I sighed before mumbling yes into the cushions.
“Then don’t worry! Look, if you really want to work on a brand, why don’t you talk to Val? Isn’t she an Instagram celebrity?”
“I’m not asking my little sister for career help. Besides, she would just try to teach me how to duck-face.”
“Okay, then … why not talk to your mom? She’s probably great with this sort of thing.”
The idea struck me as crazy until I suddenly realized it was true. Mom is great at this sort of thing … After all, she once convinced Cher to buy a uniquely gaudy property of Dad’s by framing it as “Versailles’s humbler cousin.” If she can do that within forty seconds of seeing a house, I’m sure she can successfully package me, whom she literally created from loose cells roaming around her uterus.
JULY 20
GRADUATION GOALS (REVISED) (RE-REVISED)
Short Term
• Establish new living-at-home rules/expectations with parents. (Should probably reiterate these). (I tried.)
• Rid closet of all unnecessary and unprofessional outfits. (Thanks to the Mama Shell Bedroom Purge of 2017.)
• Email Professor Richmanson about job opportunity!! (UGHHHHH.)
• Buy more ink for label-maker. (Can’t find label maker itself, also thanks to the Mama Shell Bedroom Purge of 2017). (YES! Now if only I had something to label.)
• Start waking up at 7:30 AM (Will be tough without coffee, but must stay strong.) (Was impossible without goat juice. Now aiming for 7:45.)
• TELL. MOM. ABOUT. THEO.
• Work out thrice twice a week. (Realistic goals are key.)
• Murder Megan Mitchell (Holding grudges is immature and prison is not on my list of long-term goals.)
• Substitute coffee with lemon/cayenne water. (Never again.)
• Make new friends.
• Create a personal “brand.”
Medium Term
• Move out of parents’ house within 9 6 10 months. (How has it been 3 months already??)
• Secure a job in a field that I can commit to for the rest of my life. (Possibly PR?)
• Learn how to cook something that isn’t cereal. (Can now make a mean Pinterest guacamole.)
• Lose 5–7 pounds (soon).
• Find a one-bedroom apartment that’s reasonably priced.
• ^That Mother will approve of.
Long Term
• Forbes 30 Under 30 article (still within reach).
• Modern-style house in Pacific Palisades.
• My very own NPR segment (nonnegotiable). (Will settle for 60 Minutes special.)
• Have kids: one boy, one girl. (Amendment: a boy and a girl for each one of my double lives.)
• …?
JULY 21
4:20 P.M.
* * *
Mom and I took the pugs on a much-needed walk this morning, after finding a trail of sofa stuffing that led to the living room armchair (RIP). We showed Rosa, who sighed and mumbled “diablo” under her breath, which Mom still thinks means “Muffin” in Spanish. About ten minutes into our stroll, I casually asked Mom if she had an opinion on personal branding and was met with a gasp.
“Are you kidding?? Lou, it’s my missed calling! I’ve been told I’m downright gifted at it,” she said, tossing her lob behind one shoulder. “Why? Are you finally thinking of going on Jdate??”
Baguette tried to sit down, clearly tired from the whole three blocks we had journeyed. I gave her leash a gentle tug … Pugs need the cardio.
“No, but Tyler Jacoby said that everyone needs a personal brand, so I thought I’d come to you for advice.”
Mom beamed with pride.
“Oh, this is my best day! I already know the answer to this. You are a sexy-meets-smart, badass boss bitch. Beauty and brains, all in one. You could be a model, if you really wanted to, but the industry is just so beneath you, since you’re too busy saving the world. Think Amal Clooney.”
I’m not sure what about my eggplant-shaped body continues to read model to Mom, but the idea of saving the world appealed to me. Also, being Amal Clooney.
“Do you really think I come off that way? Or are you biased, because I’m your daughter?”
Mom snorted, flipping her hair again.
“Trust me, I am not blinded by affection. Half of your father’s success is because of my branding. Did I ever tell you the Cher story?”
“Yes, I remember it well,” I assured her. She smiled fondly at the memory.
“You know, your dad was hardly the strapping baron he is today when I first met him.”
My ears perked up. “Really?”
“Sure! In fact, he was quite a fixer-upper back in the day. Do you know what he was wearing the night we met?”
“The neon panda sweater, I know.”
She laughed and shook her head. A few feet ahead of us, Muffin started digging into someone’s flower beds, ripping up roses left and right. Mom paid no attention, twirling a strand of blond hair with her almond-shaped fingernails.
“It was quite a challenge, getting his look together. The first year we were dating, he only owned three shirts! THREE! A travesty. But what could I do? He was adorable, and in the end, I married for love.”
I suddenly thought back to Natasha’s comment about maternal instincts, and felt a pang of guilt deep in my chest. How could I be so wrong about my own mother?! Maybe Tash wasn’t so crazy after all: if I love Theo, then she’ll love him, too.
“Wow. That’s beautiful, Mom. In fact, I—”
“Just don’t make the same mistake, Lulu,” she said, snapping out of her nostalgia. “Whoever you marry, get him all packaged up, nice and ready for delivery. Remember, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is to fall in love with a poor one. The same goes for looks and good fashion sense.”
My mouth hung open, the remnants of my almost confession gurgling a bit before dying in my throat. Well, so much for that theory. Apparently, Mama Shell’s mothering style resembles that of a polar bear, only she would never eat her young … way too many calories.
“What was I saying? Oh yes! Back to your brand. I’d say you’re like Audrey Hepburn meets Katharine Hepburn … Oh my gosh. You’re the third Hepburn!!”
Muffin ran back to us, covered in mud and rose petals. Baguette lay down next to him, rolling over on her back, officially declaring her walk over. I stayed mostly silent as I carried her for the remainder of the walk, listening to Mom blabber on about the importance of well-fitting black dress pants.
I’ve got to get out of here, fast. Help me Tyler B. Jacoby: you’re my only hope.
JULY 23
Alyssa
JULY 24
9:10 A.M.
* * *
I woke up at 8:30 this morning (better), poured myself a cup of blessed goat juice, and am now going straight to work on my job application.
Theo has been stressed as of late, what with August just around the corner. August is a ferociously busy month for the catering company, since there’s a birthday party virtually every single day thanks to the love children of Christmas. As a result, my boyfriend is facing a tidal wave of work … Personally, I would settle for a small splash of work, or even a little sprinkle would do.
* * *
Failed First Draft of My Holistic Public Application
Legal Name: Eloise Laurent Hansen
Preferred Name, if any: Lou Hansen
Desired position: Administrative Assistant
How did you hear about Holistic Public?
I was first made aware of Holistic Public by my mother’s best friend, Lisa Van Williams, who mentioned the company after consuming a bottle and a half of Whispering Angel rosé. Thankfully, she was kind/drunk enough to give me Tyler’s personal information.
In two sentences or less, describe your personal brand.
Smart, sexy, badass boss bitch who is secretly the third Hepburn.
&nbs
p; What are some of your personal strengths, and how will they contribute to our company?
First and foremost, I am a tremendously hard worker, and will accomplish any and all tasks that are put in front of me. Assuming I have at least one cup of goat juice in the morning and unlimited access to Red Bull, I am pretty much an unstoppable specimen.
Second, I am able to grasp difficult and complex concepts quickly and effectively. For example: I recently placed second in my mother’s monthly mah-jongg tournament, after being taught the complex and multifaceted game only an hour before the event.
Third, I am a master of memorizing odd and unnecessary facts, and can recall these details at any moment’s notice. For instance, did you know there are more sheep in New Zealand than there are people? Or that a giraffe’s heart can weight up to twenty-three pounds? Now you do!
As an employee of Holistic Public, I would be sure to apply all of these talents to the rigorous job of alphabetizing Mr. Jacoby’s legal marijuana containers.
JULY 26
6:45 P.M.
* * *
After two days and thirteen drafts, I have finally submitted my completed Holistic Public application to Tyler Jacoby’s inbox at 12:35 this afternoon. My room is drowning in abandoned coffee mugs and crinkled-up balls of rejected paper, but the resulting product is completely flawless! If all goes well, I will be starting my new job by the end of next month.
Since I’ve been sedentary for the past forty-eight hours, Mom is making me walk around our pool with her to “get steps in.” She refuses to go to bed until she’s hit at least ten thousand steps, which sometimes requires a whole hour’s worth of pool circling. She’s been out there for twenty minutes, checking her Fitbit every two or three.
Ugh, she just saw me. All right, here we go … time to join the March for Family Fitness. Wish me luck!
JULY 27
Alyssa
* * *
* * *
COLUMBIA DAILY SPECTATOR
* * *
Recent Columbia Grad Suffers Month-Long Illness Abroad
One humid evening in a small but authentic New Dehli hostel, recent Columbia graduate Natasha McPatterson noticed an odd gurgling sensation in her stomach, followed by nausea and a fever that ran long into the night. What at first appeared to be food poisoning turned out to be a month-long case of intestinal parasites, a battle that has tried the scholar both physically and mentally.
This is McPatterson’s first visit to India, though she “feels as though [she’s] been here in another life.” After a particularly vivid dream she had a week before her commencement ceremony, Ms. McPatterson was inspired to book a one-way ticket to New Delhi, intending to write a journalistic report about the country’s culture of violence against women. Her research was halted abruptly, however, when she became aware of her sickness. According to her reports on social media, Ms. McPatterson has been suffering with almost every possible consequence associated with parasites, including extreme fatigue and even dysentery.
Interestingly, McPatterson has refused to see a Western doctor, relying solely on Eastern medicine to cure her ailment.
“I see no need to take medication in my current state,” McPatterson told The Spectator in an email. “Parasites, like any living creature, are simply seeking a way to live and thrive. I prefer a more natural, humane way of ridding myself of them.”
Ms. McPatterson expressed her gratitude toward the community of her alma mater, who’ve made their well wishes known on a Facebook page entitled #PrayForNatasha.
“I’m just grateful for the outpouring of support I’ve received from my Columbia family. I have every intention of continuing with my research, just as soon as these darling worms find a more nurturing host.”
The Spectator wishes Natasha McPatterson a speedy recovery, and hopes to get a full interview once she is healthy and back in the States.
* * *
2:15 P.M.
* * *
WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK?!?
Who is in charge of the Daily Spectator now?? How could anyone allow this story to run without ANY LEGITIMATE PROOF that Natasha McPatterson is in fact inflicted with goddamn motherfucking parasites?? WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO JOURNALISTIC INTEGRITY?!?
I absolutely MUST call and berate the bastards in charge about the consequence of dishonest and inaccurate reporting … or at least I would, were I not entirely responsible for the wretched lie that inspired the article in the first place. UGH UGH UGHHHHHHH.
* * *
JULY 28
2:30 P.M.
* * *
Great. Mom has requested that we go to the beach tomorrow, since it’s prime bikini season and we’ve yet to “strut our stuff.” Personally, I’ve been avoiding said strutting, since I haven’t been able to reduce any jiggling, that might accompany it. However, Val is insisting that we go for the pictures, so Mom is making me try on my old bathing suits.
2:45 P.M.
* * *
I would honestly rather wrap myself in a woolen straitjacket and lie out in the sun than wear any of the bikinis in my closet tomorrow. I look like a water balloon that’s being strangled on both ends by a rubber band. Also, my bikini region has been neglected for so long, I’m starting to resemble the missing link. I haven’t gotten a bikini wax since last summer. Why don’t I ever shave?? I’m going to have to shave.
3:15 P.M.
* * *
OWWWWWW OH MY GOD, RAZOR BURN.
Ugh, this is absolutely revolting. It’s like I took a cheese grater to my poor defenseless thighs. How did I get so many ingrown hairs? And why are all female razors so much more expensive than men’s razors when they’re basically a defective lawn mower of the legs??
That’s it. I’m not going to the beach tomorrow. I refuse.
JULY 29
10:30 A.M.
* * *
Did the whole damn state of California decide to come to the beach today??
We woke up early so we could beat the morning traffic to Malibu, which is about a forty-minute drive from our house. Malibu is what I call the “bougie beach,” and though I humbly requested going to Venice instead, I was vetoed because Mom can’t stand public beaches or anywhere she might have to talk to strangers. Besides, Mom LOVES Malibu. It’s her personal paradise. Everyone in Malibu has a service dog and wears flip-flops that somehow cost $600 and pays for overpriced sushi that was imported from a different ocean. It’s tremendously beautiful, and so are the people, who are probably all Ralph Lauren models who somehow achieved spiritual enlightenment by surfing and investing in shabby chic bedsheets for their beachside bungalows.
My mom’s number-one dream in life is to buy a house here, where she can finally attain the lifestyle and even the tan that she deserves.
We made our way to Cross Creek, which is the community hub where the locals congregate. This place is so filled with celebrities and good-looking people, there are literally signs prohibiting paparazzi from entering the premises. It’s like a watering hole for the physically superior.
Mom and Val are off doing a photo shoot along the shoreline, so I guess I’ll take the next hour to … relax? There’s not much else to do here. The problem with beach life is that it’s entirely unproductive. I suppose I can play count the celebrities, or even more fun: count the celebrities with service dogs.
* * *
Mama Shell
* * *
12:15 P.M.
* * *
Currently hiding in the dressing room at an Intermix, pretending to try on clothes that another customer abandoned. Until Mom gives up on the sunbathing Yale boys, I’ll just sit here and sift through the thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing that this client almost bought.
My God, how old was this person, ten? Seriously, do these shirts come in adult sizes??
12:18 P.M.
* * *
Oh boy. One of the attendants just came over and asked how I was doing.
“Hi, Tiffany, how’s everything workin
g for you? Do you need anything in another size?”
… Yes.
“Er—no! This is great, thank you!”
I heard the sound of her heels click-clacking away. Shoot, how am I supposed to escape if the store now knows I’m in here? Was Tiffany able to sneak out unseen by her assigned attendant?? Impossible. No one leaves a store empty-handed without having to shamefully admit to their loss, explaining that either they or the clothes were simply too ugly to purchase. Walking out without buying so much as a pair of Hanky Panky’s can feel downright criminal.
Wow, Tiffany really liked sparkly clothing. There’s a sequined jacket here that has “whatever” sewn in silver glitter on the back. Wretched. I have to try this on and send a picture to Theo. This could not be more tacky!
2:45 P.M.
* * *
Turns out Tiffany had not left the store. Tiffany was just grabbing a few more floor-length skirts from the back. Tiffany also happened to be one country star turned pop sensation Tiffany Swan.
She was so startled by me, who was decked out in her tight-fitting shimmering apparel and taking selfies in the mirror, that she dropped her purse and screamed for her bodyguards, who descended on me before the shutter on my iPhone clicked. As it turns out, hiding in a celebrity’s dressing room and imitating their person makes you seem a bit like a stalker, so without being able to change back into my clothes, I was apprehended by the Cross Creek security team and taken to the holding center. Apparently, “I was hiding from hot Yale guys” didn’t seem like a legitimate excuse.
Once in detention, I was finally able to call Mom and explain what had happened … but instead of running to the holding center to save me, she and Val sprinted to the Intermix and grabbed a photo with the still-recovering Ms. Swan. Thankfully, Mom is friends with the general manager at the Malibu Intermix, so it only took a quick phone call to clear me of all possible charges. That being said, nothing will ever clear me of the humiliation I endured while sitting in the security center, unable to lift my arms because the shirt was so snug, the sequins from the skirt irritating my bikini razor burn.
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