How to Ruin Series Part 127

Kosher question #2: You can't mix milk and meat because G.o.d commanded "You shall not boil a kid (baby lamb) in its mother's milk" (Exodus 23:19).

So why can't I mix milk with chicken?

You can't milk a chicken.

"Why do you keep glancing at the door every two seconds?" Marla asks me the next day at work.

Umm ... maybe it's because my dad's date is gonna be here any second, followed by my dad who still doesn't know he's going on a date. He thinks Marla needs to talk to him about my work schedule. I made up some ridiculous story to get him into the cafe at seven o'clock.

"I'm watching for my dad," I tell my boss guiltily.

The door to the cafe opens. It's a woman I've never seen before. Is it Kelly, my dad's date? Or is it someone else? Kelly wrote in her e-mail that she has strawberry blonde hair. This woman kind of has strawberry blonde hair, although it's really frizzy and she needs some expensive hair products to help tame that mane of hers.

That picture she posted online was with her hair straight, but maybe she forgot to flatiron it today.

She walks up to the counter and suddenly I'm feeling self-conscious, like I have to impress the woman. "Are you Kelly?" I ask.

The woman shakes her Brillo pad head.

"No."

"Oh, good."

When she frowns at me, I try and recover quick. "Can I take your order?"

She looks up at our board of specialty coffees, taking her time. I have the urge to give her a snoring sound (I'm good at those) but don't think Marla will appreciate my humor. So I wait with a smile on my face. And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

I swear, any more of this waiting and I'm going to frown. My mouth can't take all this fake smiling. I start humming, but I don't even realize it until the woman looks down at me with a stern expression.

Seriously, thank goodness this woman isn't my dad's strawberry blonde date.

The door dings. Another customer. "Are you ready?" I ask the woman who can't make up her mind. I could just see her as my stepmom, me waiting for her to pick me up from school, taking forever to pick out groceries, and waiting for her to order a simple spicy tuna roll from Hanabi.

Looking around her, another woman who could pa.s.s for strawberry blonde walks up to the counter. I suck in my breath. This woman is really large. And I'm being nice. Maybe the picture she posted was pre-weight gain. My dad is a workout and health nut, and this woman looks like she's snacked on a few too many Kit Kats if you know what I mean. She has a friendly face, though. Hey, maybe Dad can put her on a boot camp diet plan and she'd lose those extra pounds in no time at all.

Ignoring the wishy-washy lady, I ask the overweight one, "Are you Kelly?"

"No. But I'd like a large caramel latte with whipped cream."

I keep up the Perk Me Up! smile, although I'm tempted to suggest the skim latte instead of the caramel one. While I'm ringing her up, the wishy-washy lady signals to me she's ready. Can't she see I'm ringing up someone else?

Marla is in the office and I don't want her to think I can't take care of the customers. I turn to the wishy-washer.

"Did you decide?"

"What's the calorie count of the medium vanilla coffee? Is it the same as the regular?"

Is she kidding me? I look under the counter to see if there's a calorie listing for the drinks, but there isn't. Now I don't know what to do. Should I make the other lady's drink or call Marla to help?

I look at my watch. It's seven on the dot.

Kelly will be here any second. My dad will be here any second.

And Miss Wishy-Washy is worried about a calorie count.

I knock on the door to the office and call Marla out to the register. I hurry to make the large caramel latte while Marla takes care of the frizzy-haired, high-maintenance customer. The chime rings on the door and a woman walks into the cafe who definitely looks like Kelly's PJSN profile pic.

She scans the cafe, then sits down at a vacant table to wait for my unsuspecting dad.

Sure enough, my dad walks in the door next. My heart is palpitating a hundred beats a second right now. My dad waves to me and walks up to the register. Kelly must recognize him from the picture I posted on his profile. She moves up behind him and is about to tap him on the shoulder.

"I have to tell you something," I say at the same time Kelly taps him and says, "Ron?"

He turns to her. "Can I help you?"

"Dad, it's important."

He puts his fingertips together on one hand and moves it up and down, the unique Israeli sign for wait a second. The problem is, I can't wait a second. I need to tell him that, even though he's unaware of it, he's on his first PJSN date.

"I'm Kelly. Are you Ron?" Kelly asks.

"Yes."

"From the Professional Jewish Singles Network?"

Pause.

"Um ... could you hold that thought for one second," my dad says to Kelly. Then he turns to me. "Tell me what this is all about, Amy. Right. Now. I'm a.s.suming Marla doesn't want to talk to me about adjusting your work schedule."

"Aba, you're going to laugh when I tell you this."

"I doubt it."

Kelly looks upset and embarra.s.sed.

"Am I missing something here?"

Okay, it's time to fess up. I thought it'd be easier than it is. I have the urge to hide in a dark corner. "I set up the date. I'm his daughter," I tell her.

Getting it, Kelly steps back. "Oh." She adjusts the Coach bag hanging on her shoulder. "Well, that makes me look stupid."

"Actually, it makes me look stupid," I tell her.

"And me," my dad chimes in. "I'll tell you what, Kelly. Why don't we sit down and have my daughter serve us the most expensive drinks in the place. It'll be her treat."

Kelly shrugs and nods her head in agreement. "Sounds good to me."

It doesn't sound good to me at all!

"I'm hungry, actually. How about one of the scones?" my dad asks. I'm adding the bill in my head, knowing I'll have to work at least two more hours in order to pay for the food bill.

"Scones sound wonderful," Kelly says, smiling.

"Don't they have Eli's cheesecake, too? Grab me a slice of that, would you, dear?"

I'm not liking Kelly with the strawberry blonde hair as much as my dad seems to like her. Teaching me a lesson is not how I imagined this date going. My dad sits down with Kelly while I bring them over Double Dutch Coffee Delight drinks. (I add a couple extra shots of espresso as a bonus ... I hope they both are up all night and can't sleep.) Those specialty drinks are four dollars and twenty-five cents each, along with the two-dollar-and-fifty-five- cent cheesecake and two-dollar-and-thirty- five-cent scones.

As if my day isn't disastrous enough, when Marla tells me to sweep the floor of the cafe I find Nathan at his usual spot in the corner. "You got caught in one of your lies, Barbie?" Nathan says. "I have a piece of advice. Next time you set your dad up on a date, you should probably tell him about it beforehand."

I shoot him a nasty glare. "At least I have parents," I say, then want to take back my words right after they've left my mouth.

Nathan's face goes ashen and he starts packing up his stuff.

Maybe his parents are dead or in the hospital somewhere. I'm a jerk. "I'm sorry," I quickly say.

As he shoves the last book into his backpack, he looks up at me. "No you're not." Then he leaves me standing here while he storms out of the cafe, leaving me to pick up his used cup which is still three- quarters of the way full with tea. Now I'm feeling even worse than before.

I glance over at my dad, who's shaking hands with Kelly. She exits the cafe, leaving my dad alone at the table until I saunter up to him and say, "So?"

He looks up at me from his chair. "So what?"

"How was the date?"

"Fine."

Fine is probably the most non-committal and non-descriptive word in the English language. I hate the word fine. It doesn't even mean anything. I try a different approach, one that can't be answered with a "fine." "Are you gonna see her again?"

"Maybe."

Great, another non-descriptive word.

"Did you get her number?"

My dad stands now, which is not a good thing because he's way taller than me.

"Listen to me, Amy, and listen good. Don't set me up on another date without my knowledge or you'll find yourself without a cell phone. Got it?"

"Fine."

10.

Rosh Hashanah: Two nights of huge festive meals.

Hanukkah: Eat foods cooked in oil.

Pa.s.sover: The Haggadah (Pa.s.sover prayer book) specifically says, Eat The Festive Meal.

Sukkot: Build a sukkah and invite friends to eat in it.

Yom Kippur: Eat three meals at once to make up for the day just fasted. I see a pattern here.

Why are so many Jewish holidays centered around food?

Since my dad went out of town this morning, Jessica invited me over for Shabbat dinner. So after school I go home, walk Mutt, then take a cab to Jessica's. I might also add that Nathan ignored me the entire day. Even when I tried to apologize again, he turned around and blatantly dissed me.

"Come in, Amy," Jessica's mom says when she opens the door to their six-flat.

"Jessica is in her room."

I climb the familiar whitewashed staircase and catch Jessica sitting at her desk, punching the keyboard of her computer. "You're not checking Mitch's e- mail again, are you?"

Without looking at me she responds, "You bet I am. He has no clue. I check them all and mark them as 'unread' e- mail."

"Jess, break up with him if you don't trust him."

Jess swivels her chair around to face me. "He told me he loved me on New Year's Eve, Amy. I haven't had a guy tell me he loved me since That Guy."

That Guy is Michael Greenberg, who Jessica lost her virginity to last year. He blew her off right after their big night together and she's been insecure about guys ever since. She won't even give me, her bestest friend in the entire world, details about what happened with Michael.

I can't even say his name without her walking out of the room.

"Did he tell you he loved you in the heat of pa.s.sion?"

"His hands were under my s.h.i.+rt."

Okay, so I'm not going to state the obvious. He gave her the ol' "I love you, let's get it on" c.r.a.p. I look back at her and know she doesn't want to talk about it anymore.

I look inside Jessica's closet to see what new clothes she's gotten that I can borrow. I pick out a vintage gray s.h.i.+rt with pink writing. "Where did you get this?"

"I have no clue. My mom got it for me."

"It's cool." As always, I make myself at home. Best friends share clothes, secrets, and beauty tips. I guess we also share guys because I dated Mitch for about a millisecond before he started dating Jessica. Taking my own s.h.i.+rt off, I try on her gray one. It fits, except when I look in her long mirror on the back of her door my nipples stick out because the fabric of the s.h.i.+rt is too thin.

Depressed, I pull the s.h.i.+rt off and study my bra-covered b.o.o.bs in the mirror.

"What are you doing?" Jess asks.