by Laura Levine
Forget all logic. My mom dreams of the day when I will once more trot down the aisle with a man at my side—any man, as long as he’s breathing, and sometimes I’m not even sure if that’s a requirement.
Anyhow, Vladimir checked out my picture on the Internet—a very flattering shot, I must admit, of me winning the Golden Plunger Award from the L.A. Plumbers Association—and had been bombarding me with marriage proposals ever since. Needless to say, I’d turned them all down, secure in the knowledge that he was eight zillion miles away in Uzbekistan.
Who’d ever think he’d show up on my doorstep?
Quel nightmare!
Reluctantly I opened the door to my would-be Romeo.
Oh, heavens. In person, he was even goofier than the photo he’d sent me, and that had been pretty darn goofy.
A short, skinny guy with a headful of tight black curls, he had a gap-toothed smile that made Alfred E. Newman look like a Rhodes scholar.
Now his slightly crossed eyes lit up at the sight of me.
“Jaine! My beloved!”
I shut my eyes for a second, hoping against hope he was a figment of my imagination brought on by an overdose of strawberry-scented bath bubbles. But alas, he was still there when I opened them again, grinning his Alfred E. Newman grin.
Somehow I managed to recover my powers of speech.
“Vladimir,” I croaked. “What are you doing here?”
“I come to propose marriage to you, of course.”
“But you’ve already proposed, Vladimir. At least seven times. And I’ve turned you down all seven times.”
“Yes, but this time I propose in person! Like my mama told me, ‘Once she sees you in person, Vladdie, how can she resist?’”
Oh, lord. Why are the nutcases always attracted to me?
“How on earth did you find my address?”
“Whitepages.com.” He nodded proudly. “They give me your phone number, too.”
I made a mental note to write a very nasty letter to those blabbermouths at whitepages.com.
“For you, my beloved,” he said, thrusting a bouquet of wilted daisies into my hand.
“Thank you.” I faked a smile as several dying petals fluttered to the floor.
“May I come in?” he asked, peering over my shoulder, “and see your charming home?”
Oh, foo. The last thing I wanted was to invite him in, but I couldn’t send him away, not after he’d traveled halfway around the world to see me.
And for those of you clucking at the notion of me inviting a stranger into my apartment, let me assure you there was nothing to worry about. The guy weighed as much as my right thigh. I could take him down blindfolded.
“Yes, sure,” I said halfheartedly.
As he trotted inside, toting a tattered shopping bag, I headed for the kitchen to put my dying daisies in water. Once again, I indulged in the foolish fantasy that somehow he’d be gone when I returned to the living room.
But nope, he was still there.
“What a beautiful abode!” he said upon my return, gazing in admiration at my orange walls. “A perfect setting for my princess! And what a cute kitty cat. Do you always let kitty eat human food?”
Prozac looked up, irritated, from where she’d been busy sucking up some roast beef.
Hey, mind your own beeswax, willya?
“Prozac, cut that out!” I whisked her off the sofa. “That’s supposed to be my dinner.”
“A thousand pardons!” Vladimir cried. “I interrupt your meal.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” I lied.
“It looks delicious,” he said, practically drooling onto my plate.
“Would you care to join me?” I forced myself to ask.
“Maybe just a tiny bite.”
With that, he parked himself down on the sofa and began plowing through my chow like a John Deere at harvest time.
Prozac stared at him, wide-eyed. At last she’d met her match in the speed-eating department.
I quickly sat down next to him and tried to grab something before it all disappeared, but all I managed to nab was half a muffin and a square of frittata.
All the rest, down Vladimir’s gullet.
Prozac hissed as he popped the last of the ham into his mouth.
Hey, wait a minute! I was going to eat that.
“Delicious!” Vladimir exclaimed when there was nothing left on the plate except his reflection. “Never have I eaten such wonderful food! What a wonderful cook you are, my beloved Jaine.”
“Actually, I didn’t cook any of this.”
“Oh, but I can tell you are magnificent cook.”
At that, Prozac practically rolled her eyes.
Are you kidding? She needs Mapquest to find the oven.
“You know what would taste wonderful right now?” He patted his nonexistent tummy.
The rest of that frittata, I felt like saying. But you already ate it.
“A nice glass of tea.”
Ten minutes later, we were side by side on the sofa, sipping our teas, mine generously laced with Tylenol.
Vladimir had taken out a small photo album from his shopping bag and was showing me pictures of his family. I smiled gamely at photos of his babushka-ed mother and rifle-toting father. Between the two of them, they possessed a grand total of five teeth.
“And here is my beloved Svetlana!”
Svetlana was not, as you might have imagined, a local Uzbek lass, but his pet mountain goat.
“Svetlana is my very best friend in the whole world.”
No surprise there.
“I told her all about you, Jaine. She can’t wait to meet you.”
As if that is ever going to happen.
At last, we were through looking at the Trotsky clan.
“Gosh, that was fun, Vladimir.”
“Please, call me Vladdie.”
“Right, um, Vladdie. It’s been great catching up. But I’ve got a busy day ahead, and I’ve really got to turn in now.”
“But wait! I must read love poem!”
He took out a piece of none-too-clean paper from his pocket and unfolded it with a flourish. Then he cleared his throat and read:
Ode to My Beloved Jaine
I love your eyes of baby blue
To you I will be always true
Your lips are red as bowl of borscht
Marry Vladdie and you never get divorced!
Prozac looked up from where she had been examining her privates.
Whew. That stinks worse than my litter box.
“How sweet.” I smiled weakly. “But actually, my eyes aren’t blue. They’re hazel.”
“Yes, but blue so much easier to rhyme—Wait, I know! Listen to this!”
Another phlegm-filled clearing of his throat, after which he proclaimed:
I love your eyes of sparkling hazel
So big and round like onion bagel
“How very touching,” I managed to say.
“I knew you would love it. So how about it, Jaine? You marry with me?”
He looked up at me, practically panting with eagerness.
“I’ve already told you, Vladdie, I can’t possibly marry you.”
“But why?”
I figured telling him that on a scale of one to ten he was a minus forty-seven wasn’t the way to go.
“For one thing, I don’t even know you.”
“Of course!” He smacked his hand against his head. “Vladimir idiot to think you fall in love with me so soon. It takes time. At least until Thursday. In the meanwhile, you come meet my family here in the United States. My Aunt Minna and my cousins Sofi and Boris. Aunt Minna cook dinner for you tomorrow.”
No way was I about to meet his family. Absolutely not. I had to end this thing here and now. And I was just about to turn him down in no uncertain terms when he threw a curveball at me.
“I almost forgot!” he said. “I’m so busy staring at your beautiful hazel eyes, I didn’t give you your gift!”
Once more he reac
hed into his shopping bag.
“For you, Jaine,” he said, handing me a beautiful white cable-knit sweater.
“This is lovely, Vladimir. You shouldn’t have.”
“Mama and Natasha made it for you.”
“Natasha?”
“Our pet lamb. That’s her wool. So what do you say, Jaine? You come meet my family?”
He looked up at me pleadingly with his slightly crossed eyes.
Oh, lord. I couldn’t turn him down now, not after his mother knitted me a sweater from their pet lamb. I’d go meet his Aunt Minna, have dinner, and that’d be that. Finito. End of romance. Before I knew it, he’d be back in Uzbekistan and I’d never have to see him again.
And so I said three little words that would live to haunt me for years to come:
“Okay, I’ll go.”
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Exciting New Hobby!
Guess what, sweetheart? I’ve taken up the most exciting new hobby. Something I’ve wanted to learn for ages, along with origami and how to set the clock on the microwave.
I’ve joined a bridge club! You remember Lydia Pinkus, don’t you? The librarian here at Tampa Vistas? She’s teaching a bunch of us gals the rules of the game. And it’s so much fun! A lot more challenging than Go Fish, I must admit. I’ve been trying to get Daddy to play, but he’s not interested. Which is all for the best, I suppose. You know how he sulks when he loses.
Next week is my turn to host the gals for lunch. I can’t wait. I’m going to make either quiche or chicken salad in tomato cups. Doesn’t that sound lovely? And I’m going to serve it on my new luncheon china from the shopping channel. The show host said it was the exact same china Queen Elizabeth uses. Or maybe it was Queen Latifah. I forget who. All I know is, it’s gorgeous, and service for four was just $69.95, plus shipping and handling.
Oh, dear. Must run. The UPS man is at the door and Daddy’s making a fuss about something.
More later,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: It’s Here!
Great news, lambchop! It’s here at last! My Turbomaster 3000 convection oven! I saw it on an infomercial the other night when I was having trouble sleeping. The minute I saw it in action, I knew I had to have it. Would you believe this brilliant piece of culinary engineering can cook pork chops in five minutes? A rack of lamb in ten? And a turkey in just twenty-five minutes?!! Just think of all the money Mom and I will save on our energy bills!
And get this: Because I was one of the first five hundred callers, they threw in a free jar of their Turbomaster Secret Spice! A special blend of fifteen exotic spices. Guaranteed to make any dish come alive with flavor!
What a lucky break I couldn’t sleep the other night, huh? Otherwise I might’ve missed out on one of the greatest inventions of the 21st century.
I can’t wait to get started cooking!
Love and kisses from,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Glorified Toaster Oven
Oh, for heaven’s sake. Your father’s gone and done it again. He’s fallen under the spell of yet another infomercial and bought some ridiculous contraption that he claims will cook a turkey in twenty-five minutes. If you ask me, his silly Turbomaster is nothing more than a glorified toaster oven. I can’t believe he was crazy enough to spend $200 on that hunk of junk!
You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? In three days he’ll lose interest in it, just like he lost interest in the slice ’n’ dicer, the yogurt maker, the brisket brisker, the Magic Juicer, and the Mr. Waffle waffle maker gathering dust in the garage. I swear, honey, with all the junk we’ve got sitting out there, we could open our own museum of unused cooking appliances.
Your disgusted,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: She Can Scoff All She Wants
Your mom is a very sweet woman, lambchop, and I love her dearly, but she sure knows how to rain on a fella’s parade. She hasn’t said it in so many words, but it’s clear she thinks my Turbomaster is a piece of junk. And she has the nerve to make fun of me because I ordered it from an infomercial! Look who’s talking—the woman who’s practically attached to the shopping channel by an umbilical cord.
Mom can scoff all she wants, but she can’t dampen my excitement. No, sir. Tonight I’m going to break in the Turbomaster with some magnificent five-minute pork chops. I’m headed out to the market right now to go shopping.
Bon appetit!
From your loving,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Im Possible!
I’ve got two words for your father: Im Possible! He went to the market to pick up a couple of pork chops and a carton of milk and just walked in the door with four bags of groceries. Filled with ridiculous food items we’ll never use. Garlic-stuffed olives. Anchovies in truffle oil. Pickled artichoke hearts. And a five-pound bag of unpopped popcorn. I ask you, what on earth are we going to do with five pounds of unpopped popcorn, other than open our own concession stand at the movies? Would you believe he spent $127 on all that junk when all he needed was two measly pork chops??!
And PS. He forgot the milk!
Chapter 5
I spent a restless night tossing and turning. When I finally managed to drift off to sleep, I dreamed I was standing at the altar, exchanging wedding vows with Vladimir, his goat Svetlana my maid of honor.
For once I was actually grateful when Prozac clawed me awake for her breakfast.
After fixing her some Hearty Halibut Guts and nuking myself a cup of Folgers Crystals, I hunkered down at the computer and checked my parents’ e-mails. Which is never a great way to start the day.
Don’t get me wrong. My parents are very sweet people, and I love them to pieces, but their e-mails should come with a warning from the Surgeon General: The News You Are About to Receive May Be Hazardous to Your Mental Health.
Daddy is the main culprit, of course. The man has caused more ulcers than garlic and jalapeno peppers combined. I knew he’d drive poor Mom nuts with his Turbomaster contraption. And that she, in turn, would drive me nuts, in a daisy chain of unending aggravation.
But I couldn’t sit around fretting about my parents. In less than an hour, I’d be meeting with Marvin Cooper to show him my writing samples.
So I dusted off my sample book, praying Marvin would be wowed by my colorful array of toilet bowl brochures. Then I dug out my one and only Prada pantsuit from the back of my closet and proceeded to get dressed, accessorizing with a tasteful gold bangle and a pair of black slingbacks I’d bought on sale at Nordstrom.
When I’d spritzed my final spritz of perfume and wrestled my curls into submission, I checked myself out in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. Just goes to show what you can do when you choose your wardrobe wisely and stand really far away from the mirror.
“Wish me luck,” I called to Prozac.
She looked up from where she was napping on my computer keyboard and gave me an encouraging yawn.
Minutes later, I was tooling over to Mattress King.
Marvin’s Beverly Hills showroom was not in Beverly Hills, but in an area euphemistically called Beverly Hills Adjacent, by people who live there and wish they didn’t. Lots of successful business are located there, however, and Marvin’s was one of them.
A huge barn of a building, Mattress King’s floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows displayed a sea of thick, tufted mattresses. A sign in the window revealed that they were in the midst of a gala “Sleep-tacular.”
I bypassed the parking lot in the rear and took a spot down the street. I was, after all, trying to make a good impression, and an ancient Corolla with an I Brake for Chocolate bumper sticker does not exactly scream Hire Me.
Gathering my sample book and m
y courage, I trotted over to the store, took a deep breath, and headed inside.
The place was practically deserted. Which was not all that surprising at 10:30 on a Monday morning.
A portly guy in a blue blazer jumped up from where he was doing a crossword puzzle and hurried over to greet me.
“Hello, there!” he said, buttoning his blazer over his substantial gut. “I’m Lenny.”
And indeed his name tag informed me that he was “Sleep Specialist Lenny.”
“How may I help you get a good night’s rest?” he asked, running a hand over his comb-over.
He could start by getting Prozac to stop sleeping with her tail in my mouth, but I doubt that was what he had in mind.
“Actually, I’m here for a meeting with Marvin Cooper.”
“Through the door over there,” he sighed, kissing his sale good-bye. Then, noticing my sample book, he added, “Good luck.”
He smiled a sad-eyed smile, as if luck was something he’d run out of long ago.
I made my way through a door at the back of the showroom to a no-frills office area, with rental-quality furniture, metal file cabinets, and a coffee machine in a corner. A pale young receptionist was clacking away on her computer keyboard, peering at the monitor through a fringe of limp brown bangs.
When I told her I was there to see Marvin, she quickly ushered me into his inner sanctum. Unlike the reception area, Marvin’s office was decorated to the hilt, crammed with ornate antique furniture and froufrou vases, a riff on the Vegas Versailles theme I’d seen at Casa Extravaganza.