Galentine’s Day
“Have you ever noticed how many of these shows involve tools that….um…are suggestive?” Jeanie asks.
We are watching one of those woodworking guys on PBS. He has a New England accent, an endless supply of plaid shirts, and nice biceps. One of the show’s mysteries is how he gets such a golden, glowing tan in New England.
“You would think that,” I say, squinting down at my embroidery. It is hard to search for your glasses when you need your glasses to find them in the first place.
“Seriously,” she says. “Lathes, chisels, drills…don’t you see a connection there?”
I hold up my project. “Would you call this needle suggestive?”
She grimaces. “Umm…not so much?”
Today, February 13th, is Galentine’s Day, when we get to celebrate our female friendships. This makes way more sense to me than sentimentalizing romance, hearts, and the greeting card industry. We ordered pizza since it’s all my teenaged son and her toddler will eat.
Even though Jeanie and I have each other to lean on, I’m worried about her. She ordered the pizza where the delivery guy, a gorgeous twenty-something year old studying philosophy, is the side order. Last time, they spent so much time talking, the cheese congealed into the consistency of a glue stick. She’s been ordering IKEA furniture so she can order the service where people build it for you.
Jeanie will only hire Ned. He has a New England accent and wears plaid shirts.
She has several boxes at her place, waiting for him. Because her living room is full, now she is shipping pieces of furniture to my place too.
She’s lonely. A cat would be cheaper.
A dog would even be cheaper.
But then she’d have to walk it, and she’d want to hire a dog walker, and she’d only want to hire one that looks like a male model or a movie star. She’d end up in the same position she’s in right now.
At least she’s not using those online dating places. I don’t trust those people.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” I say as my cat jumps up onto my embroidery. He’s warm and snuggly, which is more than I can say for anyone I’ve dated. Unlike a dog, he doesn’t just wag his tail and give affection to anyone, and neither do I. We are waiting for the New England woodworker guy to finish so we can watch Pride and Prejudice.
The front door slams. It doesn’t seem possible for Michael, my son, to enter or exit a room any other way. If I didn’t know any better, I’d wonder if he was upset, but I do know better.
“Hey, Mom,” he says with perfect composure. “What’s for dinner?”
“Pizza,” I tell him.
Michael lowers his voice and rolls his eyes towards Jeanie. “D’Angelo’s again?”
I shrug.
“You can always heat up something else,” I say, but we both know he won’t.
He drops his soccer stuff and goes into his room with another meaningless slam. Nate, Jeanie’s two-year-old, toddles over to his backpack and fiddles with the zipper. Mr. Darcy strolls over to take a look.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” says Jeanie, and scoops up Nate into a helicopter. He laughs, light as a bubble in her arms. “Remember the six-hundred-dollar bill from shoving a peanut up your nose? We’re not getting another one of those, now, son, are we?”
I watch them snuggle and remember what two was like, board books and bath time. I don’t have my little Mikey anymore.
Michael materializes at my side. This surprises me since he has neglected to slam the door and I have become conditioned to expect it.
“When can I watch the TV?”
“After this ends,” I say. “But only until my show comes on.”
He flops down on the couch. The channel changes.
“Hey!” Jeanie says.
“Sorry,” he answers. “I sat on it.” He looks at me, wide-eyed in his innocence.
He has turned on the six o’clock news with his rear end. A reporter stands in front of a brick building surrounded by the red, white, and blue glare of police lights.
“Look,” he says. “Isn’t that D’Angelo’s?”
I squint at the large blur on the wall.
“Maybe?” I say.
“Yes,” says Jeanie. “They are late. I called it in forty-five minutes ago.”
There is a knock at the door.
“Oh, good,” says Jeanie. “Shoot, I forgot my cash.” She looks at me. “Can I pay you back?” She crosses the room to where Nate is playing under the table.
“Let me check in the diaper bag,” she shouts, “just in case.”
Michael is watching the screen.
“The suspect is around six feet tall, with dark hair and eyes,” the reporter states. “Police say he may be armed and dangerous. Please call 9-1-1 if you encounter him.”
Jeanie opens the front door, no cash in hand.
“Hello,” she says. “I was hoping we could talk more tonight!”
This man is also around six feet tall, with dark hair and eyes. It is not the usual delivery