The Whitney Chronicles. Judy BaerЧитать онлайн книгу.
“I didn’t think so, but between this wedding and my mother’s fixation on marrying me off, I guess I’m a little sensitive right now.” The waitress came by with my house salad with a side of dry toast. “It’s crazy, too, because I’ve had more male attention in the past week than in the past four months.”
Kim listened with rapt attention as I told her my Eric/Matthew experiences in Las Vegas.
“What do you make of it?” she probed.
“Absolutely nothing. I can’t figure out what’s going on.”
“Because one man likes you, you’ve become more interesting to all the others—at least until you commit to one and take yourself out of the market.”
I really do believe that someday God will send a man into my life. I just hope that when he arrives, I won’t be too old to recognize him.
October 15
Mitzi must go. Away. Far, far away. Soon.
Annoying, maddening, irritating, infuriating, exasperating, trying, aggravating, frustrating, irksome, grating, galling, vexing. It’s so hard to decide which word describes her best. She is the burr under the saddle of my life, the twist in my undies, the mosquito trapped in my bedroom that won’t let me sleep.
She’s always most exasperating the week she receives her women’s-magazine subscriptions. That’s when she brushes up on what’s new, cool and trendy in the world and distills it into a Cliff’s Notes kind of report meant to either a) shame us into getting with the program or b) just shame us. She’s a pop-psychology junkie and living breathing proof that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. She has very little knowledge, all of it dangerous.
This morning she greeted me with the words, “You can’t have it all, you know.”
“I don’t want it all. I just want my coffee, black.”
“You know what I mean. You’ll have to give up something in life in order to devote time and energy to what is most important to you. Obviously you’ve given up meaningful, loving relationships with the opposite sex and the chance at a family in order to stay at this midlevel schlepping job.”
Now try that one on before you’ve had coffee!
“You’ve said ‘yes’ to being a lonely, pathetic single woman with a job that cannot fulfill you completely and ‘no’ to having the love of a man and the joy of children in your life.”
Really? I had no idea. I thought it was “yes” to earning a living and “no” to jumping into bad relationships just so I could have a man on my arm.
“Which magazines came yesterday, Mitzi? Depression Digest? Deadbook? Failures Illustrated and Family Triangle?”
“Don’t mock me, Whitney. You could learn a great deal from keeping up on the latest trends and polls. Why, do you even know that carbohydrates are out again?” She gave me the once-over. “Obviously not.”
“What’s this leading up to, Mitzi? You’ve got something on your mind.” I could see Bryan making his way to the rest room and Betty Nobel sitting a little straighter, her nose twitching with interest.
Mitzi pushed a photocopied page from a magazine across the desk toward me. The headline blared at me like a demented trumpet: Are You Doomed To Be A Spinster? Under it was a quiz, dolled up in graphics of cartwheeling brides and one forlorn damsel sitting on an upturned briefcase. That, no doubt, was me.
“Thanks, Mitzi, but no thanks. I’m not even sure why you’re more upset about my being single than I am.”
She shook her head at me as if to say, “Poor, deluded darling,” and pushed on the quiz until I picked it up.
Mission accomplished, Mitzi turned back to her computer and brought up the diet program on the Web into which she fed her list of foods consumed yesterday. With a few clicks, she had the calorie count, fat grams, fiber content and a tally of which vitamins and minerals she was low on that day. Come to think of it, I can’t really remember the last time I’ve seen Mitzi do anything that resembled work. But apparently she types a million words a minute, because Harry keeps her around.
I stuffed the quiz in my pocket, poured myself a cup of coffee, watered my plants, checked my e-mail and then went to knock on the men’s bathroom door. Bryan must have fallen asleep in there, or he would have heard that Mitzi and I had avoided a confrontation. I was right. When he stumbled out, there was a flat pink spot on his cheek where he’d laid his head against the side of the stall. I gave him a list of things I needed done and turned my attention to touching base with potential customers I’d collected at the trade show.
For a long time, I ignored the hole being burned in my pocket before I furtively took out the ridiculous survey on single women. By spreading it out on my desk with a half-dozen other magazine articles on Innova software, it seemed to blend right in. One by one, I read the questions:
WILL YOU MARRY OR ARE YOU SINGLE FOR LIFE?
Which is more important to you?
an IRA
PMS
MSG
(Depends on whether I’m in a Chinese restaurant or not.)
What is your most important undergarment?
A push-up bra
A body shaper
Full cut panties large enough to cover those supreme pizzas you eat alone on weekends
(No contest there.)
What is your favorite store?
Victoria’s Secret
Ann Taylor
GAP
Banana Republic
Relax the Back
The Hemorrhoid Shop
(I have to choose just one when all six are so appealing?)
What is your favorite dog?
A neurotic dog that weighs less than five pounds, wears bows in its fur, eats only off your plate and can pierce eardrums with its bark
A black Lab, the son of the son of the son of your beloved childhood pet
A glistening Doberman that salivates at the sight of cats, rabbits and short men
(Hmmmm…)
What is your favorite food?
Yogurt pops
Sugar-free breath mints
Endive
A favorite? How can anyone pick just one?
(What, no éclairs?)
What is your favorite novel?
The latest Chick Lit on the racks
Teach Yourself Pilates
The History of Elizabeth I: Look Ma, No Man!
(I see they forgot “How to Cook Nutritiously for One.”)
What is your favorite flower?
Roses—by the dozen
Bird-of-Paradise
Violets—in those cute little plastic-lined baskets like Grandma used to have
(Violets. Definitely violets. Ha!)
What do you think about cats?
Sneaky snakes with feet and fur
Actually