Romantically Challenged (13 page)

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

I picked up my purse and fished out his key ring, but held it outside his reach. “You’re going to let me get out before you drive away, aren’t you?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re the last person I want to be with right now.”

“Good,” I said. “Then we’re agreed.” Before he could object, I wrenched my arm free and jumped out of the Jeep. Then I tossed his key ring onto the passenger seat and slammed the door shut.

He smiled at me for the first time in hours. “You’re one crazy girl, Jules.”

“You can’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t known me long enough.”

Just a Date

After the Joe fiasco, Just A Date started looking like a better alternative. After all, I really was a busy professional having trouble meeting quality people on her own. But it still took me another two dateless weekends with Elmo before I worked up the nerve to call. The woman on the phone told me they were having a $50 off special that was ending on July 31
^st
. I made an appointment to meet with one of their ‘dating specialists’ on the 30
^th.
Love on sale is still love.

* * *

I snuck out of work early on the 30
^th
to make my six o’clock appointment. When I pulled into the parking garage of the nondescript glass office building, I was stopped at the gate by an attendant.

“Where are you going,” he asked.

I wasn’t expecting to be questioned. I pulled a piece of paper out of my purse and pretended to read it. “A company called Just A Date.” Maybe he would think I was just making a sales call.

He snickered and told me to park on level C.

* * *

I felt like I was in a doctor’s office. I gave the receptionist my name and was told to have a seat in the waiting area. Five minutes later another woman showed me to a small, windowless room containing two white sofa chairs and a television on a stand. “The program director will be with you shortly,” she said, then shut the door behind her.

I wished I’d brought my magazine from the waiting area. I tried my cell phone, but I couldn’t get any reception, so I tucked my phone back in my purse and started counting ceiling tiles. I was up to twenty-three when the door opened and a tall, thin, stunning woman with long black hair and caramel skin walked in. She introduced herself as Celia Barker, a ‘dating specialist’ and director of the L.A. office of Just A Date.

Celia explained how the program worked. Each client had to fill out a questionnaire describing themselves and their interests and the qualities they were looking for in a potential date. Celia told me that once a week she and the four other dating specialists in the L.A. office met to discuss their respective clients and whether any of them could be matched up.

“When I find you a match,” Celia said, “I’ll call you up and describe him to you on the phone. If you want to meet him, then I’ll set the two of you up on a date. Are you interested?”

Maybe. “How much is this again?”

“It’s normally $350 for six dates, but right now we’re offering an introductory special of $50 off or two extra dates. But the special ends tomorrow. Would you like to join?”

It sounded like the service my friends had been providing, except that my friends did it for free. Of course my track record with my friends’ blind dates hadn’t been too good. And my track record with the men I met on my own was even worse. I thought of Joe and Doctor-Pilot and Nose Hairs and John the Annoying Cheapskate and the fact that I had no prospects for any future dates. I heard my mother’s voice reminding me that I wasn’t getting any younger. I imagined the inside of my vagina covered in cobwebs from lack of use, and my ovaries shriveling up and dying, still enclosed in their cellophane wrappers.

I handed Celia my Visa card and told her to sign me up. I couldn’t even buy a good suit for $300. Surely a potential mate was worth that much.

* * *

Celia called me a week later and said, “I found you a match. His name is Michael. He’s thirty-four years old, lives in Hermosa Beach, and he’s a director.”

“What kind of a director? Movies? Television? Commercials?” I figured if she said he was a movie director, then he was really a wannabe. If he described himself as a television or commercials director, then he was probably for real.

“I don’t know, the form just says director.”

So much for the personal touch.

“He’s 5’10”,” Celia continued, “has blond hair and he likes to ski, play tennis, go to movies, restaurants, and the beach. He also plays baseball, softball, basketball and enjoys cooking gourmet meals.”

Except for the blond hair (I preferred brunets unless the guy looked like Brad Pitt) and that he was geographically undesirable (Hermosa Beach was at least a thirty minute drive without traffic, and there was always traffic), he sounded perfect.

“Would you like to meet him?” she asked.

“Sure, he sounds great.”

“Good. Just give me some dates you’re available and I’ll call you back with the time and place.”

I never knew finding a husband could be this easy. I should’ve called this place months ago!

* * *

Celia called me back the next day. “I spoke to Michael. Unfortunately he’s not available on any of the dates you gave me and he’s leaving town on Monday for two weeks. Can you make it next weekend?”

“I thought you don’t set up dates for weekends.”

“Normally we don’t. We’ve found that weeknights work better. But since the two of you have such conflicting schedules, I thought maybe a weekend would be easier. Are you available for lunch on Saturday?”

“Sure,” I said. “Where?”

“How about The Range in Beverly Hills? I’ll make a reservation for one o’clock.”

Normally, I didn’t go to snooty, over-priced restaurants like The Range. But in this case, it was a good choice. I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew, and I was sure that I wouldn’t at The Range.

“Whose name will it be under?” I just realized that Celia had never told me Michael’s last name.

“The reservation will be in both your first names. We don’t give out last names in order to protect everyone’s privacy.”

I liked that.

“I’ll call you on Friday to remind you about the date.”

It was already Wednesday. “I don’t think I’m going to forget in the next two days.”

She laughed. “I know. But it’s our policy to call and remind both clients the day before the date, just in case.”

I wasn’t concerned when I left the office on Friday night without having heard from Celia. I was sure she’d left me a message on my home machine. I’d told her I preferred she not call me at work. I didn’t want to risk my assistant, Lucy, finding out and blabbing to the rest of the office that I was so desperate that I had to join a service just to get a date.

When I walked through the living room and I didn’t see a blinking red light I was only slightly concerned. The window on my answering machine showed “0” messages, but I pushed the PLAY button anyway. No messages. I looked at my watch. It was 6:45. I was now mildly concerned.

Since it was at least possible that Celia was still in the office, I called. Her voicemail picked up on the fourth ring. “Hi Celia, it’s Julie Burns. You didn’t call to remind me about my date with Michael. I don’t know if that means we’re still on for tomorrow and you just forgot to call, or that the date is canceled. Please call me back and let me know.”

I didn’t start to really worry until eleven o’clock. By that point, even if Celia picked up my message, she would think it was too late to return the call. But it wasn’t too late for me to call Kaitlyn. Her solution was for me to phone Celia again in the morning, but if I didn’t hear back from her, to go anyway. Kaitlyn was sure if the date was canceled, Celia would’ve called and told me. This time I was praying she was right.

* * *

I called Celia three times on Saturday morning, but she never returned my call. At noon I showered, dressed in the outfit of black pants and tan sleeveless shirt I’d carefully planned the night before, and headed out to The Range.

A parking spot opened up right before I reached the restaurant’s valet stand. Normally a good omen, but if my parking karma and my love life really were inversely related, then it was actually bad. I filled the meter with two hours’ worth of quarters and headed inside.

The hostess, a woman in her mid-forties who likely spent her days sucking up to celebrities, was not surprisingly not at all interested in talking to me. When I told her I had a reservation for Michael and Julie at one o’clock she peered at me over the rim of her Armani frames. “We don’t make reservations in first names. Last name?”

“My assistant assured me she made the reservation in our first names,” I said in my angry lawyer voice.

She reluctantly checked her book. “No, there’s no reservation for a Michael or a Julie. What was the last name again?”

Had this woman been even the slightest bit warm and fuzzy I might’ve told her the truth—that I was so pathetic I had resorted to a dating service that didn’t give out last names, and even they had stood me up. Instead I mumbled, “We must’ve had our signals crossed,” and ran out of the restaurant.

Obviously my parking karma theory was right. From now on I wasn’t even going to look for street parking. At least not when I was on a date.

* * *

Celia finally returned my calls on Monday morning. She apologized profusely and told me it was all just a horrible mix-up. I didn’t care what her excuse was, all I wanted was a refund. Celia swore it would never happen again and attempted to placate me with an extra date for free. After ten minutes of cajoling, I relented. The worst was over. The only place to go was up, right?

Helping Others

I waited until 11:05 before I went next door to Simone’s office. “Where’s Greg?” Since his wife had left him, Greg had become a regular fixture at our Monday morning bitch sessions.

Simone looked up from her desk with dark circles under her eyes. “He had a court appearance this morning. He must not be back yet.”

“What’s wrong? Is Rosenthal on your case again?”

“No, I had a fight with Todd.”

“About what?” I always thought Simone and Todd had a great relationship. According to Simone, they never argued.

“About the wedding. What else?”

“I thought you’d settled that. Big wedding, New Year’s Eve, the Four Seasons Beverly Hills.”

“That’s only the beginning. Now it’s bands, flowers, menus, guest lists, and rehearsal dinners, just to name a few.”

“I thought the grooms left all those boring details up to the brides.”

“Maybe guys without mothers, but Todd’s mother is alive and well and she’s driving me crazy.”

“Can’t you have Todd tell her to back off?”

“He’s telling me to back off. Apparently, my twenty-eight-year-old fiancé is a mama’s boy. I’m about ready to give him back to his mama.”

This was serious. Simone almost never complained about Todd. “You don’t mean that. You’re just going through a rough time. Planning a wedding always puts a strain on a relationship.”

“How would you know? You’ve never even been engaged.”

Ouch. That hurt. I reminded myself that Simone was under a lot of stress and said, “True. But I’ve been a bridesmaid eight times and every single time the bride wanted to call it off at least once. But after the wedding, they all said it was worth it.”

“The wedding maybe, but not the groom.”

“Don’t you think you’re just pissed at him right now because he’s taking his mother’s side?”

“Yes, but if this is the way he’s going to act after we’re married, then I’m not sure I want to be married to him.”

Uh-oh. “Did you tell him that?”

“At about three o’clock this morning at the top of my lungs. That’s when he left.”

I’d known Simone six years and this was the first time I’d ever seen her cry. I handed her the box of tissues she kept next to her computer.

“Thanks,” she said and blew her nose.

“No problem. They’re your tissues.”

She smiled for a moment, then started crying again.

I returned to my office and rummaged through the bottom drawer of my desk. Buried under three back issues of
California Lawyer
magazine, half a dozen take-out menus, and a rubber stress ball, I found my mini dartboard. The picture of Scumbag was still attached, although I could barely make out his face through all the holes. I tossed the picture in the trash and carried my board and all the darts I could find next door to Simone’s office.

“What’s this?” she asked when I set them down on her desk.

“Consider it an early wedding present.”

I picked up her pad and pen and drew two stick figures side by side. I labeled one Todd and the other Todd’s Mother. I added long curly hair and fangs to Todd’s Mother, then tore the drawing off the pad and handed it to Simone.

“You can start with these,” I said, “and replace them with real pictures later.”

She studied my drawing for at least ten seconds. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have real artistic ability?”

“No.”

“Good. Then you know you haven’t been lied to.”

“Thanks, Simone.” Sometimes it was hard to remember why we were friends.

“Although this actually looks a little like Todd’s mother. It must be the fangs.”

I tacked the drawing onto the dart board, and propped it on top of Simone’s file cabinet. Then I handed her the black darts and kept the red ones for myself.

* * *

By the time Simone’s alarm rang warning us of Rosenthal’s impending return, our aim had really improved. Simone had hit Todd twice in the chest and his mother three times in the head. I’d concentrated on the mother and had managed to hit her once each in the head and chest, and had practically severed her right arm. 

“What are you doing after work tonight?” I asked as I gathered the stray darts.

“No plans,” Simone said. “I figured I would just go home and feel sorry for myself. Why?”

“We haven’t had an associates dinner in a long time. I think we’re due for one.”