The Whitney Chronicles

“I promised Mother I wouldn’t leave the hotel for purposes of a touristy nature,” I reminded her.

“Something from the hotel, then. With rhinestones.”

So much for the good influence of friends.

September 23

I’ve been inundated with plans for the trade show. Whitney’s my name, Creativity’s my game. At least that’s what Harry thinks. Only Bryan knows that today, between brilliant zaps of originality and ingenuity, I figured out which was the longest word I could type with my left hand—stewardesses (a travel-related exercise accomplished while being left on hold by a travel agent who went shopping and had a facelift before getting back to me). And—this one is big—when you rearrange the words slot machines, you can make the words cash lost in ’em.

Of course, after foisting the Las Vegas trade-show problem on to me, Harry promptly forgot about it and began trolling for bigger fish. In this case it was someone from whom he’d already had a nibble but wanted to land completely, Matthew Lambert, the nut-roasting magnate I’d fondly begun referring to as Mr. Peanut.

As I walked toward Harry’s office this morning, Bryan—wearing that panicked look he so often does—raised his eyebrows and pointed frantically toward Harry’s door. Figuring my assistant was trying to indicate that Harry was out of sorts, I strode in expecting to see a man who hadn’t yet had his sixth cup of coffee today. What I did see nearly knocked me flat.

Harry had gotten himself a permanent. Though not yet bald, his hair is thinning except for the thick assortment of hairs that halo his head in the traditional style of medieval monks.

I took a deep breath and attempted to quash the image of an unevenly growing Chia Pet on Harry’s head. No wonder Bryan had looked as though he was about to faint. He’d probably been under his desk laughing himself silly.

“Are you busy tomorrow evening, Whitney?” Harry leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his neck and fingered the tight curls at his collar.

A working dinner? With Harry? Harry never paid for anything he didn’t have to, and he was married, so this wasn’t a social dinner. Had his permanent given him so much aplomb that he was asking me out on a frivolous whim or were the newly tight curls on his head squeezing his brain? My relief was actually physical when he added, “I’m having dinner with Matt Lambert, and I’d like you to come along. What do you say?”

I was so happy I didn’t have to dine alone with Harry and be forced to admire his Chia Pet scalp that I agreed immediately. That Matthew Lambert would be there didn’t hurt either.

It wasn’t until I was back at my desk that I realized that I was not in any way prepared to go anywhere or do anything with a hunky, single man. I’m a woman who—as recently as six days ago—was holding her clothing together with rubber bands. I had nothing to wear. Visions of pilled and holey sweatpants, stained T-shirts, too-tight jeans and my work clothing—mostly interchangeable black and beige separates and low-heeled pumps—danced in my head. I usually go into a shopping frenzy the week before a big date. It was clearly apparent that I hadn’t had a frenzy—or a date—for quite some time.

It wasn’t until noon that I could discuss the emergency with Kim.

“Don’t you have a ‘fat dress’?” she asked. “I always keep one of those empire-waist corduroy or cotton things on hand for a crisis.”

“Then I might as well pitch a pup tent in the middle of the restaurant and stick my head through the top to eat. I want to look good for this….”

Kim, the least vain person on the planet, puzzled that one over. “Your mom has been on your case again, hasn’t she? All that stuff about meeting a man?”

“She’s worried about me,” I admitted weakly.

“And she has her own subscription to Bride’s magazine just for the fun of it. Get real, Whitney, she’s a wedding planner waiting to happen.”

“I know, I know, but I still want to look nice tomorrow night.”

“‘Nice?’ You’re already gorgeous! Sometimes I wonder if you ever look in a mirror. That dark hair of yours, those eyes, and no matter how many times you say you’re ‘fat’ you know there are women who would give a front tooth for your curves!”

A front tooth? Scary thought. But that’s part of why I cherish Kim. She actually believes I’m beautiful and isn’t afraid to say it. Bless her heart.

“I know, I know, but I still need to look stunning tomorrow night.”

“Then how about that wonderful black jumpsuit we bought last time you were pre-diet?”

I love Kim’s tactfulness. I grabbed her cheeks between my palms and gave them a squeeze. “You are brilliant. Problem solved.”

She nodded benignly. “Now that we’ve settled that, let’s discuss Harry’s hair.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to go shopping anyway.

When I don’t really have anything to shop for, my default is always shoes. The good news is that there are finally cute shoes that are actually comfortable. The bad news is that nothing looks all that cute on my size nine feet. Granted, they match my five-eight height, and I’m nicely proportioned. I think of myself as the new-and-improved, more-for-your-money package.

I found a great pair of black shoes with strappy backs. These are not to be confused with my black shoes with the little bow, my black shoes with the flat heels, my black patent leathers, my black sandals, flip-flops or slippers or my several pairs of black pumps and my black running shoes. These were different—not different enough, however, that anyone but me would notice. And, of course, they were still black.

After a rip-roaring internal debate, I decided to buy a purse instead. No danger of falling into the I-think-I’ll-buy-it-in-black trap there. Purses have personality these days—flashy colors, weird shapes, sequins and rhinestone thingamabobs dangling off them. My question is, who buys these things? Seems to me a precious little bag that’s shaped like a parakeet, decorated in yellow and green sequins and holds a tissue and a tube of lipstick is doomed to extinction.

Uh-oh. Were those my mother’s thoughts coming out of my mind?

I settled on a slightly larger bag shaped and decorated like a seashell because it would also hold my keys and a credit card and had pretty turquoise sequins. Who buys these things? Me, apparently.

Eric called tonight. He’s so charmingly disorganized that I’ve gotta love him. Today he spent two hours looking for his dry cleaning. Not in the house, mind you, but in his car. He’d dropped off his clothes on the way to an appointment, and when he returned to pick them up, he realized he couldn’t remember exactly which cleaner he’d used. Unfortunately, he’d done a few dozen other errands in the same trip and had a ten-mile radius within which his clothing could be waiting. While he was out scouting for his Laurens and his Hilfigers, he managed to hit an estate sale and a going-out-of-business blowout. It cost him a hundred and seventy-five dollars in unnecessary purchases to find his clothing.

“It’s okay, though,” he justified cheerfully. “I was really hoping to find an Andirondack chair and an Arts and Crafts floor lamp someday. I just ran across them sooner than I expected.” Unfortunately, while we were on the phone, his dog, Otto, managed to chew through the cord on the floor lamp and one leg of the chair.

It’s Eric’s own fault, really. He loves that dog so much that he’s afraid to hurt his feelings by scolding him. I’m not sure Otto has feelings. Bulldogs rarely appear to be in touch with their emotions. Still, Eric is crazy about him, and there is something rather sweet about an airplane buff and his dog Otto-Pilot.

I couldn’t get Eric and Otto-Pilot out of my mind while I was doing my Bible readings tonight, so I looked up Job 12:7-9. “But ask the animals, and they will teach you; the birds of the air, and they will tell you; ask the plants of the earth and they will teach you; and the fish of the sea will declare to you. Who among all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this?” I have a real passion for His creatures. After all, if God set aside two full days of creation—the fifth to create fish and birds and the sixth to fashion animals (including the man and woman kind)—then why don’t we realize how important they must be to Him—and therefore, to us?

Ironic, isn’t it, that of all the creatures on the face of the earth, only humans don’t seem to realize who and what they are. Animals behave like animals, plants like plants and fish like fish. Only we try to behave as if we’re God.

I like it that Eric cares so much for that dog even if Otto does digest furniture the way other dogs do kibble. Tomorrow night, I’ll have to remember to ask Mr. Peanut if he’s fond of animals.

September 24

I think I’m in love! Or, at least, I have a serious case of “like.”

Matthew Lambert is one handsome, charming man. When he looked at me with those Irish eyes tonight, I turned into a human puddle—and, unfortunately had to spend the rest of the night mopping up. Okay, so I’d already reached my objective of meeting a really nice man. My other goal was not to get into any foolish entanglements in the dating scene. Unfortunately the edges of my determination are crumbling already. Why did I set a stupid goal like that anyway?

I knew I was in trouble when I saw him coming across the restaurant in a stunning black suit and pristine white shirt that had been laundered and starched within an inch of its life. His tie was so red and professional-looking, it hurt my eyes to stare at it. If my mother had been there, she would have labeled him “the one” for me without hearing a word out of his mouth. She’d always dreamed I’d marry a doctor, so she’d have someone in the family with whom to discuss her various and ever-changing “symptoms,” but a peanut salesman who looked like this would run a close second.

“So good to see you again, Ms. Blake.”

For a moment I didn’t respond. I’d forgotten my name and didn’t realize he was talking to me. Then he did this corny thing and picked up my hand and kissed it. That was when I forgot my entire family history and where I’d parked my car. Until that moment, I’d always thought giddy was an unlikely word since I hadn’t had a giddy moment in my life. Now I know the definition and it’s a doozy. Matthew Lambert oozed charm like a broken toothpaste tube might ooze… Well, wow, am I bad at metaphors or what? Fortunately, Harry arrived, and from then on it was all business.

We spent the evening talking about the nut-roasting software. Harry did his usual computer-babble, and I efficiently and succinctly translated it into understandable English. (And Mom thought I needed to take Spanish to become fluent in a foreign language!) We make a pretty good team, Harry and I, even though all night I couldn’t make eye contact with him because I kept having the urge to water the top of his head to make it grow.

There was an awkward moment when our meals were served. I used to hate it when my parents bowed their heads to pray in restaurants. I wanted to look like everyone else chowing directly into my meal. It takes some maturity to realize that there’s no way this food would be on our plates without God’s help. Frankly, what others think of me is no longer my concern. Only God’s opinion counts.

Harry is not a Christian. I pray for him and am optimistic that he is a work-in-progress along with some of my other co-workers. At work, I try to witness by my actions. Matthew 5:15 is my verse there. “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Christians should always be the brightest bulbs. Harry often calls whoever isn’t agreeing with him the “dimmest bulb in the pack.” Someday I pray he’ll see the real Light.

What I’m really trying to say is that Harry has learned to tolerate my praying and not look so embarrassed when I do it. To me, that’s progress. Matt, however, gave no indication what he felt about my attitude of gratitude. That’s the trouble with people who have impeccable manners—they never let you see them sweat.

Matt and I really connected. He laughed at my jokes and I at his. He winked at me in that conspiratorial way men have with the women they love. Or maybe he had a tic in his eye. How do I know? I’m only describing my fantasy here, not his. There were no unwelcome advances, (if I don’t count that hand-kissing thing, which was not at all unwelcome) no stupid pick-up lines, no improprieties, only flawless manners and irresistible charm.

When I think of the stupid pick-up lines I’ve experienced with other men, including, “Excuse me, may I look at the tag on your dress? I’m sure it says ‘Made in Heaven,’ just like you,” there was no way the evening could have been a failure. In fact, the night would have been absolutely perfect if I hadn’t had to use the ladies’ room.