Dating Kosher

by Greene, Michaela

  I smiled. I was born knowing but sometimes forgot others had to work at spa etiquette. And just in case, Rita had supplied me with the correct answer to this very important and sometimes awkward question. “It is customary, but not required. It is a token of your appreciation and the amount is completely discretionary.” Since Bev was my friend, it was tempting tell him an exorbitant amount, but if I ever got caught I could lose my job. Say goodbye to free spa services for Shoshanna. I told him the average tip for a facial was.

  “Whew, thanks. Can you give this to her?” He pulled some bills out of his pocket and handed me the tip.

  “Sure.” I took it and put it in one of the discreet tip envelopes, scrawling her name on the front.

  “Oh and one more thing?”

  I looked up at him, my eyebrows raised. He truly was dangerously good-looking: those eyes were stunning. Too bad he wore a tool belt to work instead of a stethoscope. Maybe I could make an exception? Oh, who was I kidding? An air conditioning guy? Please.

  “Can I get your phone number?”

  I gave him a smug grin. “Sorry, I don’t fraternize with clients.”

  “No, I meant for the spa here. Do you have a card or something? I’d like to tell my sister about this place.”

  Okay, so that was incredibly embarrassing. “Oh, yes of course, sorry.” I reached up to the counter and grabbed one of the spa’s brochures. I turned it over and pointed at the contact information. “This is our number, you can give the brochure to your sister. It outlines all of our services.”

  “Great, I’ll give it to her.” He looked like he was going to turn toward the door, but blinked a few times and opened his mouth. “Um, so, do you have a lot of male clients coming in here regularly?”

  “Not a whole lot,” I answered, thinking about the few men that came into the spa regularly, usually thanks to urging from their wives. “Mostly for manicures, or the odd waxing. Why do you ask?” I hoped he didn’t need his back waxed; that would totally ruin my fantasy.

  He leaned over the counter again, lowering his voice. “Well I hate to admit it, but that facial felt great. I feel like a new man.”

  “See? We women know what we’re doing.” Most men didn’t get why women spend so much money and time at the spa so it was very validating to convert even one.

  He nodded. “So what other services would you recommend?”

  “Well, you said before you wouldn’t bother with a manicure…” I looked at the brochure for some help. “What about a massage?”

  “You do massages here?” He straightened up, pushing his shoulders back. “With the work I do, that would be great. Set me up. This time next week is good if that’s available.”

  I tapped at the keyboard, bringing the computer to life. “Did you want Bev again?”

  “Does she do massages too?”

  I nodded, “All of our estheticians perform all services.” I kept my eyes on my computer screen, just in case he decided to take that as a double entendre.

  “Well sure, that’s great then…” he leaned over again to read my name tag, “Shoshanna.” Nice that he hadn’t bothered to remember it from the last time he had done that same move. I stifled the urge roll my eyes.

  I typed his name into the seven p.m. slot on Bev’s schedule. “Okay, I’ve got you in for next Thursday at seven p.m. for a massage with Bev. Would you like that on a card?”

  He nodded and I wrote the particulars on an appointment card and handed it to him. “Thanks, Shoshanna,” he said, this time not even having to look at the little rectangle pinned to my chest.

  I got up to let him out through the locked door and was treated to a good view of his butt. I was pleased to see it was as nice in the khakis as it had been in the work pants.

  Chapter 12

  Feeling lazy, I spent Friday morning in bed with the television on, flipping from Live with Kelly and Michael to the fashion channel where they were featuring a special on Ralph Lauren’s winter line. Nothing that caught my eye, but a girl has to stay informed.

  I was planning on going to visit my grandmother, but not until later in the afternoon, so I languished in bed, indulging my lazy bones in some serious R&R.

  At ten-thirty, the phone rang. It was Susan, my soon to be stepmother (that sounded weird when I thought about it).

  “Hi Shoshanna, just confirming today with you.”

  “Sure, Susan. Of course.” Dammit, I’d forgotten about our planned shopping trip. Even as I spoke to her on the phone, I threw back the covers and stood up.

  “Okay, I’ll be by at noon and then we’ll go for lunch. Where would you like to go?” Susan was the epitome of accommodating.

  “I’m not fussy. Wherever you’d like to go is fine with me.”

  “Great, maybe a nice patio if the weather holds. We can figure it out when I pick you up.”

  I hung up the phone and jogged to the bathroom to grab a quick shower.

  * * *

  I was already waiting in the lobby of my building when Susan pulled up in her Lexus at precisely noon. Walking through the glass doors, I discovered it was a beautiful day; warm and sunny without a trace of humidity. Despite being rushed into doing only the bare minimum, it was going to be a good hair day.

  “Hi,” I said as I got into the car.

  She smiled over at me, her hands ten and two on the wheel. “How are you? I was thinking we could go to Tulips for lunch. That okay with you?”

  “Yeah that’s fine,” I said, clicking the seat belt buckle into place. Tulips was a little café type place with all sorts of herbal teas and the kinds of sandwiches you normally only get at showers and bridal teas. Three-layer egg salad fingers with the crusts cut off, cream cheese and lox pinwheels brought to the table on a tiered platter. Yum, they were my fav.

  “So how are the wedding plans going?”

  Susan was still smiling, but she blinked repeatedly behind her Christian Dior sunglasses and her knuckles went white on the wheel. It didn’t take a Ph.D. to see that she was stressed to the max. But Susan was everything a lady was supposed to be: demure, refined and the epitome of polite. “Oh, you know, little snags here and there, but fine.”

  “Somehow I don’t believe you,” I said. “I hope it doesn’t have anything to do with my mother.”

  The light turned from yellow to red in front of us. Once the car was stopped, Susan turned, took off her sunglasses and looked at me. She looked like she was close to tears. “It does. Your father wants to invite her.”

  My dad had mentioned to me on a Sunday morning a while back, before the invitations had gone out, that he wanted to invite my mother to the wedding ‘out of respect.’ I told him he was crazy and asking for trouble. I had thought that had been the end of it. Apparently not.

  “I’m really sorry, Susan,” I said, feeling bad since the drama wasn’t entirely her fault. (She had been the other woman, knowing Dad was married when she got mixed up with him, but Dad was also responsible and didn’t need to make his new wife suffer just because he felt guilty about the old wife.)

  She sighed. “It’s not your concern. I don’t mean to burden you…”

  “I know, but I feel bad. Let me see if I can talk to Dad. I’ll call him at the office this afternoon when you drop me off.”

  She sighed, relieved. “Thank you, I really appreciate it. But only if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “No problem,” I said. I was used to playing mediator; I had been one between my parents for years leading up to the divorce. “So tell me about some of the other stuff. Do you have everything else ironed out?”

  Her face brightened. “Well the flowers are all ordered and the menu is set. We did the seating plan the other night.” She turned left into the parking lot of Tulips. “You and Max are sitting with family, of course.”

  Shit. “Um, Max and I broke up.” No point sugar-coating it.

  Susan put the car into park and looked at me. “Oh, Shosh, that’s too bad, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

&
nbsp; I shrugged. I was over Max before I was out of his apartment. What I was less over was the idea of going to the wedding without a date.

  She pulled the keys out of the ignition. “C’mon let’s go inside, you can tell me about it.”

  I unbuckled the seat belt. Sure, what do you want to hear about first? His atrocious attempts at sex or his bad breath? I thought as I got out of the car.

  * * *

  “So tell me what happened with Max,” Susan said once we were seated and the waitress had been dispatched to bring us each an iced tea (strawberry for me, green for Susan).

  “It’s just over,” I said, looking around the restaurant to see if I recognized anyone. Nope, not a one. I turned back to Susan. “There was no future for us, so there was no point continuing.” Susan didn’t need to hear the whole story.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Are you bringing someone else to the wedding?”

  If it kills me. “I’m hoping to.” I smiled, hoping the stress of not having a date with only three weeks to find one wasn’t showing on my face.

  “Well if not, don’t worry, my son will be on his own also.”

  If there had been even a nanosecond that I had thought going stag might just be okay, she had just completely quashed the idea. There was a major reason why her son Jacob would be attending alone: he was a huge loser. Not only did he attempt (note I say attempt) to hit on me every time he saw me, but he wore thick glasses, bad-fitting clothes over his pudgy body and always seemed to have this unidentifiable white goo in the corners of his mouth. He was beyond repulsive. He made Max look like Ryan Gosling.

  “Oh, he’s coming home for the wedding?” Thankfully Jacob was stationed out in Portland, doing research on slugs, or something equally gross, and only came home periodically.

  Susan beamed. “Yes, it will be so nice to see him. He’s been working very hard on his master’s. I’m almost sad that we’re leaving right away on our honeymoon cruise, I’d love to spend some more time with him while he’s here…” She trailed off, sounding wistful.

  Inwardly I began to panic. Only three weeks to go and no prospects. Of all the messages I had left the Sunday previous, only two other than Phil had called back. Sadly, both were married and unwilling to send their wives out of town for the weekend in order to attend the wedding with me (I was knocking on desperation’s front door: I had to ask).

  The thought occurred to me that maybe I should ask Susan if she knew of anyone. I opened my mouth and was about to speak when I realized Susan would suggest Jacob as my date. My jaws clamped shut as though they too objected to the thought of being stuck next to Jacob at a seven-hour event. Worse than being stuck next to him would be the horror of the other guests assuming I was with him. No thanks.

  I would have to find someone on my own. And fast. I spent most of the rest of the meal mentally going through everyone I knew. I’d have to contact a few select people and discreetly let them know I needed a date. It was desperate but had to be done.

  I hate to admit it, but I ate an obscene amount of finger sandwiches while Susan went on and on about the politics of seating people at her wedding reception. For an affair that was supposed to be small and intimate, it had turned into the can’t-miss event of the year. She had brought in Sam Stein to do the catering; Brooklyn’s kosher answer to Wolfgang Puck, a twelve piece Klezmer band for the dancing, and thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers all for three hundred of their best friends, family, and clients. No detail had been overlooked, thanks mostly to Susan’s exorbitantly priced, but worth every penny, I was assured, bridal consultant.

  I was amused but took detailed notes in the back of my head. Someday, God willing, I too would be a bride.

  * * *

  After lunch, we went shopping. She had called ahead to Macy’s and had arranged for her shopper (some shiksa named Lisa who turned out to be almost as good as my own Julio) to pull several dresses out for when we arrived. I hated shopping off the rack anyway, so it worked out nicely, and we had even more time to chat. She was painfully respectful of me, never daring to ask too many personal questions about my parents pre-divorce, which was a relief. And she seemed to take a genuine interest in me as a person, not just her soon-to-be step-daughter.

  “So how do you like your job at the spa? Your dad says you’ve been there a while,” she asked as we got situated in the personal shopping salon. Lisa had disappeared to get our beverages.

  “I love it there,” I answered, smiling because it was true. “Bev got me the job just after I finished school. She’d already been there a while and said Rita, the lady that owns the place, was great. She was right. I like Rita a lot. And I get free services.”

  Susan nodded politely. “Maybe I should try it when I’m in the city. Maybe I could meet up with Jen and we could do a mother-daughter thing.”

  Right. Jen was Susan’s other child. I’d only met Jen a couple of times, but best I could tell, she was Susan’s mini-me in looks only. She wasn’t anywhere near as nice as her mother and had not emerged from her parents’ divorce unscathed. When I met her at some synagogue function that our respective parents had decided was going to be where our families should all meet, she actually referred to me (under her breath and so quietly that I’m not even totally sure I heard her right) as ‘the homewrecker’s spawn.’ Like my mother who had been the one to break up my parents’ marriage?

  She also went on to tell me later in the evening, not very discreetly either, I might add, about how much pain and heartache her mother had caused her over the years and what a bitch she was. Maybe it was the years of therapy that helped me adjust better than Jen, but her whining was so boring, I faked stomach cramps just to get away from her.

  I couldn’t account for what Susan may have inflicted on her daughter, but I did know I liked her much better than her spoiled brat of an offspring and was happy that she hadn’t been invited on this shopping trip.

  “We have a lot of mothers and daughters coming in together. Lots of wedding parties and shower groups,” I said. “Girls’ nights, too.”

  Lisa returned with our drinks and placed them on the little bistro table between Susan and I before she nodded at Susan. “I’ll just get the first dress, Ms. Rosenblatt.”

  I looked over at Susan, shocked that she had been addressed by my last name.

  Susan smiled and leaned toward me as Lisa glided into the back room again. “I just can’t stand using my ex-husband’s last name. You don’t think it matters, do you?”

  I snorted. “I don’t think they care here, as long as your credit’s good.”

  Susan rolled her eyes and nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  The dresses Susan had pre-selected were all very nice. I could easily see myself wearing any of them but in the end, I selected a silver sheath with spaghetti straps and a slight flare at the hem. A description on paper doesn’t do it justice, but it was beautiful and when I tried it on, it looked great. A pair of silver strappy slingbacks (also provided by Lisa, personal shopper extraordinaire, my apologies to Julio) and I was all set.

  “That looks just lovely on you, Shoshanna,” Susan beamed. I have to admit, it was nice hearing her compliment. My own mother, although having a good eye for fashion, also had a sharp tongue, picking at the tiniest of little details (the hemline is too high, the neckline is too low, not cut for you, wrong color, doesn’t match your eyes, makes you look fat—a fat size two).

  “Thanks,” I said. “I like it a lot.” I twirled again in the mirror, liking what I saw. I was going to look great.

  For no one, unless a miracle happened.

  * * *

  Once inside my apartment, I immediately hung up the dress in my closet, remembering the last time I had draped a new outfit over the sofa. Armani had crawled up into the garment bag and fallen asleep on the wool crepe suit, leaving about a pound of hair embedded into the fabric. It was a nightmare I was unwilling to repeat (two hours
of lint-brushing and tweezing at the five hundred dollar suit was not my idea of fun).

  I finally got a chance to check voicemail. Only one message.

  “Hi Shosh, just wondering what you’re doing tonight.” Bev.

  “Well, it’s not like I have anything planned,” I told Armani who had jumped onto the back of the sofa, looking for love, or at least a stray hand to rub up against.

  Dialing Bev’s number, I pulled open the fridge door to have a peek. Nothing good: a couple of eggs, yogurt and very questionable milk.

  “Hey Bev, I’m not doing anything tonight,” I said when she answered on the third ring.

  “Wanna get a movie or something?” Bev’s first choice was always staying in. My first choice was always going out. Somehow we managed to compromise, though by my mental tally, tonight was my turn to win.

  “Nah, let’s go get something to eat. Somewhere cool.” I didn’t feel like dancing, but maybe going to a chic restaurant and being seen would be enough to sate my desire to be with other people. And who knows, maybe I’d find a good candidate for the wedding, I thought.

  “Okay. But I get to pick where. I want to go to Patio. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “Perfect.”

  Patio was a newer place where you could eat on the namesake patio in the open air, and beside that, there was a huge dance bar adjoining man-made beach volleyball courts (complete with sand). It was a fun place and had become the place to party and be seen. Bev liked it because she liked to watch all the action and I liked it because it was a great place to go trolling for men. And the food was okay too.

  Shoving a few saltines in my mouth to tide me over, I hung up on Bev and dialed my dad’s direct line.

  “Martin Rosenblatt.” He sounded so professional; it threw me off every time I called.