My mom tries to set my sister K up with IT guys. When K was single, it was pretty blatant–

“The new IT guy at my work is so cute. He’s this kind of goofy-looking guy with a huge smile. I’m going to look to see if he has a wedding ring on. By the way, did you want to come have lunch with me at work this week?”

Now that K’s been with her boyfriend for a few years, things have gotten more subtle. We’ll all be having dinner together– K’s bf included– and my mom’ll say something like–

“Well if you don’t want to help me with my computer, I’ll just ask the IT guy at work. He’s very smart. And nice. I’m surprised he hasn’t been snatched up already.”

Like I said, super subtle. “IT Guy” has become something of a code word in our house.

“Well, if you were dating an IT Guy, K, you wouldn’t have this problem of not knowing how to fix your computer.”

“Well, if I could just find a nice IT Guy to settle down with….” 

For most of my life, my mom has resisted the urge to try to set me up (the exception). I wasn’t sure why this was, but like most privileged people, I accepted my good fortune blindly and tried not to ask too many questions.

Now I know that it was just because I wasn’t living in the same city as my mother for the past few years (and prior to that I was in college). I moved away for grad school. I’m back now. She apparently thinks matchmaking is appropriate only post-higher education. 21st century, y’all!

And I don’t want to be melodramatic, but…..it’s started. And it’s terrible, horrible, no-good, very-bad.

Pretty sure my eyes are still stuck in the back of my head from last week.

My sister gets IT Guy. I get…Produce Guy.

“M, you know who’s really pretty cute?” my mom says like she’s just discovered a fabulous secret. “The produce guys down at Met Market!”

“You’re kidding, right?” I say. “You want me to date a produce guy?

“From Met Market,” my mom says like that explains everything.

“….” I say.

“Met Market! Their produce is really good. I think they probably know a lot. They’re sort of experts,” my mom says. 

“Oh. Well then,” I say.

Fine,” she says. “But don’t say I didn’t tell you.”

“….”

Five minutes later, she says, “I just think you should look is all.”

The next day, she says, “Oh, could you run down to the grocery store and pick up some bread? …Are you going to change out of your sweatpants?”

I don’t think it’s going to work. When I’m in the grocery store, I either look royally pissed off or on the verge of total panic. 

But as my mom said when I told her what this morning’s post was about, “In my defense, you do really like produce.”