Chapter 2
I wake up the next morning with a rough start. Describing it as brutal might be a slight exaggeration. I stay in bed for an extra few minutes snuggled up against my pink and blue striped body pillow trying to get motivated to spend my billionth day in a row at work. On the bright side, it’s only a six hour shift
With an imaginary rooster crowing in my head, I reluctantly roll out of bed and swing open my closet doors. I say aloud, “Which of you lucky outfits will make the cut today?” I start at the left and finger through the hangers, stopping at my Deidre Jones, red and black plaid, spaghetti-strapped dress. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner,” I quietly announce. I toss it on my bed and drag myself in to the kitchen to start the coffee. More than ever, I’m ready for a vacation.
It’s 8am and I’m back at Luigi’s. I run to the bank, chat with Dan about tonight’s specials, assign the servers to their sections and side duties and do all of my normal manager stuff before we open. The lunch crowd comes and goes and the time arrives for me to leave for my doctor’s appointment. Neil, my other Front of House Manager, is ready to take over.
I hate being at the doctor’s office. It’s only a check-up… Nothing is particularly wrong with me; I just don’t like being here. The uneasiness always starts up in the waiting room. It begins with the smell of sanitizer and sick people. I think it’s a psychological thing.
I check in with the receptionist and do a quick scan of the room like everyone does to determine which seat is the most ideal. There are a couple of empty metal chairs, a television with no volume, an elderly couple, a few scattered middle-aged women, a high school girl, a mom and her kindergartner, a man… Wait a minute and hold the phone! He’s cute… He’s really cute!
He looks like he’s about 35 years old. He has short, dark blonde hair that’s just a tiny bit curly on the ends. He’s got a great body and a nice tan. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a white short sleeve shirt. I can’t get too good of a look; I can’t appear to be looking at all. From what I can tell in my two-second glance I like what I see. I believe I’ll saunter over in his direction. A single woman should never pass up an opportunity.
“I think I’ll take this seat,” I proclaim as if anyone cares. Did he just look up and smile at me? OK, now he’s totally ignoring me. Great.
My mother has been badgering me for months to get the dreaded woman’s check. “You can never be too sure,” she nags. “What’s it going to cost you? A co-pay and ninety minutes to find out that everything is okay? The key to good health is early detection!” Nag, nag, nag…
I suppose she’s right. I don’t go to the doctor unless I absolutely have to. The last time I saw one was five years ago when I went with my parents and my brother, Mark, to visit my Aunt Margo in Ohio. On our first day there I slipped on her icy driveway and sprained my ankle. It was quickly turning purple and I didn’t think it was ever going to stop swelling. I went to the emergency room in a Cleveland hospital and expected a gorgeous, young, intelligent George Clooney or Patrick Dempsey doctor to come around the partition and flirt with me like they do on television. Not only was this particular guy the least attractive person in the hospital that day, he wasn’t gentle with my ankle or sympathetic to my pain. He was fat, warty and balding with the world’s worst comb-over imaginable. I think he had salsa stains on his chin and he smelled like he’d just come from the morgue after cutting in to a cheese-drenched burrito. He talked condescendingly to me like I was exaggerating the pain and he wouldn’t stop twisting and poking my ankle even though I expressed terrible discomfort time and time again. And to think I had to sit nearly two hours in the waiting room to be subjected to him. That could have something to do with the reason why I hate going to see the doctor.
Where was I? The woman’s check… Right.
I don’t ever get sick; I don’t even get the sniffles. I figure it’s time to get the pelvic exam and blood work thing out of the way. I really should be more on top of my health. I’m genuinely out of the loop.
My handsome stranger is two seats to the left of me. I cross my left leg over my right and turn slightly away from him as I pull my pretty pink RAZR cell phone from my denim Coach handbag and call Jody.
PLAN A: THE FAKEOUT PHONE CALL
“Hey Jodes, it’s me. What are you doing?” I ask when she picks up the phone.
“Hey,” she says, sounding like the Fonz and slightly out of breath. “I’m stacking fertilizer bags. What are you up to?”
I can picture her standing in the tree nursery that she and her husband own surrounded by the smell of lawn fertilizer. She’s up near the register where they keep the stacks of weed killers, sand, potting soil, plant food and fertilizers and stuff, lifting twenty-pound bags off of a big, wooden cart and stacking them on the pile against the wall. If I’m correct, she’s wearing old, faded jeans, a white T-shirt with the shop’s green logo on it, a pair of work gloves to cover her callused hands and a pair of those awful rubber-like, plastic, gardening shoes on her feet. She’s probably wearing one of her many $2 clippies in her bangs to keep her long, thick, brown hair out of her eyes. I don’t know if she knows it but she’s got the perfect life.
“Sounds like fun!” I say light heartedly. “Remember I have that doctor appointment today? I should be done here pretty quickly. I just wanted to tell you that I don’t think I’m interested in going out with that blind date you wanted to fix me up with. I’ve reconsidered.” I’m sure to say it loud enough for Mr. Handsome to hear.
“Er…What? Who?” she asks, justifiably confused. Any second now she’ll catch on.
“I know it’s late notice, but I just don’t think he’s really what I’m looking for in a boyfriend. No point in starting up something I already know I won’t want to finish, right? Tell him I got engaged to an ex-boyfriend or something… Would you explain to him that I’m sorry?” I ask, sitting a little straighter in my seat with my shoulders back. It’s hard to appear sexy in a $12 metal chair while surrounded by the sounds of sneezes and coughs.
“Maggie, are you trying to pick up on someone at the doctors’ office? You haven’t made this phone call to me in years!” She’s caught on.
“You’re right… I know. I’ll find Mr. Right soon enough. Who knows, maybe he’s just around the corner,” I say with confidence while fiddling with the clasp on my handbag. I casually turn my head to the left to see him looking in my direction. I give him a little wave with my free hand. He barely nods his head and goes back to reading an article about the Super Bowl in his outdated SPORTS ILLUSTRATED magazine.
“Maggie, you – are – crazy!” she whispers as if my stranger friend might hear if she says it any louder.
“Probably, but thanks for looking out for me. I’ll call you later. Take it easy with those bags,” I say bubbly.
“You’re nuts!” she replies.
“I know. Say hi to your hubby for me. Bye!” I hang up the phone and put it away.
I alternate my right leg over my left in my seat and sneak a glance at him to try to find any spark of a reaction in him. Nope… nothing there.
“My best friend…,” I divulge to him with the most blasé attitude as possible. “She’s always trying to set me up. She’s one of a kind.”
“Good friends are hard to find,” he says in a dreamy voice as he nods his head and returns to his article. I could listen to that voice all day. His lips are the perfect shade of mauve and his white teeth and dazzling smile could land him in a toothpaste commercial.
OK. Back to reality… There’s failed attempt number one. Time to quit drooling and move on.
On both sides of my seat there are magazines; PARENTING, TIME, ENJOY and HIGHLIGHTS. I remember as a kid getting fired up when I saw a HIGHLIGHTS magazine in the waiting room. I would open one up excitedly and scout out the Find a Word or the Can you find ten things in this picture that’s missing in the next picture, only to find that some kid had already circled everything and answered all the puzzles in black pen. How fun is that?
Let’s see… The ENJOY magazine is only five months old. Looks like a winner!
I flip through to a questionnaire called Are You a Good Girlfriend? I would ace a questionnaire called Are You a Good Workaholic? But that probably wouldn’t be as much fun to read to most people. It would have questions like:
*Do you consider a long vacation to be dinner and a movie?
*Do you try not to drink a lot during your shift so you’ll spend less time in the bathroom?
or the classic…
Do you carry pictures of your family around so you can remember what they look like?
Am I a good girlfriend? There’s definitely potential in me to be, I just haven’t found the right man yet. I’ve had a few prospects here and there, but they all turned out to be duds.
Would you consider yourself an honest person?
Definitely!
Define honest…
Yeah, right
I’m definitely someone people can trust. Tom and Marcy trust me to run their restaurants whole heartedly. I do everything at Luigi’s while they stay at home counting their money. I don’t normally toot my own horn, but they lucked out when I came to work for them. They literally don’t do anything there but eat. They never question my abilities or doubt my judgments. They let me hire and fire who I want and they’ve never overridden any of my business decisions. And on a more personal basis, my friends know I’m here for them if they ever need someone to talk to. My neighbor, Mrs. Jacobs, trusts me to watch her Chihuahua, Yelpers, when she goes out of town. She trusts me so much she said I could have him if I wanted.
When you’re in a relationship, who is #1?
My dog
My man
ME, ME, ME, ME and who else? Um, ME!
I love to pamper my boyfriend when I have one to pamper.
On the wall across from me, behind the woman who has a little girl with her, there’s an Anne Geddes picture of a little baby completely surrounded by beautiful pink roses. The reflection on the glass shows me that my not-so-interested admirer may turn out to be interested after all. I can see him looking my way, but he’s doing it very discreetly. HE IS GORGEOUS!
PLAN B: SLIPPERY LITTLE THING
I pick up my handbag and put it square on my lap. I open it up and fish around until I accidentally/purposely flip out my mini hand sanitizer bottle on to the floor by Mr. Man’s feet. He moves his magazine down and looks to the floor when he hears the thunk and feels the tiny thud against his foot.
“Whoops,” I say, looking down at it, then up at him with an innocent smile.
He leans over and extends his arm to pick it up. He looks so strong, gentle and perfect. His eyes make contact with mine and he says, “Looks like you dropped something.”
I feel like I’m breathing in slow motion. My heart is beating so loud I’m afraid he might hear it. He’s got the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. It’s not like me to initiate contact with such a looker but I can’t help myself. I’ve never been so determined to make a good first impression. If I had any common sense I would just strike up a conversation with him. But a man this attractive can’t possibly be single. He’s got to have a girlfriend. His gorgeousness is a little intimidating.
“It’s a slippery little thing, isn’t it?” I shyly beam in the most innocent, sweet voice I can muster. I lean in to him ever so slightly, just enough to show the teensiest bit of cleavage to get his attention. Suddenly I’m lost in the thought of his lips on mine, gently kissing me awake in the morning after a glorious night full of romance. Breathe Maggie! Be cool. Relax.
“Yes it is. Here you go,” he offers with that passionate voice and holds his hand out with the sanitizer in it. His hand looks strong and firm and he’s holding it out like Prince Charming did to Cinderella when he asked her to dance. He could be my Prince Charming… I just know it! His fingers are long and slender. You know they say you can tell a lot about a man’s hands. Supposedly they are proportionate to the size of his… Well, anyway… He’s got beautiful hands!
I reach out to take the bottle from him and touch his skin with my fingertips for two seconds as I lift it from him. His tiny touch sends shivers through me.
“Thanks,” I say. And while still looking at him looking at me, I put the sanitizer back in my handbag and accidentally knock my emergency tampon out. It falls on to my lap and balances itself on my leg as it rolls past my knee and down to my ankle, and then gets wedged in the loop of the bow on my shoe.
Mental note – Shoot myself later.
Leave it to me to spoil a moment. My mystery man is grinning at me while I feel like a fool. Immediately, I reach for the thing and try to pull it through the loop but it won’t budge without tugging at it. These pumps cost too much to tug on them.
Right away I pull it out from the other side and it comes out with little effort. I sit up quickly and do a scan to see how many people saw that. One, two, three, five, seven, ten, twelve… Perfect. Everyone is looking at me. I can feel the hairs on my arms start to rise as small blotches of red start to appear around my neck and chest. This might very well be the most embarrassing moment of my life.
Leave it to me to speak before I think. I hold the tampon up right in front of me like a cigar, and in my best Groucho Marx voice I can find, I say in no particular direction, “A woman is an occasional pleasure but a cigar is always a smoke.”
The elderly woman across from me drops her jaw so far I can count her fillings. My handsome stranger is shaking his head and covering his eyes with his hand like he just got blinded by the sun. Half of the room seems annoyed with my statement, while the other half gets entertainment out of it. Within ten seconds just about everyone is back to doing their own thing again.
I put the tampon back in my handbag, close the clasp on it and wish as hard as I can to be any place else. “I’m invisible, I’m invisible, I’m invisible,” I think to myself as I slump in my chair and cover my face with my magazine.
“Excuse me, sir,” calls the receptionist as she motions for my handsome stranger to come to the front window. He puts his magazine down and goes to her.
Thank you God for getting the focus off of me finally!
“I’m sorry, but can I see that insurance card one more time?” she asks him with a ridiculous, sweet smile on her face. Like the copy machine doesn’t have a vague recollection of what the card looks like! This is just a desperate attempt to talk to him. The nerve of some people!
“Sure, let me find it.” He leans against the counter on one elbow and crosses his ankles as he searches through his wallet.
“Take your time,” she proposes, leaning in to him with her elbow on the counter and her chin resting on the back of her hand. She’s got tons of cleavage bursting out of her blue, V-neck scrub top covered with penguins. Could she be any less professional? Who does she think she is, Marilyn Monroe?
There he is, standing right in front of me. For the first time I got a decent look at him standing and OH MY GOD is he gorgeous! His legs are tan and lean. His butt is completely grabbable. His hair is soft and silky with twenty shades of blonde running through it. He’s a little over six feet tall and he has the body of a runner.
I have goose bumps on my arms and chills down my back. I’m very aware of my face getting hot and my legs feeling numb as he stands innocently in front of me at the window. What is wrong with me? I need to get a grip!
He turns to me and winks when the receptionist leaves the window for her short jaunt to the copier.
My heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my chest. Where is all this emotion coming from? You’d think I’d never seen a man so gorgeous before outside of a magazine. I need to get control of myself! Why don’t I just throw myself on the floor and have a little seizure? Maybe I could drool all over his shoes. Any second now the old lady across from me is going to come over and fan my face with her magazine. The high school kid to my right is giggling at me over her magazine. Could I be any more obvious?
The receptionist makes a copy of the card (again) and hands it back. “Thanks so much,” she cheerfully says. “You can have a seat.” She gestures to him as her eyes follow him back to his chair. Her smile abruptly fades as her eyes turn to me. I’m thinking, “Don’t even think it sister! He’s mine!” I can tell by the look on her face that she’s thinking the same thing.
“No problem,” he responds. He looks at me with his million dollar smile as he sits back in his seat. And now he’s back to reading his magazine and ignoring me again. I should say something. I should say something…
When it comes to partying, you’re…
Up all night, sleep all day
Living on the edge with the NITE OWL BINGO
Like Cinderella and home by midnight
I love to dance! Well, I used to when I was younger. I was 21 years old when the Macarena hit the radio a hundred times each day. Jody and I would go out to Jimmie’s club, and whenever that song came on we would do the dance with all the other girls in the place. It was seriously corny but we had tons of fun. These days I’m rarely out as late as midnight since I have to be at work early most of the week. I guess now I’m more of a dinner and a movie girl (when I get the chance).
My eyes look up from the questionnaire over to the man of mystery. Just as I look at him he turns away. Is it possible that he might be interested?
If your personality compared to an object reeled in from the sea, it would be…
A one pound crappie
A prize winning catfish
A car tire
What kind of question is that? What self respecting woman compares herself to a dirty sea creature? OK. I don’t even know what crappie is, but it doesn’t sound good. I suppose I would be the prize winning fish.
I’m an honest, hardworking, loyal, faithful, funny and smart woman who loves to go horseback riding, traveling, hiking, boating and… Oh who am I kidding? I’m lying on a questionnaire that I’m answering in my head. How pathetic is that? I haven’t been on a horse since I was a kid and it actually kind of terrified me. I would love to travel if I got the chance, but I don’t have the time. And as for the hiking and boating, that’s more like shopping and lounging.
Maybe I’m just a crappie.
I have qualities that would attract a good man; I’m just waiting for the right one to come along. I’ve had a few relationships that could have ended up at the altar had I overlooked the cheating, lying and chronic unemployment. As my mother so elegantly puts it, “You’re a great catch, but you are a horrible fisherman.” Just thinking about her saying that makes me roll my eyes.
Suddenly the door opens that leads to the glory land (also known as the hallway that goes to the examination rooms). Everyone stops what they were doing to look up and see if their name is next on the golden list to be summoned.
“William Johnson,” the nurse calls out with little inflection while looking down at her clipboard. “The doctor will see you now.”
“Uhhgg,” grunts one of the middle aged women from my right as she goes back to typing on her laptop.
The old lady sitting across from me nudges her husband who is sound asleep with his head rolled back and his mouth wide open letting his snores escape.
“Huh? What? Huh…” He grunts as his wife elbows him into alertness.
“Let’s go,” she commands and points to the nurse.
Geesh. How long have they been here?
You are about as reliable as…
The sun rising in the east
Your first car
A NYC cab going ten blocks in ten minutes at noon
I consider myself to be a reliable person. My friends can count on me if they need a ride somewhere, a place to stay or friendly advice on whatever the dilemma is. I’m definitely reliable while I’m at work too. So reliable in fact that I’m well overdue for some needed time off. I’m so dedicated at work that it has turned me weak in other areas of my life. I mean, when I focus on something, I’m a sure thing to get it done to the best of my ability. It’s just at this point all I have is work so I’m very good at it.
I can be reliable in the dating department when I’m given the chance. But being a workaholic, the only men I find myself meeting are my customers, and I don’t want to date customers! I’m a you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours type of girlfriend. If he gives, I’ll give back, but I don’t like to be taken advantage of.
What do you like to do most with your boyfriend?
Make love, not war
Paint the town red
Look for a replacement boyfriend
I like doing all kinds of things with a boyfriend. I would be up to trying just about anything if I was interested in the relationship. If he wants to be outdoorsy, I’ll camp as good as the rest of them. If he wants to absorb art, I’ll be his Picasso sponge. I’m pretty flexible with the right man. I love making love and not war. The only good thing about fighting is making up.
Are they ever going to call my name? I suppose you could say I’m on my lunch hour-and-a-half. I have to get back. Fridays are always swamped at the restaurant. Well, I guess I don’t really have to get back. I mean, it is the middle of the afternoon; it’s not that busy now. They aren’t even expecting me back for the rest of the day. I’m sure Neil is handling things; he’s a great manager. I’ll just pop in when I’m done here to make sure everything is running smooth.
“Michelle Dickerson,” a new nurse cheerfully calls out after opening the golden door. “The doctor will see you now.”
“It’s about time,” mumbles the business-suit lady with the laptop. If I went to a Workaholics Anonymous meeting I’d find her leading the group.
Five people have checked in since I’ve been here and only two have been called back. If they had a comment box here I would have to suggest they hire a new appointment setter. The one they have now must double-book like crazy.
If your boyfriend asks you to do his homework for him you…
Just do it, duh!
Get upset because you hoped he was smart
Dump him faster than he can say ‘Hooked on Phonics’
First of all, I’m 32 years old and I haven’t had a boyfriend ask me to do his homework for seventeen years. Second, I refused when he asked because I knew the reason he wanted me to do it was so I’d be preoccupied while he went out with Susan Baker. He ended up failing Algebra and she ended up dumping him for Stanley Figg.
It’s been about forty minutes. I’ve had about all I can of this questionnaire. What do they prove anyway? I suppose they are good for making time go by. This chair I’m sitting in has got to be about the most uncomfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Dr. Davenport’s nurse appears in the doorway. She looks at me and blandly sighs, “Margaret, the doctor will see you now.”
“Humph…” I hear muffles from somewhere across the room.
I put the magazine down, gather my stuff and start to form a secretive ‘Thank you’ speech in my head like was accepting an award for stepping through the golden threshold that takes me out of this dreaded room and drops me in to a different dreaded room…
“First of all I’d like to thank God for creating the need for the yearly check up for women. I’d like to thank my mother for suggesting that I come here today. Without her continuous nagging, none of this would have been possible. I’d like to thank that kid by the LEGO table for covering his mouth through thirty percent of his coughs. I’d like to thank that nurse for calling my name finally. I’d like to thank this gorgeous man next to me for smelling so wonderful…”
PLAN C: REGAIN DIGNITY
As soon as I stand up I notice my right leg is asleep. First it is cold and numb, and now it feels like I have a thousand needles sticking in it. The woman sitting across from me jumps up and starts assisting me. With compassion in her voice she asks, “Dear, can I help you? You look like you really hurt yourself.” And with complete thoughtlessness I reveal, “Thank you, but my leg is fine, it’s just asleep. I’m actually here for a Pap smear.”
Right away the woman’s six year old starts singing, “I’m here for a Pap smear” to the tune, ‘Na na na boo boo, stick your head in doo doo’. Right on cue I’m completely mortified.
“She’s… um… quite a singer,” I mutter to the woman as she covers her daughters face with both of her hands. The woman is embarrassed, but I doubt she’s feeling it as much as I am. I can sense about a dozen sets of eyes on me and I hear giggling coming from somewhere to my right.
I turn to the hunk sitting on my left and see he’s got a great big grin on his face like everyone else does. It’s probably not a good time to slip him my phone number.
“So, er… it’s been nice not getting to know all of you,” I quietly announce to the room of strangers while straightening out my dress. “I’ll just, um… be going now. Y’all have a great check-up… or, uh… whatever.” Did I really just say y’all to these people?
In one swift movement I put my purse strap over my shoulder and begin my limp to the door with my head hanging in shame. That couldn’t have gone any worse.
Now I get to wait alone in “Room 3” for another thirty minutes where it’s absolutely freezing. I’m sure that the nurse who walked me in here is out at the check-out desk telling her co-workers about my mindless declaration.
Why did I agree to come here? There’s no chance for romance with Mr. Khaki Shorts and the magazine selection in this room is prehistoric.
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