Dating Kosher

by Greene, Michaela

  “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.”

  Bev eyed my uneaten spring roll. I tossed it onto her plate. “I don’t think you’re overly happy. Diamonds may be nice, but they can’t keep you warm at night.”

  “Fur can,” I smirked, but I knew she was right.

  Four cosmos later, I pulled out the sofa bed for Bev and retired into my bedroom. Once in bed, I had a chance to really mull over what we had talked about.

  I thought about Bev’s boyfriends, although she hadn’t had many. Maybe three over the many years that I’d known her. But they had all been long-term, at least a year or more.

  There had been Dave, an average looking guy that took her on picnics and hikes through the park. I think he was a bank teller or something like that.

  Then there was Murray, an okay-looking industrial salesman who always sent flowers to the spa for her when he was on the road. He was pretty nice.

  And Andy, my favorite of her boyfriends. He could make Bev and I puke from laughing but at the same time was just like a brother; nice and fun and everything Bev wanted from a man. He was some kind of policy guy with the government. Bev had really thought Andy would be the one, but they had broken up when he had been transferred to Washington and they realized neither of them wanted a long-distance relationship.

  It was obvious her criteria for selecting men was very different from mine. And although she was now just as single as I was, she always seemed happier in her relationships than I had been in mine. I used to find it annoying how she would go on and on, but now it made sense. She had been in love. And being in love was a concept so foreign to me, that I never recognized it in her.

  It was also clear to me that not only had I never been in love, but neither had I been loved.

  And as I lay there in bed, it was then I realized I was desperately alone. I cried myself to sleep, wishing that Armani wasn’t recuperating in the bathroom, hoping that the cosmopolitans had dulled Bev’s hearing.

  Chapter 28

  A groan escaped my lips as I reached for the phone. Was it too much to ask to be left alone to sleep in on my day off?

  “Shosh? Sorry did I wake you?”

  It was Sasha from The Confidence Closet, who rarely called me unless absolutely necessary so it could be forgiven. “Yeah, you did. But it’s okay, what’s up?” I didn’t bother opening my eyes.

  “Listen, I know you’re not scheduled to come in today, but I have a new client coming in that’s asked for you specifically.”

  I allowed my eyes to flicker open and turned my head to check the clock. It was almost ten; I could hardly complain. “Caroline? McKean, I think?”

  “McKay, yeah. I squeezed her in at noon today, hoping you would be able to come in since I know you’re off work…Please?”

  What’s skipping another spinning class? “Sure, let me grab a shower and I’ll be in.”

  She thanked me several times before ending the call.

  Before jumping out of bed, I dialed my dad’s office number.

  “Wyatt, Miller, Miller and Rosenblatt.”

  “Hi Marnie, it’s Shosh,” I said to the receptionist who’d been at my dad’s firm so long she fit in there like a plush leather chair.

  “Oh hi, Shosh,” she said, soundi
ng a little confused. “Everything okay? You know your dad’s still on his honeymoon.”

  “Yeah, I know. I actually called to talk to you. How are you feeling?”

  “Oh you know, I’m finally over the morning sickness. I thought that would never end. Who ever heard of morning sickness lasting into the third trimester?”

  I had no concept of morning sickness (if I was religious about anything, it was taking my pills reliably) but I um hummed my sympathy.

  “When will you be starting your mat leave?”

  “Probably in about six weeks or so. But it’s up in the air this time since I’m having twins.”

  “Do you have someone lined up to take over for you?”

  “Funny you should ask - we’re going to put an ad out this week.” She paused, her tone changing from cheerful to concerned. “Nothing happened to your job at the spa, did it?”

  “No, I’m asking because a friend of mine has a sister who is looking. I just thought maybe…”

  “Does she have experience in a law firm?”

  “Yeah, although she’s been off for a while to raise her kids.”

  “Can you get me her resume, Shosh? Maybe I’ll hold off on placing the ad. Of course, you know that although I do the initial interviews, it’s up to the partners.”

  I smiled, having full confidence in my ability to influence at least one of the four partners. “No problem, thanks so much, Marnie.”

  “Anytime, Shosh. My other line’s ringing, I’ll talk to you later.”

  * * *

  After spending some time sitting on my bathroom floor, stroking Armani’s head and trying not to lose my shit again, I forced myself to leave the condo.

  A half hour and more than half a latte later, I arrived at The Confidence Closet, the thought of outfitting Caroline creating a knot of anxiety and excitement in the bottom of my stomach.

  “Hey, thanks.” Sasha took her caramel macchiato from my outstretched hand. “You’re like a mind-reader. Oh, hey, what happened to your face?” Her eyes focused on the bandage over my eye. I sighed; just a few more days and I’d be able to get the stitches out, but until then, it seemed like I was constantly answering people’s annoying inquiries.

  I rolled my eyes. “Long story, don’t ask.”

  Sasha looked at me sideways as she flipped open the tab on her macchiato. “Okay. Well, thanks for coming in today. Tell me how you know this woman.”

  I took a sip of my latte and put it down on the desk before I headed over to the racks to start assembling some items for Caroline to try on. “Her brother is the guy I took to my dad’s wedding.”

  Sasha was silent. I turned around to look at her. Her arms were crossed at her chest, her eyebrows raised. She was very obviously waiting for dish.

  “What?” I asked, turning back to the clothes, finding a stunning Chanel suit that had actually been Susan’s from the year before. It was a definite possibility so I pulled it off the rack.

  “Tell me about the wedding.”

  I shrugged. “There’s not much to tell. Dad got married, I got hammered, end of story.”

  Sasha, romance junkie extraordinaire, wasn’t convinced. “So tell me about this guy you took. Are you dating him? Is he hot?”

  I checked the sizing tag on another suit. Might be tight but worth a try. I knew for a fact there was a pair of Prada pumps that would match perfectly. I continued down the rack as I spoke. “He’s pretty hot. Maybe it’s the manual labor, but he’s got a great ass, really tight, you know? But it doesn’t matter. He’s not Jewish and worse, he’s totally blue collar. Not exactly marriage material, if you know what I mean.”

  I turned to grin at her but instead was faced by Nate standing in the doorway.

  The wounded look on his face told me he’d heard everything I’d said. Shit.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to tell you Caroline will be here in a second, she just ran into the drug store next door. Let her know I’ll wait for her in the car.” He turned to leave.

  God, did I seriously fuck everything up in my life? I couldn’t let him leave and blurted out, “Nate…wait. I…I didn’t mean that.”

  He turned back and nodded as his eyes bored into mine, making tears suddenly appear. “Yes you did. And that’s why it hurts. I’ll be in the car.”

  And then he was gone. I looked at Sasha. Her eyes were wide, darting from me to the door as the rest of her body had turned to stone.

  Fighting the tears, I jogged to the door and swung it open. But as I did, I saw Nate talking to his sister and I lost my nerve. After a couple of seconds, she nodded and started walking toward me and Nate headed in the other direction. I ducked inside; what else could I do?

  “Um, hi,” Caroline said shyly as she came through the door. I could barely look her in the eye, wondering if Nate had told her what I had said.

  But I had a job to do and there was no way I could take back my words, so I walked over to Caroline and took her hand. If I couldn’t do right by Nate because I was a spoiled bitch, at least I could do right by his sister.

  “Hi, I’m so glad you came. I hope you’re ready to try on lots of outfits. I’ve pulled out a few already. Come with me.” I took the two suits and led her back to the change room. “Let me know what you do and don’t like about them and that will help me figure out what to get out next for you to try.”

  Caroline hesitated before pulling back the curtain. “Okay…thanks.”

  “Shoe size?”

  “Eight.”

  Perfect: the Pradas were eights.

  After the third suit, Caroline began to loosen up. The most important part of my job was to make her feel great about the clothes she was wearing, because if you don’t feel awesome, everyone will know it. And job interviews are all about confidence.

  I could tell the second she began to feel awesome. It was when she tried on another Chanel outfit courtesy of my new stepmother. It had a really stunning wool hound’s tooth jacket and a delicate skirt that had just the right amount of swing. Caroline didn’t love the Prada pumps (they had a higher heel than she was comfortable with), but did choose a pair of Stuart Weitzman’s that did the trick.

  “Wow,” Sasha nodded her endorsement from behind her macchiato as Caroline emerged from the fitting room.

  I certainly couldn’t argue. “You look amazing.”

  Caroline beamed, probably not realizing that it was her new confident smile that made the outfit. “Thanks,” she said, her modesty suddenly gone as she twirled in front of the mirror. “Now if I could just get an interview.”

  “I think I can help there too.” I stepped toward Caroline to adjust the hem of the jacket. “Do you have a resume?”

  Caroline nodded.

  “I can’t make any promises, but I know of a firm that is looking for someone for a mat leave.”

  Caroline swallowed and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Really?”

  “Yeah, they haven’t advertised the job yet, so you’d have an edge. I just need a copy of your resume and I’ll get it to them.” I didn’t want to tell her it was my dad’s firm, just in case it didn’t work out for whatever reason. But it didn’t matter, she was beyond excited and showed her gratitude by throwing her arms around me.

  “Thank you so much, Shoshanna, for everything. You don’t know what this will mean for my family and me.”

  I pushed away from her, smiling, but determined not to get too caught up in her excitement. “You’re really welcome, but remember, I can’t make any promises.”

  “I know, I know,” she nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s just been so hard and with my husband…”

  “Did your husband get laid off?” Sasha asked innocently enough; it was reason number two that brought most of our clients in (suddenly finding themselves as single mothers was reason number one). I hadn’t given her the lowdown on Caroline’s situation.

  Caroline’s smile faded as she turned back to Sasha. “No, he was in a terrible accident and can’
t work anymore.”

  Sasha frowned. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “But things will turn around for you,” I said quickly, eager to keep the mood on a high note. “You can’t help but get a great job with a perfect outfit like that.”

  Caroline smiled and glanced at herself in the mirror again. “I think you’re right. Thanks again for everything. You are just the best.”

  It was heartwarming to hear, but I couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that her brother no longer felt the same way. And of the two of them, he was right.

  Chapter 29

  “Bubby, are you sure you want to stink up your apartment?” I asked my grandmother as she hunched over, intently looking through the glass case. She ignored me, suddenly standing up to her full height and beyond, going on her tiptoes so she could see over the butcher’s counter to the man behind it. He was waiting very patiently for a man with only a few minutes to go before closing time.

  “I’d like five pounds of the ground fish. And you’re telling me that it’s got the pickerel in it? It’s not the same without the pickerel.” Bubby’s eyes were squinty, her brow furrowed; she was very particular about her fish.

  The young man behind the counter nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I ground it myself this morning. Pike, whitefish and, of course, pickerel.” He leaned into the case and took out the heaping bowl of raw ground fish that looked like a pile of slimy guts. Yuck.

  “Bubby, look. They have already-made gefilte fish.” I pointed down the counter toward the prepared foods section. Inside the case sat a heaping mound of perfectly-shaped poached fish patties.

  My grandmother turned and looked at me as though I had just suggested we invite Hitler over for the high holy days.

  “I can’t have bought fish. You make the fish yourself. Fresh! Oy, Shoshanna.”

  I shook my head, knowing that no matter what I did or said, my bubby was going to slave over her stove making the traditional Jewish dish. I gave in and anyway, as much as I wanted to save her the work of making it herself, I did love her fish.

  Susan had told us that she was making the whole Rosh Hashanah dinner on her own and that she didn’t want any help, but my grandmother had insisted that she bring the gefilte fish. Susan had eventually given in, probably thinking that if she refused, Bubby would be insulted she wasn’t allowed to help, or worse, that Susan thought she could do a better job of it.