I peek into the fridge. Nothing resembling lettuce is lurking in there, minus a questionable bag of something that might not have always been green but certainly is now.

“I’m not sure how to take that,” I say, “but if the requirement is having fresh lettuce on hand, then you might be mistaken.”

“Nah, you’ll be fine. And think of the fun you’ll have! It’s a fantastic conversation starter.”

I can think of no reason to refuse other than the likelihood that Yitz will call it “Purse,” so I agree, eager to get off the phone.

Which then does not ring for an entire hour.

In that hour, Yitz brings home a pizza that he and my two boys devour as Naomi picks at some remaining crust. I think about gown fittings and crash diets as I chew on my French fries. I’m lost in thought about color schemes and monograms, and when the phone rings I barely hear it.

“This is the L-rd speaking,” Yitz says, baritone reverberating.

“Yitz!” I snap to attention and try to grab the phone.

“Why, hello, Mrs. Krieger,” Yitz continues, wiggling his eyebrows at me as I reach for the phone.

“Mommy, do something!” Naomi cries.

“Yitz,” I hiss. “Give. Me. The. Phone.”

“We’ve been waiting for your call,” he continues, as I throw balled up napkins at his head.

“Tatty!” Naomi whispers in a quiet scream.

We wait in pained silence until Yitz hangs up. “No biggie,” he says blithely, “she said Naomi should be ready for Prince Charming at eight o’clock on Tuesday.”

Yitz dances out of the room, unperturbed, humming “Od Yishama.”

Naomi turns to me, eyes pleading. “Promise me he won’t do anything to embarrass me on Tuesday,” she says. “I’m nervous enough as it is.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I say, shaking my head. “We might have to just pretend he isn’t really your father.”

“That’s fine,” Naomi says. “I’ve been doing that for years.”

I break my code of silence the next day (applauding myself for having held out that long) and call Suri from across the street. “Naomi has a date tomorrow!” I cry.

“Oh, that’s exciting,” Suri says with an air of wisdom. She’s married off two daughters and knows the drill. “Did he waive the first phone call? It seems they’re all doing that nowadays.”

“Yes,” I say, “I think it’s smart. Less of a chance to mess things up.”

“Exactly,” she says. “Now, what are you going to wear?”

“Why, am I supposed to go with them?”

“No, silly, but you’re being assessed just as much as Naomi is. Come to think of it, maybe we should get you some new couches.”

“Yitz’s idea of buying new furniture is scouring the sidewalk. No hope there.”

“Okay, well, at least if you look good that will help. And you know to bake, right?”

“What am I supposed to bake?”

“Well, it’s tricky, see, because you need to make it seem like you just generally have a variety of delicious homemade baked goods around the house, not like you just baked them that day or anything.”

“Got it. What else?”

Suri gives me the rundown — how to size the boy up, things to look out for. Ways to facilitate the conversation.

“Make sure Yitz doesn’t speak. Tell the boy he’s mute. But in a non-genetic affecting way.”

“Mute. Got it. Anything else?”

“Try to get a new sheitel. I think that’s it.”

“Wow,” I say, “dating is almost as expensive as the wedding — and we aren’t even paying for the dates!”

“Impressions count,” she says, and her voice is loaded with meaning.

I swallow hard. I will do this.

Monday and Tuesday are spent making the best of what we have. I flip the stained cushions over, disappointed to find that the other sides are stained too, flipped over from the last time we had to make a good impression. So much for that. I clear off the coffee table and find a few impressive-sounding books to put out, strategically placed to cover mug rings and cracks. I drop my sheitel off for a quick wash and begin the baking process.

Tuesday, 7:45 p.m. Naomi is straightening her hair for, I think, the 23rd time. The carpet has been sprayed with some of my perfume and I’m in my newly set sheitel. I head upstairs to check on Yitz.

“Remember,” I say, “you say nothing.”

“Nothing? To my son-in-law? That seems rude.” He’s straightening a tie that has frogs on it.

“It’s the better alternative,” I sigh. “Let him do the talking.”

Frog tie complete, he follows me downstairs. The doorbell rings and we freeze.

“He’s early,” I whisper. “No one said that would happen.”

Yitz shrugs. We tiptoe to the front door and I peek through the peephole. A tall young man is standing outside, looking, it seems, rather nervous.

“It’s him,” I whisper. I have an impulse to hide.

“I know,” Yitz whispers back. “If we wait long enough, will he go away?”

I take a deep breath and open the door.

“Welcome,” I say, “please come in.”

“You’re early,” says Yitz, breaking his promise within two seconds (a record, even for him). “Uh, I mean, good for you!” he continues, catching my glare. “Early is… is a good sign.. it’s a good work ethic.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” he says, “I didn’t realize—”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

The three of us sit down and a long moment of silence ensues.

“First, um, thank you for this opportunity—” the boy begins, and Yitz bites his lip to contain his laughter. Before he can say, “Wait until you meet her before thanking me,” I jump in.

“It’s our pleasure,” I say. “We’re new at this ourselves. It’s kind of a hard thing to get used to.”

He nods. “Well, that’s certainly understandable. It’s hard for everyone.”

Yitz opens his mouth and I silence him with a quick glare. “So, we don’t want to dominate the conversation. How about you ask us something? That is, if you have questions.”

A good test, Suri had said, as we went over the bullet points last night in our cramming session. After all, she reasoned, who doesn’t come ready for an interview with questions of his own?

But this boy surprises us, taking out a thick black binder and a pen. None of my friends had mentioned a binder.

“Let’s begin,” he says, his voice quivering slightly. “What is your annual income?”

“Excuse me?” Yitz and I both say.

The boy blinks, confused. “Okay, I guess we don’t have to start there. Um, Social Security numbers? That’s easy enough.”

“Young man,” Yitz begins, but I recall Naomi’s pleading gaze and hold up my hand. Maybe this is how it is, I think to myself. And even if it isn’t, we have to play along for Naomi’s sake. Already I could imagine this boy walking into the beis medrash tomorrow and going on about the idiots he met the previous night.

I rattle off the numbers, shooting Yitz and his open mouth a silencing look. I watch as the boy jots them down with a careful hand.

“I’ll need your ages, weights, heights, and general health history.”

“Didn’t you already get that information?” I ask, confused. What was all the research for? Rumor had it he had taken six months to give our Naomi a yes.

“Maybe my aunt has it,” he says, looking equally confused. “But I still need it for my files.”

I rattle off the information, rounding down just a drop. Yitz continues shaking his head.

“In my day,” he says before I can stop him, “there wasn’t any of this. We just did what we needed to do without all the background checks and whatnot.”

The boy shrugs. “Things have changed, I guess,” he says. “And people need to be smart about these things.”

Yitz raises his eyebrows. Oh, boy, I think, this is going to be a tough shanah rishonah.

“Young man, we are plenty smart about things,” Yitz responds.

“Well, whether you like it or not, no one lives forever.”

“Is that a threat?” Yitz says, standing up.

“No, it’s a fact,” the boy answers. “Don’t you care about your children?”

“That’s it,” bellows Yitz. “I have been on my best behavior but I will not be insulted in my own house.”

The doorbell rings then, and we look at each other, perplexed. I once again peek through the peephole to see yet another young man standing nervously outside.

Uh-oh.

I turn from the door. “Avi?” I say, my voice shaky.

Yitz and the boy look at me blankly. Right, I think to myself. This could easily happen to anyone. Before I can explain that Bachelor Number One is just here to sell life insurance, I hear a rustling outside.

I open the door, ready to smile a friendly smile at Avi. I will make this right, I think to myself. Second chance to make a first impression.

Except that Avi is struggling under the weight of what seems to be a large lizard.

“What on earth—” I begin.

Chaya’s van screeches down the street, yelling, “Thanks and careful, he bites!” as I watch with dismay as Avi’s suit, newly pressed, suddenly creases and rips beneath the iguana’s claws.

Avi swats at the iguana as I look on helplessly, images of wedding invitations disintegrating in my mind.

“Would you like some cookies?” I finally ask. “Don’t worry, they aren’t fresh or anything.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 520)