A Girl Like You Page 8

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  It took me five minutes to pull the red snow blower out of the chaos that was our shed and onto the driveway. Then all there was to do was start it and let the engine run out of gas.

  I pulled the starter cord. Nothing. Pulled harder. A short, half-hearted wheeze came from the engine. About six pulls later, my shoulder muscles were screaming. Note to self: start arm work at the Y.

  But I was determined not to let the snow blower win. My last pull felt half-assed, but the motor caught and roared. I did a little victory dance.

  And then the toilet started running water continuously.

  I put on my oldest leggings—faded witches on brooms—still tight around the waist because I had yet to recapture my fitness, went into the bathroom and jiggled the toilet handle.

  Nothing.

  I washed my hands and went to my laptop to Google “how to fix a leaky toilet.” Seemed simple enough. Back in the bathroom, I took the lid off the toilet and jiggled the chain holding the rubber stopper controlling the water. Then I held it up for a minute. I thought it would help to see if the toilet refilled with the stopper up, so I flushed. It took about a minute for the toilet to fill and overflow all over the floor, bathmat, and my sneakers.

  Penny stuck her nose around the corner of the doorway.

  “You don’t want to come in here,” I said, grabbing some bath towels and throwing them down on the biggest puddles.

  Penny stepped in with her front paws, then quickly retreated.

  I knew I had no other choice: it was time to talk to the experts. I asked the men for help the next day at work.

  “Never jiggle the handle!” Wes scolded me as if I were a child. “That just makes it worse.”

  “And definitely never flush,” echoed Paulie. “You’re just asking for an overflow.”

  “Did you pull the chain on the float arm?” Sal asked patiently.

  After some unsuccessful attempts to teach me the working mechanisms of a toilet, Wes pulled out a Brew Coffee napkin and drew a diagram of the parts under the lid.

  “Ya gotta empty it first,” Sal said.

  “She doesn’t have to empty it. She can stick her hand in the back of the toilet—it’s clean water,” Paulie suggested.

  “For god’s sake, she doesn’t want to be up to her arm in cold toilet water!” Wes argued on my behalf.

  The three men finally agreed the best first step was turning the shut-off valve clockwise and draining the toilet.

  “Then pry up the flapper.”

  “What’s the flapper?” I asked.

  When they were done laughing at my lack of toilet parts knowledge, Wes drew a round rubber seal on the napkin to illustrate. “Flapper problems, that’s what’ll get ya.”

  Paulie nodded in agreement.

  “Chain’s probably too long,” Wes said thoughtfully. “Gotta shorten it so the flapper closes in time.”

  “Ya know, you can waste a good 200 gallons of water a day letting your toilet run,” Sal said helpfully. “Haven’t you been keeping an eye on your own water bill? You’re a smart girl; surprised you never noticed till now.”

  * * *

  I followed their directions that night, draining the toilet, checking the flapper to find the chain really was actually too long. I got out the wire cutters I used to make Christmas wreaths and clipped it slightly shorter. Voilà. The sound of running water in the tank had stopped, and the guys hadn’t even had to make a house call to help me.

  I thanked the guys with cinnamon raisin bagels the next day at work—substantially less costly than a plumber’s bill, with a hefty boost to my confidence as an added side benefit.

  24

  Besides Eddie and my small dog, my best friend was a precocious little girl named Lily, who was six and lived down the street. My house was at the end of the sidewalk, and Lily was allowed to ride her bike or push her baby doll stroller only on the sidewalk, so she always ended up at my front porch.

  If I wasn’t outside, Lily rang the bell and asked if Penny could go out to play. Sometimes, Lily’s mother let her scooter up the sidewalk to my house after dusk to visit, just for a few minutes. I spent many weeknights outside with Penny, rocking in my wicker chair, watching cars go by.

  “So, Bryan’s gone?” Lily asked one warm evening in June.

  “Yeah, he’s…gone. Lives in the south, near the beach now.”

  Lily considered this for a minute. “I’d rather stay here and live with you and Penny.”

  “Thanks, kid,” I said, ruffling her curly hair.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, smoothing her hair. “You sad about him going to live near the beach?”

  I smiled. Leave it to a kid to cut to the chase.

  “I was pretty sad, but I’m getting better.”

  “Good for you,” Lily said, then proceeded to tell me about a yellow and pink butterfly she’d seen in her backyard that landed on her trampoline.

  * * *

  “I like your nail polish,” I told Lily one night, looking at her sparkly toenails.

  “Thanks, my grandpa did them,” she said, flexing her flip-flopped feet. “Then he let me paint his big toe only. He said he had to take it off before my dad saw.”

  “Your grandpa’s a smart man.”

  “I know.”

  * * *

  One summer afternoon, Lily settled herself on my front steps and emptied out her backpack.

  “Grace is hungry, and I didn’t have time to feed her before her walk,” she explained, pointing to the doll with the tousled blonde ponytails. “So, I have to make her food now.”

  She set out a plate and pulled out a jar of bright blue Play-Doh, which she flattened between her palms, then cut into strips with a plastic knife.

  “What are you making?”

  “Fries.”

  Then she sat the doll on a small pink play toilet that made a real flushing sound when she pressed the lever.

  I waited to see how Lily would feed Play-Doh fries to little Grace—who I’d never noticed had an open mouth—and to learn why she sat on the potty when eating. Lily carefully spoon-fed the doll, then picked her up and thumped on her head, causing the Play-Doh to eject from the doll’s bottom, where there was also an opening, right into the toilet bowl.

  “Your turn,” she said, handing over the baby spoon.

  “Why are your fingers blue?” Ian asked later that night.

  “I was helping Lily make French fries.”

  “I’m not even going to ask.”

  * * *

  Along with being an excellent mama to her dolls, Lily was a born gymnast. Part monkey, she balanced her small feet sideways on a tiny ledge outside our kitchen window, which I left open that summer like a drive-through restaurant. She showed up a few times a week, poking her little head into our kitchen, which made Penny stand on her hind legs and try to reach her.

  Lily told me she sometimes came to our kitchen window and was disappointed when she found no one home. I put green sidewalk chalk on the ledge and told her to leave me messages. When she tapped on the window and no one answered, she wrote her name in the large, painstakingly formed letters of a kindergartner. Every few days I changed chalk colors to see if she noticed.

  She always did.

  Another day Lily drew a welcome mat with yellow chalk in front of the porch steps.

  “This is so people will come see you,” she told me.

  “You’re the only company I need, kid,” I said, thinking how much she reminded me of Madison when she was little.

  “Everyone gets lonely and wants visitors,” Lily said sagely. “Even you.”

  She was right, of course. I’d reached the point of intense loneliness.

  25

  “So there’s this new dating site,” Eddie said, Penny on his lap, while I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner a month later.

  “What?”

  “It’s where you look at profiles and message anyone you might be interested in.”
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br />   “I know what a dating site is,” I said, scrubbing at the baked-on lasagna in the dish. “Why would you think I’d want to do that?”

  “Honey, you’ve got to get out of the house sometime.”

  I loaded silverware in the dishwasher. “I get out of the house. Every day I go to my fabulous new office clerk job. I file papers. I run mail through the meter. I type up meeting minutes. I listen to the Three Stooges debate which county has the best-tasting water.”

  “Yes, I know, work a monkey could do; you’ve told me many times.”

  “It’s worse than monkey work,” I said. “Someone called me today to ask if they could raise chickens in their backyard.”

  “Can they?” Eddie asked.

  “Only if they have a very large lot,” I sighed.

  “Well, a crap job is all the more reason to get out and have some fun.”

  “No thanks,” I said, hanging up the dishtowel.

  “So, it’s called Go Fish,” Eddie said, opening my laptop.

  “Well see, right off the bat, that’s a stupid name,” I sat down at the table with him anyway.

  “I think it’s rather clever. And besides, it’s free.”

  “Free?”

  “Yes, little miss budgeter, free.”

  I pulled my chair over as Eddie put on his glasses and logged onto the site. There was a graphic of a couple sitting on a dock with fishing poles in water full of cartoon hearts.

  “See, right there, that’s so dumb. Maddy’s on Tinder—why don’t I just try that, if you’re gonna force me to put myself out there?”

  “How do I put this diplomatically?” Eddie pursed his lips. “That’s for kids, and the last time you dated, phones had cords.”

  “Thanks for the diplomacy.”

  “Shush. OK, let’s write your profile. Age?”

  “Forty-nine,” I said with assurance.

  “Seriously? You’re going to subtract eight years from your age?”

  “You think I should go with forty-five?” I asked hopefully.

  “Let’s just go with forty-nine, then,” Eddie said.

  “Are you saying I couldn’t pass for forty-five?”

  “I’m not saying that, sweet pea. Tell you what, I’ll give you an extra inch on the height and say 5'5".”

  “It doesn’t ask weight, does it? I’m not saying my weight. God, even I don’t want to know my weight; I’ve successfully avoided the scale at the Y.”

  “Calm down… it does ask your body shape: athletic, average, couple extra pounds, or BBW?”

  “Oh my God, don’t you dare put down a couple extra pounds,” I howled. “Even though that’s technically what I am.”

  “Average it is.”

  We clicked through a list of questions:

  Is religion important to you?

  “I should say yes, right? I’m Lutheran.”

  “When was the last time you were in church?”

  “OK, no,” I said.

  “Would you describe yourself as spiritual?”

  “Yes, that’s a definite yes,” I said confidently.

  “What kind of music do you like?”

  “I don’t know what to say—everything but that loud, obnoxious post-hardcore punk crap Ian listens to.”

  “Variety,” Eddie said, typing. “Are politics important to you?”

  “Should I say yes? I should say yes, right?”

  “You should tell the truth,” Eddie said.

  “OK, well, in election years yes; other times not as much as I should be.”

  “What’s your profession?”

  “Oh, shit, does it really ask that? I’m a clerk…no, wait, put down writer.”

  Eddie raised his eyebrows.

  “I write,” I said indignantly.

  “OK, now to the good stuff,” Eddie said. “How would you describe yourself in one word?”

  “Mom.”

  Eddie shook his head.

  “How about ‘dog lover?’ Men like dogs, right?”

  Eddie sighed. “That’s two words, and the idea here is to be enticing.”

  “Writer?”

  Eddie rubbed his eyes. “How about ‘adventurer?’”

  “Yeah, well, then they’ll think I like to do things, you know, adventurous. I don’t think walking around the block with Penny makes me an adventurer.”

  “Wait, I know, there is a word that describes you—let me think,” Eddie drummed his fingers on the table. “Means you like smart people.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, thankfully, you don’t have to be smart to love smart people,” Eddie said. “Let me Google it.”

  I got up to pour wine.

  “That’s it! Sapiophile: a person who is sexually attracted to highly intelligent people!”

  “Hmm.”

  “What do you mean, hmm?” Eddie said, accepting his wine glass.

  “I mean, won’t people have to Google it to know what it means?”

  “The smart people you’re trying to attract will know what it means, silly.”

  “If you say so,” I said uncertainly.

  “I do. Now, what are you looking for? Casual dating, LTR, or someone to marry?”

  “What the hell’s a LTR?”

  Eddie sighed and took a deep drink of his wine. “Long-term relationship, dear. Are you looking for that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Babe, you gotta know what you want before you go looking.”

  “That was incredibly philosophical. Hold on while I call Hallmark.”

  “Ha ha ha,” Eddie said.

  “I guess casual dating.”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s not what I’m looking for?”

  “That means you’re looking to hook up,” Eddie said patiently. “You know, DTF?”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Let’s just say if a guy asks if you are DTF, tell him no immediately.”

  “What is it?”

  Eddie sighed. “It means down to, and then the F-word.”

  “Well, that’s interesting.”

  Eddie shrugged. “Everybody’s DTF at some point. Except you, that is,” he looked at me over the top of his glasses.

  “Maybe I am DTF,” I defended myself. “After all the boring sex I’ve had, maybe I want to try new things.”

  “You said the sex was good with Bryan, missy.”

  “Not at the end,” I sighed. “It was nonexistent. So now I’m ready. Bring it.”

  “Good for you, Little Miss Frisky. You are free to go explore.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just don’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Eddie sighed. “Don’t let anyone talk you into anything. Go with your gut.”

  “I plan to. And also go with other body parts a bit further south.”

  “What has gotten into you?”

  “Like you said, I’m free to do what I like. Maybe it’s time to let my hair down.”

  “As long as you keep your wits about you.”

  We both drank from our wine glasses.

  “And also prepare to be ghosted,” Eddie said. “A lot.”

  “Ghosted?”

  “It’s when someone messages you for a while—or even meets you—then disappears. Poof! And you have no idea what happened.”

  “God, that sounds terrible!”

  “You think that’s bad, wait until you’ve been ‘mosted,’” Eddie continued.

  “Explain, please.”

  “It’s a new phenom where you go out on several dates and are led to believe you’re the most wonderful person in the world, that you’re everything they’ve been looking for, and then—”

  “Then they run? Ugh, that’s even worse. I would never ‘most’ someone.”

  “Never say never, Jess.”

  I got up and poured some pretzels into a bowl.

  “Hey, can I put in there ‘looking for someone with good grammar’?”


  Eddie took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “What are you talking about, Jess?”

  “You know how I am about spelling and grammar…I just don’t want texts from a guy that mixes up there, their, and they’re.”

  “No one likes a grammar snob, sweetie.”

  “Fair enough.” I scowled at him.

  “Now, let’s pick a good profile name.”

  “I’m assuming we don’t use our own.”

  “Right, chicky. And don’t ask to use ‘Mom of 2’ or ‘Dog lover,’ because those aren’t even remotely interesting,” Eddie said, furrowing his brow.

  “Hey, I’m interesting,” I defended myself.

  “Of course you are,” he said, patting my hand. “But a profile name is like a billboard; people have to notice it.”

  “Hmm,” I deliberated.

  “Too bad you don’t have an outdoor hobby, we could use ‘Loves to Skate,’ or ‘Camping Fun.’’’

  We sat in silence.

  “How about your zodiac sign—what is it?” Eddie asked.

  “Aries.”

  “Let’s go with that. You need to make it clear you’re a woman, so Aries Girl, and you run the words together so it’s AriesGirl.”

  “Yeah, I can go with that,” I sighed.

  Eddie snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! A way to make it sound sexy: AriesGurl.”

  “If you think that works….”

  “It works,” he said, clapping his hands together. “What are we going to do about photos?”

  “No photos! All I have are bad ones! I haven’t had a good picture taken in ten years! More than that! The last good photo was Christmas 1999 because half of me was hidden behind the tree.”

  “Then it’s time to get some new ones. Go find something sexy to wear.”

  “All I have is leggings,” I said, thoughtfully. “I may have a V-neck T-shirt….”

  “We’re going to need more wine,” Eddie said, rubbing his temples.

  26

  Despite all his protests, Ian joined Tinder. Maddy was on Bumble, so it was official: we were, all three of us, unmarried and on dating sites.