by Howe, Violet
His voice got softer as he talked, and almost against my will I started to feel sorry for him. He was in a rough spot. The voice in my head was loudly screaming, “AARGH! He wasn’t upfront with you. He’s married and going through a divorce. Go home. Don’t waste your time. This is not your Prince Charming!”
He smiled what might have been a charming, handsome smile under other circumstances. “Look, if you want, I can call a cab and head back home. Or, and I would ask that you hear me out before you answer,” he said, lifting his hand in protest when I started to speak, “hold on—we could go to the festival. Not as a date. Just two people going to a festival, enjoying good food and good art. Getting to know each other. No expectations. I’m an open book. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Nothing to hide.”
I know I shouldn’t have. I know I’m crazy for even considering it much less doing it. But I have that stupid-ass issue with not being able to tell people no. To tell them how I feel. Especially when he was being so nice and trying so hard. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I agreed to go to the festival. The voice inside my head threw her hands in the air and walked away.
Mr. Hotel Man, who had become Mr. Technically Married, tried to be all friendly as we walked to the car. At first, I tried to stay pissed off, but it made no sense to go with him and be mad the whole night, so I chose to have a good time. Well, I tried.
“By the way,” Mr. Technically Married said as we pulled into the festival lot. “I have bad knees. I’m not able to walk far. Could you drop me off at the front gate and then park the car?”
The night took another step down the path of terrible dates, even though it was technically no longer a date. I looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and contempt.
“We’re at a food and art festival. You have to walk the whole thing. It’s, like, two miles all the way around. Did you realize this?” I asked.
“Oh, I know that!” He spoke with an easy smile. “I took some painkillers before I left the house, so I should be good to walk for a while. I didn’t want to waste them on the parking lot.”
Normally, I would never hold an injury or medical condition against someone. But when adding up this dude’s points on the score card of possible second dates, everything counted. Against him. On top of not being upfront with me, not having his own car, obviously not having much in his bank account, still being married and still living with his wife, he had bad knees and couldn’t walk. This guy was falling into the negative point range. Stellar. Oh lucky me.
“Okay.” My voice was completely devoid of sympathy. “I’ll drop you off and park the car.”
My resolve to enjoy the festival was waning as I walked across the parking lot toward Mr. Technically-Married-with-Bad-Knees. I tried to self-encourage, but unfortunately, I asked the question you should never, ever, ever ask. What else could go wrong? Because there was more.
He stopped walking right before the entrance. “Um, it’s a little tight this week. A few extra expenses this month. If you’d be willing to pay tonight, I can make it up to you with dinner after the first!” He said it unbelievably cheerful, like I had won the grand prize.
“Are you kidding me?” came flying out of my mouth before I could censor it. Although, I might have said it even if my censor kicked in.
He laughed and did the head cocked to the side, pouty face thing again.
“Maybe this is not a good idea,” I said.
“Oh, come on! We’re already here! It’s a beautiful night. Not a cloud in the sky. We’re at the winter festival. Food, art, music. I’ll pay you back. I can even send you a check if you don’t want to go to dinner.”
Like I would take a check from Mr. Technically-Married-with-Bad-Knees-and-Bad-Finances.
“Please, Tyler? I really want to have a nice night out. I’ll pay you back. Please?”
I swear he fluttered his eyelashes. What’s so stupid is, had this guy been upfront with me, told me he’s going through a divorce and wanted to get out of the house for a fun night, I might have been okay with going—as friends. But I felt like the whole thing was a bamboozle. Like I got set up. Hook, line, and sinker. But we were already at the festival, and I felt like an ass for just turning around and going home. So I paid for his frickin’ ticket and in we went.
“Why don’t we get one dish at each booth?” he asked. “Then it won’t cost you so much, and we can try more things. We’ll just split it,” he said.
I didn’t want to share anything with him at that point, but since I was paying for everything we ate, it did make sense to share. The first booth was a sausage pepper stew. It smelled delicious, and I stepped into line without even asking him.
“Oooh, sausage and peppers. Good thing I took my antacids!” He rubbed his hands together and took a big whiff of the aroma.
I turned to him, trying to decide whether or not I should even ask. I was sure I didn’t want to know.
“Your antacids?” I was a glutton for punishment.
“Yeah, I have irritable bowel syndrome and a few other gastrointestinal issues. I’m not supposed to eat any spicy foods,” he said.
“You have irritable bowel syndrome, and we came to an international food festival?” I thought surely I must be on Candid Camera or Punk’d. Someone was going to jump out at any moment and let me know this whole “date” had been a joke. Then we’d laugh, and Mr. Used-to-be-Hottie-Hotel-Man would say something like, “I can’t believe you fell for all that.”
But no cameras appeared, and the only thing he said was disgusting.
“It’s fine! I love spicy food. I just take a lot of antacids and guzzle some Mylanta beforehand. Keeps the gas at bay. I’ll probably be up all night with diarrhea.” He cracked up laughing. “I might still have gas depending on what we eat and how long we walk, but we’re outside and it’s a pretty open space.”
Few times in my life have I ever been rendered completely speechless, but my brain was not capable of generating a response to my married first date with no money and bad knees having noxious gas throughout the date and then going home to crap out everything we just ate. Maybe married people discuss that sort of thing, but I’m not the type to talk about pooping on a first date. Even when it’s technically not a date. I don’t want a mental image of a man camping out on the toilet with diarrhea, no matter how hot he is.
My appetite for sausage and peppers was gone. He scarfed it up, filling the tank for the unpleasant night to come. Unpleasant is actually an understatement. I’m getting nauseous just recalling it. The whole thing quickly went downhill like a mudslide. A noxious mudslide. With explosions and fumes and aromas not meant for the written word. From both ends, I might add, since the breath is not immune to gastrointestinal distress.
Part of me truly felt sorry for the guy. What a hot mess. His marriage ending, finances screwed up, no car of his own, knees blown, constant diarrhea, flatulence, and breath that smells like ass. This poor dude has to re-enter the dating world with all those attributes after a decade on the bench.
But the more selfish part of me could not believe what a miserable “date” this was. I hated to be rude or ugly, but the last straw had been broken. In several pieces. I could not wait to get away from him.
Mr. Bad-Breath-Bad-Knees-Bad-Date didn’t say too much on the way back to the car. Like a pouty child being made to leave the park when he still wants to play. We rode to his house in silence. I didn’t even pull into the driveway. I stopped the car in the street for him to get out. He had the audacity to lean in close with his ass-breath and whisper, “I had a good time tonight. I appreciate you giving me a chance after we got off to a rocky start. I can’t wait to see you again.”
I laughed. A shaky, nervous, I-may-just-go-off-on-you-asshole laugh.
He didn’t seem to notice.
I pulled away without even saying goodnight.
Where the hell is Prince Charming??? He needs to hurry up and come. These dates are killing me.
Sunday, November 10th
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Only one wedding today, just a ceremony. I enjoy those. Outside of confirming the florist, organist and photographer, I don’t have a whole lot to do ahead of time, and I only need to be onsite an hour and a half before and about an hour after. I was finished and headed home a little after noon, which was great since I’ve been in a funk all day. Irritable and grumpy.
Melanie called this afternoon to invite me to Thanksgiving with her and Paul. She has three sisters, two brothers, and Lord only knows how many aunts, uncles, and cousins. It’s an absolute madhouse when they all get together. Always a good time, though. They’re all so cool about including me, but I can’t help feeling like an outsider.
For the past few years (before Monica), I’ve spent Thanksgiving with Cabe at his mom’s, which I love. Maggie is so laid-back and sweet. An incredible cook, too. We’d all eat ourselves beyond stuffed then crash on the couches and the floor to watch movies the rest of the day. Pausing every now and then to nosh on leftovers, of course.
It was usually just me and Cabe, his sister Galen, and his mom. Occasionally an extra if Galen was dating someone or a family member was visiting. No tension or drama, though. No fussing and fighting. Simply a relaxing, fun time.
Cabe hasn’t mentioned me coming over this year, and I don’t want to bring it up or assume. Too many unknowns and uncertainties since he’s come back. I must say, if I can’t be with my own family, I’d rather be with Cabe and his.
I miss my family most around the holidays. All it takes to make me a blubbering mess is one holiday movie where everyone is celebrating together in their funky sweaters, drinking egg nog, and singing Christmas carols. It makes me think about all of them and how far away I am.
It’s funny how much I yearn for home sometimes when I so desperately wanted to get away from there growing up. I don’t think it’s the place I miss, though, but more the people and the feeling of belonging. Being part of something bigger than yourself. I have a very large extended family, so sometimes it feels a little strange to be only me living here by myself. Party of one.
I don’t think I could ever move back home. My mother and I would probably drive each other nuts for one thing. I don’t know. I definitely feel like I’m at a place in life where I want to belong. To something. To someone. People tell you not to look for a relationship. To be okay being on your own. Which I think I am in many ways. It doesn’t mean I don’t want someone though. Someone to come home to. Someone to laugh with, cry with, talk with. Just be with. I’m beginning to wonder if it exists for me, especially considering the prospects I’ve seen lately from the dating market.
I look at brides day in and day out and wonder what the crap is wrong with me. I mean, some of them are beautiful; some of them are not. Some are nice; some are total bitches. Some have health issues or children from past relationships. Some are just plain kooky or weird.
Yet, each of them comes to us because they’ve found someone who said, “You’re the one. Out of all the world and all the girls, you’re it. You’re my Frosted Flakes.”
I’m not stupid enough to think every bride we meet has a great relationship or that all these relationships last, but I do wonder why the hell I can’t find anyone if all these other people did.
Both my sisters were married by the time they were my age. My mother already had four kids by the time she was my age. When is it my turn?
I swear I hear my poor mother saying to me now, “You’ll find someone when you quit looking.” Which may be the stupidest thing that woman has ever said to me. If I stopped looking, how would I find someone? And how the hay do you stop looking? Do you suddenly decide to become a monk and not notice anyone? Shun all social activity that makes it blatantly obvious you don’t have a date? Maybe I should just quit my job so I’m not exposed to the endless cheese fest of people getting married and finding their soul mates.
It might be easier to try and follow my mother’s advice then.
Okay, Universe. Here we go. I am officially announcing I have quit looking. My eyes are closed. Not peeking. Not a bit. (Did you send someone yet?)
Tuesday, November 12th
Out of nowhere, Lillian popped into my office and threw a file on my desk today.
“I need this budget revised. Type up a cover letter to go with it and send it to the bride. Make sure you put the revised total in the system. Also, double-check with the pastry chef for this weekend’s event. I’m not sure she has the illustration for the cake request. I’ll have my cell if you need to text me, but I’ll be in a City Council meeting and I won’t be able to talk.”
I scribbled bullet points of her instructions on my notepad.
“Revise budget, cover letter, mail it, input it, and check on cake request. Got it.”
At the exact moment I said “Got it”, my brain asked “Why?” So I looked at Lillian and asked, “Why?”
Her eyes widened as her head tilted slightly to one side. I tried to backpedal.
“Um, I mean, um, no, it’s okay, I can, I mean, will, get this done. I didn’t mean . . . I guess I . . . I was just wondering why you’re giving this to me,” I smiled and gave a little shrug, wondering for the millionth time why I become a babbling idiot in front of this woman.
I wished I had just taken the file and gotten it done, but I didn’t understand why she was handing it to me. Lillian had never given me any of her clerical work before. Carmen always did everything for Lillian, and I do mean everything. Since Carmen left for maternity leave, Lillian had been doing quite a bit more on her own, which I knew she didn’t like. The whole office knew she didn’t like it. She was quite vocal about it. I guess I assumed when Charlotte came on board Lillian would give her work to Charlotte. She was technically Lillian’s assistant now.
“Whatever do you mean why?” Lillian asked. The British accent is so intimidating, I swear.
“Um, well, I don’t mind doing it, of course, but I thought Charlotte was handling things for you.”
“Humph,” she snorted. “I wouldn’t trust that twit to pour my coffee. She is completely daft. Not a brain cell in her head. I fear someday she will run out the front door, and the authorities will find her cavorting in a field of daisies singing Fa La La. I have been managing with much difficulty on my own thus far, but I have to be at this meeting and this cannot wait. I trust your abilities to handle it thoroughly and competently in a timely manner.”
Out the door she went without waiting for any reply. I could have been momentarily pissed. After all, Lillian threw this on my desk to be completed right away with no thought or consideration to what I already had planned or any commitments I already made.
I wasn’t pissed, though. I was over-the-moon beaming. Lillian felt I was thorough and competent. Yes, I realize it was in comparison to Charlotte, so the bar was not real high, but still. Lillian trusts me with her good-deed secrets, and she respects that I can complete my work efficiently.
She likes me. She likes me! Lillian likes me.
Friday, November 15th
One of my favorite things about my job is the moment right before the bride walks down the aisle. It’s like I’m standing outside a window looking into someone else’s life for a brief span of time. A very intimate, personal moment no one else should be allowed to witness. However, by nature of standing there waiting for music cues to open the door and send her down the aisle, I get to see it.
The majority of the time, it is a bride with her father. The last magical interchange between a little girl and her daddy before he transfers her heart to another and she becomes a woman and a wife. Everything this man has done to bring her to this point—all the sacrifices, the heartaches, the joys, the memories—it all comes together in this moment. She is entering the next phase in her life and leaving her old one behind. That touching, poignant exchange can melt the hardest of hearts, and I love it.
I am sure much of my affinity for it is because of my dad being gone and the fact that we will never have that moment. But I’m also just a sucker f
or sappy emotions.
I’ve heard some incredibly moving sentiments standing there holding the door, and they have filled me at times with envy and at times with hope. You can tell so much about the relationship between father and daughter through the words they share there.
Unfortunately, my glimpse is not always positive. Sometimes what it reveals is uncomfortable for all of us, and I wish I could shut the window.
Today, as I sent the maid of honor through the doors and pulled them closed, Sidney the bride stepped into the foyer and up to the mirror. She checked her lipstick and hair, which pretty much every bride does, and then she took the arm her dad offered. I cued the organist to change the music and turned to gaze through their “window” for my favorite moment.
I gave Sidney a big smile and said, “Ready?”
She smiled back and nodded, adjusting her bouquet and turning to smile at her dad. I felt a twinge of excitement knowing the magic was about to happen. The moment when she thanks him for everything he has done in her life, and he tells her how incredible she is and how he’s never been prouder. I took a deep breath in hopes I wouldn’t tear up and look like a total sap when they started.
As the organist fired up the traditional wedding march, Sidney’s dad moved closer to her. I looked quickly at the ground so as not to seem too intrusive, but I did lean forward to make sure I could hear their declarations of love and tenderness.
Instead, I got this.
“This is the stupidest choice you’ve ever made, and I’ve never been more disappointed in you. If you’ll turn around and walk out of here right now, we can leave and forget all about this. Your mother and I will never bring it up again. You won’t hear another word about it. Don’t worry about the money. It would be worth it to me to sacrifice the money to get you away from this sorry-ass son-of-a-bitch. So just say the word.”
