• Be more confident in social situations (without the aid of a friend and/or alcohol).
• Start waking up at 8:00 A.M.
• Focus on finding a suitable job (does not have to be true passion, but does have to pay in something other than “experience”).
• Lose 5–7 pounds (I mean it this time).
• Stop lying to people (especially parents and boyfriend).
• Let go of any unnecessary grudges (Megan, Natasha, Dr. Richmanson, and similar).
• Improve Instagram average from 12 likes to 50.
SEPTEMBER 13
10:30 P.M.
* * *
Woke up at 7:30 this morning (excellent), meditated for ten minutes (amazing), then went for a twenty-minute run on the moving struggle carpet* (real-world miracle). Instead of going to the pantry and eating away any feelings of guilt or inadequacy, I drank hot water with lemon and cayenne (still wretched tasting, but bearable) and performed deep breathing exercises until I was light-headed enough to forget about my hunger (unconventional, but effective). All in all, a successful first day of the new year.
Meanwhile, Mom was out of the house all day and returned home with freshly painted red nails, perfectly shaped eyebrows, giant candy-apple sunglasses, and her shortest, choppiest, blondest lob to date.
“Those are new.” I pointed toward the glasses.
Mom pushed them onto the bridge of her nose to stare down at me. “Do you like them? They’re bold, but classic. You could use a pair of glasses like these. I also think you should cut your hair like mine, Lulu. Short hair is so en vogue—it’s very French. Also, you could use a few highlights … Why must you let your roots get so dark? Just promise me that when I’m gone, you won’t let your hair go gray. Do you need me to call Tracey? I’ll make you an appointment with Tracey for next week. Have you been using your cycling package? You really should, honey; it’s expensive and your father has been on me about my spending. If you need me, I’ll be walking around the pool.”
SEPTEMBER 14
Theo
7:23 A.M.
* * *
Someone please tell me when my mother turned into the Jewish second coming of Holly Golightly.
She came out of her bedroom this morning dressed for temple in a short, tight designer black dress and her new red sunglasses.
“Are you really going to wear that?” I asked her, ogling the outfit. She looked down at her exposed legs and shrugged.
“What? My shoulders are covered!”
“Yeah, and that’s pretty much it.”
“Relax! All the women in temple dress like this. You, on the other hand, look like you’re going to a funeral.”
“It’s respectful!”
“It’s matronly.”
Dad walked into the living room, rolling up the cuffs of a light blue button-down shirt. I gestured toward Mom’s ensemble in disbelief, certain Dad would come to my support.
“Dad, please look at what your wife is wearing.”
Dad turned toward Mom, who did a quick turn for show.
“Very nice. Looking good, Mama Shell!”
“You too, Big Daddy,” she said, winking behind her shades. I buried my face in my hands.
“Okay, fine, just … put a sweater on or something,” I grumbled. Val walked into the room wearing a slightly more appropriate “millennial pink” dress that cut off just below her fingertips, nose shoved deep into her cell phone.
“Can I go to Bella’s house after temple? She’s throwing a party, and there’s a rumor Lady Gaga might be there.”
“Why would Lady Gaga be at Bella Morton’s house party?” I asked.
“Because Bella’s dad helped her renovate her cabana house, or something.”
“Ooooh, can I come with?” Mom asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“Mom, it’s, like, all high schoolers.”
“So? Your friends love me! They don’t call me Shelly Shakes for nothing.”*
Val turned ashen white.
“Let her go to the party, Shell,” Dad interjected. “You, me, and Lou can go out to lunch. We can have a nice family talk. Right, Lou?”
He shot me a deliberate look. I gulped.
“Oh, never mind, I almost forgot!” Mom recalled. “Lisa and I are going urban hiking at twelve.”
“Urban hiking?” I asked.
“It’s when you hike, but instead of on a trail, you do it in the city.”
“Isn’t that called walking?”
“Hansens, we have to leave,” Dad announced, looking down at his watch. “We’re running late, and the parking situation at Stephen Stern is always hell.”
“Let me get my purse!” Mom said, running back to her closet. “Oh, and Lulu: mascara or sunglasses. Pick one of the two.”
* * *
Email
From:
Stephen Stern Valley Temple
To:
S.S.V. Community (undisclosed)
Subject:
Temple Etiquette
* * *
Hello cherished community members at Stephen Stern Temple,
First of all, we want to thank those of you who chose to spend the high holiday of Rosh Hashanah with us. It was a beautiful ceremony, and a wonderful way to ring in the New Year.
With that in mind, we at Stephen Stern would like to gently remind the community of what is considered acceptable temple etiquette. As a place of worship, our temple is a sacred space and should be treated with the utmost respect. This means showing up on time and abiding by the dress code, which you can find listed on our community website.
We’d also like to mention that the orange cones in the parking lot are there for a reason, and that moving them to create a personal parking space is out of the question.
Also, while we’re well aware of the changes that new technology has made in our day-to-day lives, we strongly ask that you leave social media outside of our services. This includes Snapchatting the rabbi as he blows the shofar, or opening the ark to take Instagram pictures with the Torah. To those of you who were at the eight A.M. service this morning and know which incident I’m referring to: we ask that you kindly keep the story private, so as not to compromise the integrity of our fellow temple-goers. After all, it’s a new year, and in the Jewish faith, gossip is frowned upon.
We love you all, and want to thank you for the support you bring to our mishpachah. We understand that some of you may want to share that joy with the World Wide Web, but think of it like Vegas: whatever happens in temple, stays in temple.
Shanah Tovah,
The Stephen Stern Family
SEPTEMBER 15
CULTUREVATE—LOS ANGELES
“Your Online Arts and Cultures Hub”
CULTURE-EATS → RESTAURANTS
New and Noteworthy
PAREA—Somewhere nestled between the relatively quiet San Fernando Valley and the touristy trash of Hollywood, you’ll find LA’s highly anticipated (if not dangerously overhyped) PAREA. From the genius behind Brooklyn’s Tin + Can and the Seattle brunch favorite RECIPErocity comes Jacqueline Reid’s newest culinary contribution: a locally sourced, Mediterranean-style restaurant with a California coastal flair. Seem incongruous? Not to Jacqueline.
“I’m just combining deserts, really.” The notorious redhead laughed as she gave us a preview tour of the restaurant. “Both are very health-centric and plant-based food styles, both emphasize the importance of communal eating … Honestly, it seemed like a natural pairing.”
“Communal” was clearly a key factor for Jacqueline, whose new restaurant features several long shared tables and a name that literally translates to “community.” From what the Culturevate team could see and smell, PAREA promises to be every bit as deliciously hip and fashionably tasty as Jacqueline’s first two eateries, with a full list of California native wines and a particularly Instagrammable dessert called The Palms.
Opening: September 19, aka the autumn equinox
Wh
at to get: TBD, upon opening
SEPTEMBER 16
11:13 A.M.
* * *
Something is definitely wrong with Mom.
I thought the incident at temple was enough to snap her to her senses (she asked the rabbi to restart the shofar section because her Snapchat glitched in the middle of Tekiah Gedolah), but clearly her antics have just begun.
“We’re going vegan,” she decreed in the kitchen this morning, arms in the air like Eva Péron.
“Vegan?” I asked.
“We?” Dad jumped in.
“That’s right,” Mom said, slowly lowering her arms so that they rested beside her waist. “Vegan. They’re saying it’s the secret to antiaging.”
“Who’s they?” Val asked, her ankles crossed on the kitchen table.
“People magazine,” I answered.
“Among other sources,” Mom confirmed. “Does it matter? Don’t you want to discover the fountain of youth?”
“I’ll pass,” Dad insisted.
“No, thanks,” I agreed.
“I’m seventeen,” Val noted.
Mom shot her a dirty look. “Must you brag??” She flipped her lob and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving the remaining Hansens to stare after her in confusion.
Is this menopause? Please tell me this isn’t menopause. If so, I’ll just have to wait another four years before breaking the Theo news to Mother, lest I end up pulverized by the hormonal fury that she would surely unleash like a menopausal She-Hulk.
SEPTEMBER 17
Theo
SEPTEMBER 18
Mama Shell
* * *
6:30 P.M.
* * *
All afternoon, I’ve felt like Cinderel-lou with Val as my fairy godsister, expertly getting me ready for tonight’s Restaurant Ball.
“This is like your coming-out party,” Val encouraged as she poked at my face with various brushes and sponges. “New Year, New You, New Lou.”
“I just want to make a good impression for Theo’s sake,” I said, readjusting my seat on the edge of the bathtub. “This is his big night. The last thing I want to do is embarrass him by tripping or putting my foot in my mouth.”
I cringed as she stuck a dark brown liner pencil right into my eyeball.
“Hold still,” she said. “I can’t do your makeup if you keep pulling away.”
“I’m sorry. I have very sensitive lacrimal punctums.”
“Never say that again.”
“Are you almost done? My butt is starting to hurt.”
“Yes! I just need to add mascara … Do you want me to get you some lashes?”
“NO!”
Two coats of nail polish and some eyebrow plucking later, we were ready to move on to the final touch: my gown. Mom has been out getting her hair done, and Dad’s been snoring alongside the pugs on the couch, so Val and I had just enough time to sneak into Mom’s closet and look for a dress. After much sucking in and a quick hunt for my Spanx, I finally managed to zip up a lacy knee-length size 4 (YES! YESSSSSS!!!!! I don’t think I’ve been a size 4 since my mom’s third trimester!) that was such a dark shade of navy, it almost appeared black. As I turned to assess myself in the floor-length mirror, I audibly gasped.
“Holy shit,” I said, staring wide-eyed at the vision before me.
“What’s wrong? Is it the makeup?”
“No. I’m Mom.”
And I was. Between my new hair, the makeup, and her navy dress, I had somehow transformed into the spitting image of my mother. Well, like someone took the image of her on a computer, clicked on the top right corner, and stretched it … but nevertheless, the resemblance was uncanny. To date, it may be the most terrifying moment of my life.
But there may be a positive side to this development. My hope is that the more I look like Mom, the more I can channel her social confidence. Val is right: tonight is the perfect opportunity to introduce a new and improved me to the world—a me that has good hair and can talk to strangers without admitting that I used to speak fluent Elvish back in high school. I’ve been researching pointers on “party poise” all week, and I have compiled a list of dos and don’ts for tonight’s gala.
At this party, I WILL:
1. Ask lots of questions, making other people feel interesting while subtly putting the burden of conversation on said other people.
2. Act confident: stand up straight, make eye contact, smile, and laugh when appropriate (not nervously or too loudly or at someone’s expense).
3. Bring emergency floss and breath mints (will undoubtedly eat something stinky, since it’s a Mediterranean restaurant).
4. Make Theo feel special, as it is his night and I am there to support him.
I WILL NOT:
1. Pretend to be on my phone to avoid conversation. In fact, I won’t look at my phone at all. Turning it on silent mode now.
2. Fidget with my rings (won’t wear any to ease temptation), look down at my feet, or engage in any other insecure body language.
3. Make excuses for why I don’t have a job. Instead, I will use the explanation “I’m taking some time for myself.”
4. Lock myself in the bathroom.
5. Cry.
All right, it’s time to call my carriage/Uber. Look out, Jackie Reid! I’m coming for my redemption!
6:12 P.M.—MISSED CALLS: (4) Mama Shell
* * *
Mama Shell
* * *
* * *
INJURY INCIDENT REPORT FORM
* * *
Incident Date: September 18, 2017
Time: 11:18 P.M.
Injured Person’s Name: Theodore Greenberg
Injury Type: Strained posterior longitudinal ligament
Details of incident: Sprained neck resulting from sudden twisting of the spine. MRI concluded no strains or fractures. Minor tearing; two days in neck brace.
SEPTEMBER 19
11:15 A.M.
* * *
Here I was, thinking I had hit rock bottom. That was not rock bottom. That was somewhere twenty feet above rock bottom, dangling by a thread of lies that accidentally twisted around my neck like a metaphorical noose.
Now this? This is most definitely rock bottom.
The party was going splendidly. I walked in as confidently as I knew how to: shoulders back, smile plastered on, hands glued together in front of my stomach to hide any bloat. These are tricks I picked up from years of witnessing Mother at parties, effortlessly navigating through crowds like Tarzan through a thick forest of socialites. I kept this image in mind as I scanned the crowd for Theo, who almost didn’t recognize me and my newfound poise. He glanced in my direction, looked away, and then swiveled his head back in surprise, which normally happens only when there’s something gross on my face.
“Excuse me, miss,” he whispered in my ear once he made his way to me, “I shouldn’t be saying this since I already have a girlfriend, but I couldn’t help noticing how freaking stunning you are.”
I snorted, because it’s still me.
There were enough guests in the restaurant that each social interaction was kept to about three minutes per person, which significantly limited my chances of being awkward. It was like speed dating, only instead of convincing people to date me, I was trying to prove what a sophisticated and put-together unemployed person I was. And it was working!
“Yes, I graduated from Columbia this past spring. Hmm? Oh, I’m just taking some time for myself right now. So what do you do?”
Theo couldn’t stop smiling—at me, at the partygoers, at the food he’ll soon be cooking. Jackie introduced him to some of her more prominent chef friends, who all commented on the impressiveness of his age/ his awesome veggie-patterned bow tie. When I excused myself to the bathroom an hour later, I let out a triumphant sigh: one hour down, three to go. I popped a mint into my mouth and reapplied Val’s lip gloss before pulling my phone out of my purse for a quick check.
Four misse
d calls. Eleven text messages. All from the same person: Mom.
I started skimming the texts, thinking she must need help turning the TV on or something. It wasn’t until I read the words We’re on our way that the reality struck me like a blow to the back of the knees. Before I could compose myself, I was ripping open the bathroom door and dashing to the dining room, slapping strangers out of my way with my clutch purse. I spotted Mom’s identical blond lob from across the crowd, her back turned to me as she chatted with Dad and Jackie. At the same moment, I caught sight of Theo excusing himself from a conversation with the main dessert chef.
It all happened so fast.
I watched in slow motion as Theo glanced over at the lob, pivoted slightly, and walked the five steps over to where my parents and Jackie were standing. Without fully turning to look at her, Theo wrapped a loose arm around Mom’s waist, spun her around, and to my unmitigated horror, pulled her in for a kiss on the lips. Mom yelped and leaned back just enough to avoid mouth-to-mouth contact as Dad instinctively grabbed Theo by the arms, flung him around into a wrist lock, and slammed his torso onto the hors d’oeuvre table with a thud. The entire restaurant came to a grinding halt as Dad pinned a squirming Theo against the wooden panels of the communal table like an officer making an arrest onto the hood of his elegantly decorated car.
“Get your hands off my wife!” Dad yelled at Theo, whose face was smashed into a plate of sriracha deviled eggs.
“Wife?!” Theo yelled back with a face full of spicy yolk cream. “What are you—OW!” Theo cried out as Dad tightened his grasp, expertly pressing Theo’s thumbs into a knot behind his back.
Phone screens started popping up left and right as the partygoers began documenting the incident. Mom was in hysterics, her hands covering her mouth to hide the fits of nervous laughter that had taken hold. People were scrambling. Jackie was cursing. I felt faint.
“DAD!” I yelled, my voice finally catching up to my brain. “STOP!”
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