“Oh, that is so sweet,” I say and somehow find the restraint not to fake gag.
“I love teaching, and Charlotte is a good baby. She sleeps during the class. But I also just love being an independent woman and supporting our family.”
“Oh,” I say and place my hand on my chest as if I am so touched. “That’s so lovely.”
“It’s important, don’t you think? That’s what your Trophy Husband quest is all about right? By the way, I love it. I love your show. And I just think we have to set examples. And mine is that I can be a working mom and help pay the bills.”
“That’s great,” I say through gritted teeth.
“And how is sweet Ms. Pac-Man?”
Amber leans down to pet my dog, the sleeping baby angling close to my dog’s face. I make a mental note to give the dog a bath when I return home. Then Ms. Pac-Man emits a low rumble. I snap my head and look at my dog. She’s pulling back her doggy lips and showing her teeth.
I yank her collar and pull her away.
Amber stands at attention, a look of terror in her eyes.
I’m about to admonish my dog, who has never been anything but sweet with kids, when I realize she wasn’t going after the baby. There’s Michelangelo up ahead, trotting in our direction, his wrinkly little face and beige puggy body aiming straight for one of Ms. Pac-Man’s legs.
A wicked sense of glee floods my veins. Because this isn’t just parking karma. This is all the karma in the world.
“I’m so sorry about that, Amber. Todd must not have told you?”
“Told me what?”
“Oh. Yeah. Ms. Pac-Man doesn’t like babies. Or kids for that matter. She growls at all of them. I’m working on it with her, but she’s just not fond of the littles ones.”
“Oh,” Amber says and nods in understanding. “That’s really good to know.”
“Isn’t it, though? All right, toodle-loo. I have to go.”
Thank the lord for horny pugs.
* * *
“Here’s my favorite part of dating. I get to do what I like best – devote my mental energy to assembling cute outfit combos,” I say to the camera, then model the newest ensemble I’m wearing for an afternoon coffee chat. “Here’s the worst part. You’re caffeinated all the time. Because you constantly have to go out for coffee for first dates. I have never had so much coffee in my life.”
We’re shooting outside today, so I gesture to the coffee shop near my house, Your Other Office.
“So I’m just going to head in and grab another. After all, I have a date in, oh, about two hours. And guess what? It’s Bachelor Number Four, thanks to you!” I point at the camera. “You know the drill. You picked ‘em for me and I’m doing the dirty work, going on the dates. So, in two hours, I’ll be reporting for duty and tomorrow, I’ll report back so you can choose who deserves a second date. So keep voting, keep sharing your thoughts on the candidates. Because this isn’t just about me. This is a communal effort, a collective Trophy Husband for all of us.”
I salute the camera and give my usual sign-off. Then Andy turns off the camera and I sigh heavily. It’s getting harder for me to keep up the act, but I don’t want Andy to know.
“How was it?”
He gives a silent thumbs up. He packs up, staying quiet most of the time. I do my part, helping with the microphone, but decide to ignore his noiselessness. I counter it with chatter. “I’m exhausted.”
He gives me a harrumph.
“What should I talk to this guy about?”
“Don’t know,” he says curtly.
“You want to just add a ‘don’t care’ to the end of that statement?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, that’s kind of what you meant, right? Don’t know, don’t care?”
He stares at me for a second, then continues packing his camera gear.
“What is eating you?”
“You know what it is.”
I do. The same thing that’s eating away at Andy is what’s been eating away at me since that kiss with Chris on Saturday night. Since then I’ve been going on the requisite dates with the top five, and, as I predicted, the viewers voted for Chris as one of the five. The dates are chaste, as they should be at this point in a dating contest, and nothing has happened physically with any of them. Chris is the only guy I’ve kissed and he’s the only one I want to kiss. Even when I’m on other dates, my mind is on him. So I have to wonder if Andy’s instincts are right.
I close my eyes, then press my thumb and forefinger against the corner of my eyelids, squeezing them, trying to find some sort of answer. But I don’t even know what the question is and now my brain starts to hurt. I’m not in the mood for heavy reflection.
So I say goodbye to Andy and head to Your Other Office, trying to remember the name of the Trophy Husband candidate I’m meeting there soon. Craig? No, Craig was Monday’s date. Craig and I had pizza at lunchtime sitting by the water. We grabbed slices at Martino’s, a New York style pizzeria that uses the flimsiest paper plates possible. We walked a few blocks to the water, our plates sagging in the middle, grease threatening to spill out. We sat on the rocks just a few feet from the Bay, looking at the gorgeous Golden Gate Bridge. There is no more stunning bridge in the entire universe. I have lived in the Bay Area for six years and have never once grown tired of our rust-colored bridge. Its beauty always captures me, whether I’m driving across it, watching it from the ferry, or gazing at it. The Golden Gate Bridge is one of the wonders of the modern world. It is a marvel.