I just have a few minor issues with her. Bev is a fanatic; she’s addicted to talk shows. Specifically Oprah. And instead of working like a modern woman in the twenty-first century, her calling herself a part-time travel agent is a euphemism for “she plans her own vacations.” When she’s not traveling, she spends all her time watching Oprah, doing Oprah makeovers, and cooking low-fat meals from Oprah’s recipe book. Verbs like share and discover are too often combined in her speech pattern with nouns like soul and self.
“Hi, Fern. How’s your spirit?”
“My spirit’s fine, thanks. How’s yours?”
“Wonderful, wonderful. Quite phenomenal. How’s therapy going?”
“Great.” Bev has convinced my father to give me seventy-five dollars a week for one-hour therapy sessions. She’s convinced that kids never get over divorce and that my sudden move to Boston might throw me over the edge. The money has been very therapeutic so far; I’ve bought new sunglasses and my hooker boots, and I’m saving up for a CD player for my car.
“So what have you learned about yourself this week?”
“Not much,” I answer. It’s way too early for psychoanalytical babble. “What’s up with you?”
“Oh, the usual. Power walking. Writing in my gratitude journal.”
I refuse to ask her what a gratitude journal is.
“And I just read the most amazing book last week,” she says. “I’m sure you’d love it.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, um…um. It’s about an underprivileged girl who was a victim of incest. Gosh, I don’t remember the name, but the story hit home.”
I don’t quite see the relation between the unidentified novel’s protagonist and my Manhattan-born stepmother, who spends Saturday at the hairdresser, Sunday at the manicurist, and Monday through Friday at the mall when not watching Oprah. However, we’ve never quite reached the level of intimacy that would allow me to point that out. “Let me know the name of the book when you remember it, and I’ll buy it, okay? I gotta go now.”
“Okay, bye. Remember your spirit.”
“Of course.” I hang up the phone and fall back asleep.
When I wake up at 1:30, I have my first coherent thought. It’s 1 A.B. (After Breakup), and I have already kindled a relationship with my future husband.
I may have a date. Soon.
Yay!
With Jonathan Gradinger. The thing is, once we get married, I’ll have to stop referring to him by his full name. I’d sound like a character in a Jane Austen novel: “Good morning, Mr. Gradinger. Please pass the newspaper, Mr. Gradinger.”
Why hasn’t he called yet?
I’ll admit I’m being a bit crazy. According to Swingers, he has to wait at least three days. Or is it five days? How am I going to wait five days?
I must call Wendy.
I dial her number at work. How pathetic is that? It’s Saturday afternoon and I don’t even bother trying her apartment.
“Wendy speaking.”
“Hi!”
“Hello,” she says. I hear her rummaging through some papers. “So? How was it?”
“Wonderful. I’m completely over Jeremy.”
“Sure you are,” she says. Do I detect sarcasm?
“I am. I ran into my future husband.”
“That’s good. Do I get to be the maid of honor?”
“No. You can be a bridesmaid. Iris made me swear she’d be the maid of honor. But you can plan the bachelorette party.”
“Seems fair. But you still have to be my maid of honor. If I ever have time to date again, that is.” Wendy has been unwillingly practicing abstinence since she started her job.
“Of course I’ll be your maid of honor! I’ve already written my maid of honor speech,” I tell her. Well, not all of it. But sometimes really funny things happen, and if I don’t write them down right away, I’ll never remember everything I should have said and then…fine. I’m a geek.
“I’m sure you have. So, who’s the future Mr. Norris?”
I pause for effect. “Jonathan Gradinger.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“My God! Where did you see him? Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” It wasn’t a dream. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a dream. Was it a dream? I look around my room for evidence of the Orgasm excursion. My black skirt is lying on the floor where I dropped it last night. I grab it. It smells like smoke and Sex on the Beach. P-hew.
“How did that happen?” she asks.
“He saw me at the bar.” I leave out how that came about. “We talked. He asked me for my number.”
“That’s amazing! Is he still a fox?”
“Of course. Maybe not the fox, but still foxy.”
“Has he called yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh.”
Oh? What does she mean, oh? “He wouldn’t have, Wen. What guy calls the next morning? He’ll probably call tomorrow night. At 8:30. After The Simpsons.”
“Not if he wants to go out tonight.”
“He’s not going to ask me out for tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because then he would look desperate. Trust me, Wen, that’s not the way the game is played.” Dear sweet Wendy. Dear sweet, naive Wendy.
“How do you know how the game is played? You’ve been on the dating scene for one day.”
Hey, I can remember L.B.J. (Life Before Jer). I did have a life, you know. “He’ll call me on Sunday and ask me out for Tuesday, so he can see me on Tuesday and ask me out for next Saturday. See?”
“I see. Where do you think he’ll take you?”
“On Tuesday or Saturday?”
Wendy doesn’t answer. I can tell that all this is getting a little too complicated for her. Not dating in over a year has started to melt her brain.
“Sherri Burns is going to die,” she says.
“I know! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Would she ever find out? Besides by reading the wedding announcement in the Times, of course.”
“I was thinking of taking a picture on our date and posting it on the Stapley Internet site.”
“Not a bad plan. Uh-oh. I have a meeting. Gotta go.”
“A meeting? Who else is in the office on Saturday?”
“Who’s not in the office?”
“Poor you. You sure you don’t want a normal job?”
“I am far from sure. We’ll chat later.”
“Bye.”
What should I do now? Probably get up. It’s already two.
“Hello?” I call from my bed. “Anyone home?”
“Hi!” Sam hollers. “I’m cleaning the bathroom.” I’m pretty sure she cleans her bathroom every day. I’ve seen her sneak into the bathroom with disinfectant after a guest uses it. She’s just as psycho with the fridge.