A Date From Heaven
"He doesn't respect my work," B.K. says to me about a man whose name she can't, actually, remember. Referred by a friend, he called B.K. to ask her out on a blind date. She was not available all weekend, she told him, because she had a project due on Monday and needed to work.
"And he was like, 'Oh, you have to eat sometime,'" B.K. reports. "And, 'You sure you don't want to take a break for dinner?'"
I'm jutting my chin forward waiting for the part where he doesn't respect her work. It turns out that the story is already over.
"Can you believe that?" she says. "Why would I go out with someone who does not respect my work?"
Hoo-boy. I go to the cabinet, take out two wineglasses, fill each with a solid slurp of merlot. "Sit down, sister," I say. I try to guide her, as a friend does, on a tour through her . . . cognitive slippage. "He doesn't know what the heck your job even is!" I say. "This has nothing to do with your work. He wanted to take you out to dinner. He wanted to meet you. What is your problem?!"
"Well, you don't have to yell at me," B.K. says.
"You're blaming some stranger for your inability to say yes to a date," I say.
She puts back the wine in one gulp. "You don't have to yell at me," she says.
"Yes," I say. "Yes, I do."
It's tough love time. When was the last time B.K. went out on a date? I can't even remember. Why is she hiding? I put these questions to her, but she keeps going back to Mister-Name-She-Can't-Remember.
"I'm not sure I liked his phone manner," she says. "And I never have luck with Jewish men. And it just rubbed me the wrong way that he didn't respect my work."
Oh, brother. I put my fingers in my ears and shout, "La! La! La!" until she shuts up. "There is something else going on," I say.