The Dating Game

So the funny part is – OK, not so much funny ha-ha but more funny demented and sad, is that Mom is missing all of this.

And before you say “So what? You’re not going to the prom anytime soon, are you?” let me tell you so what.

Mom absolutely adores Scott. Or she did. Remember, we dated in high school.

It was anything but traditional to date under Mom’s nose. She had separated from my Dad when I was just about to turn 14. We pretty much hit the dating scene at the same time – but thankfully went trolling in different play grounds.

My sister, brother and I lived with my Dad (who would have just turned 83 this month. Happy Birthday, Pop!) He was 50 when he and Mom separated. Pretty late to teach an old dog so many new tricks, but he did admirably, even if things weren’t exactly perfect, and even if he did rely a little too much on Charlotte and take advantage of her good will and willingness to help. God knows where we’d have been if he put all his faith in me. Or Joe.

But by hook or by crook (or by some miracle worked by Charlotte) laundry was done, groceries purchased, meals prepared, ball games attended, drivers licenses obtained, and Dad got a quick lesson in the value of hair products, the demand for tampons, and the phone habits of teenagers.

When it came to our dating rituals, Dad was a Traditionalist (except for his penchant for answering the door in his short summer pajamas, in his bare feet, winter and summer, regardless of the weather or who knocked on the door – police, date, Jehovah’s Witness). The guy had to come to the door – and while he made the walk up the driveway, Dad would check out the car from the front window. No aspiring Fonzi’s please, and God forbid you’ve revved your engine before cutting it and climbing out. He’d say “Hello,” in his booming radio voice, making himself as menacing as humanly possible in his cotton shorties. He’d shake the guy’s hand – not unlike Popeye would. (I still remember Charlotte’s date with the football injury to his right hand, sustained on the very game day that coincided with their first date. Hello, Orthopedic Surgeon?) And then he would ask them a few questions to let the guy know who was really in charge and alluding to the Hell there would be to pay if his little girl came home crying.

But it would be all over before you held your breath to the point of unconsciousness and you’d float lightheadedly out the door to down a can of Schlitz your date filched from his old man’s garage fridge as he peeled away from the front of the house in a flop sweat.

Mom meeting your date was an entirely different story.

Nothing traditional here. No routine parent sighting. And nothing that would suggest anything remotely resembling anyone else’s mother. Nothing in common. No opportunity for your date to say anything like “My Mom volunteer’s there, too” or “What a coincidence, my Mom is looking for a doubles partner this season too!” Or “You’re chairing the Band Parents Bake Sale and Car Wash this year? My Mom is on that committee also.” No, there would be no common ground. Mom simply was in a class all her own.

It was just a little tricky to identify what class.