The Kitchen Shrink

by Dee Detarsio

  “Look.” He counted on his fingers. “You got your kids. Fine. You got your ex. Fine. You had your fun…”

  I raised my eyebrows and if flames could have shot out of my wide open nostrils they would have. He is going to throw me under the bus about my little interlude with Phil-O. Now, I can’t believe I’m the one who blurted out about the Martinator.

  “You know what I mean,” he amended. “One of the field producers was scouting out single guys for you and came upon Mr. Martin who said he knew you and would love to be part of the show.” He slapped his hand on his leg. “So, tell me…” he tried to act all interested.

  “Shut up,” Daria and I both told him.

  His giggle was most unattractive.

  “Are you finished?” I asked him once he finally quieted down.

  He wagged his finger at me. “You little vixen.”

  I couldn’t bear to look over at Sam.

  “Honey,” Elgin continued. “I’m giving you opportunities left and right to get your life on track. The fact remains; you are just another divorced suburban housewife. Nothing special. You gotta help me out, ‘kay?”

  “Elgin. Believe me. I’d love to have an interesting life. I’m trying. I’m sorry I haven’t miraculously lost weight.” Now was not the time to tell him I’d even gained four pounds. He looked disdainfully at my midsection anyway, like he already knew. Damn spandex. I crossed my arms. “What do you want from me? Can’t I just try to be a good person and work on my kitchen?”

  “Quite frankly, my dear, no.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Well. For starters, you have to listen to me. Make up your mind to change. You have to be open to new things, take chances, and for God’s sake, be more interesting.”

  I nodded. “OK. I’ll be brilliant, fascinating even.” I threw my hands up and rolled my eyes at Daria. “If I was brilliant and fascinating in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”

  “If I could grant you one wish,” Elgin continued.

  I snapped my fingers. “Oh, thank you, that’s it.”

  “What’s what?”

  “It’s Hugh Grant. I can’t believe I couldn’t remember that. Oh, boy. I really thought I was losing my mind.” I put an arm around both Elgin and Daria.

  “Sometimes we find clarity in the oddest places, even after we think that ship has sailed.” I was so relieved. “I can change, Elgin. I will. That is a promise I can grant you.”

  Chapter 14

  Unmet Needs

  “She wouldn’t bathe for weeks at a time,” I heard her loud and clear.

  Oh no. Oh no, no, no. What is she doing here? I pulled on my shoes and tripped downstairs to the sound of my mother’s voice regaling the crew with stories: about me.

  “Mom! What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, hello, Elizabeth. Is that what you’re wearing to be on TV?” She quirked an eyebrow and looked at Elgin, Sam and Tricia, seeking support.

  “We’re painting today. I’m not wearing good clothes to paint in.”

  “Ooh, did someone not get enough sleep last night?”

  “Mom. I wasn’t expecting you. What are you doing here?”

  “I got a call the other day from Mr. Elgin, here, and he invited me. Said it would be a nice surprise and I could help supervise.”

  I looked at Elgin who was beaming. See, that’s the thing. Other people think my mom is just grand. A word she liked to use when she was in her vivacious mode. People meeting her for the first time would see someone who was quirky, lovable, sweet and good natured. But that’s only people who didn’t make her gain forty pounds and nearly kill her upon their breech position arrival.

  “What a surprise,” I said. Oh well, how bad could it be? When will I learn to stop asking that?

  My mom craved attention. The older she got, the more she demanded. Unmet needs, Daria always called it. But then again, that was Daria’s excuse for everything. Grumpy? Irrational? Hungry? Unmet needs. Who needs therapy, when that covers all the bases? Actually, I often thought my mom could use some therapy. She was the one who would and could preserve her sooty blessing from Ash Wednesday for three whole days. Ash Wednesday—you know, where the priest marks the sign of the cross on good Catholic’s foreheads, with ashes, while chanting “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” kicking off a guilt-ridden 40-day-showdown of who-can-suffer-the-most fest known as Lent. How do you not wash your face for three days? How do you sleep without rubbing it off? “I think she tapes saran wrap to her forehead to protect it,” I told Daria.

  “Big deal, so she’s a holy roller and wants people to know about it. Could be worse.” Daria, of course, was charmed by my mother. She even used her once on her Good Mood Food show, for her tuna burgers. OK, I love my mother’s tuna burgers. They’re one of my go-to comfort foods. In her continuing Ode to Cream of Mushroom soup, my mom would mix cans of tuna, seasonings, and don’t forget the stale, crushed potato chips, into a casserole and bake it for half an hour. Put the glop on a hamburger bun, and I counted it as part of my fish quota for the week. After her TV appearance on Daria’s show, she was nearly unbearable.

  “She says the word ‘vegetable’ with four syllables,” I complained to Daria.

  “Veg-e-ta-ble,” Daria counted out. “Ha. So what?” Sometimes I thought Daria liked my mom more than she would have just to get a rise out of me. Oh well, Daria would be a party of one glad to see my mom.

  I took a deep breath and smiled at my mom holding court in my family room. I would be nice and charming. After all, she was my mother. I clipped on my microphone. After all, the show must go on. I smiled my best fake smile at Sam and his camera and warned myself to behave.

  The kids came downstairs to gather their books for school when my mom descended upon them like she was a grandmother in a Broadway show. “Ryan,” she gushed so the back row could hear her, “you’ve gotten so big. How handsome.” She actually looked at the camera before hugging him and then looked up at him pursing her lips like he was actually going to kiss her.

  “Hey, Grandma. How are you?” Over her head his eyes found me and morse-coded, ‘I don’t have to kiss her, do I?’ He was still on restriction following his drinking debacle, and it would have pleased me if he had to kiss Gram-Gram on her lips-lips. He was saved by the arrival of Nicole.

  “Nicole,” she said, grabbing my poor unsuspecting daughter in a suffocating hug. “Let me look at you.” She held Nicole’s shoulders out from her at arm’s length and then spun her around. “Oh, honey,” she said, in a fake whisper, “those jeans are so tight we could see if you pooted.”

  “Grandma!” Nicole was crushed. She grabbed her backpack and ran out the door.

  “Mom, that was mean,” I said to my mother. I couldn’t help but notice Elgin clasping his hands as if he had won the lottery, or was converting to Catholicism. I followed Nicole out the front door while my mom played innocent.

  “Kids these days,” she was telling the crew, her palms held out. “In my day…”

  “Mom!” Nicole called out to me. I caught up to her at the end of the sidewalk. “They’re not going to use that on TV are they?”

  I smoothed her hair. “Honey, don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”

  “How long is she staying?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll get through it.” Somehow. I went back in the house, shot Elgin a dirty look and called Daria to give her the good news. “She’s here. The soothsayer.”

  Daria laughed. “I love it. That’s not a profession one hears a lot about, nowadays. How’s her business going?”

  “If she got a free meal at Soup Plantation for every time she said ‘I told ya so’ she’d have enough roughage to never have to talk about her bathroom habits again.”

  “Oh, what would you ever do without her?” Daria teased. “What would you complain about? I’ll be over later. Tell Sam I said, ‘hey.’”

  I hung up and turned to Sam. “Daria says hello. She’ll be over later,” I s
aid, trying to watch him and see his reaction.

  “Good,” he said, hefting his camera back on his shoulder.

  I went into the kitchen to say goodbye to Phil-O. The walls were finished, textured and ready to be painted. He was heading to San Francisco for an old Victorian house renovation and was going to live up there for the next six months.

  “I’ll miss you,” I said as we hugged. I would, too. I really liked hanging out with him, not that I could ever see us dating, but a girl can dream, can’t she? Even though I couldn’t figure out why he seemed to like me, Phil-O did wonders for my confidence, to say nothing of my libido. I feared my passion had gone forever, unclaimed in the lost and found department, buried beneath extra pounds, layers of self-loathing and the TV remote. He reminded me how much fun it was to flirt. I’ll miss him for that alone! “I’ll miss you too,” he said. “Send me pictures once this is painted, I want to see how the walls come out and I don’t want to wait for the show.”

  “OK. Send me pictures of what you’re working on, too.”

  “I will,” he said, giving me a final hug, squeezing my shoulders as Elgin walked by making smacking-smooching sounds, pursing his lips. My fingers itched to make a smacking sound up the side of Elgin’s head.

  After the crew said their goodbyes to Phil-O and settled back down to clean up the kitchen so we could get ready to paint, Elgin put me to work sweeping the floor.

  “So, I hear you didn’t like to take a bath,” Sam teased me, bringing up yet another of my mother’s tall tales.

  “Oh, come on. It was like one week. I went through a phase when I was about eleven.”

  “She was thirteen,” my mother interrupted, sailing into the kitchen. “And it lasted for a month.”

  “Mom. That is just not true.”

  She smirked at me and I was thirteen all over again. Maybe it was just bad Feng Shui, or maybe I finally had enough. Or maybe, I promised Elgin I would change and this was what he was talking about. I wanted to get along with my mom but all I did was piss and moan about her. Maybe for once, I needed to be what the big three, God, Oprah and Dr. Phil, were always harping about: honest.

  “Mom, why do you seem to enjoy hurting people’s feelings?”

  “Aw, you big baby. Can’t take a joke?” She elbowed Sam in the ribs.

  “Mom, it’s not just me.” I tried again, and I really tried to be fair about why she always bugged me so much. “I want to have a good relationship with you but sometimes I feel that you just like to put on a show, especially in front of other people.”

  “Well, ‘I feel,’” Oh God, she did air quotes, “you’re living a hippy-dippy life and need someone to tell you what’s what.”

  “A hippy-dippy life? What are you talking about?” Keep my voice down, take a deep breath.

  “Yes. You left Brett, and I will never in a million years understand that. In my day, you worked things out, you didn’t just walk out and then complain how miserable your life is.”

  “I don’t complain,” I started to say.

  “Yeah, right and I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “Mom, I can’t believe you think that of me.”

  “I’m not finished, either. You started it, I’ll finish it. Your kids are a bunch of hooligans. Where is Ryan going to go to college? Huh? You let Nicole dress like a tramp. When’s the last time you or your children saw the inside of a church? And as for you, I’ve seen you flirting with the young men on this very show, and how you think you’re going to find yourself a husband…”

  “Stop right there.” I held up my hand. “You’ve gone too far, mom. My kids are not the best, they’re not the worst; they’re just right. They are the most unique people I know.” As I defended them, I realized it was true. I believed that. “You should consider yourself lucky to have grandchildren like them. I can’t wait to see where their lives take them, and no matter what they choose, I will be proud of them for being good people. That’s what you could never see in me, Mom. You never thought I was good enough.”

  My mother was literally spinning in circles. “Where’s my pocketbook?” She grabbed it off the sofa in the living room and dug for her car keys. “Elizabeth. That I should live to hear such words come out of my own daughter’s mouth. When you are ready to apologize, I’ll be ready to listen. Someone has to be the mature one.” She headed out the front door.

  I followed her and cupped my hands over my mouth. “Mature? Criticizing everything about my life is mature? Helpful?” I dropped my hands and ran toward her as she got in her car. “You just want to think you’re right and I’m wrong, as usual. I’m not playing that game anymore, Mom. There is no right and wrong answer here. I’m doing the best I can and just once, I’d like you to be proud of me, and accept me as I am.”

  Her car door slammed. She tried to peel out but her ten-year-old Toyota Camry couldn’t quite pull it off.

  Watch out. Now I’m fired up.

  Chapter 15

  Rojo Ha

  I went back inside, Sam and his camera hot on my heels, Elgin rubbing his hands together like he expected to make sparks.

  I put the broom away and was looking forward to painting. I’ve painted rooms in the past and found it incredibly therapeutic; though I always forgot how hard it was. I really liked how the kitchen was shaping up, and I felt like I had a big safety net under me, the crew. The wonderful, magic crew who supplied all the materials I needed, and who did all the prep, planning, taping and organizing. Reality show renovation was the only way to fly. I didn’t really have to work that hard. I wasn’t at all offended that they didn’t think I was doing that great of a job. The first hour of painting is fun. It’s the last seventeen hours that will get you. So, painting’s not my forte. I have other skills. I must, right?

  Even I knew that watching some amateur putz around her kitchen really didn’t make for good TV. They would just do ‘TV bits’ of me where I was on camera learning how to use a miter saw, or smashing tile, or starting to paint a nice, fresh wall. They only needed a little bit of me doing that, because viewers with short attention spans were all about the “voila” factor. It’s not that fun staring at a hovel, but it was a lot of fun, through the magic of TV (and about ten professional never seen behind-the-scenes carpenters, painters, contractors, plumbers, and electricians) to witness an amazing transformation.

  Elgin explained that home makeover shows are the I Dream of Jeanie and Bewitched of the 21st century. He then put his hands on his hips and tsked at me, “Not that you’re any Barbara Eden.”

  “Thanks, Elgin.”

  “I’m just saying,” he said. He squinted at me and did the director’s thing with his hands, like he was making a frame. “Maybe Elizabeth Montgomery.”

  Just as I began to smile, he added, “You know, in her later years, on that game show, Password.”

  I shook my head. He was just pissy with me because I hate, hate, hate the color he wanted to paint my kitchen.

  Elgin, of course, had to have something flamboyant. Big surprise. What unmet needs did he have going? He decided to paint my kitchen red, because he said that was opposite teal on the color wheel and because in Feng Shui universe, red was all that was good.

  “Do you want to come to ‘Homo Depot’ with me, the gay designer’s macho man emporium?” Elgin stood with his legs apart, hands on his waist. I didn’t know if he was pretending to be Batman or Catwoman. “To the orange aprons,” he said, before pointing into the yonder.

  “Sure,” I told him. I was no designer but I sensed disaster looming and hoped to intervene. Sam and Dustin loaded up their gear and followed us.

  We went to the Home Depot in Carmel Mountain Ranch where the husky paint guys behind the counter greeted Elgin like an old friend. I followed Elgin as he flounced over to the paint chips and made a beeline for the reddest color he could find.

  “Stupendo,” he said, kissing the bright paper square.

  “So now you’re Italian?” I said, grabbing the paint chip. “No way.�
�

  “Expelliarmos,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Are you cursing me with a spell from Harry Potter?”

  He ignored me while he tapped his finger against his mouth. He zoomed in on an even more atrocious color. “This is it.” He flashed it in my face and headed for the paint counter.

  “Elgin. Stop. Let me see that.” He showed me again, his thumb pressing down firmly on the corner as if I was going to take it and rip it up, which was exactly what I wanted to do.

  “Give it here,” I said, twisting the paper and pulling. I finally worked it free of his grubby little hands and stared at it in disbelief. “Rojo Ha?” I asked him. “You’re kidding, right?” I even looked at the camera. This had to be a joke. The red was so bright it made my teeth hurt. “I’m getting Punk’d, aren’t I? Is this like some Candid Camera show where you are setting me up?” I asked Sam and Dustin. “You can’t be serious.”

  I truly thought it was one big joke, like the show where they played tricks on celebrities to get a rise out of them. Oh, I got it. They wanted me to react. I tried to find my inner decorating diva and put my work boot down. “Not gonna happen.”

  Elgin merely ignored me. He went and got another paint chip and handed it to his burly buddy Bill. “Two gallons, my good man. Make it enamel.”

  “No,” I said. “We’re not painting my kitchen Rojo Ha.”

  “Yes, we are,” Elgin said, like a mom trying to ignore her annoying kid. He had moved on and was getting a paint tray and a couple of rollers.

  “Bill,” I said to the paint guy, “tell him. This is not a good color for a kitchen. We’ll all have permanent indigestion. It’s a color for a December wedding bridesmaid’s dress. It’s a color for Popsicles.”

  “Elgin knows his business, I guess, ma’am,” Bill said. “The customer is always right.”

  “Well, I’m a customer and I don’t want this. Don’t mix that paint,” I ordered as he lifted a can and in three swift motions had pried the lid off.