t worked since the day she found out she was pregnant with my sister. My father had been pushing her to get a job for the last twenty-five years, but without success. She was content staying home, with or without children in the house.

  I played this card often, usually when my mother was criticizing my domestic skills. It always worked. But just as inevitably, afterwards I was contrite and would say something to make amends. Total annihilation of the opposition was more fun in court then it was with family.

  “If you had come later,” I said to my mother, “when you were supposed to, I would’ve stopped at the grocery store on the way home. I planned on buying you both orange juice and raisin bran. And if I thought you were going to be really nice, I might’ve even bought you skim milk for your coffee instead of the two percent kind that I like.”

  “Well why do you always have to leave everything for the last minute?” She couldn’t accept the olive branch without one more dig.

  “So the food will be fresh.”

  My dad laughed and my mom smiled. “Where do you want to go for dinner?” she asked.

  * * *

  The next morning over a breakfast of raisin bran, orange juice, and coffee with skim milk, I casually mentioned that I was thinking about buying a new car. It was a fleeting thought, really. I’d spent a considerable amount of time in Kaitlyn’s Mustang convertible lately and I thought it might be nice to have one of my own.

  My dad seized on the idea. He’d traded in his ’62 Karman Ghia ragtop when my sister was born and had been driving family-size sedans ever since. He was eager to test-drive all the new models.

  After breakfast, I took my father to the nearest Barnes & Nobles to buy the latest Consumer Reports Car Guide and some automotive magazines. Then my mom and I left him home reading and making notes, while we went to Beverly Hills for some power shopping. When we returned three hours later and several hundred dollars poorer, my dad had devised a plan of action.

  Early Sunday morning, the three of us set out to visit every convertible car dealership in Southern California. We test-drove Fords, Toyotas, Hondas, Mazdas, Audis, and BMWs, and just for fun (they were definitely out of my price range) the Mercedes and Jaguars too. My dad liked the Mazdas, my mom liked the BMWs, and I liked the Audis.

  It didn’t matter. I had no intention of actually buying a new car for at least a year. Car shopping was just a good family bonding experience. My motto is, a family that shops together is a family that doesn’t have to talk to each other about controversial subjects that could lead to arguments. In my family, any topic other than food or the weather could potentially to lead to an argument. It worked. For a while at least.

  * * *

  That night my dad went to bed early and I stayed up with my mom while she packed. She was sitting on top of her suitcase and I was kneeling on the floor next to her trying to close the zipper when she sprang on me. “So can I ask you about your love life?”

  “I would prefer that you didn’t.” I’d almost gotten the ends of the zipper together.

  “I don’t know why you never tell me anything? After all,” she added as if the statement had some sort of intrinsic meaning, “I am your mother.”

  “I don’t recall you telling grandma everything.” My mother and grandmother had had a roller coaster relationship. Over the years, they’d been both best friends and mortal enemies.

  “I told grandma plenty. The only time I didn’t was when I knew she would judg
e me. But I don’t do that to you.”

  Could anyone really be that self-deluded? “Since when?”

  “I never judge you.”

  “Mom, you’ve done nothing but criticize me since you walked in the door.”

  “That’s not true! I just thought you should’ve cleaned the house before we came.”

  “I cannot believe you’re starting this again. You have no idea what my day was like before you arrived.” I gave her the long version of events, with all the details left in, hoping to elicit some sympathy.

  “You know,” she said after I’d finished, “if you put half as much energy into finding a husband as you put into your job, you’d be married by now.”

  My future had arrived, only much sooner than I’d expected. “Mother, I cannot believe you would even say that to me. Why are you so desperate for me to get married? How can my being single at age thirty-two possibly be a burden to you?”

  “I would just feel better if I knew you were settled.”

  “I’ve had the same job and lived in the same apartment for six years. How much more settled could I be?”

  At that point, my father piped in from the futon. “Can you two keep it down. I’m trying to sleep.”

  My mother followed me into my bedroom and closed the door. “I would just feel better if I knew that someone was taking care of you.”

  “I’m taking care of me. Why isn’t that enough?”

  “I just think you would be happier if you weren’t alone.”

  “I’m not alone.” I was about to say, ‘I have Elmo,’ but caught myself in time. “I have friends,” I said. “I date. I just haven’t met the right guy yet.”

  “See,” she said. (I didn’t.) “I didn’t even know you were dating someone. You never tell me anything.”

  “I didn’t say I was dating someone. I just said I was dating.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  I had to think about that one. Instead of telling her the truth, that dating someone means you’re sleeping together and just dating means you’re interviewing potential sex partners, I said, “Dating someone means you’re exclusive, and just dating means you go out with multiple people at the same time.”

  “Then tell me about the people you’ve dated.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. They were just guys.”

  “What was wrong with them?”

  “Nothing was wrong with them. They just weren’t right for me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.” I knew she wouldn’t let up and I would have to tell her something. Since Ronald was as good an example as any I said, “The last guy I went out with was a complete chauvinist. You would’ve thought he’d just stepped out of a time machine from the 1950s.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Because he offered to pay for dinner?”

  “No, that part I liked. It was his outdated ideas I had a problem with.”

  “And the other ones? What was wrong with them?”

  “The one before him was too effeminate. Before that, I don’t remember.” Two should be enough to satisfy her.

  “Just line ‘em up and shoot ‘em.”

  “I’m sure I’ll meet the right one.” At least I wanted to believe that. “Give me some time.”

  “You’re not getting any younger, Julia. Don’t you think maybe you’re a little too fussy?”

  I knew it! I knew she would turn this into a criticism about me. And then she wonders why I never tell her anything. “No mother, I don’t think you can be too fussy when it comes to the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with.”

  “What if you never meet the perfect person?”

  “I didn’t say he had to be perfect. I just said he had to be the right one for me.”

  “What if you never meet the ideal man who is just right for you?”

  “Then I’ll be single forever. But I’d rather stay single than marry someone I don’t want to marry, just so you can tell your friends that I’m married.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Chapter 33

  Freedom Returned

  I felt free. True, I was driving to the office. But at least it was a Tuesday morning instead of a Monday morning, the Rosebud case was over, the dreaded parental visit was behind me, and my date with opposing counsel wasn’t until Friday night. Life was good.

  I was cleaning up the Rosebud files to send to storage when Simone came into my office. She settled herself in one guest chair and stretched her long legs out across the other.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked.

  “I don’t, but Rosenthal might.”

  “Didn’t you hear? He went to New York for the weekend and his flight back to L.A. was delayed. He won’t be in the office at all today.”

  This day was getting better and better.

  “But enough about Rosenthal. I want to hear about your weekend with Mom and Dad.”

  I gave Simone the highlights.

  “I love it,” she said. “You spent all day dealing with annoying car salesmen just so you didn’t have to talk to your parents.”

  “I talked to my parents. We just talked about the cars we were test-driving instead of anything controversial.”

  “Well I’ve got some news for you that ought to make your mother happy.”

  “What? You found me a husband?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “If not, he should at least be a good date.”

  Simone told me how she’d met Dylan. She and her fiancée Todd had spent the weekend at Todd’s beach club. Todd had left early Sunday morning to play golf with some of his buddies and Simone stayed. She was lying on a lounge chair by the pool when a man sat down next to her and started flirting. Naturally, Simone flirted back. When he asked for her number, she admitted she was engaged, but told him that she had a friend she’d love to set him up with.

  “I can’t believe he agreed to it,” I said.

  “It took some cajoling, but I convinced him. It really wasn’t that difficult. All guys think that attractive women are only friends with other attractive women, so all he really agreed to was to trade one attractive woman’s phone number for another. No biggie.”

  “You gave him my number?” This was getting out of hand.

  “Of course not. I would never do that without asking you first. So can I?”

  “I don’t know Simone. You don’t know anything about this guy.”

  “I know he’s tall and very cute. He’s personable. He lives in Brentwood. He’s a real estate broker. He’s single. And he makes enough money to afford a membership at a $3000-per- month private beach club.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not a jerk.”

  “He can’t be worse than the last guy. Just go out with him once, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  * * *

  I drove to Gianni’s (yet another Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills with European ambience) on Thursday night straight from the office. I didn’t have time to go home and change, so my navy suit and white silk blouse would have to do. I went into the bar area and looked for a tall man with a black suit, gray shirt, and no tie, the outfit Dylan told me he’d be wearing.

  It wasn’t a helpful description. This was Los Angeles. Ten of the fifteen men in the bar were wearing black suits. Four of them wore ties, so now I was down to six. One was short, one was bald, and two were with women. I had it narrowed down to two, but I couldn’t figure out which one of them was Dylan. I decided I would wait at the bar and let the right man come to me.

  I sat down at the only empty bar stool and ordered a glass of cabernet. Neither man even looked in my direction. I was debating whether I should say something to one of them, and if so which one, when one of the men got up and left. I paid for my wine and was about to walk up to the other man, when someone else walked up to me.

  He was tall, cute but not gorgeous, and wore black pants and a gray shirt. I’d noticed him earlier sitting by himself at a table in the corn
er.

  “Julie, right?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Hi, I’m Dylan. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands. I must have looked perplexed because he added, “I left my jacket in the car.”

  “I wish I knew you were going to do that. I was looking for someone in a black jacket.”

  “I know. I saw you walk in.”

  “Then why didn’t you come up to me sooner?” I thought he’d say something like “I wasn’t sure it was you” or “I was working up my nerve.”

  He said, “I liked watching you scope the room. It was very entertaining.”

  Another jerk. Hadn’t I met my quota yet? “That’s what I’m here for,” I said and gave him a fake smile.

  “I’m glad to hear that. If the evening goes well, I’ll have to call Simone and thank her for setting us up.”

  If I called Simone right now I wouldn’t be thanking her.

  How shocked would this guy be if I just got up and walked out? I could. It wasn’t like he was a friend of Simone’s. He was really a complete stranger. Hmmm. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t do it. It was too rude. Even for this guy. I glanced at the clock on the wall above the bar. It was only 8:15. With any luck, I’d be home in time to watch CSI.

  I listened to Dylan’s stories about his job, his ex-girlfriend and his ex-girlfriend’s annoying cat. He must have written me off too. Otherwise, why would he spend half the evening talking about his ex-girlfriend?

  Around the time our entrees arrived, Dylan must’ve either run out of stories or gotten tired of the sound of his own voice. I’d bet on the former. Or it’s possible he was just hungry and wanted me to do the talking so he could eat. He started asking me questions about my job and my travels.

  I was in the middle of a story about a trip to Europe I’d taken with Kaitlyn after we’d graduated from law school when he leaned over to the couple at the next table and said, “It’s pronounced Title-ist, not Tit-list.”

  All three of us just stared at him.

  “Sorry,” Dylan said to the man, “but I’m a big golfer and I just wanted to let you know the correct pronunciation of the name.”

  The man at the next table was obviously, and rightfully, annoyed. I was sure he and his dinner companion were on a first date too because when they were next to me at the bar, I’d heard him ask her how she liked to spend her free time. That was definitely a first date question.