Dating Kosher (26 page)

“How do you know about that?” I asked the second I was able to speak.

“Moi…your uncle Moishe told me,” she said, finishing her sentence with a giggle. Tippy Rosenblatt was not normally given to giggling. I was beginning to think she was bipolar. “We had lunch,” she added quickly.

It only took me a second to do the math. But it had to be: My mother was
shtupping
my uncle; her ex-husband’s brother.

“I’m scheduled for a bikini wax tomorrow.” It’s all I could think of to say that would avoid going down the road that would lead to my mother telling me about her sex life. It was a lie, but I didn’t care, I had to change the subject.

“Oh, do you have a gentleman in your life that you’re not telling me about?” She grinned, reminding me of how goofy Bev got sometimes. I did not want to get this chummy with my mom. “Because you know, Shoshie,” she began, sounding suddenly very parental. “Men like it tidy down there.”

Bad call. Bad call. Abort mission! I was sinking deeper and deeper into a stinking, festering cesspool of taboo subjects. I gulped my martini, ignoring the burn on the way down.

“I hear there’s this new thing they do called an Argentinean wax where,” her voice lowered to a whisper and she looked around to make sure no one was listening. “They take it
all
off!”

With my tongue, I shoved the olive into my cheek before correcting my mother. “Mom, I work at a spa; it’s called a
Brazilian
. And I don’t want to be talking about this.”

She blinked at me, incredulous. “You brought it up; I’m just making conversation with you. Why are you so sensitive today?”

Why? A few reasons:

1. Because you’re having sex with my uncle, your ex-brother in law.
   
2. You have turned into a fashion
   don’t
   .
   
3. Because you and Dad are both having more sex than I am.
   
4. Because I’m a spoiled bitch, who’s destined to die alone surrounded by cats.
   

Sheesh, mother, take your pick.

But I didn’t say anything other than a grunted, “PMS,” accompanied by a shrug.

The rest of dinner became a blur as I deflected each of Mom’s well-placed hints about her sex life (she was practically
begging
me to ask) with alternating attempts at playing dumb and non-explosive topics of conversation. I did not want to be her friend or confidant regarding her new hookup; that would be better served by one of her friends and not her weak-stomached daughter.

It turned into another night of martini assault. By the time I stumbled into my condo, I fell into bed, conscious only long enough to feel an emptiness beside me where Armani usually lay.

Chapter 27

Wednesday was looking up: Armani would come home from the veterinarian and Bev was coming over for dinner so we could discuss my personality ‘challenges.’ I was a bit nervous at the prospect of being put under a microscope and then overhauled but weirdly excited at the same time. Recent events made it obvious that it was past time for some changes.

Bev had late appointments so she promised she’d get the train right after and meet up with me at my apartment. This would work out well, giving me time to get the cat and settle him in before she was to arrive.

We both loved a new Thai place that had opened up around the corner, so I called when I got home to place the order, and Bev would grab it on her way over.

Normally, just the thought of a good dose of pad Thai and spring rolls for dinner would have been enough to cheer me up, but not today, and most of that was due to the ball of fur I’d finally brought home.

Armani just wasn’t doing well. The vet told me that the surgery went well and showed me his post-op x-rays, but he was thin and dull and overall just looking terrible. She told me he would be sore for a while and to try to keep him quiet while he began to heal. I thought my heart would break when I got him home and got a good look at him for the first time. His back legs were matted down and wet with urine and he seemed listless and sad, not seeming to even notice me there. When I ran my hand along his back, I could count every vertebra where before he had been filled out. Taking the new bed and a few of the catnip treats from Nate’s gift basket, I apologized to him as I closed him in the bathroom. Knowing that he needed to be confined for his own good overshadowed the guilt I was feeling at keeping him locked up. Although, he didn’t seem to complain. He had limped two circles around the bed before he lay down heavily in it, letting out a sigh. I tried not to cry as I closed the door gently behind me.

Finally, the doorbell rang; I’d never been so relieved to have a houseguest in my life.

“Hey, grab this?” Bev pushed the paper bag containing our dinner toward me.

“That last client was disgusting,” Bev said, still huffing after running up the stairs. She refused to use the elevator, claiming she needed to get in any exercise she could. Personally, I’d rather use the elevator and stay on the treadmill the extra ten minutes: apartment building stairwells were among the nastiest and scariest of places, even in my security building.

“Who was it?” I tried to think back to the day’s schedule.

“Mrs. Smurlick with the bunions.”

“Ugh,” I sympathized.

“It’s not even the bunions that are so bad, it’s just her talking on and on and almost making me miss the train. Anyway,” Bev shook her head, dismissing her thoughts of Mrs. Smurlick. “Let’s have a drink before we eat, if that’s okay. I need to wind down.”

Ever the hostess, (I don’t care what the topic of discussion was for the evening, I
would
make someone an excellent wife and co-host for great parties) I placed a cosmopolitan in Bev’s hand and watched with a great deal of satisfaction as a relieved smile graced her face.

She sighed. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” I turned to get some plates out of the cupboard.

“So any new gossip?” Bev asked absently as she sipped at her drink.

I turned back toward her. “Well, I was going to save this for later, but since you asked. My mother is doing it with my uncle Moishe.” I cringed.

“Your dad’s
brother
?” Bev’s eyes bulged out of her head as I nodded. “Shut up! Are you kidding me?”

I shook my head and turned back to the kitchen to dig out my chopsticks. “It’s true. She as much as told me,” I faked a shiver. “I kept changing the subject; I think she
wanted
to tell me.”

“Maybe he’s a champ in the sack,” she said, making me give her a withering look. “Does anyone else know? Lauren is going to have a stroke if she finds out her dad is doing it with your mother.”

She was right: whenever Tippy and Lauren had run into each other at pre-Rosenblatt-divorce functions, they were like oil and water; neither able to stand the other. If anything ever came of the affair and word got out, the shit was going to fly.

“I don’t think anyone knows, I would have heard about it at the wedding. I’m sure if Simon knew he would have told me. It’s just gross though…yech.”

“Yech is right, there’s way too much geriatric sex going on in your family.”

“Amen. I’m the one that’s supposed to be having all the sex in my family.”

“You know what it is?” Bev asked after a long pull of her cosmo.

I dropped onto the couch and handed her a pair of chopsticks. “Someone dropped the price of Viagra?”

She snorted but shook her head. She took a deep breath and said, “You’re your mother. You’re an A class snob.”

“Excuse me?” I whirled around to face her, not sure if I heard her correctly.

Bev looked at me in a way that made me think that, although she was sorry, she was having a major epiphany. She got up off the couch and faced me across the breakfast bar. “I’m sorry, but you are. I feel horrible saying it, but you’ve never been nice to a guy who couldn’t support you financially.”

I had known it was going to be hard: isolating my problem and hopefully identifying a cure, but this was beginning to suck. It was beginning to suck
large
. And worse, I wasn’t expecting to have to hear any harsh truths until
after
I was dosed full of a huge plate of carb-heavy pad Thai and at least four drinks.

I just blinked, unable to formulate a defense.

“Shosh?”

“Hmm?” I said, lifting a take-out container and opening it, totally avoiding Bev’s stare.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Now
that
was a tricky question. Had I, Shoshanna Rosenblatt ever been in love? That depends on how you define love.

If love is a beautifully fitted and devastatingly stylish pump, then I had been seduced by Prada during the spring of my eighteenth year.

If love is a crisp button-down shirt that can make you feel like a million bucks every time you wear it, Ralph Lauren was my man.

If love is a diamond so perfect, you wish every stranger on the street carried a jeweler’s loupe so you could invite them to inspect it, de Beers was my lover. (Is it pretentious that I asked for a loupe for my twentieth birthday?)

Okay, of course, I realized that Bev was asking if I’d ever been in love with a real man. And to that, I had to say no. I didn’t even have to think about it, I’d never even been close. I’d never swooned or even felt a little jump in my heart. Nope, never over a man.

“You’ve never been weak in the knees over a guy?” Bev asked.

“No,” I said, avoiding her eyes. I was starting to think that perhaps I wasn’t normal. But then something started to nibble at my brain. A memory, one I would never admit even to my best friend: the first time Nate had walked into the spa.

“That’s really sad, Shosh,” Bev said, shaking her head.

I lashed out. “I don’t see
you
caught up in wedded bliss…”

Luckily, Bev had pretty thick skin and was used to me. “No, but at least I know what love is. I know what it feels like to have a guy care about you and care about him
more
than just what’s in his wallet.”

I stared at her, but her eyes didn’t waver. I was the first to look away. “Touché, that wasn’t fair of me, I’m sorry,” I said, portioning out the noodles, thankful for something to occupy my hands.

“It’s okay, I know I’m being harsh. But I’d hate to see you stuck with a loser just because he’s rich.”

“He has to be good-looking too, it’s not just rich…” It was only half a joke. All right, maybe my values were a bit fucked up. I was starting to dislike the sound of my own voice.

Bev rolled her eyes at me. “You’re horrible.”

“I don’t know how to stop.” It was a plea, a real one. I honestly didn’t know what to do.

We carried our plates over to the coffee table and I returned to the kitchen to refill our cosmos. Bev plunged into her noodles before I returned with our drinks.

“I’m going to help you,” she said. “You’re going to give yourself an attitude adjustment courtesy of Beverly Cohen.”

I sat down beside her on the couch, leaning heavily over the table so as to not slop any of the slippery noodles onto the area rug or sofa. Just because I had expensive tastes didn’t mean I could afford to have my things cleaned often. “How does that work?”

“Well, I’m going to coach you through a series of attitude adjustment modules.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked before I shoved a pile of noodles into my mouth and chewed, listening to her proposed plan.

“I’m serious.” She turned to her bag and pulled out a book. She held it up so I could read the cover.

‘Dating for Independent Hip Young Women in the Twenty-First Century (or how to get a guy in five short weeks)’ by some Ph.D. named Loretta Bachmann, whoever that was.

“What is that?” I asked, holding my hand out.

Bev gave me the book. “Okay, I haven’t read all of it yet, but as soon as you start excluding people, either because they don’t make enough money or aren’t good-looking enough, you drastically narrow your prospect pool.”

Looking at the back of the book, I thought the author should have gone for a makeover before her headshot was taken. Yeesh.

I looked up at my friend. “But I thought the whole idea of the dating process was to narrow the pool down so you could select the right partner.” I wasn’t sure if I was hearing her right, but what I thought Bev was getting at sounded pretty scary.

“But you pre-judge based on stupid criteria.” She picked up her spring roll and took a bite.

Perhaps she had smoked a big one on her way over. “Financial stability is stupid criteria?” I was having doubts about this Loretta Bachmann: dating guru to no one.

“Financial stability in a man is not stupid criteria. In fact, I would recommend that everyone look for a man who is financially healthy. But…” She shook her head at me before she continued, “Being able to land everything you’ve ever wanted from life from a man and never have to do anything for it other than lie on your back, is stupid criteria. Pretty slutty criteria, actually.”

Ouch. That was personal, but I was beginning to see her point. And I had promised myself that no matter how harsh the truth was, I was going to deal with it head on.

“So what do I do, Dr. Date?”

Bev exhaled, relieved I think, that she hadn’t been strangled or otherwise mutilated by me upon hearing her blunt opinions. “Well, I think that your first step is to be open to new ideas. Date men you wouldn’t normally and fix your values.”

That sounded dangerous. That sounded like: “Date poor men.”

“You mean…”

“I mean, don’t judge based on how much his suit costs. Don’t refuse to go out with him if he doesn’t make over six figures. That’s what I mean.”

Bev was definitely on crack. I just stared at her. After a few moments of her staring back at me, I broke the silence. “Well, I’m not sure I can do that.”

“I think you have to, Shosh, you’ve got to do
something
, really. I’d hate to see you unhappy forever.”

Pushing the noodles around on my plate, I realized I wasn’t hungry anymore. “I’m not unhappy.”