rush, dear, no rush.”
Most parents would be bugging you to start thinking about getting married, or at least tell you to find a boyfriend by the time you’re twenty-four, but not my dad. He still thinks I’m fifteen. Whenever he goes on business trips, he still buys me those “Welcome to (insert name of visited state here)” T-shirts in children’s sizes. Janie, on the other hand, constantly reminds me that she does, in fact, “want to be called Gramma someday.” If I ever do have kids, I might insist they call her Janie. Just to annoy her.
“What’s new with you, Dad?”
“I joined a new jogging group.”
“That’s good. How’s work?”
“Good. I’m only working four days a week now.”
“How come?”
“I want some time for myself. Life’s not a dress rehearsal, you know. I have to live for the moment. I can’t waste all my time working.”
Definitely Bev’s influence. I may have even heard her use the exact phrase “Life’s not a dress rehearsal,” followed by “We only have one life to live.” My dad used to be a workaholic, especially after the divorce. Since Bev got him into psychoanalysis, he’s become more of the how-does-it-make-you-feel and listen-tome-recite-clichés type of guy.
I hear Bev’s voice in the background. “Tim, is that Fern? Can I talk to her?”
“Bev wants to say hello. Love you, bye.” He passes off the phone.
It’s far too early in the morning to talk to Bev. It’s not that I don’t like her. I do, really. 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
