"The Linda Look"

When I was a teenager and had entered into the world of dating, the time would eventually come when my boyfriend would meet my parents. Granted, the times that this actually occurred were relatively few and far between, and more often than not centered around huge events like homecomings, winter formals, or proms. The doorbell would ring and my dad would flip into paparazzi mode, capturing each awkward moment for posterity. My date, feeling cramped and on display in his rented mall tux and too tight shoes, fumbled with my corsage. Me, feeling wobbly in my high heels, my permed hair teased within an inch of its life, wearing my mother's blush because she said I looked too pale, and wearing a dress that I would never wear again - attempted to gracefully descend the staircase. My mother would stand off to the side, smiling, but quietly assessing. The smile, to the casual observer, would appear warm, nearly genuine. "Mom, this is Jason. Jason this is my mom." She'd step toward him, with the same smile and shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, Jason. I've heard so much about you." Then dad would call to us for "...one more parting shot of the happy couple!" Finally, Jason - or whichever date it was, it didn't matter - would turn his back to either get my coat, open the door, or shake my father's hand. It was in that moment, I would catch my mother's eye. The smile would have vanished - just briefly - and be replaced by "The Linda Look." The Linda Look was meant only for me and managed to convey mild annoyance, disapproval and dismissal all with a single expression. The lips set in a line, the eyes narrowed, the ever so slight shake of the head. It was the kiss of death for any poor young suitor of mine. And the look, like Linda herself, was never wrong.

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I'm standing in my bedroom in my apartment, surrounded by piles of skirts and tops. I have tried on at least 6 different outfits and nothing seems right. Too slutty, too conservative, too casual, too dressy. I'm standing half dressed with my head in my closet, frustrated, rummaging for something decent to wear when my phone rings. It's mom. She and dad have been traveling to Chicago by train and have just arrived, an hour later than expected, but they are now here. They've rented a car downtown and will soon be on their way. It is early afternoon. I throw on jeans and a black sleeveless tee, and decide - for now anyway - that will do.

My phone rings again and this time it's the Dashing Litigator. He has been out and about, and has called to check in and confirm the plans for the evening.

5:15pm. Srega Nona. See you then.

The Dashing Litigator is about to meet my parents.

My parents are in town for a 24 hour whirlwind stop that will not only include a first time meeting with the Dashing Litigator, but also tickets to my show that evening. After a couple hours of catching up with them and enjoying the gorgeous fall day, I get down to the real business at hand. Like an attorney prepping a client for a cross examination, I address my parents. They are not to bring up any embarrassing episodes from my childhood, they are not to mention marriage, children, their shared dreams for grandchildren, past boyfriends of mine, or that time that I cut my own bangs in the 6th grade and looked like an Ewok for three months. And even though I am very open with my parents and I have shared with them countless tales of my adventures with the Dashing Litigator, they are to pretend that all they know of him is what they have read in this blog.

Mom - typically calm, cool and collected - suddenly appears nervous. As we're walking out the door, she notices my father is wearing a yellow knit Nautica shirt with black pants. He looks very casual, very nice. She gives him a disapproving look and tells him to put on his leather jacket - even though it is 65 degrees out - as that looks nicer. Dad is confused, hesitant to oblige this bizarre wardrobe request. He resists. I tell them both to hush and climb into the back seat of the car, slamming the door.

We are all a bit edgy.

We arrive at Strega Nona and walk through the door. The Dashing Litigator is sitting casually at the bar, facing us. It occurs to me that it has been more than four days since I last saw him, and the sight of him now quite literally takes my breath away. He is wearing a deep blue dress shirt and khaki slacks and his smile floods me with both warmth and reassurance. I realize that these are my parents, and I have no reason to be nervous. He, on the other hand, should run straight out the door, had he any sense.

Too late.

Introductions are made and soon we're seated at a cozy four-person booth. My parents on one side and us on the other.

Our server comes by and takes our drink order. Mom orders a Bacardi Cocktail, which is some sort of daiquiri drink that she tried once in 1973 and has ordered ever since. And as she has learned from experience that no bartender under the age of 45 knows how to make this drink, nor has ever heard of the drink, she carries a typed out recipe card with her at all times. It is at this point that she pulls said card from her wallet and hands it to our server. My father, without missing a beat, says, "Don't worry, I'm just having a beer." I am laughing too loudly at this very 'Stiller and Meara' routine before me and when I turn to the Dashing Litigator, he is doubled over as well. He leans over to me, whispering excitedly, "Oh my GOD! They are just like my parents!"

"Is that a good thing?" I ask.

"Absolutely!" he grins, and gives my hand a squeeze.

And aside from a few conversation fumbles on my parents' side - including one ill-timed mention of a colonoscopy - the evening is a success. The banter is non-stop and he really seems to be enjoying himself. My parents ask him questions about his family, his job - and he answers them all gracefully and with ease. He asks them about their house in Maine, how things are with selling the house in Michigan. I am feeling elated, proud, happy. Under the table we are alternately holding hands and patting knees. After our plates are cleared, the Dashing Litigator excuses himself to use the washroom. My father takes that opportunity to walk over to the bar to watch the end of the Notre Dame game.

And I take this opportunity to check in with Linda. I turn to my mother, bracing myself for that "Linda Look" I know so well. But she is smiling - a broad, genuine smile. And nodding her head.

"So...? Isn't he great?" I ask.

"He's wonderful." As her smile widens, I study her face. I detect a flicker of something else, hidden beneath the smile, behind the eyes. Concern. Concern for the heart of her eldest daughter, who is so clearly falling for this handsome man. This look is a different sort of Linda Look. Or perhaps it's an after effect of the Bacardi Cocktail.

I turn away to search for the Dashing Litigator, wondering where he has gone - and then I spot him, standing beside my father, their backs to us, both watching the football game. Occasionally one leans into the other to comment on a play or offer his personal commentary. It's a lovely moment, a bonding moment, and I smile, feeling myself sigh and slip a little further.

When the bill comes, the Dashing Litigator is quick with his wallet and generously offers to pay for half of our dinner. My father protests, but soon it's a done deal and we are heading outside. I am, once again, moved by his generous gesture and want to kiss him - but hold back.

Dad takes a couple pictures (he can't resist) and we say our goodbyes, mom hugging a surprised Dashing Litigator, and dad - probably wanting to hug him, too - but opting for a firm handshake. I say my own quick goodbye with a tight squeeze and a chaste kiss on the cheek.

As we're driving to the theatre, my parents are enthusiastically endorsing the Dashing Litigator and talking about what a great dinner that was. They truly enjoyed themselves.

We arrive at the theatre and I head backstage, leaving my parents at the box office. I plunk down my bag and pull out my phone. Though I just saw my Dashing Litigator, I miss him. Though we were together, I was so tense, so nervous for him, for my parents, for everything, really, that the time felt so fleeting. I want to call him.

I do.

He answers and says, "I miss you. Is that odd? I just saw you."

I miss you, too.

We are laughing, babbling, giddy. Finally able to be ourselves. We are like teenagers, even at 30 and 34. I tell him how much my parents loved him and he says he enjoyed them as well. He says that his mother is so much like my mother.

"Well, then they should get along famously." I say.

"Or they'll butt heads!" he laughs. He continues, "When you meet my mom, you'll see. She's very feisty. Dad may have a say in some major decisions, but it's all about mom."

I am laughing, but my ears have perked up at those five words:

When you meet my mom

This is the first time I have heard him mention such a possibility. And though I don't know 'when' this will happen, the idea of it makes me feel warm and happy and excited.

And then I remember my mom and her "Linda Look".

Oh dear God.

I can only pray that the Dashing Litigator's mother doesn't have such a look.

Heaven help me.