Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Part 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part 3
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part 4
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part 5
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part 6
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part 7
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part 8
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part 9
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part 10
Copyright Page
For my kids
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First off, I must thank my wonderful agent Joe Veltre of Carlisle & Company for plucking my query letter from a sea of online submissions and making all this happen. His support, guidance, and encouragement have been invaluable. Also thank you to his assistant Pilar Queen for her help and advice when I came to New York. To Linda Marrow, Charlotte Herscher, and Arielle Zibrak, my editorial team at Ballantine Books: Thank you for your enthusiasm, expertise, and guidance, and for being so nice to work with. Your input made the book better without sacrificing any of the funny parts . . . okay, maybe one funny part.
Thank you to Justin Young (M.W.), whose friendship inspired the character of Trevor; to Pam Dueck for letting me share our ski hill misadventures from high school; to Jenn Ramsey for making me believe I could do it. To all my friends and family: Thank you for laughing at my jokes all these years and making me feel like I was funny enough to write a book like this. And to John, for doing your best to keep the kids out of my office when I was trying to write, and for always believing in me.
We were in a secluded thicket of trees, the ground a carpet of bright yellow leaves. There were six of us, all twelve years old, except James, who was eleven. He was in our grade, though; he came from Scotland, where kids started school a year earlier.
“So . . .,” Lisa, the unelected ringleader began. She was the prettiest—blond and petite—also the meanest. Not like she was mean all the time, but she was capable of great meanness, which made her powerful in the teenybopper community. This gathering was her idea: She was brave enough to phone the boys and invite them; she made up the story of a neighborhood game of kick-the-can to tell our parents. “Who wants to go first?”
No one volunteered; we all looked at each other, giggling shyly. I looked at James specifically. His cheeks were glowing red, and if I had been brave enough to reach out and touch them, they would have been hot. I’d often thought about touching his face. Sitting across the aisle and slightly behind him at school had given me ample opportunity to study his smooth, pale, Celtic skin and the childish down that still covered his jawline. James didn’t return my look. He was staring at the ground ahead of him.
“Okay,” said Lisa, taking charge. “Heather can go first.”
“No!” Heather gasped, covering her face. But I could tell she was secretly pleased—I would have been pleased if I’d been picked.
“Truth or dare?” Lisa asked wickedly.
“Hmmmm . . .,” Heather said, as if she were really contemplating her choice. “Dare.”
“I dare you—” Lisa looked around the circle, pausing for dramatic effect. She would have made a great game-show host. “—to kiss Sean for five minutes!”
Everyone squealed. . . . Well, the boys didn’t really squeal; they laughed and threw leaves at Sean, who was almost as red as James.
“You have to do it!” Lisa called over us. “If you chicken out, you have to tell the truth about something really embarrassing!”
Finally, after putting on an adequate show of reluctance, Heather and Sean got up and went behind a saskatoon berry bush—the kissing bush. We talked nervously among ourselves until Lisa called out, “Okay! Five minutes is up!”
They reappeared, none too quickly, smiling self-consciously. Everyone clapped, and Heather curtsied. She looked over at Sean. He smiled at her, and I was filled with envy for the special bond they now shared after five minutes of kissing behind a bush.
“Okay, so one of you gets to pick next,” Lisa said.
“I’ll go,” Sean volunteered. “James.”
James’s head snapped up; his eyes filled with panic. He looked unbelievably sweet and cute and scared. “Truth or dare?” Sean continued.
“Ummm—” His eyes darted nervously around the circle. “—ummm . . . dare, I guess,” he said in his adorable accent.
“Okay.” Sean smiled. “I dare you to kiss—” He looked at each of us girls. Heather leaned over and whispered in his ear. My heart leapt! My stomach flipped! Heather knew that I was secretly in love with James! I had told her, on many occasions, that I thought he was really cute and nice and his accent was totally ace!
She would tell Sean to dare James to kiss me! We would go behind the kissing bush, and when we emerged, we would exchange special looks that only those who have touched tongues can share! I played with the yellow leaves, trying to act nonchalant—though I was freaking out inside.
“I dare you to kiss . . . Kerry.”
I jumped a little with surprise (very convincingly) and then covered my face—the obligatory shocked and dismayed response. Everyone woo-wooed, and I laughed, embarrassed. It took me a few moments to realize that James was sitting stock-still, completely silent.
“Go on, then,” Sean urged.
James looked at me, his eyes wide and filled with terror. He blinked and swallowed loudly.
Awww . . . he was so nervous! And so cute! I tried to make him feel more comfortable by looking at him with an expression of understanding. “It’s okay,” my look said. “I’m nervous, too, but it will be fun. We have to do it sometime. . . .”
This look was a challenge as I was simultaneously trying to convey to the rest of the group that I wasn’t actually that keen on kissing James. It seemed to be confusing him. He blinked and swallowed some more, then said a long, drawn out, “Ummmm . . . ummmm.”
“Get going, you guys,” Lisa said, a hint of impatience in her voice. I started to rise, still smiling encouragingly at James while trying to look indifferent to everyone else. I was on one knee when he said, “I pick truth.”
I froze in my awkward position and then pretended to be stretching out a kink in my hamstring. “Ooooh,” I said, massaging the back of my thigh. “Kink in my hamstring.”
“Really? You want truth?” Sean said, laughing incredulously.
“Yes, please,” James replied. His accent actually sounded a bit snotty and annoying.
“You asked for it!” Sean said, and called the other boys over for a conference. They laughed cruelly, then dispersed. “Okay . . .,” Sean continued. “You have to tell the truth, James.”
“Yes.” Blink. Swallow.
“How many times a day do you—” Pause for dramatic effect in manner of a game-show host or Lisa. “—touch your willy?”
Everyone squealed—boys included. James’s face turned various shades of red: pink, then scarlet, then fuchsia.
“Okay!” Lisa calle
d, calming everyone down. “There’s your choice James. Kiss Kerry or tell us how many times a day you touch your willy.”
Gee Lisa, thanks for laying it out like that, just in case anyone couldn’t figure it out on their own. That was the mean side of her I mentioned.
James looked at me and seemed to be on the verge of tears. God. I didn’t really want him to kiss me if it was that painful for him. But it was obviously a better choice than telling everyone—
“Thirteen,” James said.
Chapter 1
It was my therapist’s idea—The Journal of Mortifying Moments. Of course, she called it “a diary of past encounters with men that may be contributing to your current negative and dysfunctional quasi-relationship.” Go back as far as you can remember, she encouraged me; the more painful and humiliating, the better. Easy for her to say. My therapist is this strong, independent, rather intimidating woman who has probably never even had a bad relationship, let alone kept a diary of all of them! The fact that she is large and masculine with an unflattering “helmet” hairstyle may also help keep her man troubles to a minimum.
But it is worth a try. Since my boyfriend, Sam, suggested we take a break to “explore our feelings as individuals,” my self-esteem has been in the toilet. Of course, “exploring our feelings as individuals” does not preclude us having casual sex whenever Sam wants it. And since he is so ridiculously good-looking and successful and sexy, and I am, well . . . not, I can’t seem to say no. Probably because I realize that I will never find anyone even remotely as wonderful as he is and will end up a morbidly obese, housebound spinster or, alternatively, married to some puny dweeb with back acne and nervous tics. My therapist says we need to get to the bottom of all these negative, self-defeating feelings. So, if writing down every devastating encounter I’ve had with the male species in painstaking detail will help me do that, then I’m game.
With a heavy sigh, I snap the small lilac notebook closed and bury it in the bottom of my desk drawer. I place a couple of outdated magazines and a stapler on top of it, just in case there is an office snoop.
I know it was supposed to be therapeutic, but I feel rather drained now. I could really use a glass of wine, but since it is only 8:45 AM, I’ll have to settle for a chai latte. I sift through my wallet and find four dollars, just enough for a latte and a gingersnap at Starbucks. I am just swiveling in my chair to leave my tiny office when Sonja appears in the doorway. I gasp involuntarily at her pale, ice-queen presence.
“Where are you off to?” she says pointedly, indicating the purse slung over my shoulder. “You just got here!”
“Ummm . . .,” I stammer, blushing like she’s just caught me reading porn in the office. “I—uh—I’m just off to the bathroom.” I tap my purse. “That time of the month, you know.”
She gapes at me, apparently repulsed by the thought. “Too much information, Kerry,” she says, holding up her hand lest I go on. “Don’t forget we’ve got a nine o’clock.” She leaves.
“Nope! I won’t forget!” I call after her. “I’ll just take care of . . . you know . . . things.” I tap my purse again. “And meet you in the boardroom!”
As I stride through the spare and modern lobby of Ferris & Shannon Advertising, I mentally berate myself. Why do I let her get to me like that? Sonja has this uncanny ability to make me feel awkward and embarrassed about the smallest, most inconsequential things—for example, having my period. I mean, I’m not even having my period! Not that there’s anything wrong with having it—it’s the most normal, natural thing in the world. Why does Sonja make me feel like having my period is some embarrassing secret? I mean, we all have it! Except probably Sonja—I would imagine she is too thin to menstruate.
No time for my chai latte now. I must go change my imaginary tampon and get to the boardroom.
I am scheduled to present a communications plan for our client Prism Communications, the second-largest Internet service provider in the country and one of the largest companies in Seattle. It’s an internal presentation only, which is actually more nerve-racking than presenting to the client. Sonja is very, very difficult to please.
As I approach the boardroom, I become aware of a buzz of conversation emanating from within. I walk inside to see thirty people gathered around an enormous slab-concrete table. Okay, not really thirty, but ten—which is five times the number I was expecting. Sonja reads the surprise and chagrin on my face.
“Kerry, I’ve invited the team in to hear your communications plan and provide feedback. This is an important campaign, and it is essential that we have internal consensus.”
“Okay,” I say as cheerfully as I can muster. “I’ll just run and make seven more copies.”
I return and distribute the document around the table. In attendance are
Dave, creative director—an obnoxious, arrogant A-hole so devoid of humanity that many of us suspect he is a serial killer
Tanya, art director—a goth chick, sleeping with Dave, so therefore, also an obnoxious, arrogant A-hole
Dennis, production manager—short nerd who will emphatically support whatever Dave says because (a) he is afraid of being murdered by him, or (b) he is just a major butt-smooch
Terry, media director—dog-loving spinster—or possibly lesbian, given short, spiky haircut
Louise, media planner—chubby, permed, cat-loving spinster—probably not lesbian, given Richard Gere collage on office wall
Fiona, account planner—a small, nervous Chihuahua of a woman who’s extremely passionate about her job, although none of us really understand what she does
Claire, online manager—sweet and soft-spoken, completely wrong for this business
Maya, manager of direct marketing—tall stylish brunette who is nice but very keen on her job; given my attitude, this precludes our being friends
Gavin, account executive—a skinny wiener who is basically Sonja’s foster child and will soon be promoted to take over my job even though he is only nine
And Sonja, the queen of Norway
“All right, everyone,” Sonja begins, tucking her immaculate blond bob behind one ear. “Kerry is going to take us through her initial attempt at a communications plan. Feel free to jump in with any comments or criticisms that come to mind.”
“Thanks,” I say, and then begin to address my document. “Given that back-to-school is a very busy time for new Internet sign-ups—”
“The market is totally cluttered at that time of year,” interjects Louise, the media planner/Richard Gere fan. “The creative will have to be breakthrough if we want to have any impact.”
“Why don’t you let the creative team worry about that?” Dave mutters.
“Dave, I don’t think that attitude is really conducive to getting the most out of this meeting,” account planner Fiona says nervously. “We need to take a team approach if we’re going to move Prism into the number-one position. Now, my research bears out the fact that students twelve to eighteen crave a high-speed connection. Their parents, however, often feel that a dial-up connection is sufficient.”
“That’s a joke!” says Gavin, who is practically in the twelve- to eighteen-demographic.
Sonja laughs and smiles at him adoringly. “Isn’t it?”
“Anyway . . .,” I continue. “Given that September is traditionally the strongest month for sales, I felt we should launch our media plan in late August—”
“August?” Terry, the lesbian media director croaks. (She is a heavy smoker.) “No one watches TV in August!”
“Well, TV isn’t actually in the plan. We didn’t really have the budget.”
“What!” Dave explodes. “If they’re not going to do TV, they may as well close their fucking doors!”
“There are media that are just as effective on the younger demographic!” Fiona screams back. “My research shows that transit shelters and cinema advertising resonate with young people!”
“Perhaps an online component?” Claire asks hopefully, but no one listens.
“You can shove your research!” Dave says to Fiona. “I’ve been in this business for fifteen years, and I know that clients who don’t put their money where their mouth is don’t survive.”
“That’s it!” Fiona stands up. Her hands are shaking as she gathers her papers into a neat leather folder. “Obviously my input isn’t appreciated here.” She storms out.
The meeting progresses in this antagonistic manner for seventeen hours until the receptionist knocks on the door and says that the room is booked for a client presentation. As I pack up my belongings, I realize that I have read exactly three sentences of my communications plan. Sonja follows me to my office.
“Thanks, Kerry,” she says. “Now if you’ll just address the issues brought up today and integrate the suggestions from media and DM, I’d like the finished plan on my desk by nine tomorrow.” She smiles tightly.
I feel like crying. I lost interest in all the bickering and conflicting opinions shortly after Fiona left, and sat thinking about where I’m going to go for drinks with the girls this weekend. I have no idea what the issues or suggestions were! I hate my job.
An hour later my best work-friend, Trevor, appears in my office. “Are we going for sushi?”
“I can’t,” I say dejectedly. “Sonja needs this revised plan by tomorrow morning, and I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“I’ll help you over lunch,” Trevor offers, and I stifle a guffaw. Trevor is an account manager, too, but it is the general opinion of the agency that he charmed his way into the position. He is tall and stylish, with the chiseled jaw, slender physique, and lazy gait of a male model. His dark hair falls sexily into his stunning blue eyes, their beauty undiminished by small, wire-rim glasses that I am convinced have nothing to do with correcting his vision and are worn only to give the impression that he has actually read enough to damage his eyesight. As we all know, anyone that gorgeous has to be gay, and Trevor is. And as if his appearance weren’t enough, he also has an uncanny ability to enchant people into thinking he knows exactly what he’s talking about when he is actually completely clueless! He uses a lot of catchphrases and buzzwords like, “This campaign really pushes the envelope,” or “We’re totally shifting the paradigm.”
The Journal of Mortifying Moments Page 1