Page 6 of I Think He Knows
Legs considers this for a moment. “Nope, don’t think so.”
I reach for the toilet paper, only to find that Chimichanga—my brother Liam’s dog, who is staying with us for the week while Liam whisks his red-lipped,fisticatedwife off to New York to seeHamiltonon Broadway—has gotten to it first. There’s a trail of Charmin Ultra along the bathroom floor, and at the end of it is a very guilty-looking pup with his mouth full.
“Chimi, no!” I wail, as I try (and fail) to reach for the end of the roll.
The little dog—who is an entirely anxious creature not unlike myself—looks up, sees my displeased expression, and promptly pees all over the floor.
Sigh.
Legs squeals. “Mom, he’s PEEING!”
“I can see that.” I flap my arms at her like a seagull. “Now, could I get a little help over here?”
She stops screeching long enough to give me a curious look. “Help with what?”
Double sigh.
“Could you maybe grab the TP for me?” I ask.
“Out of the dog’s mouth? Ew. Gross, Mom. We should probably do something about the pee on the floor, don’t you think?”
Nine year olds, I tell you.
“Well, yeah. That was kind of the point of you grabbing me the toilet paper. So I could get up and do exactly that.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Legs singsongs as she delicately pirouettes over the puddle on the floor and retrieves the roll from Chimichanga’s mouth.
By the time I manage to get off the toilet, clean the puddle of pee, and take my makeup remover to my daughter’s face, I’m running late. I am also running very hungry, very under-caffeinated, and sans mascara, thanks to Allegra’s Lash Sensational trial.
It’s not an ideal combination.
Once in the car, I stop en route to pick up Legs’s friend Keisha for carpool. I stop for a moment to say hi to Keisha’s mom, Imani, who’s a friend and coworker of mine, and then finally swing into a ginormous lineup in the elementary school drop-off lane. There’s a ton of cars in front of me, and all of them are stuck behind a bus that’s evacuating about a million slow-moving children. With what feels like my ten thousandth sigh of the morning, I put my vehicle in park and reach for my phone, my knee in full-blown jiggle mode as I open up my texts.
It’s only 8am, and I’m already feeling overwhelmed by the day (and night) to come.
Why? Because I, Lana Mae Donovan, have recently broken out of my safe, comfortable, sweatpant-clad mom routine and am going all carpe diem on the dating scene for the first time in almost ten years.
And so far, it has… sucked. I’m not too sure why. I know I’m smart, I’m a good mom, and I have a decent career as a travel agent that I maybe don’t love, but I appreciate for the flexible hours it gives me as a single parent. I also know I’m relatively attractive (particularly with the help of my Lash Sensational), and I can even be funny when I’m feeling relaxed and at home with the people around me. But not one of those qualities seems to present themselves when I sit down opposite a man at a dinner table. Instead, my anxiety bursts forth in the form of verbal incontinence and sheer awkwardness.
I’ve been on no less than six dates in the last couple of months, some with nice men, some with not-so-nice men. And I’ve spent every single one of these dates feeling like a barnacled humpback whale amidst a pod of giggling bottlenose dolphins. I mean, I might only be twenty-seven, but I didn’t even realize people went out on Thursday nights. My Thursday evenings are usually spent air-frying cubed sweet potatoes while watching the Food Network.
Wild. But preferable after a long day, if I’m being entirely honest.
Tonight, there shall be no Ina Garten and her chocolatey voice and even chocolatey-er desserts, because it’s time for date number seven. I’m feeling cautiously optimistic about this one. My sister-in-law Mindy set me up with him, although I’m not quite sure she actually knows him seeing as she referred to him as a “friend of a friend of a friend.”
I add “new mascara” to my shopping list, then open my message thread with Carter, who texted me about an hour ago, as he does every morning.
Carter:I’m giving myself a 9/10 because I clearly get an A for effort, and also because I feel like Gordon appreciates both art and happiness.
I snicker as I look at the picture accompanying the text. Today, it’s a plate with two overcooked eggs made sunny side up and a smiling, slightly burnt bacon mouth. I truly believe that men are sometimes just overgrown children in big, manly bodies.
Carter’s body being particularly big and manly… but I’m trying my best not to notice that anymore. Which is a difficult task, because the whole world agrees that Carter’s body is entirely noteworthy—especially after that shirtlessGQcover (which I can never look at without my stomach plunging into zero gravity territory).
Besides,Iwas the one who started our little Gordon Ramsay “rate my plate” texting game. It’s a tradition of ours that’s been going on for years now.
Lana Mae: Oh, please. That’s a solid C at best. Where are the toast ears? The blueberry necklace? The strawberry cheeks and shredded hash brown hair? Effort, my ass. 5/10.
Lana Mae:*gif of Gordon Ramsay exclaiming “you’re cooking like a donkey!”