There Are No Men Page 2

  “Is everything okay?” he asks.

  “Yes, I’m just a bit tired. I have a huge project due at work this week and I have an early meeting. Do you mind if I get going?” I try to look apologetic.

  “No, not at all.” He signals for the waiter and asks him for a box. All that he has remaining on his plate is a blob of potatoes, four green beans, and some gristle. He sees me eyeing his leftovers and says, “Can’t waste food—aren’t you taking yours?”

  Why would I want soggy lettuce and tasteless grilled chicken for later?

  “No, I’ll just meet you outside. I need some air.”

  I bolt for the door, and as soon as I make it to the sidewalk I notice that I left my jacket—and it’s a nice one. I just got it at Nordstrom and it is the perfect spring coat that goes with absolutely everything. If I leave it, maybe I could come back for it later. The restaurant will hang on to it. I get a sudden flash of Matthew taking it and trying to return it, pretending to be worried about me, knowing damn well that I purposely ran off.

  I stand on the sidewalk trying to decide what to do when a young couple—probably no more than eighteen—appears and starts kissing and holding hands. I avert my eyes, and think of Ron and me in high school. I had been a skinny, awkward little girl, and I lacked confidence, even as I was blooming into womanhood. I fell for the first guy who showed any real interest in me. I made an enormous mistake.

  I was getting divorced the entire time I was married. People don’t believe me when I say this. They say, “At least it must have been good in the beginning? How could the whole ten years have been bad?” They look at me as an intelligent, mature woman, and can’t comprehend how I could have been such a poor decision maker in my youth.

  After ten years of marriage, and several miscarriages, I was forced to have a hysterectomy at thirty-four. I mourned the abrupt and early end of my childbearing years. My hormones were wreaking havoc with my emotions. Ron was not much of a partner in life even before the baby drama, and that event was the final nail in the marital coffin.

  I try to meet men who will have no expectation of having children, and men Matthew’s age generally have grown kids. I am also not keen on being a stepmother to a bunch of school-aged kids, or, heaven forbid, teenagers.

  This girl in the Uno’s parking lot has her whole life ahead of her, and will probably have lots of babies effortlessly, marrying someone she meets in college or at work, not this high school joker. Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyelids. Maybe I should start wearing waterproof mascara. While I am fighting my internal demons, Matthew appears.

  “You left your coat. Let me help you with it.”

  I let him do it, feeling small and defeated.

  “I paid the check,” he says.

  How do I respond? I didn’t actually think he would leave without paying, so I’m not sure if he is prompting me for something more than gratitude. “Thank you.”

  “I had them box your salad. You may want it later. I don’t believe in wasting food, especially since I’m between jobs right now, you know?”

  No, I did not know. His profile said that he was in banking, but maybe he chose that work category by accident instead of clicking on the “retiree with hat and bulbous nose” link. Easy mistake. Is he looking for me to give him money for the dinner? I can’t deal with this awkwardness any longer, but my curiosity takes over and I blurt out, “How long have you been out of work?”

  “It’s been about two, wait, now almost three…years.”

  Years. Not months—years. “My car is over there and I need to get going. Thanks so much. It was nice meeting you.” This is what I am told you say after a date that you didn’t like. It is polite code for “please do not ever call me again.” The direct approach would be smarter in this case, but I’m too chicken. I always go with the getaway line.

  Matthew looks slightly let down. The leer returns and he moves in for a hug, a kiss or something equally unpleasant. Can’t men see when you aren’t into them by your body language and facial expressions? I don’t have a poker face—I can’t lie. I hate it when I see an ugly baby and am forced to comment on its appearance, especially if it looks like a mutant baby possum. Yes, I know I am going to hell, but who cares? I am already there most of the time.

  I attempt to make a dash for my car before he can complete the gesture, but he grabs my arm. I am not letting an Uncle Randy look-alike with a bulbous nose touch me. Polite is one thing but I have to draw the line somewhere.

  Just as I pull away, the jerking motion rocks his head just enough to dislodge his hair from his head. What the hell? His actual hair is now resting on my feet, like a dead animal carcass. All of it. I jump and do a dance to get it off my favorite work pumps, as if it was a mutant baby possum, and look at him incredulously. He bends down to pick it up and starts to say something, but I make a run for it before his teeth fall out.

  As I take a deep breath and pull out of the parking lot, he’s still standing there holding his leftovers and I can’t help but notice something is missing. The thing that will forever define him in future accounts of this story. Even though he has just man-handled me and assaulted me with his wig, while I am sitting at the red light I can’t help myself from calling out the window, “Hey, you forgot your hat!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I have a mini heart attack every time my alarm goes off. I have experimented with different types of sounds, but any that I can tolerate don’t wake me up. If it’s music I just incorporate the song into my dream, and if it’s a pleasant noise I don’t hear it and keep on sleeping. I need a blaring noise that would wake the dead.

  Dixie is quiet in her crate. She sleeps all night in there without a peep as long as Mommy is right there in the big bed. She is just a little over a year old. I got her as a puppy from a breeder. I know I should have adopted a rescue dog, but I wanted a female black and tan short hair miniature dachshund puppy. Since I was lonely, childless and barren I thought it was reasonable to get exactly what I wanted.

  Dixie is my first pet. When I was growing up my mother and sister were allergic, and I was so focused on wanting children that when I was married I never thought of getting a dog. When I finally decided to take the plunge, I was afraid a shelter dog would be hard to train, with potential bad habits created by a history of instability. While I feel for those poor furry babies, I don’t have confidence in my abilities as a dog trainer.

  It turns out I have done an excellent job of helping Dixie to adopt many of the bad behaviors I was hoping to avoid, like chewing furniture, peeing on the floor, begging for treats, pulling on walks, and pooping in my shoes—things like that. Lesson learned.

  For now she is quiet, so I am enjoying a few moments in bed before I have to get up. I have a forty-five minute commute to work, and even though there is always traffic I never get stuck behind idiots as much as I do when I am headed to a date after work. Maybe I should take that as a warning—if there is a truck load of chickens going twenty-five on the highway, or a guy holding a mattress on top of the car with only his hand for support, I should go straight home. I could avoid a bad night as well as feathers stuck in my windshield wipers, or sudden death-by-mattress hurled into my face at sixty miles an hour.

  Last night when I got home, I experienced an overwhelming sense of elation when I turned the corner into my cul-de-sac. My suburban cookie-cutter neighborhood no longer fits my lifestyle as it did when I was married and hoping for a family, but the house is mine now. All mine. No one can tell me what to do with it, even though it sucks being alone sometimes. The delicious anticipation of peace and freedom every night makes the long commute more bearable, even if I only have a little wiener dog to cuddle up with.

  On the downside, my white four bedroom colonial needs some work. The paint is peeling on the front porch rockers and the deck needs to be stained. I don’t have the money or skill to make repairs myself, and it’s as if I am waiting for something to happen before I take any action. The value is sinking ever
y day I let the weeds flourish and the driveway crack. I need a good handyman.

  I walked in the house and didn’t make it past the foyer before Dixie came running and performed her usual spins and jumps, and completed several laps around the house to greet me. It is always a pleasure to come home to someone who loves me that much.

  I had a pile of mail to go through, but I was not in the mood to look at bills or coupons for the latest Mexican restaurant, or invitations to Bible study from the newest church asking me if I am a lost little lamb. If I want to be poisoned I can go to any number of nasty Mexican restaurants, and if I want to go to church I can just go back to the Catholic Church, where they serve up guilt as well as the Mexicans serve up heartburn.

  It wasn’t too late, so I decided to call Jane and regale her with the tale of my latest dating disaster. She enjoys the humor and she does try her best to give me advice or at least some sympathy.

  She answered on the first ring—she knew I’d had a date and was probably eager to hear the lowdown.

  “Hey, what’s up? You aren’t home THAT early. Was this one decent?” she optimistically started.

  “He was an old man with a hat, and a nose like Jimmy Durante. Unemployed and a creeper.”

  “So he gave you the willies? Not good.”

  “No, the willies are never good. Nor is flying hair.”

  “What? His hair was flying? Was it windy?”

  “Not at all, but that didn’t stop it from coming off in one scary piece. A direct assault on my feet.”

  “What the hell? You’re lucky his teeth didn’t fall out.”

  “That was my thought exactly. Do you see what I deal with?”

  “Maybe you should screen the e-mails better—what did this one say? I can’t remember what you told me. Was it something about being romantic or looking for his soul mate? Or was it something about fishing and jazz?”

  “They all say they’re looking for their soul mate, and if it said anything about jazz I would have put pins in my eyes. Or fishing. Gross. It doesn’t matter what he said because he was yucky and bad. And yucky.”

  “You said yucky twice.”

  “HELLO—yes I know!”

  I should not yell at Jane. To be fair, she and her husband Mike have tried to set me up with some men. There was the widowed cowboy with two little kids. I found out he hated his wife and then she died, which makes being a widower even worse. Plus he wore a cowboy hat to their Christmas party last year. Hence the nickname. What is with these men with stupid hats? I am waiting for one with a pinwheel on top.

  Then there was the painter. No, they didn’t set me up with their painter for a date, but I needed some rooms painted in my house. After Ron left, I wanted to paint a few rooms the colors I liked, but he never allowed. Joe, the painter, came over to assess the job and said he would be in touch. He was friendly and I thought he behaved professionally on the visit. Then one night there was a message from him. I thought it would be the standard talk of his availability and pricing for the job. Instead it was a drunken rambling about my eyes looking like melted chocolate, and how he couldn’t stop thinking about me. I was so pissed! Now I couldn’t even hire him to paint, and he has good prices and paints a damn straight line.

  Jane sighed and continued, “Any new men on the horizon?”

  “I haven’t checked my e-mail yet, and I’m not all that anxious to dive back in. Hey, did you notice the light on in the house across the street?” I was eager to change the subject, plus I was curious.

  “You mean at Susan’s old house? Yeah, I was out with the kids this afternoon and I saw the car, but not the people. Mrs. O’Brien said she saw a moving van earlier. I don’t know how they escaped her notice—she tracks your every move. I got to hear about how you’re going to hurt yourself with those shoes you wear.”

  “Sometimes my feet do bleed a little, but she doesn’t have to look hot when she goes out dancing. All she does is knit and spy on people, and I swear I am not ending up like that.”

  “When do you go out dancing?”

  “I want to go out dancing, but it never gets that far.”

  “You could let us set you up again. Mike said there is a newly divorced guy at work. I think he’s a psychiatrist.”

  She is clearly not remembering Mike’s other “newly divorced friend,” Pete. He came over to their house for a barbecue on Memorial Day last year. He was normal and reasonably attractive, although he had grey hair. At his age it would be unlikely that he would want any babies, so that was a good starting point for me. Unfortunately, he spent the whole afternoon talking about his ex-wife. I think I even saw a tear once or twice.

  However, it didn’t matter much because my behavior was no better. I drank a tad bit too much before he arrived, and was sitting on the floor in front of the refrigerator laughing hysterically for some unknown reason when he got there. They managed to get me up into a chair in the living room, but then I was screaming that my underwear was uncomfortable. This is when Jane and Mike had a meeting in the kitchen to cut me off. My next Pina Colada was a virgin, which I was too wasted to notice. Finally, after I started pulling on my bra and lying upside down in my seat, Jane announced that Mike should walk me home. Next door. They obviously thought I would pass out in the bushes on my way across the lawn.

  “A psychiatrist—seriously? I’m trying to bury my problems, not unearth them. He would end up charging me to date him.”

  “That’s a good point. So I don’t know who moved in across the street, but I’ll try to figure it out after I put the kids on the school bus tomorrow.”

  “I just hope it’s someone more normal than Susan. What a whack-job she was. Remember the time she came to your house and said she was praying for you because you had never been to a real church?” I was raised Catholic and I consider myself to be a believer and a spiritual person, but Catholics do not go around handing out pamphlets asking people to come to our Church (we actually make it hard to join us).

  “How could I forget? Mike was mowing the lawn, and I swear he mowed the same patch of grass until there was visible dirt just so he wouldn’t have to come in and deal with her. Are you sure you want a husband? I’m going to hit the hay. Mike is calling me to clean up the new hairballs he found in his study. Damn cats! I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Try to stay positive!”

  “I will. Good night.”

  I hung up the phone and looked at the house across the street more closely. I have always liked that house. It’s a cute Cape Cod with a bright yellow door and green shutters. All the houses in my cul-de-sac are neutral colors. This one is a cream shaded siding—nothing remarkable but the front porch wraps around the side, and it was well maintained by Susan and her husband.

  I decided the new people would be more normal and sank down into my couch with a chocolate sprinkled glazed donut in hand and a hungry wiener at my feet.

  “No, Dixie. Mommy can’t give you this. It will make you sick. Go eat your food.” I pointed to her cute lavender bowl with the paw prints all over it. She reluctantly waddled over and munched on her dry, boring dog food, which is organic and healthy.

  I was starving and felt perfectly justified in enjoying a fattening snack at bedtime. I have always been thin, too thin in my youth. With all the stress of the divorce and single life, I am headed back in the too skinny direction if I don’t stuff myself like a big fat guy.

  Before bed I checked my e-mail. I am compulsive about reading my Internet dating messages. When I first joined it was like a part-time job keeping up with all the new men. I was fresh meat on the site and I attracted a lot of attention. Almost all of it was and still is unwanted attention, but I console myself with the fact that at least I do get messages. Even now I get a bunch every day, with several new inquiries or continued conversations with men on the short list or the “I don’t know what to say to make them stop e-mailing me” list. That one is the longest.

  There was a note from Matthew—already?—thanking me for a good time and asking
for another date. Was he present on the first one? Maybe he bumped his head trying to retrieve his hair from underneath the car.

  There are a few more prospects—a sixty-year-old man (that is just too old), a big biker with a completely tattooed body, and a twenty-five-year old who said that I look hot for an older woman. Punk.

  I resisted the urge to cry and then saw one with possible redeeming value. This guy is only forty (young for me lately), and he said he doesn’t want kids and he’s into meditation (I have tried it and need to do it more—very relaxing) and golf. The only miniature thing I like almost as much as wiener dogs is golf. I am a mini golf pro. His picture wasn’t too bad, and he appeared to be in decent shape. I decided that I need to look at his profile more closely tomorrow and compose a fun and witty response.

  I checked my messages one more time and saw that my mother called. It was too late to call her back. She was definitely in bed or glued to Fox News, watching a barrage of negative press about the President and yelling at the TV. As I was not in the mood for that, I made a mental note to call her tomorrow on my long drive to the office.

  Dixie’s whining interrupts my morning daydream, and jolts me back to the present. Now I’m going to be late. It’s amazing how I can lay in bed for an extra half an hour, reviewing the previous night’s events. To say I am not a morning person is to say that Sarah Palin is not a liberal. I’m already thinking about political references because I have to call my mother.

  Before I can shower, I must walk the wiener. If I do anything before I take her outside she will protest loudly. I don’t blame her. If I slept in a little metal cell all night I would have a hard time waiting to pee, too. Many people let their dogs sleep with them, but I didn’t want to set that precedent. I am still hoping to have a human bed partner with a different type of fur.