Do You Shave?

This is a chapter from my book-in-progress, I Married him Anyway.

“Do you shave?” Richard asked me.

We were on our “First Date; The Second Time Around.” “The First Time Around” was when we dated on and off during high school. We’d break up every summer when he’d leave for camp. After all, I needed my freedom.

After seeing a student production of “Once Upon a Mattress” at Lake Forest College, we stopped for dinner at The Aardvark Pub. As we waited for our orders to arrive, we sipped our Cokes, talked about the Star Wars movies, college, our parents, siblings, and even our dogs.

Up until he’d asked me if I shaved, being out with Richard that night was so easy, comfortable, and familiar. I was so happy to have found him (more on that in another chapter) and that he wasn’t dating anyone at the time.

We both seemed happy to be in each others’ company. We picked up right where we’d left off four years earlier, except we were now four years older, and much more mature.

Well, I was. He needed a few more years in the oven.

I remembered Richard as being the nicest guy I’d ever met. I was going to be moving back home after attending Indiana University so I could finish up my English, Creative Writing degree at Lake Forest College. I hoped Richard had come home from Miami of Ohio and was living with his parents.

While at I.U., every frog I’d kissed wasn’t capable of turning into a prince, and I chucked every fish I’d dated back into the sea. I was in yet another a dead-end, unhealthy relationship at the time. In fact, it was so dead, it needed to end.

I finally realized it was time to be in a meaningful relationship with someone who I cared about, and who cared about me. I just knew Richard was that person, and I couldn’t get him, and his hair, out of my mind.

On a puddle-jumper from Bloomington, IN to Chicago, the only other passenger on the plane was Barb, a mutual friend of Richard’s and mine. She was sitting across the aisle from me. Coincidence? I don’t believe in them.

Before the plane took off, and it was quiet enough for us to hear each other, Barb and I caught up on life. The topic of conversation finally landed on Richard. I told Barb how much I’d missed him, and asked her if she knew where he was, and what he was doing. She didn’t, but she gave me great advice, and I’ll always be grateful to her for that.

So, after transferring to Lake Forest College, I began a quest to find Richard. If I was successful, I was going to ask him out.

That’s all I had to do, but, as I’ve always been told, I make things more difficult than they have to be. I didn’t just call him; I took the scenic route.

With Barb’s words of wisdom in my head, and a lot of help from my friend, Laura, which involved stalking Richard, and several other misdemeanors (which I’ll elaborate on at another time,) I was finally on a date with Richard.

And, that’s when he said those three little words.

It was such a strange question, I wasn’t even sure I understood what he meant.

“Do I shave what?” I thought to myself. “Poodles? Sheep? A little off the top?”

I still needed time to process his question.

Thankfully, our food arrived, giving me a few more seconds to try to formulate an answer.

So, I picked up a French fry, and said, “Well, I get my legs waxed, if that’s what you mean.”

He glanced up from his plate. The expression on his face looked like I had just told him one of my favorite hobbies was blood-letting. He had obviously never heard of waxing.

I thought that if I explained what waxing was, I’d get closer to understanding why he wanted to know if I shaved. “Well, it’s kind of like shaving,” I said.

He looked relieved.

“Was that what you meant? I asked, as I picked up another fry.

“Yes,” he said, with a smile. I was happy I had finally cracked his code.

I took a bite out of my burger, being careful to be lady-like and chew with my mouth closed, waiting to speak until I’d finished swallowing, and asked, “Why did you ask me if I shaved?”

I picked up another fry, dipped it in ketchup, and was about to take a bite out of it when he said, “I wanted to find out if you were one of those European-types who doesn’t shave her legs and armpits.”

I dropped my fry. Getting reacquainted was one thing; asking me if I had hairy armpits was an entirely different animal.

Barely looking up from his plate, therefore not seeing the look of bewildered disgust on my face, he said, “I was just wondering if you’d become one of those chicks who went away to college, and decided to go all ‘natural,’” he said, while making air-quotes with his fingers.

I was offended on behalf of my friends who had decided to go the “natural route,”and, I finally understood his question. He wanted to make sure, before he “got with that,” which didn’t happen as quickly as he always tells people it did, that my legs and armpits were as smooth and silky as a Mexican Hairless cat.

At least I knew he wanted to see me again.

Let’s get artificial here, for a moment: I looked completely different from the last time he saw me, and he didn’t notice?

I looked the best I ever, or will ever look, thanks to my very gracious, aforementioned friend, Laura, who spent 2 1/2 hours working magic on my face. As a model, Laura knew what she was up against, and was more than happy to put her talent to good use. Maybe she saw me as a challenge.

 

 

My own mother didn’t recognize me when I came home from Laura’s house to get dressed before Richard picked me up in his Red 1974 Plymouth Duster.

Laura had applied her own expensive makeup with her own expensive brushes to turn this frizzy duckling into a sparkling swan. She even lent me one of her favorite necklaces. I have to say, I looked exquisite and radiant. And all Richard wanted to know is if I shaved?

Finally, I figured out why Richard hadn’t noticed Laura’s handiwork. There’s a step at the entrance to my parents’ house, so when I opened the front door to let Richard in to pick me up for our date, I stood about six inches taller than he. Richard failed to look at my face, or make direct eye contact because his eyes had made direct boob contact. That’s when he said these five little words, “Nice to see you both.”

I guess I’d overlooked his comment because as soon as I saw him, I fell hopelessly in love and was busy planning our wedding in my head.

A paper bag over my head would have sufficed, as long as the girls were front and center.

My Doppelgänger is… Alice Cooper?

Many years ago, in the middle of a conversation I was having with someone, she used the word “Doppelgänger.” I burst out laughing. She looked at me like I’d just kicked her puppy.

While I was sure she had made it up, she couldn’t believe I’d never heard the word before. I guess I just wasn’t that cool back then. Like I’m so much cooler now?

Mom, and all of your friends who read my blog (thank you,) if you don’t know what it means, and that’s not a crime, it’s a word used to describe someone who could be your twin.

I have a bad habit of not removing my makeup before going to bed. So, one morning, a few months ago, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and thought to myself, “Oh my God! I look just like Alice Cooper,” not that there’s anything wrong with that.

 

Photo Courtesy: zimbio.com

 

 

 

Today, before publishing this post, I decided to Google Alice Cooper one more time. I did a double-take when I saw the cover of his new double-album, “Paranormal,” which was just released on July 28th. How paranormal is it that on his double-album he’s his own Doppelgänger?

 

Album cover art by Rob Fenn

 

 

Cooking With Leslie

For nearly 30 years, my attempts to prepare succulent, harmless meals for my family has been a crap shoot. In fact, there have been many shooting craps as a result of my cooking.

I’ve seen the look of terror on the faces of my husband and kids after I’ve informed them I’ve made dinner. When I send a group text to let everyone know dinner will be waiting for them when they come home, the responses are always positive and full of smiley-face emojis. Liars.

No matter how many smiley faces I receive, each member of my family comes home with a bag from a local eatery, such as Chipotle, Real Urban Barbecue, or even McDonald’s, just to be on the safe side. Their standards are low; right where they should be.

I now have a short repertoire of fool-proof dinners I can make that my family likes, but I still hear, “Did you really make this? It’s so good!” Gee, thanks.

I lamented about my culinary ineptitude to my very dear friend, and the extraordinarily talented Cartoonist, Sharon Rosenzweig, who created the cartoon of my family for my website.

Sharon’s talent extends into many facets of her life, especially her cooking. She’s one of the best cooks around. I’m sure she’s never made caca in her kitchen. Well, you know what I mean.

I told Sharon that my first attempt to cook a brisket resulted in a slab of meat so tough, it smote the motor of my brand-new electric knife without leaving so much as a flesh-wound.

The only person who could play the part of “The Brisket” in the movie adaptation of “The Brisket” is Mr. T. “I pity the fool who tries to eat this brisket. He’ll lose more teeth than a hockey player during playoffs.”

I showed Sharon a picture I took which demonstrated the way I recently “cut” a watermelon.

The next picture I presented as evidence of my misadventures in the kitchen was of my “Lunar Cornbread.” I admitted I had used a mix from a box, as if that would magically ensure perfection.

It didn’t. The cornbread came out of the oven looking as though it had been clobbered by an asteroid. I added the green beans before taking a picture of it to illustrate the depth of the crater. (Green beans not included.) Sorry. Old Sears Catalog copywriting habits die hard.

The one thing I can bake that everyone loves is my Vanilla Bean Cheesecake Brûlée. After the cheesecake has cooled in the fridge, I spread a thin layer of sugar on top, and then use a kitchen torch to melt the sugar. Then, I put it back in the fridge for several hours to set, making slicing a breeze! I even purchased a cake-tote so I can bring a cheesecake to a friend’s house, when requested. Yes, it does get requested.

On one such occasion, I hadn’t properly calculated my time (Shocking!) and had to bring the cheesecake, in tote, knowing it wasn’t cold enough to have set. There was no room in the hostess’s refrigerator to let it cool a little longer, so I prayed for some luck at the pot-luck, and set it out amongst the other offerings.

We all chatted for an hour, and then sampled the buffet. I glanced at the plate of the woman standing next to me who was known for her loud voice, and even louder lipstick. What was that clump of slippery custard with shards of what looked like brown glass sticking out of it, encroaching upon her Caesar salad, and broccoli Étouffée?

No!

I slowly backed away from the pack, shoved the last bite of a lemon square in my mouth, and placed my plate in the garbage. As I quickly gathered my coat and purse, I found the hostess, properly thanked her, and told her I needed to go home to feed my dogs. I had to get out of there! I didn’t want to have to claim responsibility for The Pastry Formerly Known as my Vanilla Bean Cheesecake Brûlée! (Sorry. I don’t have a picture of that.)

Just as the screen door began to close behind me, I heard Big Old Lipstick Lips ask, “Who made the flan?”

I lost my last pinch of kitchen confidence after “The Great Exploding Potato Incident of 2013.”

I had forgotten to poke holes in a gaggle of potatoes before setting them in the oven to bake for 45 minutes at 400 degrees.

When the timer rang, I opened the door expecting to find perfect, evenly browned potatoes. Instead, I found potato shrapnel glued to every surface inside the oven.

Oh, the tuberosity!

After admitting every walk of shame I’ve taken from my kitchen, Sharon seemed particularly fascinated by the story of “The Great Exploding Potato Incident of 2013.” As she looked off into the distance, I could almost see the chickens scratching at her brain as she began concocting the cartoon she would draw that’s debuting on my website at the top of this blog post, and beneath the next paragraph, in case you don’t feel like scrolling back up.

Without even laying an eye on a picture of the exploded potatoes, Sharon perfectly captured my bewilderment after “TGEPI of 2013.” She just nailed it.

You would think I didn’t have a good cooking role model growing up, but that’s not the case. My mother has always been a great cook. She made dinners every night we all ate with relish; occasionally ketchup.*

Because my mother’s mother was not a very good cook at all, I could try to make the case that cooking, and other sports, skips a generation.

But, I can’t, because both of my kids are very good cooks.

I guess I’ll keep trying. Dignity is so overrated.

*An homage to my father.

Pay no attention to the ditz behind the computer!

I know. I know. If you’re a subscriber to my website, and you really should be, despite this notification, you have already received 5,000 email notifications about new blog posts which are, in reality, old posts. I should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery without supervision.

Thanks, Mom, for letting me know what a dork I am, and laughing about the fact that I said The Chicago Blackhawks Convention begins today and runs through July 17th OF LAST YEAR!

All I wanted to do was edit several blog posts, thinking I would “refresh” them. I did not expect the little Mail Chimp who lives inside my computer to spit a bunch of emails at you.

Surprise!

The good news is that the next post you’ll be notified about will be freshly written. The only problem is that it’s about the Chicago Blackhawks … AGAIN! So, I’m sorry for all the confusion. If you’re confused, imagine how I feel right now!

 

This is what happened when I cut my own hair the night before picture day.
This is what happened when I cut my own hair the night before picture day.

 

Thank you for taking this journey with me, and allowing me to learn from my mistakes, knowing I’ll probably make the same ones again in the near future.

Leslie