(Published in Facsimilation Magazine 2004)
Preparing For “The Date”
by
Diana Grove
Saturday
6 a.m.
I awaken in a pool of sweat because not only did I show up for “dream school” without pants again, but my “dream date” turned into an octopus that had bad breath and spoke only Spanglish.
6:30-8:30
After a lot of tossing and turning, I finally overcome my nightmares with a fantasy of Speed Racer on a bed of orange marmalade. Alarmed that I’m actually fantasizing abut a Japanese cartoon character, I hurl myself out of bed and locate my bunny slippers.
8:45
Making my way into the kitchen, I fix myself a pot of decaf, because I read somewhere that caffeine gives you cellulite. Groggy and swollen, I search around for the coffee cake.
9:00
Remembering I stopped eating coffee cake in 1986, I instead fix myself some cottage cheese, soy milk and something called Power-Aid, which I’m sure is actually reconstituted dry wall mixed with dog pee. I choke it down. After all, anything that tastes that bad has got to be good for you.
9:16
My stomach rumbles. I choose to ignore it and instead pause to reflect on the cuteness of kittens.
9:18
Yawning, I leaf through an old Cosmo and laugh at an article entitled “What His Eye Color Says About His Penis Size.” I then read it with an intensity that should be reserved only for Tolstoy.
10:06
Remembering the horror of my last blind date, I briefly consider finding his number to call it off. But realizing that anything’s better than spending another Saturday night vacuuming and eating cold pasta, I think better of it and call to see if my hair appointment is still on.
10:08
Hearing that my hairstylist just called in sick due to a horrible bleaching mishap, I panic and try to trim my hair myself. Unfortunately, the only scissors I can find are a pair of old, rusty poultry shears.
10:45
After several attempts at fixing my horribly mangled
hairstyle, I decide men are way too obsessed with
appearance anyway. So I settle for a look I like to call “Manhattan Madness.”
11:06
Realizing my breakfast was healthy but pathetically inadequate, I slip back into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. I put salami, Swiss cheese and mayonnaise on two slices of bread, then I take a bite. Stopping for a moment, I wonder what Marilyn Monroe would have looked like if she had gained an extra 10 pounds. I then toss the bread aside (because I heard somewhere that wheat makes your ankles swell), I scrape off the mayonnaise (that’s going right to the thighs), I fling the salami into the sink (I suddenly remember that nitrates give you eye bags), and all that’s left is the Swiss cheese. I quickly snarf this down because I figure anything with that many holes can’t possibly be fattening.
12:35 p.m.
Screw it, I eat a whole can of cashews.
1:12
After licking all of the remaining salt from my fingers, hands, arms, legs and chin, I then wipe what’s left on the curtains and casually stroll back into the bedroom to see what’s going on in there. Annoyed that it’s still the same mess it was earlier, I sigh and head for the closet.
1:13
Upon realizing my lucky first date outfit has a gigantic amoeba-shaped stain on it that looks suspiciously like lighter fluid, I panic, tear clothes from their hangers and jump around a lot.
1:42
I’m still jumping around a lot.
2:15
At this point, I make many valiant attempts at putting together the perfect low-cut top and slinky skirt that I’m sure will completely knock him out.
Unfortunately, I find my only low-cut top is being held together with a safety pin and some electrical tape. This, I decide to overlook. After majestically laying it all out on the bed like the queen’s coronation gown, I then crack open a L’eggs egg and search everywhere (including the freezer) for some lace panties.
2:45
Feeling weak and exhausted, I step back into
the closet and fall asleep in a small nest of plaid skirts.
4:26
Again I’m startled awake by the Andalusianoctopus, who this time has transformed back into my dream date. I sit up, stretch, scratch my head, and realize I have zipper marks all over my cheeks.
4:30
Wondering where in the hell the day went, I race into the bathroom to shower, shave, powder, perfume, polish, and in any other way perfect my zipper-riddled body. Somehow, I manage to pull a hamstring while drying off.
5:45
Hobbling over to the mirror, I try in vain to fix my bangs so I don’t look like a 6-year-old on the short bus. I finally pin them back with a purple barrette I found loitering behind the toilette. (Hey, it looked cute on that model in Mademoiselle, why can’t it work for me?)
6:06
After hearing the doorbell ring, I realize I’m horribly overdressed. I rip my low-cut top and clingy skirt off and throw them behind the couch. As the doorbell rings again, I frantically jump into a pair of ripped jeans, grab a t-shirt that says “I brake for woodchucks”, bang my barrette-encrusted head on the wall, and careen towards the door. I figure at this point, I’ll either completely horrify him or knock him dead. And maybe if I’m lucky – both!
