Allison Diepen - The Oracle Of Dating

We’ve already given Sharese and Mike P. our blessing. The problem is, they still haven’t gotten past the “Hi, can I take your order?” stage.

“Stop putting pressure on me, guys. You’re making me nervous.” So far, Sharese has been too shy to do anything about Mike P. But we’re all hoping that will change.

Of course, like with anything, she can’t be sure he’s interested. Sharese is hot, in a voluptuous, full-figured way, and we’ve spotted Mike P. glancing at her chest—always a good sign. Plus, he gets extra shy when she comes up—another good sign. But as for a guy’s tastes, you never really know.

“It’s about time you took a risk,” I tell her.

“What about you, Kayla?” Sharese fires back. “Since when do you take risks?”

“I don’t have a crush on anyone.” Which is true. Which isn’t to say I’m not attracted to anyone. I’m not immune to Jared, for instance. And who can blame me, since it’s universally known that dark, mysterious guys are attractive, especially when they have big hands that I’m sure could crush a Coke can with a single squeeze.

Okay, it’s obvious that, like my friends, I have my fair share of hormonal urges. I just have the presence of mind not to take them seriously.

Ryan touches my hair. “You could get any guy you want if you did something with your hair. This wash-and-go thing isn’t working for you.”

I tug on a lock self-consciously. He’s right, of course. My hair is neither straight nor curly, but has a drunken wave. I can’t tame it with a blow-dryer, so my only other option is a professional-strength straightening iron, but the idea of putting something so hot near my head worries me.

“You should get highlights, too,” Ryan says. “Café au lait is a good color for you. And you should wear a skirt for a change and show off your legs.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Last year I made the mistake of letting Ryan take me shopping with my birthday money. I came home with an outfit that made me look like a high-class escort, complete with a sheer blouse, short skirt and tall leather boots. All promptly returned the next day when my mom had a conniption.

“You’re such a fake,” Sharese says. “You’re really not interested in anyone? Not even Declan McCall?”

Why is Declan McCall, football MVP and ex-boyfriend of ice queen Brooke Crossley, our school’s default crush? “Declan doesn’t turn me on. Whenever I’ve talked to him, all he does is stare at my chest. And I don’t even have a chest.”

My friends can’t argue with that.

“Well, Brooke got what she deserved when he dumped her on her pretty ass,” Ryan says.

Yes, though I’ve never seen it, I bet Brooke Crossley has a pretty ass. She has a pretty everything else and everyone loves to hate her for it. But I doubt she’s as terrible as they say. Sure, she’s snobby, but a lot of people are. And she isn’t an airhead, either. Not that she’s as good a student as I am—but she can’t have everything, can she?

As I munch on tasteless pizza, I wonder if Brooke is a possible client. Maybe she needs to talk to someone about her recent breakup. I’ll have to drop a business card in her locker.

WHEN I GET HOME from work that night, I turn my attention to the topic of breakups. Why would someone like Declan McCall break up with Brooke Crossley when she’s clearly the best match for him at school? They could’ve been voted Prom King and Queen next year if they’d stayed together. I wonder if he got bored with her, or if there were other factors involved.

Seems to me that my female clients are more forgiving of their boyfriends’ flaws than the other way around. But there are some good reasons to cut a guy loose.

Top Ten Reasons You Should Cut Him Loose

10. When you’re kissing him, you’re fantasizing about someone else (like his best friend)!

9. You’re only with him because you want to have a boyfriend.

8. He tells you he doesn’t want a relationship. Believe him–he doesn’t!

7. He makes hurtful comments like, “Easy on the fries, honey.”

6. He doesn’t show affection in public. It doesn’t need to be a lot, but if he won’t even hold your hand, he wants people to think he’s single!

5. He gives you a promise ring in the first two months. Puh-lease!

4. He gives you a cell phone or a pager so that he can keep track of you.

3. He ogles other girls in front of you. Think of what he’s doing behind your back!

2. Finishing a level of his favorite video game is more important than answering your phone call.

1. He says, “Baby, if you loved me, you’d …” Anything starting with that is a manipulation! Don’t fall for it!

THE NEXT BIZARRO REALITY TV show should be all about my life. All I need to round out the cast is a washed-up child star and a slutty Survivor castoff.

My mom is a minister, for God’s sake. She’s got the threads (the robe and the stole), the cross around her neck and the travel-size Communion set.

Mom works at a church in Park Slope where she, among other things, performs gay commitment ceremonies and doesn’t make couples who are living together feel guilty. She also preaches about the gift of divorce as the congregation nods in agreement. She says her divorce is the best thing that ever happened to her, next to having her children, of course. If she hadn’t gotten a divorce, she wouldn’t be so happy in her career and she wouldn’t have met her new husband, Erland.

Now, Mom and I have different views on the merits of the Swede. She would say that he is a brilliant theology professor and that they have a meeting of minds. I would say that he is way too stuffy and has no idea how to deal with young people. The guy has a thick accent, not unlike the Swedish chef, and is nine years older than she is—definitely a second-round draft pick. But that’s what happens when you make the wrong choice the first time around.

Mom met the Swede two years ago at a theological conference in Atlanta where he delivered a paper called, “The Existential and Metaphysical Legacy of Martin Luther.” Doesn’t that just scream romance?

Mom came back from the conference all giddy, which was cool because she had been single, way single, for a long time. So they embarked on a long-distance relationship with frequent trips overseas and endless hours on the phone. Which is, incidentally, when I successfully petitioned for my own phone line, which I now use for the Oracle.

It was all going great for a while. Mom was happy. I was happy that Mom was happy. And the Swede wasn’t much of a bother, since he’d stop in when he was in town but never spend the night at our place. But then, last year, the Swede announced that he got a job at Union Theological Seminary in Manhattan, and within a couple of months they were married and he’d set up shop in her bedroom.

The Swede does not look like a Swede should (like a Ken doll). He is about five-nine, stocky, and has red hair that has been taken over by gray. For which I would suggest Just for Men, but I doubt it carries his particular copper-red color, and even if it did, I doubt he would use it, considering the way he lets his eyebrows go.

Today at breakfast, when Mom comes in, the Swede says, “Good morning, Bunny.”

Bunny? I hope he means it like Honey Bunny instead of Playboy Bunny.

The Swede + Mom + Sex = SO WRONG.

I’ve never actually heard them having sex, thank God, but I’m pretty sure that’s why Mom asks me about my social plans—so she and the Swede can cozy it up in their king-size love boat, drunk on endless cups of Earl Grey.