120 Blind Dates... And Other Short Stories

120 Blind Dates

There are a few things you need to know about my mother. For one, she is my mother, so she is always right or thinks she is, which amounts to the same thing in her opinion. Just ask one of her husbands. She has had six of them, and all of them are still alive and kicking. But none of them is still together with her because they all realised at one point or another that it was impossible to be in a long-term relationship with her. In fact, the longest relationship she has ever had with anyone is the one with me, her only child, and that one has known its ups and downs, too, over the last 41 years.

Then, there is the fact that she is addicted to plastic surgery, and she has spent a fortune, almost $750,000, on her good looks. You heard that correctly: According to her birth certificate, she was born 67 years ago. But she looks like she is in her late forties. That is due to the fact that there is hardly any part of her left that hasn't been subjected to her intense scrutiny and the talent of her plastic surgeon. As a matter of fact, he was husband number five.

Of course, she doesn't publicly admit that she has had work done. If someone asks her about her good looks, she always claims that they are the result of her lifelong diet and good genes. And since she is Veronica Vonderman, one of the fabulous great leading ladies who have graced the small screen or, to be more exact, the genre of the daytime soap opera with their presence, there have been a lot of speculations and raised eyebrows (not hers, of course, because she hasn't been able to raise her eyebrow since 1998) about her youthful appearance.

I think it is disturbing that she is so often taken for my sister when we go out together. Of course, Veronica Vonderman also looks better than I do, which is why I cannot help but feel like a very unfortunate, ugly duckling in her presence: My nose is too long, my complexion betrays the endless hours I have spent behind computers, plotting yet another romantic storyline for my mother's soap opera, and I'm such a blind mole that whatever beauty my blue eyes may or may not have completely disappears behind the thickness of my glasses. Unlike my mother, who only takes her high heels off when she goes to bed or takes a shower, I'm a walking disaster in them, which is why I do not stand more than five-feet-three tall. I'm also overweight by my mother's standards, which is why she keeps on telling me that I should watch my diet every time we meet. As I said, it isn't easy to have her in my life as she is certainly not a candidate for "Supportive Mother of the Year."

But here is the thing: About two years ago she finally realised that she needs me because her biological clock is ticking and she wants to become a grandmother. Since she apparently thinks that I am incapable of choosing Mr Right and she is such an authority in matters of the heart, she has not only kept on bugging me about my weight, but about the whole boyfriend thing, too.

I'm not saying that I'm not worried about ending up alone. Actually, I'm quite desperate about that because all my friends are either married or have had children or both, so the situation is quite uncomfortable whenever I attend someone's birthday party or wedding. I seem to be the only one who doesn't have a plus one. My last relationship ended three years ago, and I'm not kidding myself: When it comes to men, I'm an even worse picker than my mother. Without going into all the ugly details, let's just say my last boyfriend was troubled. When our relationship ended three years ago, I really needed some time for myself, which is why being single was a conscious choice at first. It was never supposed to be a permanent state, which I'm afraid it became.

"Maybe you should try one of these dating apps," my mother mused one day a couple of months ago. "I've been told they're quite popular."

"Then maybe you should use them," I retorted. Talking about men and dating with my mother was hugely embarrassing, to say the least.

"Why not? Going out on a few blind dates could be fun!" Her answer came as a complete shock and surprise to me.

"But what if the guys that we go out with turn out to be weirdos? They could be murderers, too, you know," I objected.