She's All That (10 page)

“Is that what you're wearing?” she asks me.

“You don't like it?” I'm fingering the light summer wool jacket I made for myself. It has big, boisterous buttons all the way down, is cut short at the waist, and I have a darling peasant shirt hanging out.
Very cute!

Kim shrugs. “It just doesn't really say anything. It looks like something you'd wear out with your dad.”

By this I'm guessing she means it doesn't say,
Here are my
“attributes” for your perusal.
“Well, Kim, how do you say, ‘I'm here for the free meal'? Maybe a necklace that says, ‘Feed Me'?”

“You are a designer. I just thought you might want to make a statement on your date out in the real world. It's not like you have all that many, and if he's taking you somewhere nice, someone might see the outfit.”

“Oh, right,” I say, sorry I snapped at her. “I like this jacket, and it's not really a date. It's more of a test-drive, really, and I could get a date if I wanted one. Need I remind you of Robert?”
Was it not me who had the most recent boyfriend?

“Right. Big-spender Robert, who worried that if he went out, his wallet might explode on impact with air? That date?”

I purse my lips together. “You don't have to get nasty about it.” I could tell her of hot, cute, straight-boy calling here in the middle of the night, but then I'd have to admit my getting rid of him. Well, I thought I'd gotten rid of him.

Kim rolls her eyes and flicks on the VCR. “Have you seen this
Dr. 90210
? Nate taped it for me.”

I look at the television to see them cutting into human flesh. “Eww, what is that?”

“It's this plastic surgery show.”

“Can they do anything for hair?” I sit down next to her.

“Only if you're losing it. Hair transplants. Saw it on
Extreme
Makeover
.”

“See, that is so unfair. If you're losing it, you can wear a wig, but if you have too much, there is no way to cut it that looks good without balding yourself. Layering makes it stick out farther, having it long makes you look like Shaggy on
Scooby Doo
. You either thermal recondition and straighten it to straw, or you live with it—and I'd like to have
some
curl.”

Kim focuses back on the TV. “This girl's getting butt implants.” Kim points the remote at the TV.

“No way! They do not make butt implants.”

“Seriously. She wants to be like J.Lo.”

I think I'm going to be sick.
“I told Sara the other day, when she was designing jeans with pockets, that no one wants a bigger backside. I hope she doesn't see this.” I flinch at the sight of this poor girl on television. “That is disgusting. Can you imagine how that must hurt?” I'm squirming in my chair. Feeling my hair, I'm thankful I can sit for five hours in a salon and temporarily solve my problem without surgical additions or removals.

“She's Hispanic. Says it's important in her culture.”

“I'll buy that she wants more bum, but cultural? This world is way too politically correct if we're blaming weird plastic surgery on culture. Maybe we need a new culture.” As I'm watching, it dawns on me. “Kim, we could make jeans that solve her problem. This is a fashion dilemma,
not
a surgical dilemma. Just sew a little rubbery material in the right places and—”

“You really need a job, Lilly. This girl wants to be naked in a magazine,” Kim informs me. “Jeans aren't going to take care of her problem.”

I hold my hands up. “Right. I'm really doubting she can blame that on the Hispanic culture.” I'm disgusted with the show and get up before I get sucked into seeing the end results. When I want to look at a girl's “after” in that region, I've got more problems than I need.

The doorbell rings, and Kim and I stare at each other. “It must be for you, Lilly. My date isn't due for another half hour.”

“Please let him look like that guy on
Alias
,” I say out loud.

Kim opens the door, and behold:
Michael Moore in a suit
. She can barely contain her giggles. “Lilly, your date's here!”

“Hi,” I say with way too much enthusiasm as I click off the obscene television show.

“Lilly,” he holds out flowers. “I brought you some lilies.”

Okay, nice gesture even though they represent DEATH in the
Asian culture.
I'll let this one go. It
is
my name.

“Michael, it's nice to meet you.” As soon as the name Michael is out of my mouth, Kim breaks into loud laughter again. The thing is, Robert sort of looked like a bald Michael Moore, so you might think this is my type.

“Are you ready?” Michael asks me without the hint of a smile.

“Oh yes, let me put these in water.” I grab a Big Gulp cup out of the cabinet and fill it with water, thinking this is probably not the best way to go about impressing a guy, putting his death flowers in a plastic tumbler. But my options are limited. This was nice of Nate, I keep trying to remember. I'm going to help Michael with his manners, and then say goodnight. No difficulties there. I am the Miss Manners of the dating world.

As we walk out the door, I know Kim will be on the phone immediately to Nate to tell him her impression of my date. I'm supposed to get back to Nate and give him a score on Michael and whether he's ready to be back in the dating world again. Somehow, I like the power this affords me. It makes me forget there could be reciprocal scoring here.

We get to Michael's car: a Buick LeSabre that any grandfather would be proud to own. It smells of leather, maneuvers the road like a barge, and boasts big dashboard numbers for those nearly blind consumers. It probably has its own zip code as well.

“We're going to Entrée,” Michael says, in a voice that sounds lower than a limbo stick.
He's got to be making that voice up.

“How'd you manage to get a table there?” I ask, trying not to sound overly impressed. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've eaten a salad? One that wasn't a few wilted pieces of iceberg drowning in the house dressing? I can feel my mouth salivating at the thought of a real meal, and at the same time hoping I don't get used to it.

I thought I could handle this. I thought I could go on a date with no expectations and no feelings and eat a decent dinner with a new friend, but I can't. I've tasted rejection my entire life, and sure, maybe that sounds overly dramatic, but being in this car, having watched Michael look at my outfit and my cheap shoes with scuff marks, clearly wondering if I was good enough for Entrée.
I just can't take it
.

Michael stretches his arm out confidently along the bench seat. Luckily, the car is so huge, I manage to wiggle out of grasp range. “So, you know how Entrée is nearly impossible to get into? Well, I've been reserving a restaurant every month. It forces me to get a date and keep it, regardless of how I'm feeling about women.”

“That's nice,” I say, hoping he won't elaborate. He begins to elaborate.

“Some days I just don't feel like ever seeing another female. I want to take that rib of Adam's and stomp on it before woman gets created.” Michael laughs. “Nate told me you were a Bible thumper, so I thought you'd like that analogy.”

Next subject, please!
“I was sorry to hear you're divorced. That must be rough.”

“I'm sorry to hear you're unemployed.”

He doesn't sound all that sorry. “Yeah, thanks. Hopefully, this is a foray into something bigger.”

“San Francisco is land of the entrepreneur. If you can afford the employee taxes, you can make it work. What's on your mind? Stocks? Real estate? What are you hoping to invest in?”

“I'm actually raising capital right now,” I say, curious to know if not buying Big Gulps actually warrants the term “raising capital.” Considering I only gave them up yesterday, probably not. “For fashion design,” I continue.

“Waste of time. The last thing women need is another frock. I've got a lot of friends in venture capital when you come up with a marketable idea.”

Frock? What is this, 1810?

We drive to the financial district and the newest restaurant to receive acclaim in the City. No easy task in San Francisco. Whatever Michael's downfall is, it's not frugality. He pays for valet parking, and the Buick boat is whisked off, leaving us amidst the horns and city noises of San Francisco.

Michael puts his hand in the small of my back and leads me inside the restaurant. It's like being in a 1960s Bond movie at a supper club. The décor is modern, with straight lines everywhere and unexpected orange boxed lights in the ceiling. Small pendant lights hang haphazardly around the room, like a wave of brightened triangular balloons. There are men in tuxedos. Granted, they're the waiters, but still. I'm half-expecting Austin Powers to join us under the orange glow of the period lighting, and I'm hearing that theme music in my head.

The thing that really gets me is the smell. It's like heaven, a mixture of garlic and cilantro and I can see the fresh crab lined on ice, but can't smell those thankfully. My mouth is watering, and I don't even want a pickle! See? I'm only attached to cured cucumbers when I can't afford the good life. This is the life I was born to live!

“I'm Bond. James Bond,” I whisper to Michael.

“What?”

I shake my head, embarrassed by my attempt at humor. “Nothing. I thought the place looked like a Bond set.”

Slight smile, then it's back to scanning the room to see who might recognize him.

The mâitre d' seats us in chairs that are black and Asian in influence. Bamboo boxes cordon off tables, and the rustic orange must provide some really great
feng shui
vibes. The waiter places the linen napkin on my lap, and I feel a little violated.
Who needs help with a napkin?
See, there are advantages to Denny's—your personal space is not invaded for manners' sake.

“So Nate tells me you have a Stanford education,” Michael says, while checking the cleanliness of his butter knife.

“I'm a fashion designer,” I say, squaring my shoulders as if to say,
Check out this jacket!
“My gowns can be seen in San Francisco's Saks under the name Sara Lang Couture,” I boast proudly. But you know what they say about pride and the fall.

“Fascinating,” he says. “Tell me what you majored in at Stanford. I went to Berkeley,” he says condescendingly.
Ah, the
old Cal/Stanford rivalry—how droll.
Have I been transported back to high school and the popular table?

Fine, he wants impressive. I'll give him impressive.
“I majored in finance as an undergrad, went on to get my masters in business administration, but I went to design school at night. Design has always been my passion.When I was a small girl—”

“What are you doing with the degrees? It seems sort of pointless to get them and not use them.”

“I've been designing for Sara Lang. Have you heard of her? She's quite famous with operagoers. San Francisco's premier designer, actually. I use my business skills every day.”

“When you were working, you mean?”

“I guess I do mean that, yes.”

“Nate told me you could discuss what I do: tax law.”

“Is there a quiz?” It's a joke, but obviously not all that funny to Michael. Michael is a bit self-absorbed. This meal is suddenly not feeling free. Pretty costly, actually. Sort of like my education.

“I'm curious because my wife was not too bright. I think it hurt me with clients, and I want to ensure that I don't get caught in that same predicament. You understand.”

“We're just having dinner, right? After all, I shouldn't send away too many clients with one dinner.”
And trust me, you're
feeling like a one-date guy. That is, if the gal makes it through the
first one at all.

“The thing is, women present themselves one way, and turn into
another
. Do you remember the movie
Gremlins
?”

“No.”

“Well, you couldn't expose these cute little creatures to light or feed them at night. There was just a whole bunch of rules, or they turned monstrous. I feel like that's how life with my ex-wife was. If I didn't do something right, I paid for an eternity when she turned into the ugly, scary gremlin.”

“So how did she turn on you?”
This
, I gotta hear.
You know
it's not his fault!

“All my wife wanted to do was spend my money. It was like going to work and leaving a running faucet. I didn't know what disaster I'd come home to—more shoes, garden hoses littering the backyard, new flowers—”

“Was she into couture?” I ask understandingly. I've seen many a wife drain their husband's wallets at Sara Lang.

“She went to Target three times a week. Every time it cost me fifty dollars. That's $150 a week.”

How much did it cost to divorce her?
“She spent $150 a week? In San Francisco? Good luck finding one more frugal than that.”

For the first time, Michael breaks a smile.

“What did she do, your wife?”

“Nothing. I just told you; she spent my money.”

Gosh, I'm feeling for the gal.
A few trips to Target?
“Maybe she was bored. What did she do before she married you?”

“I met her in a shop. She was selling high-end candles.”

There's your first clue, dude. She was in retail.
“I've seen women in Sara Lang's shop spend more than $10,000 a day in clothes, so $150 doesn't sound like that much to me, actually.”
And I'm poor.

“It's the respect issue. A woman needs to respect that her husband is out working hard to earn money.”

“Women nest. Maybe she was nesting, getting ready for the children to come and all.”