The Kitchen Shrink

by Dee Detarsio

  “Lisby, it just helped make the whole thing more natural. If you knew the camera was on, you’d still be uptight. It’s hard letting down your guard with this thing,” he shrugged the camera on his shoulder,“barreling down your face. I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t not tell you, either.”

  “What if I would have said really embarrassing stuff?”

  “Lisby, give yourself some credit. Why would you have said something embarrassing? I liked talking to you and that’s what the producers want to convey to the viewers, they want them to like getting to know you, too.”

  What the hell did I say? I tried to think back to what in the world I had been rambling on about when I thought I was just talking to Sam. I just remember being so relieved MaryBeth and Elgin were done interrogating me, looking for answers I didn’t seem to have, I thought I was finished with the hard stuff and could relax.

  I liked talking to Sam and he’s right, it would have been a different conversation if I knew he was taping me. Still, I was furious. I was angry at myself for trusting someone who was just doing their job. And I felt really let down because I guess I thought Sam and I understood each other, or at least were on the same side. Rat fink. Note to self; be on guard at all times. Keep thinking, ‘pretty kitchen, pretty kitchen, pretty kitchen.’ I plucked my hand from the microphone clipped to my shirt and waved it in a classic Nicole maneuver. “Whatever.” There went my polished rebuttal.

  “Hey Lisby,” Phil-O with the kick ass ass called to me. “Want me to show you how to spackle?”

  “Sure,” I batted my eyelashes, and turned my back on Sam. Phil-O showed me how to tape the seams and then mud over the nails.

  “We’ll put a texture over the drywall to even out the finish when all the drywall is hung, so when you paint you have a nice, smooth surface.” I nodded, but then again, I couldn’t imagine disagreeing with anything he told me. I took a quick bathroom break and called Daria and told her to get over here and ogle my new boyfriend.

  “I could spackle all day,” I told Phil-O, my hands all nice and putty colored muddy, smoothing out the indents and heads of nails. I loved swiping the goo, the consistency of toothpaste over the nail and then using my scraper to go back and forth until it was perfectly smooth. Talk about satisfying. A small thing, with hundreds of nails to cover, but still, I put my mind on autopilot and spackled away. There really was something to be said for being productive with concrete proof of accomplishment.

  “So where did you say you were from again, Phil-O?” I asked him, realizing I probably never gave him a chance to answer when we first met due to my disgraceful display of, OK, well lust. Maybe he didn’t notice. I was fine now. I lifted my eyebrows in what I hoped was my intelligent listening face.

  “My mom was from Trinidad…” he started. Ah, that explained his creamy mocha latte lickable skin. I really needed to get over myself. I hurried up and spackled another spot.

  “Oh, so is Phil-O an island name?” Where exactly was Trinidad?

  Phil-O laughed. I could have swooned. Not really. Well, maybe a little. “No, Lisby,” he continued, with a hint of an accent. Lissbee. He made it rhyme with kiss me. “My dad is Irish, O’Brien. Phillip O’Brien, at your service.”

  “Oh.” Did I just simper? “So, uh, did you ever live in Trinidad?”

  “I grew up there until I was about 10.”

  “So, you’re a,” I had nothing to say, but I forged ahead, “a Trinidadian? Trinidadi?”

  Again with that laugh. I’m sure I was ten shades of red. Sam was over my shoulder filming and Elgin walked up. “Who’s your Trinidaddy?” he sneered.

  The entire crew cracked up. I laughed along. Where was Daria? Somehow I got through the day, spackling away as Phil-O worked on the drywall. My kitchen was starting to take shape, but I still had a hard time envisioning the finished product. I tried to badger Elgin with questions but all he would say was, “it’ll be new, it’ll be gorgeous. That’s all you need to know.”

  You know, he was right. I decided to throw caution to the wind and let the Santa Ana blow my worries away as I reached for the spackle knife and got an electric poke from Phil-O.

  Chapter 9

  Teenage Wasteland

  Oh woe is me. Why didn’t someone smack me? Boo hoo, my house is topsy turvy. Funny how one more crisis can take the heat off what you only thought was a dire situation. “Brrrring.” No phone call at 3:30 am is going to be good news. “Hello,” I finally croaked out after wrenching my neck straining for the receiver as I coughed down the lump in my throat and banged my shin on the nightstand.

  “This is Officer Rob Johnson. San Diego Police Department.”

  I could hardly catch my breath. “Ryan?” I pleaded.

  “He’s fine, ma’am, just drunk. We apprehended him in a vehicle with three females; the driver has been arrested for driving under the influence.”

  I gasped. ThankGodThankGodThankGod he’s OK, I thought. It will make killing him all the easier. “What?” I needed more details, more reassurance.

  “We need you to come down and pick him up.”

  “I’ll be right there,” I said, getting directions to the downtown headquarters as I shoved my feet into my fuggs and grabbed a sweatshirt.

  It took about 20 minutes to make my way downtown through the cool darkness that did little to calm my roiling thoughts. Stupid me! Brett and I thought Ryan was smart enough to never drink and drive. We thought that included never getting in a car with someone who was drinking. We weren’t naïve in thinking that these kids weren’t drinking; we just tried to set up guidelines for being responsible. Ha. Stupid teenagers. “Yeah, well what were we doing when we were that age?” Brett used to remind me. It doesn’t matter; parenthood supersedes any idiot’s history, even Brett’s. We want our kids to be good. Healthy. Safe. Is that too much to ask?

  I finally found the dark, nearly empty parking lot on North Broadway. I went into the police station, talked to an officer, signed for the delinquent, and then got a whiff of the little darling myself. B.O. and alcohol. Gag. I hugged his stiff body and then blurted out the line I had rehearsed the whole way down. “You don’t know how glad I am you’re not dead,” I said, my voice cracking as I tried not to cry.

  I thanked the officer and hustled my smelly boy into the car. “Spill,” I told him.

  “I didn’t know she was drunk.”

  “Who are these girls?”

  He named names, girls I had never even heard of. He was living this total secret life. I was so pissed off as I delivered my lecture, mile after mile, I ended up my closing argument so hoarse my normally high-pitched tone sounded like it had a testosterone patch slapped against its vocal cords. “I know you know not to drink and drive. That includes knowing not to get into a car with someone who is drunk or stoned. What if she had crashed and killed someone, or killed the people in the car? Or killed you? His head kind of lolled as he shrugged his shoulders. Whoa. Very disconcerting to see your baby intoxicated. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. I concluded my lecture just as we pulled up to the house. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

  Ryan came around to me and we walked to the front door together. The next thing I knew, he put his arm around me and dropped his head onto my shoulder. “Sorry, Mommy. I love you.”

  I patted him back. “I love you, too.”

  He stumbled inside and up the stairs and I was glad the cameras weren’t rolling to see this. I had a hard time falling asleep but took some solace from the fact that maybe, just maybe my words sunk in. He had been pretty mortified. I know he’s a good kid. They’re all good kids, who just make really, really bad choices. I tossed and turned and tried to stop biting my lips, hoping my boy was going to turn out OK. I think he learned his lesson.

  The next morning, Nicole’s cell phone was on an end table in the living room. OK, yes. I’m not above just taking a quick peek at my kids’ text messages from time to time. It’s not like I plan on it, or snoop around for their phones, or expect to f
ind something. But, if the opportunity for research presents itself, via a shiny object with digital display—if a phone beeps in the forest and no one is around—well, not a jury in the world would convict me. A jury made up of moms with teenagers. I flipped open her phone. Hm, she just received a message a few minutes ago. What in the world? I read it. Ryan had just text-messaged her. “Why am I home and am I in trouble?”

  My heart sank. I quickly typed back. ‘YES U R in BIG trouble.’ What an ass. I didn’t know if I meant him or myself.

  Chapter 10

  Who’s Your Daddy?

  We were almost half-way through production, at the end of our third week, but still had a long way to go. The cabinets had finally arrived but weren’t installed yet. They looked pretty and I think I like them. I hoped I would, but you never can tell.

  As I was taking my mic off for the day, Sam put down his camera, making a point to turn it away from me. “Lisby, it’s been a long week. We’re all going out for drinks tonight, why don’t you come?”

  “Oh, thanks, but I think I’ll take a raincheck. I’m going to Ryan’s football game tonight.” Besides, I was still miffed at Sam.

  “Come after it’s over, Lisby, it’ll be fun, the whole crew is going,” Elgin said. He held up his hands, “No lights, cameras or action, I promise.” Sam nodded behind him, smiling.

  I did kind of like these people and it would be fun to just hang out with them without worrying if my bra strap was showing or if I was saying something stupid. Friday night, my kids both had plans, of course, that did not include me. I could go to Ryan’s football game and meet up with the crew later. I called Daria who agreed to meet me. “They said it’s someplace downtown, some new hip, hot spot that I’ve never heard of,” I told her.

  “Oh yeah, Lush, it’s very cool. You won’t like it, but trust me, it’s great,” said Daria, who in her minor celebrityhood got front row seats to all of the must-be-seen places.

  “Why won’t I like it?”

  “Honey, it doesn’t start hopping until midnight, they don’t have TVs playing the History Channel, and you can’t ask them to ‘turn that noise down.’”

  “Sounds great. Can’t wait.” She knew me so well. I was even excited. Usually by Friday nights, I was ready to mark another week off the calendar and turn in early. Well, earlier than usual. I could always DVR the History Channel’s show on Shovels. And since both Nicole and Ryan were spending the night with Brett, I was officially off duty.

  I never will understand football or why I get teary-eyed when I see the team march through the stands together toward the field, or why I always think, ‘we who are about to die salute you.’ After Ryan’s game, in which he survived with no major visible injuries, I waved at him from the stands and he pretended not to see me. I, in turn, pretended not to see my ex, and sprinted to my car, as fast as my spiky heels would let me and headed for downtown San Diego.

  Daria was right. I could hear the music from blocks away, where I had to park. They even had a bouncer at the door. “I’m meeting the Kitchen Shrink crew,” I told him, feeling very soignée. He looked me up and down, and let me in without saying anything. God this was cool, I thought as I entered. And dark. I really don’t get out much. I guess I’ve lived in the Pleasantville known as suburbia for way too long. I was thinking a night club called ‘Lush’ would be an adjective, conjuring up dim lighting, cozy cushy seats stuffed with royal blue, gold and rich red raw silk pillows, cocooning groups of friends and colleagues in a conversation cove. Silly me.

  While there were dim bulbs, and they were sloshing their drinks on me, I quickly realized ‘Lush’ was in full uninhibited use as a noun. I scrunched up my eyes, worried that I’d never find anyone. I rode a wave of people to the far back corner and tried not to notice when someone’s platform shoes clomped on my toes. Isn’t there a fire code here? Surely there are too many people. Where was everyone? If this was supposed to be fun, I really needed to get out more. If I could slip to edge of the bar I bet I could sidle my way back to the entrance. I mean exit. All of a sudden a chorus of voices greeted me.

  “Lisby!”

  Aw. There they were. My crew. And they seemed really glad to see me.

  “What are you drinking, sweetheart?” Eglin sprayed his question over my face. “My treat.”

  “Oh, I’m driving, but thanks. I’ll just have a diet coke.”

  “Dr. Pepper,” everyone shouted.

  “Oh no you di-n’t,” Daria said, coming up to me wagging her finger in front of my face. “We’re celebrating tonight. Party with your crew! Come on, just one drink.”

  I was no longer a sixth grade girl, I was now hmmm, somewhere in my late teens, succumbing to peer pressure. “What are you having?”

  “Mojitos for everyone,” Elgin squealed. They all cheered.

  When the drinks arrived, Sam raised his glass in a toast. “To Lisby.” Seems this crowd would cheer for pretty much anything.

  I took a sip and immediately felt it zing through my arms and legs. My feet stopped hurting and my smile felt ginormous. I didn’t think it could get any bigger until Phil-O showed up. He was drinking a beer and clanked it against my glass. “Good job, today. You’re going to have a great kitchen.”

  “You think so?” I flirted. Ooh, Mr. Man, share your great knowledge with me.

  He nodded. “Yeah, I heard you were freaked about the teal cabinets, but I think you’ll like it.” We looked at each other and at the same time said, “Teal, or no teal.” That really tickled my funny bone.

  “Elgin’s something else,” Phil-O said when he stopped laughing, “but he’s good. I’ve worked on other rooms he’s done and they’ve been brilliant.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. So what do you do? Just drywall?” Oh geeze, who did I think I was? How pretentious of me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that…” I tried to back peddle. I really wanted to know what Phil-O was all about.

  “Chill, Lisby. It’s OK. No, I’m a carpenter by trade, but I take on these jobs for extra money. I do a lot of custom work. In fact, I just finished up my own loft.”

  “What did you do?” I loved HGTV and was a total sucker for house makeovers, not to mention very impressed with the craftspeople that were able to make it happen. Combine a talented handy man with a handy-some man, and I was hooked. I took another drink and tried to remember to tell that one to Daria.

  “I bought a loft in an old warehouse near here, gutted it and totally redid it. I’m pretty happy with it,” he added.

  “What style is it? Describe it to me.”

  “Well, it’s my own style.”

  “Trinidadian?” I teased.

  “You could say. I hate clutter, so it’s almost Scandinavian looking. Lots of clean lines.” He shrugged. “I like it.”

  “That sounds so great. Good for you. I’d love to see it. It must be so satisfying to build your own space.”

  “Yeah, it is. I could show you, if you want.”

  Uh oh. Did he think I was angling for an invite? “Oh. Sure. Sometime.”

  “Finish your drink and we can go see it. I’ll give you a ride.”

  At that, Elgin, who had obviously been eavesdropping, began whipping his own ass and prancing around the room like he was riding a hobby horse.

  I looked down. When did I get another mojito? I sucked on my straw noisily and happily and pretended that all was well in my world.

  The crew was in rare form, louder even than the techno music that I would never ever understand. I’d rather hear a crying baby, which is what its repetitive annoyingness reminded me of; high pitched synthesized waah-waah squeals, speeded up. Somebody feed that baby. They wouldn’t let me go until I did a shot with Elgin and let him profess his love for me.

  “Bye, thanks. Love you too, Elgin.” I blew a kiss to him and saw Daria working her eyebrows and signaling me to call her later.

  Phil-O grabbed my hand and guided me through the crowd and out the front door. We had only taken a few steps when I heard
him jingle his keys. I looked around, wondering what he drove. I had him pegged as a big truck kind of guy. “Here we go,” he said. I looked again. All I saw was a, no. No. Motorcycle. I was scared to death of motorcycles.

  “I can’t,” I told Phil-O.

  “Sure you can,” he said, sweetly putting a helmet on my head.

  “No, I’m really scared. Do you know the fatality rate of motorcycle crashes?” My voice was shaky.

  “Yes. And I’m very safe. Extra cautious with precious cargo.”

  He really was flirting with me. I swallowed and watched him straddle the beast, start it up, and rev its engine. He looked over his shoulder and at the come-hither tilt of his head I tossed my left leg over the saddle and hauled my hiney aboard. Fortunately I had just enough to drink that I didn’t care that my jeans needed to be hiked up. Besides, I was too busy clutching Phil-O. And away we went.

  He was a safe driver, in terms of obeying the rules of the road. But you didn’t need to be psychic to be able to predict that one hunk of a hard body times vibrating horsepower mixed with a dash of cocktails divided by nobody’s looking equals a pretty dangerous fantasy. If I ever caught my daughter doing this I’d be horrified. I clung tighter to Phil-O as he took a curve and I concentrated on not thinking about my kids. For once, it was easy.

  I survived the disturbingly erotic ride to his loft, more charged up than ever. He led me into a sumptuous entryway, the huge over-sized Verdi-gris coppered door opened on a rotating axis instead of from attached hinges. I stepped inside. “Oh. I’m such a sucker for hardwood floors. These are gorgeous.”

  “Thanks,” Phil-O said, as he flicked on a light that seemed to melt soft warm beams down the walls. “It was a lot of work but they came out pretty nice.”

  What an understatement. The floors were so shiny they looked wet, a pool of dappled honey and maple, yellow and red striations of wood. He led me into the living room as I realized we were on the second level.