She lures me to L.A. with the promise of a suitor — not only one however a mess of hand-picked middle-aged, perhaps divorced, in all probability Jewish and most definitely bitter bachelors. “Santa Monica is teeming with good males your age.” Actually? I didn’t get that memo.
Her each day spiel is aggressive, peppered with engaging sound bites meant to persuade me that migrating south is the important thing to discovering love. “You’re nearly 50. You’ll find yourself becoming a member of an ashram should you keep up there.”
Because the matriarch of our Southern California tribe, she nonetheless believes that the Bay Space is nothing however tree-hugging hippies who put on white after Labor Day and wouldn’t know an excellent Jewish rye from a loaf of sourdough if it hit them on their Birkenstocks.
I’m barely over the Grapevine, and she or he’s blowing up my telephone with a succession of one-liners by way of textual content: “He has most of his hair. He lives west of the 405. He has an excellent therapist.”
Most of his hair? I inch my method south on the 405 Freeway, exiting on Sundown Boulevard, and bam, she tosses out a contemporary batch of textual content grenades: “You’re assembly him tonight. Don’t put on heels. And no matter you do, don’t take Sundown.”
Dammit. She’s proper. Sundown is gridlocked. My Aunt Sandy, then 80, is a local Angeleno who texts like a teen and navigates the Westside like a New York taxi driver on velocity. She appointed herself matchmaking commander in chief after my mother died, managing my “Skeptical, Nonetheless Single & Approaching 50” file with the fortitude of 10 Jewish grandmothers and one big caveat — that I transfer to Los Angeles.
Assembly him tonight? I’m exhausted, wired from flavored creamers and gasoline station espresso, and lined within the plethora of snacks I’ve consumed on the drive from the Bay Space. Is she severe? I’ve been wanting ahead to noshing and ingesting my method by the Deliberate Parenthood L.A. Meals Fare.
After her final barrage of texts, I’m rising more and more cautious of her matchmaking abilities, however I’m in too deep to show again. I put all the things in storage and rented a ridiculously priced room from a 62-year-old man-child in Venice who paddleboards all day. Sandy spent the final three months speaking this man up with shiny adjectives meant to counsel his resemblance to Jon Hamm. I’m starting to assume she’s by no means seen “Mad Males.”
“Michael will meet you on the entrance. I gave him your quantity. Don’t overlook to say you wish to swim. His mother mentioned he needs to get again into form.”
Again into form? What occurred? Twenty-four hours in the past, I used to be assembly a Jon Hamm look-alike, and now I’m scanning the group for a brief, balding, chubby man. The place’s the wine desk?
“Shanti?” Michael greets me with a heat handshake, and regardless of the woven man-purse slung over his plump midsection, I’m pleasantly relieved.
I’m too drained to make small discuss, so I reduce to the chase. “I simply drove straight right here from the Bay Space. I’m ravenous and I would like some wine,” I say.
That is the half when he might have advised me that he’s vegan, doesn’t drink and is “allergic” to most something edible. However he doesn’t.
I’m busy indulging my method by each micro chunk. He trails behind me, analyzing the desk like he’s on the Smithsonian earlier than asking the unsuspecting server a laundry record of questions. “So there’s actually no meat on this? What about dairy? Fish? How about eggs? Gluten?”
I’m one heavenly chunk right into a mini éclair, and he shoots me a judgmental glare. “I don’t eat refined sugar.” Good grief.
Fortunately, I’m barely buzzed, crazy from the drive, and perimenopausal, so I’m blissfully unfazed, taking a giant gulp of pinot gris. Now I’m fixated on his pretentious man-purse, and all I can take into consideration is: Why on earth would she set me up with this man?
“How was the date?” Sandy asks later.
“He’s vegan.”
“He’s what?”
“Vegan. He’s a vegan. Do you know that?”
“I don’t even know what which means. Possibly that’s why he’s in remedy.”
“It implies that he doesn’t eat animal merchandise.”
“Oh! He’s a vegetarian, what’s unsuitable with that? You’ll be able to’t be too choosy at your age.”
“No, he’s vegan. There’s nothing unsuitable with it. And he appears good, however we’re not likely meals suitable.”
There’s such a protracted pause that I determine she’s inadvertently turned down the quantity on her listening to aids once more.
“No eggs? Then what does he eat, for God’s sake? I’m calling his mom.”
In lieu of calling Michael’s mom and decided to watch his culinary habits within the flesh, Sandy summons me to a 6 p.m. feast the next Wednesday. I sense her disbelief after my detailed rehash of the Meals Fare. “Everybody eats eggs.”
I can odor fish from her driveway. Uh-oh. “What are you making for dinner?”
“Baked salmon and rice.”
“Sandy, he doesn’t eat fish, keep in mind? He’s a vegan.”
“Oh vegan, schmegan. One chunk received’t kill him.”
Michael arrives shortly after me, presenting Sandy with a small bag he pulls out of his man-purse. “Dessert from Erewhon.”
Sandy is beaming, oblivious to each his man-purse and to the tremendous print on the package deal.
“Macaroons! Isn’t that considerate? Who doesn’t love an excellent macaroon?” she says.
After receiving an pressing textual content earlier about selecting up whipped cream, together with detailed driving directions on probably the most environment friendly route from Venice to the Gelson’s on Lincoln, I’m fairly sure she made an almond pound cake for dessert. That received’t go over properly.
He politely declines the salmon, and she or he provides him rice. “Is there butter within the rice, by likelihood?”
She stalls for a second as if she’s both going to say a senior second or lie. Don’t do it, Sandy. Don’t lie.
I’m feeling a scorching flash approaching from the stress, so I blurt out a dairy warning. “Sure, there’s butter in there!”
“OK, I’ll simply eat salad.”
She’s displaying no signal of retreating as she heads towards the kitchen. “Nice, then you definitely’ll have extra room for dessert!”
The pound cake emerges from the kitchen.
Michael drops his head and lets out a sigh. “Would you thoughts if we put out the macaroons?” He begins to stand up, however Sandy shortly thwarts his effort, ushering for me to comply with her into the kitchen. She opens the package deal of macaroons, popping one in her mouth earlier than muttering, “What on earth?”
She spits it out into her palm. “His balls style like cardboard!”
Her listening to aids should have switched off, and her quantity is steadily growing. “I’m throwing them within the compost.” We burst out laughing as Michael comes into the kitchen.
He stares at us, immobile and poker-faced. We’re nonetheless cackling as he grabs what’s left of his vegan macaroons and heads for the entrance door. Sandy fingers me a plate of pound cake. “That’s it. You’ll be able to’t date a person with no humorousness,” she says. “It might by no means work.”
The writer is a author, birdwatcher and beginner bagel maker, out looking for the sweetest chunk. She’s on Instagram: @shantilnelson
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