My Mom, The Amazingly Good Matchmaker

by Rachel Sklar

I consider it emblematic of our relationship that on our second date we saw Dude, Where’s My Car? We were giggling as we left the theatre, still high on dumb humor and sitting next to each other in the dark for ninety minutes. I seriously almost grabbed him right there, but we had the good manners to wait until we got to a bar. Is there anything better than the googly-eyed look on someone’s face just before they kiss you for the first time? I can still remember. Champagne and butterflies. There’s nothing better.

I feel a little guilty leading you on like this since I know how it ended, namely three-and-a-half months later with me whipping a beanie baby across his apartment. (Drama!) And even though I know it’s for the best, we’re better as friends, etc., etc., etc., it does make me sort of sad as I relive it in my head, and now on paper. My mom was so proud of herself. As she should have been—she had set me up with a terrific, terrific guy, however inadvertently. But “terrific” doesn’t necessarily mean “right”—and when it’s not right, it has to end at some point. So, on we go.

I can still remember sitting on the counter in his kitchen as he put our Chinese takeout on plates (so fancy!), looking at me and saying, “For the record: beautiful eyes.” I can remember him so proud of himself because he’d looked up my name on Napster and found a song called “Slut Named Rachel.” I can remember sending him e-mails with subject lines like “Everything’s Coming Up Morty!” More than anything, I can remember the laughter—doubled-over, can’t-breathe, stomach-hurting laughter that flared up over e-mail, on the phone, and frequently in bed, though now that I think of it my occasional habit of cracking up uncontrollably may have ruined the mood a few times.

Recently I found an old e-mail, “Top Ten Reasons Why I Haven’t Heard from Morty the Day Before Valentine’s Day,” an excuse to make fun of his near-obsessive fastidiousness (”#7—You accidentally touched the pole in the subway and are still washing your hands furiously”). That was a joke, like my Valentine’s Day gift: the full “Slut Named Rachel” CD, special-ordered. At that time we were at the midpoint of the relationship, but it had all gone at warp speed: By the first few weeks we felt like we’d been together forever and by the first few months we were already acting like it. Comfortable, yes, but not exactly. . . hot.