Impractically Perfect: A Romantic Comedy

by Genevieve Lerner

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at the time when I finally woke up again. It’s slightly embarrassing to be dragging yourself out of bed when your (albeit, blind and senile) dog is already on his afternoon nap, and the slight after-smell of sandwich meats is the only reminder of your parents’ lunch. Fortunately, the only greeting I had was from a rather hefty pile of mail sitting on the kitchen table, all addressed to me. Probably, I gathered, mail I had accumulated over the past year or so of…whatever you want to call it.

  Most of the stack, I quickly realized, was from credit card companies. Thankfully, not less-than-politely asking me to pay off my bill already, but actually asking me to apply for one of their cards. If only they knew, I thought gravely to myself, if only they knew how little they actually want my business. Because buying anything at all in my current state was completely out of the question. It was a miracle I even made it to my parents’ house in the first place; I had less than twenty dollars to my name, having spent the last few hundred in my checking account on bus fare and Subway meals.

  Last in my mail pile was a fancy-shmancy looking envelope. I had to take a double take to confirm that it was, in fact, addressed to me, because I don’t consider myself to be a fancy-shmancy sort of person. But there it was, in loopy purple writing:

  Christina Valentine

  423 Pillowbourgh Lane

  San Francisco, CA 94112

  God, it was nice to have an address that wasn’t a motel room.

  The only thing to do was open it, but from the moment I began pulling the cardstock out of the envelope, I became quite sure of what this was all about. And in the same instant, I wished vehemently that I had waited just a few more months to return to the dreaded Valentine residence.

  My fears were confirmed when I finally brought myself to actually look at the invitation, for that was what it was. In even loopier purpler writing it read, “Sybill’s getting married—again! Come celebrate number seven with the proud Valentine family!” Grandma’s wedding. Of course. How could I forget.

  I read and reread the rest of the invitation, unable to distinguish between my feelings of giddiness, horror, and downright nausea. Moment by moment it dawned on me: my parents were gone at this time on a Sunday afternoon to pick up Grandma from the nursing home so she could stay with us for the few weeks before her wedding. That I wasn’t staying in the perfectly clean, unfilled-with-cardboard-boxes guest room, because that was being reserved for Grandma. That all of those emails from Mom over the past few months about flower arrangements and rent-a-bartenders were actually for a reason. I really should have thought things through better. I really should have planned. Things were going to be so so SO much worse than I had imagined.

  There was only one thing left to do: make a run for it.

  But before I could even finish devising my brilliant escape plan, I heard the minivan pull into the driveway, the thuds and clickity-clicks of Dad’s boots and Mom’s heels, and that awful clunk-draaaaag that I knew all too well to be Grandma’s walker.

  And so, I thought to myself grimly, in the most dramatic voice I could imagine, it begins.

  There was no time for silly pleasantries like greeting grandchildren when there was unpacking and wedding planning and general chaos to be had. I was immediately shoved out of the way of the adults, then only a half a moment later scolded for not being helpful. My job here, as I soon deciphered, was to do everything for everyone, while simultaneously staying perfectly out of the way.

  “Chrissy, find a place for all these umbrellas!”

  “Chrissy, start making dinner, would you?”

  “Chrissy! What are you doing holding all those umbrellas? You’re going to take somebody’s eye out!”

  Asking why Grandma had such a collection of umbrellas didn’t even cross my mind. Instead I yelled out, “Pasta all right with everybody?” and when there was no response, I dumped the umbrellas in the guest room, whipped up what was probably the quickest dinner I had ever prepared in my life, and hid in my room with my own bowl of pasta until they had all finished eating. I hoped that stuffing them full of carbs and wine would placate them enough so that I could have an evening to myself: an evening to evaluate my situation and start figuring out the fastest way out of it possible.

  And then, lying on top of my bed between a moldy picture album and what must’ve been a Kama Sutra book from the fifties (I didn’t care to take a closer look), I officially entered Ultimate Panic Mode. As I had learned the hard way over the past year, finding work isn’t as simple as walking into an office and refusing to leave until someone gives you a job. Or maybe it was for some people, but I was no Erin Brockovich. Besides, the finding of the work wasn’t even the hard part—the hard part was keeping it.

  Years ago when I was still in college, I was more than ecstatic about the idea of going out alone in the world, applying and interviewing for jobs, meeting people and exploring new places. As it turns out, when you have a whole world waiting to be explored, it seems a lot fuller of possibilities than it does after you’re done exploring it. I mean, look at those kids that went to Narnia: they all ended up dead.

  But no more. I was going to make it work this time. I was going to be Chrissy Valentine, Motivated Employee. Maybe they could even make it into a name tag or put it on my door or something.

  Now I just had to find a job. And get ready for Grandma’s wedding. And stay on Mom’s good side. And somehow, some way, figure out a way of getting into culinary school.

  No biggie.

  The next morning, I was jarred awake from a dream involving me and Enrique riding not a motorcycle, but a flying umbrella, which happened to be passing directly over a wasteland of cardboard boxes filled with gravy boats. Mom’s shrill voice had carried all the way upstairs, around the corner, and through my closed bedroom door, startling me from one nightmare into the next.

  If I thought life with my parents was going to be difficult, I had clearly forgotten how exhausting it was to spend even an afternoon with Grandma. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my Grandma—she was probably the most genuine, wonderful, fun-loving person I knew. It was obvious that it was from her that my father had inherited his chilled-out nature. The real problem was the degree to which she put my mother on edge.

  They were complete opposites, and Grandma was always questioning everything Mom did, partially out of her desire to make her see the wonderfulness of life, and partially just to give her daughter-in-law a hard time, because let’s face it, messing with Mom is fun. Unfortunately, instead of actually listening to Grandma’s advice, Mom would usually then take her conflicting emotions out on me. Whether it was my matted hair, oversized sweatshirts, or even just standing still, everything I did was “not helping the family get through this important time.” Whatever. Grandma at least seemed happy.

  I stumbled downstairs in a groggy haze to the sight of Mom running frantically around the house making endless phone calls and bossing everyone around, Dad glumly following instructions (he had been forced to take the week off of work to help with preparations), and Grandma calmly sitting in the living room, eating raw cabbage and downing her pills with her McClelland’s on the rocks.

  Still in my boxers and my glasses and my favorite faded Hanson T-shirt that I had had since 2nd grade, I dove to the couch next to Grandma while Mom argued with a discount flower arranger that she had found in the phone book. From what I could overhear, nothing seemed to be going too well. Everything was out of our budget, because most of my parents’ extra money was going towards paying for Grandma’s nursing home. We couldn’t even afford an official officiator.

  “How the hell,” I asked her, my voice still croaky, “do you stay so calm with all this happening around you?” Mom had just hung up the phone, but that didn’t stop her voice from echoing through all the corners of the house.

  The wrinkled corners of Grandma’s lips raised slightly. “Because, sweetie, when you’ve had as many weddings as I have, you start to realize they’re just not
worth the money or time most people put into them.”

  A second later, Mom’s voice was cut short by a dull thud and a yelp. I jumped out of my seat, closely followed by Grandma, but Dad didn’t even react. Our dog, blinded by cataracts, had yet again walked into a wall. It had been so long since I’ve been home that I had forgotten that this was more than a daily occurrence. Even so, I knelt next to him and took his graying face into my hands.

  “Bon Jovi,” I said to him, because that was his name. “You stupid, stupid old man.” He feebly licked my chin and stared blankly into my face that I knew he couldn’t see. I had forgotten how much I missed having a dog. Bon Jovi and I had grown up together, gone through waiting for the bus together on my first day of fifth grade, gone through his first day of dog training; my first orthodontist visit, his first veterinary visit. I had been there for him every time he got his nails clipped; he was there for me when my sister Paige told me she hated me and locked me out of her room for a week and a half. Oh my goodness. Paige.

  Once the thought occurred to me, I couldn’t stop myself from asking, but the second I did so I regretted it. Not exactly an unfamiliar feeling in my life.

  “Is um…is Paige going to be around?” I tentatively asked my mother. “For the wedding and everything?”

  Mom stopped flipping through yellow pages and nearly shrieked with delight at the mention of her favorite daughter. “Of course she’ll be around for the wedding, dear! And I nearly forgot, you haven’t seen her yet! We should have her over for dinner one of these nights. Oh, dinner… I haven’t even picked a caterer, I completely forgot… chicken or steak, Sybill?” And the hysteria continued.

  I somehow managed to escape only a few hours later by bargaining with Mom. I made us all lunch, and gave Bon Jovi a walk and a bath in exchange for my freedom. My ancient laptop under my arm, I walked the few blocks to my favorite coffee shop for a cappuccino and free WiFi.

  After deciding on just a plain coffee because I didn’t actually have the funds for such luxuries as cappuccinos, I spent the next several minutes in search of an outlet. My seven-year-old computer couldn’t hold more than five minutes of battery charge, and I had some serious job-getting to do. I flirted a little with a skinny, flat-faced boy playing World of Warcraft at the corner table that was in perfect proximity to an outlet, and convinced him to move across the cafe so I could have the good table. I opened my laptop, logged into the internet, and stared in confusion at the screen.

  Now what? I had come here with such clear intention that it didn’t occur to me that I had never actually used the internet to find a job. Should I go onto Craigslist? Are those job listings even real? What if they were scams? What if someone called me in for an interview and instead of interviewing me they killed and dismembered me (preferably in that order)? What kind of job was I even looking for? Browsing the website, I discovered how many categories there actually were. Hospitality? Retail? Management?

  Oh my god. What had I been thinking? Who in their right mind would hire me? I could just picture the interview now:

  “So, what is your experience?”

  “Well, you know, I have a, um, college degree.”

  “Oh, in what?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Oh. That’s…useful. Any awards or accolades?”

  “Not exactly. But I have excellent people skills. Really excellent. Good. I’m good with people, and um, communicating, and…that kind of stuff.”

  “I see. Any…professional experience?”

  “OH! That. Well, I’ve had a couple of jobs!”

  “And why did you leave them?”

  “It wasn’t on purpose! I just got fired pretty fast. I mean…”

  This was not going to be pretty. In a desperate burst of inspiration, I stumbled back over to the counter. The tall, shaggy-haired boy that had cashed me out had his back to me, and seemed to be sneaking sips from a mug of hot chocolate. In my embarrassment of not being able to afford the drink I wanted, I hadn’t noticed that he couldn’t have been older than sixteen. And he had a job.

  The kid didn’t see me standing there until I cleared my throat loudly. Spluttering and apologizing, he spun around to face me. He still had a little bit of whipped cream on his upper lip, and I smiled.

  “Another coffee?” he asked me casually, as if he hadn’t just thought I was his manager catching him in the act of drinking forbidden hot cocoa. “Or perhaps…a cappuccino?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Actually,” I said, as if I didn’t hear that last part, and trying to suddenly morph myself into a professional-looking lady. One who could afford cappuccinos. “I was wondering if you have any job applications.”

  Hot Chocolate Boy looked me up and down. “Sure, you can have one. But we’re not hiring.”

  I didn’t believe him. Of course they were hiring, weren’t coffee shops always hiring? “Are you sure?”

  “Um…I think would know if my own place of employment was hiring. But we have WiFi if you want to search Craigslist or whatever. Good…luck,” he finished in a tone that sounded like sarcasm, but I couldn’t be sure because picking up on things like that has never been my strong suit.

  Ugh. What a little twerp. The more I looked at his floppy hair, the more I disliked him. At least I knew where to look now. Craigslist it was.

  For the next 45 minutes, I browsed inappropriate job posting after inappropriate job posting.

  Secretary. Organization was not my strong suit. Waitress. I strongly suspected that working for tips wasn’t necessarily the best idea for someone as awkward as me. Farmer. Growing up, I often had to explain to my gym teacher that I was just allergic to nature. Valet. Parallel parking? Lizard-sitter. Was that even a thing? The rest of the postings were worse. Pole dancer; Stripper; Male stripper wanted; NEED EXOTIC DANCER WITH LARGE BREASTS ASAP.

  And whenever I found a posting that looked halfway decent, I would click on it to read something like “must be willing to work long overtime hours for no pay” or “must be able to lift 80-100 lbs.” Apparently, I had no useful skills in the 21st century workforce.

  By the time I arrived back to 423 Pillowburgh Lane, my thoughts were spinning so quickly around my head I was sure I would puke from motion sickness. I didn’t want to deal with Mom’s judgmental glares, didn’t want to look into Dad’s disappointed eyes, didn’t want be the one to keep an eye on Grandma to make sure she didn’t take too many pills or get into the liquor cabinet. The only thing that sounded bearable was curling up with Bon Jovi and Anne of Green Gables and pretending I didn’t exist.

  Unfortunately, I had forgotten the spare key, I realized, standing there on my front stoop. So the inevitable confrontation with my parents was going to be a sooner rather than later inevitable. I banged on the front door, and a moment later, it opened.

  “Chrissy?” I unsqueezed my eyes and let them focus on the body in front of me. It was taller than Mom, thinner than Dad, and balanced atop much higher heels than I had ever seen Grandma wear. Paige Valentine was making a surprise visit.

  I have a terrible habit of rambling nonsense whenever I’m uncomfortable. “Ohmygosh hi Paige how are you I like your pants how is everything I didn’t know you were coming over here today how is work and you cut your hair and I like it but seriously can I borrow your pants sometime?” The shock of my sister showing up so unexpectedly had within me caused so much terror and hysteria that I considered my not-passing-out to be an achievement. I guess when Mom had said that we should have Paige over for dinner “one of these nights,” she had meant…this night.

  She was the first daughter, the carrier of all of my parents’ hopes and dreams—and she did not disappoint. Once she started reading chapter books and helping my father conduct business transactions by age four, it was clear that she would succeed. There wasn’t really much use for me anymore.

  And now, only a few years after graduating with a triple degree in business, French, and cinematography, and immediately landing a producing position at the
critically acclaimed television show Let’s Cook! with Derrick Longjohns, Paige was standing in front of me. She was no longer the ghost of my nightmares, but my very solid, very well-dressed, and very, very employed sister.

  My name might as well have been Deadbeat Jane.

  I served my famous veggie potstickers with asparagus for dinner that night. I was cooking for five now, six if you count Bon Jovi, which you needed to because Dad always fed him secretly under the table, so it was really good that my parents were giving me grocery money in exchange for my services.

  “So Chrissy,” said Paige, trying to make direct eye contact with me across the table. It was difficult because there were four candles and a vase of peonies in the way. “How’s life post-college?”

  This would have been a much easier question to answer honestly without Mom and Dad raising their eyebrows at me inquisitively.

  “Um,” I said, not sure where to begin. “Well, there was the whole looking for an apartment bit. That was…interesting. I mean, it wasn’t actually interesting. It was actually very….insanely awful. Kind of like—” I stopped myself short of saying “my current life situation.”

  My sister smiled at me. “Kind of like Mr. Bower’s tenth-grade chemistry class?” Over the years, we had bonded over the fact that we had had a few of the same very distinct teachers during our time at Willowbend High.

  “Yes, kind of like that.”

  “So now what are you up to?”

  I really really wasn’t ready to admit everything that had happened. Not to her. Not to the Perfect Daughter. “Well,” I said slowly, “I kind of didn’t get any of the apartments I wanted, seeing as I didn’t have money, or any source of income at all. I mean I don’t.”