Out to Lunch (21 page)

20

I
hate Valentine’s Day.

“Valentine’s Day is AWESOME.”

Valentine’s Day is crap. It’s always crap.

“Valentine’s Day is one of the best days of the year.”

You just say that because there are presents involved.

“Well, DUH!”

It never works the way you want it to; someone is always disappointed.

“Not me.”

Sure, you always had secret admirers and doting boyfriends, and a loving husband.

“And you had me.”

Well, look how that’s working out for me.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

* * *

A
imee was always my Valentine’s Day backup. She sent flowers and cards and silly presents. She coached boyfriends and lovers. The few Valentine’s Days I ever liked, I liked because she orchestrated them. But let me be clear, it isn’t my day, it isn’t my holiday, and I never look forward to it, whether I’m romantically attached or not.

Frankly I’d skip it altogether, but Brian made a point of asking me to spend the evening together, and it’s impossible to tell the guy you’re sleeping with on a regular basis that Valentine’s Day is “not your thing.” I offered to cook, which is the best expression of affection I can think of, not to mention keeping you away from the overpriced and underwhelming “special dinners” at local restaurants. But he hemmed and hawed and it became clear that he wasn’t so interested in eating in. I’m getting the sense that some of his foodie claims and interest in learning to cook might have been somewhat exaggerated. So I called in a major favor and got us the last two seats at EL Ideas, a very exclusive twenty-seat BYOB tasting menu restaurant that is about impossible to get into. Aimee and I wanted to go together since it opened, but she just never felt up to it. We used to have a dining adventure together once a month, picking a new restaurant or a wacky ethnic food to try; it was our girls’ night out, no Wayne to limit our choices. We ate the city, sometimes going superfancy, sometimes grungy and suspect, but always interesting and a great time to be together and talk life and dreams the way we always did.

I haven’t been so excited about getting to EL, even though their reviews continue to be extraordinary and everyone I know who has gone just raves. Going without Aimee seems like kind of a sacrilege, but Brian’s been talking about wanting to go ever since one of the partners at his firm went and raved, and it was something I knew I could do, so I’m trying to put on a happy face. But I won’t lie. It feels weird. Things have been okay since our weekend away debacle, but not amazing. I feel like he’s losing patience with me, and I’m not really sure why, and I’m not really sure that I care. For sadly not the first time since we started dating, I have really been questioning his motives, his desire. I’m still not exercising, so I just keep getting doughier. Certainly not getting younger. Sometimes I just look at him with all his gorgeousness and wonder why on earth he is even bothering with me.

And when I think these things, the Voix alternately yells at me for self-doubt, and tells me that I can do better.

“You CAN do better. He? Cannot.”

I thought you were all excited when we hooked up.

“That was before I thought you were going to just hunker down with him in a boring little rut.”

My ruts are the only things keeping me sane.

“So be insane.”

I’m having conversations with my dead best friend, which is as insane as I would like to get, if you don’t mind. I hear the food in the nuthouse is lacking.

“Suit yourself.”

I’m supposed to meet Brian at six at his place, even though our reservation isn’t until seven thirty. Which makes me nervous. The dinner tonight is my gift to him, it’s a very expensive meal, and you have to prepay, it’s nonrefundable, plus it’s BYOB, so there are the wines to deal with. I’ve actually spent significantly more on the evening than I would have on a physical gift, but I’m still awkward about the whole present thing. Considering the necklace at Christmas, I’m worried about his giving me something too big. Presents always made me uncomfortable, since I’m just one of those people who’s hard to buy for, and I’m always worried about both being disappointed, and worse, that I’ll show it, which I know is horribly ungracious. I like giving things, love it actually, but accepting them has just always been sort of hard, and it got worse when we started making serious money. Even before the big sale, when we were just making pretty high salaries, people would give me presents, and the idea that they would spend their money, usually on things I didn’t really want, when I could well afford to just buy the right thing for myself, it just makes me tense.

I like something homemade and simple. Something from your heart. Preferably delicious. Bake me cookies, make me jam or pickles. Bring me some fabulous ingredient or nibble you picked up in your travels. Cook me dinner. Share your old family recipes with me. Take me to a new restaurant or food market or equipment store I’ve never been to. Knit me a comfy scarf in a color you think looks good on me. Anything that is a genuine expression of your affection and doesn’t cost a fortune or require you to wrack your brain too hard or get stressed out. And whatever you do, don’t bring me candles or bath products.

“You can’t have too many candles or bath products.”

Wrong. I have a whole cabinet full of that crap.

“I always gave you candles and bath products.”

Which is why I have a whole cabinet full.

“Oh.”

Exactly.

* * *

V
olnay is having a rough morning; it’s a damp dreary gray day, and her joints are stiff and sore, so I forgo the morning walk and just let the dogs out in the backyard for their morning business. Today I am taking Chewie to his third doggie day care tryout. The second place I tried last week also put him on the no-fly list. Something about getting out of his crate and eating the wooden gate for the small dog pen, causing a stampede of miniature pups, and turning the whole facility into the O.K. Pomeranian Corral. Apparently those little fellows can hide in a million places, and it took the entire staff most of the day to find and wrangle them. Sigh. Hopefully this new place will be able to handle him, because he needs a place to socialize, and I need a place to leave him when I go visit my folks for Passover in March. Wayne offered to take him anytime, but I think our tenuous friendship will survive better if I have trained professionals dealing with my ridiculous monster. But I am letting Wayne pick him up today and deliver him back to my place while I’m out with Brian. It will make my life so much easier to not have to deal with him, and Wayne seemed eager to help.

My phone rings just as I’m getting Volnay set up in the Kitchen Library for her breakfast. It’s Wayne, calling to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day.

“Ready for the big plans with Brian?” he asks.

“We’re just having dinner.”

“Okay. If you say so. But if he pulls out a little velvet box, run away! Run away!”

I can’t help but laugh. “I promise, if he pulls out a little velvet box, I’ll run like the wind. How are you doing?”

He sighs. “I’m okay. You know. Sort of shitty, really.”

“Yeah. She loved Valentine’s Day. And she always made it good for the rest of us.”

“Yeah. She did. So that sucks.”

“It does. You need anything?”

“Nah. Elliot gave me a boxed set of the original 1963
Doctor Who
DVDs last week, and Lois sent over a huge package of pastries from the bakery this morning, I’m just going to hunker down and geek way out and go into a mild diabetic coma till it’s over.”

“Well, it’s good to have a plan.”

“I thought so. What time do you want me to pick up the pup?”

“I’m meeting Brian at his place at six, but I’d like him to get the full-day experience, so pick him up between five thirty and six, and just drop him at my house. Thanks for doing that, it really is making my life easier.”

“My pleasure. And I promise not to let him eat anything other than his dinner.”

All I can do is laugh. “I’d appreciate that. And Wayne, I’m around most of the day, so if you need to check in, just give a call.”

“I will, thanks, Jenny. You have a good time. But not too good!”

I laugh. “I will.”

* * *

I
get all of Chewie’s stuff together, his favorite toy, a bag of treats, a bully stick. The fourth brand of supposedly indestructible chew toys, the previous three having been reduced to bits within hours of handing them off.

He’s running around excitedly, panting and huffing the way he does when he’s really happy.

“Sit,” I say, raising my hand in a fist the way the trainer has us do it. His butt hits the ground. I open my fist to a flat hand and he immediately lies down. I toss him a treat. “Good boy. Now look, three strikes and you are gonna be out, mister man. So please go to this place and be nice and stay in your crate even if you know you can get out and let the little yippy dogs alone and don’t eat the furniture and for god’s sake DON’T RAPE ANYONE.” He barks, and I toss him another treat. I’m really dying to slip him a Benadryl, but with my luck he’ll have some allergic reaction, so I’m not giving in to the temptation.

I toss Volnay a treat, and she heads over to her little bed for a nap, and I snap on Chewie’s leash and we head out to what I hope is a successful tryout.

The young man behind the desk at Doggie Day Afternoons Day Care looks like your classic skate punk, with peach fuzz on his chin and wide black plugs in his ears, and the never-a-good-idea white-boy blond dreads. But he comes around the counter to greet Chewie with a big smile and lots of praise.

“Chewbacca, rockin’ name.”

I’m still a little embarrassed to have the Star Wars moniker on the dog, but I give my standard excuse. “My best friend’s stepson named him.”

“Well, it is very cool. Great-looking Bordeaux, he’s gonna be a brute, aren’t you boy?”

“He’s already something of a handful,” I admit.

“No worries, I love these guys. I have a Neapolitan mastiff myself; they’re pretty similar. He eating your whole house?”

I laugh. “So that’s not unusual?”

“Nah. That’s the breed. Bless their hearts. He is full-on Hooch up in your place?”

The rest of my life it’s going to be Hooch. Even Benji is orchestrating a team movie night so that he can finally see it. “Yep. Although he hasn’t eaten my car yet.”

“Most people think that movie was just made-up and exaggerated for cinematic hilarity. But we know better. We know someone loves to play Mr. Destructo at every turn!” He is down on his knees play wrestling, and Chewie is clearly delighted with his new friend. “My mastiff ate the door off the closet where I keep his food when he was six months old. Literally.”

“Yikes.”

“In his defense, it was a shitty hollow-core door.”

“Well, that’ll teach your landlord to cheap out.”

“Anything I need to know? Besides the obvious?”

“He manages to get out of most crates,” I admit.

“Yeah, mine did that a lot. I’ll throw my bike chain on his door so he doesn’t get out.”

“That would be great. And he’s only four months old, so, um . . .”

“He’s a total horndog leg humper?”

I love this kid. I still want to shave his head and delouse him, but I love him. “Yeah. Legs, furniture, other dogs . . .”

“I’ll do a smaller playtime with him; I have a couple good old boy labs and one shepherd who should be able to hang with him and keep him in line.”

“Terrific. My friend Wayne is coming to pick him up.”

“What’s Wayne’s last name so I can check ID when he comes?”

This makes me feel really good. Not that I think anyone is out to steal my little monster. “Garland. I gave the girl on the phone his info for emergencies when I made the reservation.”

I feel really good about leaving him here, and pray that he behaves himself enough to be invited back.

When I get home, Volnay seems to be feeling better, so I take her for a short walk to stretch her legs. When we get back we log in to the Doggie Day website and catch Chewie playing with a couple of large Labradors. There appears to have been some sort of plush toy massacre, there is stuffing and fuzz everywhere, and something tells me that there has recently been some deadly tug-of-war. I’m just logging off when my e-mail pings.

Jenna-

Am going to be in your neck of the woods to look at someone’s collection, thought I’d stop by with lunch if you are up for that. I’ve been having a hankering for Olga’s, but one cannot tackle the wall of schnitzel alone.

Elliot

E-

Have never heard of Olga’s, but a lady never turns down schnitzel if it is offered.

J

J-

Prepare yourself. I’ll be there around noon thirty. You’re about to be converted.

E

I smile and look at Volnay. “Wall of schnitzel, hmmm?”

* * *

T
he bell rings at precisely 12:31.

I open the door to Elliot’s grinning face. He is carrying a small foil-wrapped baking dish, a large white paper bag, and a single enormous deep magenta peony. He hands me the flower.