by Ruth Kaufman
“And how did and does that make you feel?” The default question of every therapist ever.
“I have some happy family memories, of course, but mostly I remember the ever-present tension in our house. You never knew what’d set my parents off and start the arguing.” My throat tightens. “Bringing a friend home was risky because of how embarrassed I’d get when they started screaming at each other. You couldn’t help but hear. The concerned look on whatever friend’s face felt like a punch to the gut. No one ever said, ‘It’s like this at my house, too.’”
Buried somewhere in my brain is what they got mad about back then. Now they pick at each other like starving people gnawing at scraps on their last, days old chicken leg.
Almost as bad as their fighting was how much we wished we could help them get along. Divorce was threatened a few times.
Who knows how an uncomfortable home impacts kids?
When I launch into a few tales from my childhood, Dr. Smythe settles back in his chair with a satisfied look, as if to say, “Oh, goody. It’ll take her years to work through all of this.”
I begin to grasp one thing that makes me unhappy: I’ve assumed the role of the understander. Meaning everyone else’s troubles are more serious than mine. If I had a problem at school, it was irrelevant because my father had a worse problem at his office. If I have a problem at work, it takes a back seat to PG not being invited to a birthday party. The same is true of my accomplishments. If I made the chorus of a community theatre musical, the multi-million-dollar deal Linda closed overshadowed it.
I see golden scales balancing. On one side there’s me tap dancing and singing my heart out in some fabulous, sparkly costume. Linda’s money bags sale sits on the other. Her side sinks so fast I lose my balance, taps skidding as I slide.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” I cry as I descend the depths into the Land of the Ignored and Unimportant. Like the “Mister Cellophane” song from Chicago about walking past him and never knowing he’s there.
“By the way, Marla, why didn’t you get the lead?” They don’t ask, but I hear them think it every time I mention having fun at rehearsals. They, the practically perfect, don’t realize not everyone can be a star. Not everyone has the desire or talent. But I have some, I was cast in the show, wasn’t I? I’m happy in the chorus, enjoying being part of the production, part of the group that works together to bring a show to life. Why isn’t that enough for them?
“Why isn’t it enough for you?” I hear Dr. Smythe ask as if he’s sitting before me in his flowery chair.
Hmmm.
I realize I’ve been trying—there’s that try word again—to live up to standards set by Linda and match the hilarity provided by Larry.
Even as a kid, it was them and me. I admit for a short while I encouraged this. I wanted to be the leader, superior and smarter, back when I thought being oldest meant something good. I soon learned it meant me doing all the work and them getting away with a variety of irresponsible behaviors.
Larry and Linda, whose names even begin with the same letter, had similar adorable doll-like features and shiny smooth light brown hair. Then there was me, dark red hair never wanting to do what it should, looking so different from them the casual observer might wonder if we were related.
Nothing illustrates this better than one of our holiday card pictures. I’m eight, Larry five-and-a-half and Linda four. We’re in our pajamas, sitting against the blue striped wall in Larry’s then train-themed room, holding and staring down at, for some reason, the timer from Mom’s Polaroid.
As you look at this picture, your eye is drawn to the two of them, with their I-should-be-in-a-Macy’s-catalogue cuteness. Then you think, “Why, whoever is that funny looking girl sitting beside them?”
I hope no one ever, ever uncovers my fourth-grade yearbook picture. Remember shag haircuts? Little tendrils of hair by my ears wouldn’t stay down, but curled over the temples on my glasses. Octagonal glasses, fifty times too huge for my face. The bottom of the frame was below my nose.
I wonder now if one of the reasons Mom dressed us alike sometimes, choosing zippered jumpsuits for me and Linda and shorts and a shirt for Larry in brightest yellow featuring big red ladybugs, was to make it look like I belonged with them.
Larry and Linda have succeeded in the things they pursued. My achievements are sort of in spite of themselves and thus don’t seem like successes to me.
So I’m indulging in a moment of feeling sorry for myself. It happens.
For the umpteenth time, Dr. Smythe’s words replay in my head, “Maybe the things that happen to you are other people’s fault.”
Whose fault is it that they are the skilled ones?
Stop, stop comparing yourself to them!
Chapter 6
The fmaf notifications drove me so crazy I turned the sound off. I can only bring myself to check in every couple of days or so.
A ninety-four-year-old in Cincinnati who hasn’t posted a picture thinks I’m a beautiful princess. Another guy wants to be very clear up front that he’s a submissive. As to the e-mails I haven’t gotten…only one of the handful of guys whose profiles caught my eye enough that I wanted to write has bothered to respond. To say thanks, but no thanks.
Oy.
My friend Andrea Marks calls with a PDM, a prospective dateable male. I won’t get my hopes up.
Andrea is a gynecologist married to a dentist for fifteen years. They have three kids, Emily, who’s ten, Davy, seven, and Nathan, five. We became friends in college thanks to a mutual friend who is no longer friends with either of us.
“Have I got a guy for you,” she says, sounding like Yente, the matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof.
Andrea and I share what some might consider an obsessive love of Broadway musicals. We can recite many shows word for word, including Les Miserables, which I’ve seen eight times. We get tickets to every musical that comes to Chicago, much to the dismay of her husband who pretty much feels about showtunes the way I do about sports.
“His name is David Goldberg. You won’t have to change your name again,” Andrea says.
I hadn’t wanted to add Ex’s name in the first place. Not only was Marla Goldberg Greenberg a mouthful, but when I married at thirty-three, I already had a car, credit cards in my name and had established myself in the business world. Changing my name for him is another compromise that came back to bite me.
Now I’m back to Goldberg. Ex’s name, of course, stayed the same post-divorce. No one has to know his life changed, while I endured the heinous process of name-changing all over again plus the ongoing awkwardness of telling everyone my name is different. And having to respond to those who ask why. When I changed my driver’s license, social security card, and the title on my car, I had to haul my divorce decree around to prove that the judge had granted me the right to return to my maiden name.
Imagine how completely uncomfortable this situation is: I’m about to give an important presentation about at a major ad agency. Dressed in my favorite Tahari pantsuit, hair a little less frizzy than usual. Looking good. The conference room is full of media buyers awaiting my brilliance. Tasty Corner Bakery pastries are piled high on a tray.
The media director introduces me as Marla Greenberg, not Marla Goldberg. What do I do? Is Greenberg close enough to Goldberg that I should ignore the error? Or do I correct my client in front of everyone?
I let the mistake slide in the group, but explained to the individuals later.
Andrea continues, “He’s short, but very good-looking.” She’s 5’10” so most guys seem short to her. “He has hair, his own architecture firm and lives in Bucktown. I ran into him at temple last week and thought of you. If you would’ve come with me like I suggested, you’d have met him already.”
He sounds too good to be true. “What’s the catch?”
There must be a catch.
“None that I know of. He got divorced a few years ago and is ready to meet a nice Jewish girl.”
Since Jeff
hasn’t called, neither online nor speed dating have yielded any possibilities, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to complete the extensive questionnaire on e-Matrimony so they can send me matches, why not.
I say, “A nice Jewish forty-two-year-old, you mean.”
David Goldberg calls. He has a pleasant voice, lacking the flat, nasal intonation so many Chicago men have and which gets on my nerves because I spend so much time listening to mellifluous DJs. He even makes me laugh. Conversation flows like a fast-moving stream. We make plans. For Saturday, not a week night.
At last I’m looking forward to a date. Anticipation is fun. I primp and change clothes. Only twice, because I lack a vast selection of dating attire to choose from. I decide on dark wash jeans, my favorite Nine West black boots with slightly pointy toes and a short, skinny and I think sexy heel.
The sweater is the hard part.
When I was young, like most girls I looked forward to having breasts. But flat-chestedness haunted me long after everyone else my age started wearing bras. The irony is that after all those years of waiting, the more my chest grew, the more uncomfortable it made me. I’ve never been one to expose my cleavage, and in fact wear a minimizer bra. No other kind I’ve found provides the requisite support and alleviates surprisingly painful bouncing.
Don’t get me started on the subject of finding a bra that fits. And those annoying plastic hangers with all the little nooks and crannies. First you can’t get the darn thing off and then you can’t get it back on. You can’t hang the bra on the end of the little hanger because it slips off, but trying to wedge the straps into those crannies usually results in the plastic hooks breaking.
You try on a dozen, if you can find that many in the size you think you are. This one makes you look like you’re wearing waffle cones, that one squashes you so flat you can’t breathe. None fit, and you’re stuck standing amidst a chaos of hangers and straps. Unless you’re evil and leave it all for the saleslady to put back.
I settle on a maroon stretch silk sweater with a V-neck, then add a silver necklace with sparkling crystals and silver hoops.
David texts that he’s near my building. After a final check of my shiny lip gloss at the mirror across from the elevator, I go down to meet him. My heart is beating fast, and not in a good way. I am anticipatorily nervous.
A car pulls into an empty space in front. Not just any car, but a Jaguar. Excellent, assuming it’s David. A man gets out. He’s very cute, with medium brown wavy hair not shorn too short or sticking up in front in that trendy way and a nice build. He’s wearing a black turtleneck, fine merino wool. I do like a cute guy in a designer turtleneck.
He drives us to a new restaurant I’ve read about, Bar 23. Valet parking, so we don’t have to feed Chicago’s ridiculous boxes or the app. The décor is colorful, the lighting a bit dim, the crowd young and attractive.
“I’ll have the Sauvignon Blanc,” I say when the prettier-than-me waitress approaches. How is a woman supposed to get her date to focus on her when the waitress wears a skin-tight, cleavage-revealing short dress and resembles Katy Perry?
“Me, too,” David says.
We are wine compatible.
We talk and laugh and enjoy an assortment of small plates, from goat cheese ravioli to profiteroles. David and I have what I think is an amazing time. I can’t stop smiling. A great date, at last.
As he drives me home, nerves kick in again. I can tell my hands, which he hasn’t tried to hold and I’m not sure if he should have by now if he likes me, are getting clammy.
The irony is that I’m cool as a cucumber at work, even when thousands of dollars are at stake. I can speak to C-level executives and sing and dance before theatres full of hundreds of people with confidence and aplomb. But get me alone with a guy I’m attracted to and I revert to my lamented never-went-to-a-high-school-dance days. I’m on edge, and unsure about what to say and do.
Especially since this could be the first guy I kiss since I met Ex a decade ago.
We’re approaching my street. How are dates supposed to end these days? Do I wait to see if he initiates a kiss in the car? Kiss him first? Ask him up for a drink?
Do I have anything to drink but Diet Barq’s?
If he comes up, then what?
I manage to think all this and continue our conversation about who has the best pizza.
He pulls into an empty spot a few doors down from my building. The Jag purrs.
Moments like these are why I adore being in plays and musicals. Everyone involved on stage and behind the scenes knows exactly what comes next...what each actor must do and say and where each person or set piece must move. There’s no uncertainty, no nerves, no, “What should I say next?” No wondering after you speak, “Why did I say that?” All has been pre-rehearsed again and again for the greater good. There’s still an air of suspense because it is live theatre, and a chance remains that something could go wrong. Someone could drop a line, a prop could be out of place or forgotten.
The difference between theatre and real life is that ninety-nine percent of the time if something does go wrong, by show time most performers know everyone else’s lines and would rescue their fellow actor so smoothly the audience would never know anything was amiss.
No one can rescue me now.
David says, “I had a nice time. Thanks.” He leans forward.
He’s going to kiss me. Yes.
But he turns his head so the kiss lands on my cheek and sits back in his seat.
Date over.
I’m glad he handled the situation, but I’m a bit confused. I’d hoped for more than a casual cheek peck. I’m not brave enough to say so, and even if I were, can’t think of what to say that’d be candid but not awkward. And since he didn’t say he’d call....
“I had a nice time, too. Thank you again for dinner. Good night.”
Can he hear my disappointment?
Am I glad I didn’t make a move.
A couple of days later, I’m changing my sheets when the phone rings. Caller ID says D Goldberg.
Maybe he does likes me and wants to go out again. A second date. This is big. Big. I wish someone was with me to high five or fist bump.
“Hi, Marla. It’s David Goldberg. I had a nice time the other night.”
“So did I.” I’m doing a little happy dance with a pillowcase.
“But I met someone just before I met you and I’m going to go out with her.”
My mouth drops open, which thankfully he can’t see. What is this, some new reality show? And why is he telling me this...is this kind of honesty better than not calling at all?
“I called because I have a friend I think you should go out with,” David explains.
This is new. Linda and Brad will love this.
Please don’t think I live to amuse them. It’s only that it helps to get something enjoyable out of my misadventures.
“As it happens, my friend’s name is also David Goldberg.”
A blind date setting me up on a blind date with a guy who has his same name and my last name. I can’t make this stuff up.
“If you’re interested, I’ll give you his number or have him call you.”
What the heck. More fodder for the story mill. Live lit shows are very popular in this town, maybe I could entertain others.
If DG#2 is anything like DG#1, it could be fun. But what you see on a blind date and what you hope you’re going to see can be two very different things.
Being a movie extra shares this unfortunate similarity with dating. On one of my first films, I did another “L” scene, not on the platform like in Superhero IX, but riding on the train. We’d been told this scene was important for the main character. I was placed facing away from the action, so the camera would only see the back of my head. Oh, well. Not everyone can have a good spot every shot, though some are more aggressive about working to position themselves than others.
Then they switched me out to sit directly behind the star. I was to read my magazi
ne, then look up and laugh as he made a big ruckus hauling bulky briefcases onto the train, late on his way to his first day of work. The famous director at the other end of the train car near the camera spoke to me more than once to time my laugh the way he wanted it.
How exciting. I’d be seen in a major motion picture. After all, the director himself told me what to do in this important scene and I was right behind the star.
I rushed to see the movie the day it opened, having told everyone and his mother I’d be seen. The entire scene had been cut. I was crushed, but learned my lesson: tell people I worked on the movie but not that I’m in the movie until I’ve actually seen myself. No, that DVD does not have deleted scenes.
As with my hopes for appearing in that film, David Goldberg #2 disappoints. We meet at Feed Me, another trendy restaurant. He’s taller and thicker-necked than David Goldberg #1.
Not exactly my type. Regrettably, his primary topic of conversation is sports, an ex-football player who clearly wishes he still was one. He’s also less interesting and less culturally literate than DG#1, who enjoys movies and theatre.
“I have three flat screens in my media room,” DG#2 brags as I twirl my pasta. “One’s a 60” plasma. I put a 36” on either side so I can watch more than one game at a time.”
Not going to happen. Next.
The next week, I get my first response from a talent agency. A form rejection email, saying, “We have too many talents in your category. Please resubmit in six months.”
Ouch. I’m not unique or special. I’m one of too many.
The biggest and highest paying opportunities, from national commercials to major films and TV shows, almost always come through talent agents. And they’re the only way to get the big union auditions.
Later that day, I’m a roller coaster swooping from the scream-inducing descent up a new hill. I stare at my e-mail in happy surprise. Audrey of ATM, Audrey’s Talent Management, wants me to audition for her. With a monologue—not my strong suit, nor have I done one in a couple of years—and a cold read. Meaning she’ll hand me a piece of copy or a scene from a script, maybe give me a few minutes to look it over, maybe not, and off I’ll go. Pressure slams into me like a tidal wave. I can take it. My future depends on a positive outcome.