Summer & Our Merlot

"Are you going to sleep with him?"

"Ew! No! I haven't even met the guy!"

"Why do you even want to meet a guy? Dating sites are creepy."

My fifteen-year-old daughter is not keen on me dating.

"I'm thirty-five years old, not getting any younger, been divorced for twelve years, and maybe I do actually want to get laid!" is what I want to say, but don't.

I pour myself a glass of Merlot and continue fiddling with my makeup, sitting at the kitchen table of our apartment.

"Do you really want to be drunk when you first meet someone?"

"Do I really want to be sober, is a better question."

I'm nervous. I'm not good at makeup. I've been single for what feels like a thousand years, and the Midwest is a vast, empty void for middle-aged, single moms trying to get a date. I check the time. I'm supposed to be there in thirty minutes.

"Will you show me how to use the Uber app? I don't want to look for parking," I ask summer, dabbing at my eye with a cosmetic sponge.

"Ugh. You're so dumb. Give me your phone."

"I'm not dumb, I'm just stupid. Do it for me, please."

"Give me a credit card," she gestures with her hand, so I fiddle in my wallet, pull one out and hand it over.

"Whatever, this is gonna have to do," I say to myself, messily packing up my makeup. I look at my reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall, tilting my head to find the best angle, the best fake smile.

"You look fine," Summer says, rolling her eyes at me.

"You look nice, would be nicer, meanie."

"You look nice," she attempts a sincere smile.

"Did you call me an Uber?"

"You do it. I'll show you how, or you won't be able to get back."

Summer opens the app and hands me my phone and my debit card.

"Yeah, that's all I need," I say, thumbing through the app, "to get stranded in Akron on a first date."

"Drunk, no less," Summer jabs.

"I am not in the least bit drunk, child. Merlot is for enjoying, swirling in a glass, admiring the legs, breathing in the aroma, savoring the flavors in your mouth....if I were aiming for drunk, I'd be shooting tequila."

"You have some tequila here. You want some?"

"No. Thank you. But have some yourself if you'd like....hey, look at me, I figured it out!" I hold my phone up to her triumphantly.

"Ew. No. Tequila is gross."

"Have some Merlot, then."

Summer picks up the bottle, eyeing the label, she runs her delicate fingers over the print.

"Mer-lott," she says, intentionally mispronouncing it, "is it good?"

"I like it," I take the bottle away from her and pour myself a little more.

"Can I really have some?"

"Sure, I'll show you how to taste it, like we used to go to the wine-tastings in New York," I hand her my glass. She's curious.

"Yeah, that was cool. I can't believe they let me into the wine tastings when I was like ten."

"You were never allowed to drink it, just smell, but, yes, that was fun."

Summer is very proud of herself holding a wine glass in her clenched fist.

"Okay, tell me how to do it."

"You're supposed to swirl it around in the glass like so," I show her, "then you look at the way the wine clings to the edges as it comes down, that's called the legs, then you smell it really deep, really get your nose in the glass, then you take a little sip, swirl it around your mouth, try to breath in a little through kissy lips, making air bubbles, swirl it in your mouth again, and then swallow!"

Summer puts on her best grown-up airs, but grips the stem awkwardly, and jerks the glass around in circles. I chuckle.

"What? I'm a pro!" She holds the glass up to her eye level.

"Ah, yes, nice legs," she says, knowingly, raising an eyebrow, tapping her chin.

My daughter makes me smile. Such a big girl, so pretty, my summer baby with golden hair. I was twenty when she was born. The fifteen years since but a flash in the pan.

She breathes the wine in deeply through her nose, nodding in the affirmative, trying to hide her cringe at the acrid tannins.

"Now just take a little sip and try to breathe in some bubbles through the wine and swirl it around in your mouth," I tell her.

Raising a pinky, Summer brings the glass to her lips and pulls a little sip into her mouth.

"Keep the wine in your mouth, purse your lips and breath in just a little, making a bubbly sound."

My teenager sticks her lips out and breathes in. The ensuing combination of choking, gasping for air and laughter results in nothing less than Merlot being spewed all over my face, blouse and hair as I take the glass away from her. We're both laughing helplessly.

"Are you trying to kill me?!" Summer manages to exclaim between gags. "Who drinks wine like that?"

"You're supposed to swallow it, not spit it out!" I laugh.

"You told me to breathe it in!"

"Not into your lungs, into your mouth! To enhance the flavor! Dork!" We are surveying the damage and laughing. My phone dings that my Uber is here.

"Crap!! Look at me! I look like a blood spatter analyst should be called!"

"No, no, no, you look nice!" Summer is laughing still, "Here, just switch shirts with me, quick, and here's some baby wipes, just wipe off your face!"

I gulp down what's left of the Merlot in the glass and yank my blouse off, while Summer is frantically dabbing at my face with a wipe. Pulling her T-shirt down over my head, it occurs to me that I'm terrified of this date.

"Oh my god, I look like a weirdo."

"No! You look nice, you look young! That shirt fits you just right! Go, hurry! Don't have sex!" She pushes me towards the door and shoves my purse into my hands.

"I'll clean up the Mer-lott," she says.

"It's Merloooooh, you uncultured little wine-spewing savage!" I grab her face and give her as many kisses as I can before she pushes me away.

"Merlooooooh! I love you, have fun!"

It's my first time taking an Uber. I am out of touch. I'm awkward, sitting alone in the back seat of a Toyota Corolla. The driver is pleasant, we get to chatting. I blabber to him that it's a first date, that I met the guy online, that I've never been in an Uber, that I've never been to this restaurant, that I'm a chef in Cleveland, that my daughter spit wine all over me and my teeth are purple and I didn't notice before leaving, I'm wearing ill-fitting clothes, and I really hope this guy isn't a creep, and then we are there.

"Fuck, why I am I so nervous? It's just a person," I say, examining myself in a pocket mirror, trying to suck the Merlot off of my teeth.

The Uber driver looks at me in the rear view mirror.

"You'll do fine! Don't sweat it."

I hand him a $20 from the back seat.

"I don't really know how the app works because I'm a technological dinosaur, will you just stay close by in case I need an escape?"

"Sure thing," he says. He writes his number on a piece of paper and hands it to me.

"If you can't figure out how to get a driver through the app, just call me and I'll come get ya!"

"Thanks. Really."

I dismount my carriage, quite the irregular Cinderella, and shut the door. Trying to get my bearings, I am approached by a stranger, somewhat mirroring profile photos the man on an online dating site. He's a gangly, odd-looking fellow wearing a silver three-piece-suit that's much too big, with a huge pocket handkerchief sticking out, a carnation sewn in, a knotted tie, and shiny, shiny pointy shoes.

"Aimee?" he asks, smiling.

"Um, yeah, Aimee," I reply, putting out my hand for a shake. I have an instant and complete mental blank as to his name.

He takes my hand and kisses it, holding uncomfortable eye contact.

"I'm so glad you are as beautiful as your pictures. You have no idea how many absolute cows show up after posting photos online from 1999."

"Haha, no, bait-and-switch isn't really my style," I say as I pull my hand away. "Which is more than I can say for you," I'm thinking.

Okay, he was eccentric online, which I was willing to overlook, but in person he's quite strange. What am I doing? My anxiety is making my heart pound. Why am I doing this? I'm lonely? I have my Summer at home, this guy is a totally weird-vibe person overall, I'm not even hungry anymore, I'm certainly not horny, and I suddenly, really just want to go home to drink some more Merlot and laugh with my sweet girl.

This man, in his ludicrous Tuesday suit, starts rambling on about Jazz music, gesticulating wildly with both arms and all teen fingers flailing about. As I'm glancing away, mortified, I notice my Uber driver has, thankfully, pulled into a parking lot across the street, clearly chuckling. I signal to him as discreetly as possible to drive around and pick me up.

And then I'm laughing. Just standing on the street laughing at the ridiculous reality of the whole situation. My god, when did I get this old, how is my kid so big, what am I even doing here, and why the fuck does finding a date have to be so fucking weird?

The man, whose name I still can't remember, pauses in his neurotic sort of monologue.

"Did I miss something, Miss Aimee?" He asks, raising an eyebrow dramatically.

"No. I'm, I'm sorry," I say, collecting myself.

"Well, shall we, then?" he asks, offering me his arm.

"Look," I reply, taking a step back, "I'm really sorry, but I just shouldn't even be here, and I'm sorry you came all the way out here, but, I just...I can't. I'm sorry. I have to go home."

"But...."

"Thank you, I just need to go." I grab his right hand in mine and shake it firmly. "Goodbye."

The Toyota Corolla has pulled up behind me. I jump inside as quickly as possible and let out a sigh from the depths of my soul.

"That bad, huh?" asks the driver in his friendly tone. I saw him standing on the street after you got out, so I figured I'd hang out. Didn't strike me as your, um, type."

"Oh my god, thank you!" is my reply.

"Home?"

"Yes, please."

We drive in silence in the direction of the highway. I am thinking that Summer might be right; dating sites are creepy.