51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life

by Kristen McGuiness

  I get up, and suddenly the energy is pulsing within me. I feel better. But I also feel scared. Because though I know faith is as much about accepting one’s circumstances as it is about changing them, though I believe that I am being guided to where I am supposed to go, I can’t help but hope it’s where I want to be.

  32

  Date Thirty-Two: Nana

  It has been my lifelong campaign to convince Nana that we are Jewish. I have been pushing this for years, but she still won’t give in and confess. The Nazis themselves wouldn’t have been able to break her. Nana arrived yesterday for one of the two-week trips that have become a tradition since I moved back to L.A. and got sober. The day after she comes to town, we lie on my bed talking and as she tells me about her childhood I become all the more convinced of our Hebrew heritage.

  “We’re not Jewish,” she says, trying to ignore me.

  “And your father’s depression started right around the time that people would have been finding out about the Holocaust,” I continue.

  She sighs. “It was the Depression, Kris. Everyone was depressed.”

  “But your chutzpah…,” I begin.

  “I’m Hungarian, okay? All Hungarians have chutzpah.”

  Nana’s obsession with blond-haired, blue-eyed children borders on Aryanism, so it’s no surprise that she bristles at my claims that she is a Jew. But I have always wanted to be Jewish. Growing up, there was only one Jewish girl in my elementary school, and with her menorah and her mezuzah, she was the most exotic person I had ever met. And I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to be Jewish. Once I started finding out more about Nana’s upbringing, I began to sense that we might still have a chance.

  Which is why Nana’s refusal to admit the truth of which I am so convinced, only makes me surer she is. She is clearly a self-hating Jew. This is why her whole life she wanted a golden, Gerber baby—the ultimate evidence of her goyishness. But after three kids that look more Sicilian than Scandinavian, she only had one final shot at a golden child. And that child was me. And though I was technically my mother’s, with my blond hair, green eyes, and fair skin, I quickly became Nana’s too.

  When I was in elementary school, Nana dressed me every day and curled my hair and told me regularly how beautiful I was. I never went to school without looking like I was in a fashion show, and maybe that’s because I was in fashion shows. Nana signed me up to model at Bloomingdale’s and Neiman’s. I would strut the little catwalk set up at Prestonwood or Valley View mall, and we would get some free clothes to take home to add to my already fashion-savvy wardrobe. No matter how little money we had, or that I shared a bedroom with my mom, or that we couldn’t afford many things that my wealthier friends could, Nana was determined to make sure that we dressed well.

  But then I started growing up. I started choosing what shoes I wanted to wear and how I wished to style my hair, and the fight began that rages to this day. The wrong shirt was enough for Nana to hurtle insults at me that lasted well into the week. And so I was caught between desperately trying to please her and, at the same time, trying to assert my own style. Whether that meant wearing fake Doc Martens, or socks over my tights, or the year I started sporting a bow tie, Nana would have none of it. And it only takes a week into her trip for a new battle to erupt. Like the debate over our Judaism, but far, far worse.

  We are getting ready to go to Nordstrom’s because Nana only likes to go to three places: Nordstrom’s, Neiman’s Last Call, and Walmart. Since the only Walmart in L.A. is in the hood, and the Last Call is about an hour and a half away, this will be our third trip to Nordstrom’s this week.

  I put on a dress that Nana had bought me so I know that I will be safe with my choice, but then I decide I want to add a bright, summer scarf. I know it’s hot out; I know that most people don’t wear scarves on eighty-degree days, but I am part of a culture that does. We wear our scarves all the time. Nana does not agree.

  “I’m not going with you if you wear that,” she tells me.

  “What?”

  “That stupid scarf. I’m not going out with you in it.” She sits down.

  “Too bad for you then,” I tell her. “Because I’m wearing it, so you’ll be sitting here alone.”

  I go about getting ready as she watches me, smoldering. “You look ridiculous, Kristen.” She never calls me Kristen, always K or Kris, or more often, Krii-iis, but I know she’s mad. There is nothing like an ill-placed accessory to piss my grandmother off. I know it’s dumb; I could remove it, but this is what family is for. We are there to argue about the principle of things. About what is right and what is important and how we all should have the freedom to live how we wish. Even if that means wearing a scarf when it’s hot outside. She finally relents, getting back up to finish putting on her makeup.

  She gets in her final comment as we walk out the door. “You look stupid, just stupid.”

  Later that night we go to a big meeting for sober people held in my neighborhood. Nana was originally against my admission of alcoholism because if wearing a bow tie was bad, being a coked-out drunk was far, far worse. But then she came to a meeting with me, and she began to see how much hope was in it. And then she saw me change. And now she frequently tells me how proud she is of me for being sober. As we sit there waiting for the meeting to begin, my scarf conspicuously absent from around my neck, she takes hold of my hand and says, “You’re the prettiest girl here.”

  I smile at her and squeeze her hand, and then I see him. Ben. Toxic, sober alcoholic Ben. We haven’t seen each other since that night at the bowling alley, but then the speaker gets up, and all I can do is motion for Nana to check him out.

  I go up to him after the meeting as Nana watches from a short distance.

  “Hey, do you remember me?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Of course, the 51-dates girl. Kristen, right?”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “Ben, right?”

  As though I am not sure of his name. As though I didn’t know it before the night of the bowling alley. As though I haven’t recorded and even repeated it here. And as though there haven’t been a few lonely nights in bed when I may have uttered it in my fantasies.

  “So, you still down to be my last date?” I attempt to flirt.

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, get ready then.” I toss my head and giggle. And somehow I think I say this twice because he looks at me like I am a little crazy and says, “I’ll be sure to wax.”

  I’m not sure what I think of that. I don’t know how I feel about the guy who always has to make the lewd comment. I used to be really perverted in my humor, but I also feel like I am kind of over using sex as an easy joke. But I decide not to hold it against Ben. As my 51st date, he might just be my last chance for recorded love. And though I am still not sure whether I am the prettiest girl in the room or stupid, just stupid, I think there’s something about Ben that would get all that too. He is Jewish after all. Surely his mother is not so different from the woman lurking behind me while I talk.

  I take Nana to the Observatory on her last day in town. As we walk up to the building I take pictures of her with my phone. And she looks so young and sweet and pretty that I forget all about the unkind words that have been uttered between us. Because there will be no greater pain for me on this earth than when my grandmother dies. As much as my relationship with my mom is perfect, and as much as my father is significant, it is Nana who completes me. As we walk around the Observatory holding hands, we are mesmerized by the same words, the same images, the same pretty, pretty things. She stops with me to read about the Sparkling Ribbon of Time and look at the large pieces of meteor that might one day send us into our brilliant, obliterated end. And I know as she slowly shakes her head at this one overwhelming image of our universe that she too recognizes what an impossibly small role we play.

  On this trip Nana told me that more than any man, more than any of her children, that I alone am her soul mate. And I know I am. I understand her when no one else can, and li
kewise, every time I have found myself lost, not knowing where to turn, it is Nana who has guided me. And though there are certainly differences in who we are and how we dress, she and I, we are cut from the same cloth.

  33

  Date Thirty-Three: The Chores of Romance

  Nat comes into my office today and asks how the dates are going. I generally get riled by this because I can sense an air of engaged superiority in her sing-song questioning. And it’s not that she doesn’t genuinely want me to find someone, it’s just that I can sense her disapproval on how I am going about it. She feels I demand too much and that I appear to prefer to be single, both to her and to my respective mates. The worst part is, I don’t think she’s wrong. I just don’t want to be forced to admit that. But on the other side of her charges is the fact that in my heart I know what I want, and I know that I just haven’t found him yet. And I don’t want to waste my time on a futile and false relationship.

  “So…,” Nat leans in my office. “Who’s the lucky guy tonight?”

  I tell Nat about Jeff, my date for the evening. Harvard-educated, business attorney for an entertainment law firm, kind of nerdy, Radiohead fan. I can almost see the flash of jealousy in her eyes, but then she morphs it into enthusiasm. “He sounds perfect!”

  “I guess. I don’t know, Nat. I have been on so many dates that by now they’re feeling more like trips to the post office than any real chance at me meeting someone.” Because though Jeff sounds perfect, I am not excited. I feel no fervor.

  Nat scowls at me. “Well, you’re not going to meet anyone with that attitude.”

  I shrug. “You try going on a date a week and then tell me what sort of attitude you have.”

  But Nat isn’t going on a date a week because she is sitting at home watching Idol with her fiancé. Oh, how green that grass always looks on the other side.

  I get home and have time to kill before Jeff and I meet at 8:30 p.m. for dinner. Rather than wash my greasy hair, or even shower, I decide to go for a hike through my neighborhood. I have recently discovered a great walk that takes me up through the hills of Silver Lake and down one of my favorite streets, where all the houses are so individually charming, all Craftsman and Spanish tiled and mid-century modern, it makes my heart break. I love this street. And as I walk, I imagine living on it with my husband, and our kids, and our wonderfully eclectic, slightly eccentric, always exciting life. I even see a guy who could have gotten the part had he not ended up in some other woman’s movie. He is taking out the trash, and in the driveway sits their Audi and their Volkswagen, with their matching Obama bumper stickers. He looks at me but not in any way that is flirtatious or wrong, just with the neutral gaze of a good man well married.

  And I wonder if that’s what I want. Do I want the man who is able to do that? Not even a spark of appreciation for the woman walking by. Because in my book, I’m not sure if that’s devotion or death. I get home and only have ten minutes to get ready so I rush over to the restaurant, greasy hair and all. I stand outside of the cute French bistro Jeff has chosen for dinner and text Ivan because Jeff is a few minutes late, and I am trying to look busy. Jeff shows up and recognizes me right away, which is a good thing because much like my first date Richard, Jeff is much better looking than his photos. He’s tall with a great build and nice shoulders and long legs and a thick head of brown hair.

  He is also nervous. And suddenly I am nervous too. Jeff and I sit down, and the configuration of the table is a little awkward, and the waitress won’t leave us alone, and the restaurant is strangely empty, and we’re so busy laughing and talking and watching the pixie dust flit around us, we forget to order. After the waitress’s fifth trip to our table, I finally try to concentrate on what I am going to have and mutter, “All right, it’s time to get serious.”

  I begin to look down at my menu as Jeff laughs. “You’re really entertaining to me.” I look up, and we catch each other’s eyes, and I feel that long absent thump in the left side of my chest. I breathe in and smile and am so happy that at the last minute I threw on makeup.

  Jeff is from a good home outside of Pittsburgh. His parents are still together; he’s close with his younger sister, who used to be a bit of a wild child but has now settled down and is married with a new baby. Jeff is an uncle, and I can tell he wants to be a dad.

  “So, I saw on your profile you like Salman Rushdie?” I ask this hesitantly because more often than not I am disappointed by people’s literary tastes.

  “Yeah, Midnight’s Children is my all-time favorite book,” he tells me.

  I stop. My breath gets caught. It’s not like it’s an entirely obscure work, but still. I nearly whisper, “Mine too.”

  And the flutter across Jeff’s eyes speaks for both of us.

  We don’t go into anything too heavy: presidential elections, old-school Nintendo, college life, past jobs. I’ve had this conversation with many of my dates. Some were far more in-depth, some more serious, some more comedic, but none with as much chemistry as Jeff and I have. The food is excellent, and the place well lit. Jeff is wearing a button-down and blazer from work, and I have on a cashmere turtleneck with some of my good jewelry. We both look very adult. We both are very adult. And I feel normal.

  The fact that my father was in prison my whole life, the fact that I used to be addicted to cocaine and go to meetings to keep me sober, the fact that I have herpes, and a dirty mouth, and a sexual past that could rival a few NBA stars—all of those facts seem very far away. And instead I feel like the well-bred, well-educated, well-mannered lady that I can be. All soft edges and dry humor and small bites that I am as much as I am wild and brazen and libidinous. We shut the restaurant down, and we get up to leave. He walks me to my car, and we laugh. I like walking next to him, and I can feel his body even though he’s still a few inches away. I look down to see he is wearing Chucks with his work clothes, and though at this point, it might not put him in the great shoes club, it doesn’t oust him to the bad one. And in a way, they fit him. Boyish with his maturity and fancy degree and funny ways and handsome face.

  “I’d like to see you again,” Jeff says. A simple statement, but one I can respect.

  “I think we can do that.”

  “This weekend?” he asks.

  “Sure. Although, I have something on Friday.”

  “Saturday then. There is a party I need to go to, but we can just lie about how we met each other—we don’t need to mention The Onion.”

  I laugh. “Aw shit, it’s 2008. I think we can tell them.”

  I go in for what I think will be a hug and kiss on the cheek, and before I know it, he’s swept me up and is kissing me. Really kissing me. And his body is pressed against me, and I can feel him against my leg, and though I might have been worried that Jeff is too nice, he is apparently still naughty enough to pull a fast one. I am so caught off guard that I kiss back, and I am not sure if I am melting or popping or fizzing, but when someone walks past us and comments on the kiss, I am disappointed that we pull away. It doesn’t take long before we try again, but another couple walks past us, sing-songing “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” I don’t know why a young couple making out on a quiet street is causing such a stir. Jeff says, “You would never get that kind of attention in New York.”

  And it makes me love L.A. all the more. Because we take notice here. And I take notice too. I take notice of how I have been on the best date yet and will be going out again on Saturday with Jeff. I get in my car and call a friend and wonder if an alcoholic like me can be the type of woman a normie like Jeff could actually date. But more importantly, I wonder whether I will be able to date him. I have described to my sponsor before that as an alcoholic I sometimes feel like the aliens in 3rd Rock from the Sun. If I emulate the humans well enough and for long enough, they might not notice that I’m different. But ultimately, I fear they will. Or worse, I will fault them for being human. I will expect magic and miracles and mysticism from people who, though smart, handsome, and mature, are simply not mad
e up of such powers.

  34

  Date Thirty-Four: Being Reese Witherspoon

  The hostess leads us through the all-white decor of the Mondrian Hotel, through Asia de Cuba, and outside onto the back patio, which nestles into Skybar. My old coke dealer used to be stationed here, and I cannot help but scan the scene to see if he is there. Jason one ups the hostess and pulls out the chair for me. He seats me with my back to the crowd, which gives me a wonderful view of the lighted grid that is Los Angeles but which feels somewhat strategic on his part. Like he doesn’t want me looking around, or he doesn’t want people looking at me.

  Jason is not from my side of town. He lives in Beverly Hills. And here is where the problem begins.

  A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled across a list of numbers from when I worked for the notorious publisher. One of her authors was famous for writing a book on how to be a male player. We’ll call him Neil Strauss. I’ve never met Neil, and I doubted he would remember me, but I called him anyway. When I recently told Siren this, she immediately responded, “Wow, that Shaman is really doing something, huh?” And I laughed and said yes. Because I have been doing my energy work every day at home as requested—the work that tells me not to be afraid to ask questions, to ask why, to ask for help, to ask for what I want. So I called Neil Strauss, and I told him about my 51 dates, and then I asked, “Are you single?”