involved in a possible murder?”
“Well, Gladie, you know you don’t actually have to get involved,” she said reasonably.
I thought about that for a few moments.
“Oh, crap,” said Bridget, breaking the silence. “Lucy was right. You’re just like your grandma. You can’t stop yourself. But instead of love, it’s crime. Murder. You’re a nosey parker. You’re Curious George. Gladie, you’re a yenta.”
Rob returned to his car and drove off with Peter following in his Porsche.
“I’m taking your advice,” I told Bridget. “I’m going in.”
And I climbed out of the bushes, dusted the leaves off me, and headed across the street to the Ternses’ house.
Chapter 5
W omen come to me, and they all say the same thing: there are no single guys out there. They have been looking for years, and they’ve come up with nothing
. Bubkes.
You may come across the same problem. It’s slim pickings, dolly. So, where do you go to find single men to match your ladies with? The grocery store can supply only so many men and then you need to look in other places. You look at the park, the pharmacy, and the tire store. You even fake a toothache to try out the single dentist. Once, I’m ashamed to admit, I went so far as to call Jerry Schwimmer, the proctologist, for a sensitive, emergency house call, just because I heard he was recently divorced. You can make yourself crazy this way. It’s hard not to get run-down, running down single men. Dolly, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t have to be this way. You are not alone. Don’t knock your head against the floor; your friends can help you out. They can look, too. It’s like networking or schmoozing. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. It’s like that commercial … Let someone teach you to sing in perfect harmony. Let someone buy you a Coke
.
Lesson 17,
Matchmaking Advice from Your Grandma Zelda
THE DOOR opened before I had a chance to knock. Betty Terns, her slight body draped in tweed slacks and a burgundy sweater set despite the heat, went for themail in her mailbox but stopped in surprise when she saw me.
“I came over to see how you were getting along and if you needed anything,” I lied.
“Oh. Isn’t that nice.” Her eye twitched, and she pursed her lips. I suspected my presence wasn’t nice at all. In fact, she looked put out. Nevertheless, she waved me in. “Come in. We were just about to sit down to some cake and coffee.”
The kitchen was a swirl of cigarette smoke. There wasn’t a window open. Any fresh air left in the house had been sucked out long before. I coughed into my sleeve and dabbed my watering eyes. I dimly made out Betty with a small plate in her hand. She motioned me to sit and handed me a piece of cake.
“Jane and Christy are around here somewhere. I don’t know where the boys are.” She lit a cigarette and fiddled with her bedazzled lighter. She motioned at my cake. “Eat. I made it myself. Everyone just loves my coconut cake. Randy used to beg me to make it every week.”
The cake was white with two inches of white frosting. It was calling me to eat it, but I hesitated. It didn’t fit in with my makeover program. I had the hair. Now I wanted my flat stomach back. On the other hand, Betty was the skinniest woman I had ever seen, and she made the cake every week. Surely one piece of cake wouldn’t do me any harm. Maybe Betty’s coconut cake was the secret to beauty and flat stomachs.
I dipped the side of my fork into the thick, oozy frosting just as all three of Betty’s daughters tumbled into the kitchen.
“If you won’t take me, I don’t see why you won’t lend me your car so I can drive myself,” Christy whined. She came in behind Jane, screaming at the back of her head. Jane kept her cool. She sat across from me, lit up one ofBetty’s cigarettes, and took a long drag. There was the teensiest of smirks on her face, the same expression a cat wore when it played with a mouse.
“I won’t take you
“Well, Gladie, you know you don’t actually have to get involved,” she said reasonably.
I thought about that for a few moments.
“Oh, crap,” said Bridget, breaking the silence. “Lucy was right. You’re just like your grandma. You can’t stop yourself. But instead of love, it’s crime. Murder. You’re a nosey parker. You’re Curious George. Gladie, you’re a yenta.”
Rob returned to his car and drove off with Peter following in his Porsche.
“I’m taking your advice,” I told Bridget. “I’m going in.”
And I climbed out of the bushes, dusted the leaves off me, and headed across the street to the Ternses’ house.
Chapter 5
W omen come to me, and they all say the same thing: there are no single guys out there. They have been looking for years, and they’ve come up with nothing
. Bubkes.
You may come across the same problem. It’s slim pickings, dolly. So, where do you go to find single men to match your ladies with? The grocery store can supply only so many men and then you need to look in other places. You look at the park, the pharmacy, and the tire store. You even fake a toothache to try out the single dentist. Once, I’m ashamed to admit, I went so far as to call Jerry Schwimmer, the proctologist, for a sensitive, emergency house call, just because I heard he was recently divorced. You can make yourself crazy this way. It’s hard not to get run-down, running down single men. Dolly, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t have to be this way. You are not alone. Don’t knock your head against the floor; your friends can help you out. They can look, too. It’s like networking or schmoozing. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know. It’s like that commercial … Let someone teach you to sing in perfect harmony. Let someone buy you a Coke
.
Lesson 17,
Matchmaking Advice from Your Grandma Zelda
THE DOOR opened before I had a chance to knock. Betty Terns, her slight body draped in tweed slacks and a burgundy sweater set despite the heat, went for themail in her mailbox but stopped in surprise when she saw me.
“I came over to see how you were getting along and if you needed anything,” I lied.
“Oh. Isn’t that nice.” Her eye twitched, and she pursed her lips. I suspected my presence wasn’t nice at all. In fact, she looked put out. Nevertheless, she waved me in. “Come in. We were just about to sit down to some cake and coffee.”
The kitchen was a swirl of cigarette smoke. There wasn’t a window open. Any fresh air left in the house had been sucked out long before. I coughed into my sleeve and dabbed my watering eyes. I dimly made out Betty with a small plate in her hand. She motioned me to sit and handed me a piece of cake.
“Jane and Christy are around here somewhere. I don’t know where the boys are.” She lit a cigarette and fiddled with her bedazzled lighter. She motioned at my cake. “Eat. I made it myself. Everyone just loves my coconut cake. Randy used to beg me to make it every week.”
The cake was white with two inches of white frosting. It was calling me to eat it, but I hesitated. It didn’t fit in with my makeover program. I had the hair. Now I wanted my flat stomach back. On the other hand, Betty was the skinniest woman I had ever seen, and she made the cake every week. Surely one piece of cake wouldn’t do me any harm. Maybe Betty’s coconut cake was the secret to beauty and flat stomachs.
I dipped the side of my fork into the thick, oozy frosting just as all three of Betty’s daughters tumbled into the kitchen.
“If you won’t take me, I don’t see why you won’t lend me your car so I can drive myself,” Christy whined. She came in behind Jane, screaming at the back of her head. Jane kept her cool. She sat across from me, lit up one ofBetty’s cigarettes, and took a long drag. There was the teensiest of smirks on her face, the same expression a cat wore when it played with a mouse.
“I won’t take you
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