667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  I nodded slowly. “Uh-huh.”

  She left me to my machinations then, and I rushed home to put on my uniform blouse and Skype with Yash.

  424. Sometimes I wore new lingerie I’d bought on my travels

  425. To the Victoria’s Secret down the street

  426. I got on a chair to put up my ‘Singapore’ hotel curtains (I kept a chart)

  427. I changed my clothes and made a sweep of the room for any New York items

  428. A suitcase went behind me

  429. And the cat went out of the door

  He’d like that last part, anyway.

  Finally, I texted Yash that I was awake (noon in Singapore was happening now, eleven p.m. in New York City).

  Oh! One more thing. I’d long ago bought a sunlight lamp to use during the winter to chase away the blues.

  430. I put it behind the curtain and pointed it upward, so that ‘sunlight’ peeked above the window treatment

  431. Oh, but I was a dirty, dirty whore

  432. I was no longer Full Austen

  433. I was Full Wickham

  434. I had seduced an innocent

  435. And would soon ruin him

  The Skype ring sounded and I pressed the answer button. With my most charming, rakish smile, I said, “Yash! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  F*ck-Ups Four-Thirty-Six through Four-Forty-Eight

  Vanity Working on a Weak Head Produces Every Sort of Mischief

  The first week at my new job was one of the most exciting and unbelievable of my life. I learned the ropes at Hysterical while brainstorming and researching several books. On Wednesday, I had lunch with Khandye Kardashian, who loved the ideas I pitched for her second book. I left that meeting with a gut feeling that she would fly the coop and crap on Carmichael on the way by.

  I also left with a new vibrator and a Mason jar full of avocado vinaigrette.

  Mel and I spent our evenings narrowing down our long list of favorite literary agents and, after a couple of sessions, we finalized a list of four we would approach. It took a couple more evenings to work out our query letter, but by Friday, we were ready to pitch the hell out of this blog-slash-book.

  It was a fine line to walk, because I definitely wasn’t ready publicly to leak my identity as the writer of the blog yet, but hell yes, we wanted our names on that letter so that the agents, all four of whom we knew personally, would be inclined to open the email. We asked for discretion, confident it would be kept.

  I drafted the pitch emails and set them to go out Friday morning during business hours. This new venture for Mel and I brought us closer together than ever before, but took away my time with Yash. I missed seeing him in person, and his texts grew increasingly passionate and loving. He was pining.

  436. Pining

  Truth be told, so was I. Only my surreal new schedule kept me sane.

  But no matter how much I missed my false-pretenses boyfriend, I had a much, much, much better week than Taylor Choate.

  Taylor had become the punching bag of the Internet—he was the scumbag meme du jour. The public outcry about him had forced the NYPD’s hand, who’d pledged to investigate the stories about him.

  And the stories were pouring in.

  DirtyLinens had published not one, but two features on subsequent days telling anonymous stories from ten women each. They sounded the same, all of them. Met him, the night is a fog, woke up at his apartment in various states of undress. Most had assumed they’d gotten drunk and done something regretful, but others knew what had happened to them.

  But with no proof, they’d gotten an STD panel and tried to forget.

  These stories filled me with almost a blinding rage. Hot tears sprang into my eyes. To treat innocent women this way… Honestly, no matter what happened to me as a result of stealing those photos, I would never regret doing it.

  That piece of shit needed to be shut down.

  Two months ago, I probably would have turned my back, afraid to overstep. Worried about the repercussions of making noise.

  437. But now I’d started screaming

  438. And I didn’t intend to stop

  Not thirty minutes after our queries went out, we already had a meeting. It can take months to get a response from a busy literary agent, if you get any. We’d gotten lucky that she’d happened to be looking through her queries when ours had come in. She’d called Mel immediately to exclaim excitement over the book idea—she already followed the blog. We had a lunch scheduled for the next day, Saturday!

  If we got an offer of representation from her, we could use that as leverage to hopefully move us up the query food chain to get a response from other agents more quickly.

  I Skyped Yash that night, and I kept my locale as Singapore because I’d gotten tired of changing curtains. Myrtle was pitching a kitty fit outside the door, and I hoped he couldn’t hear her shenanigans.

  439. She put me on edge

  440. The whole situation put me on edge

  441. I sat on the side of a razor

  442. I wanted to scream and shout at my amazing week, to share my accomplishments with the man I loved

  443. But my biggest accomplishment was a fiction that had nothing to do with the blog

  I cried PMS and got off Skype too quickly. Yash could tell something was wrong with me, his eyebrows coming together with deep concern.

  “Are you sure you’re well?” he asked. “I’m worried about you. It’s okay to come home if you need it, right?”

  It was all too much. Tears slid down my cheeks and he covered his mouth with his hand.

  “No,” he said. “Love, tell me what’s wrong.”

  I shook my head. “I miss you. I’m just—it’s hormones, nothing more. I’ll be okay tomorrow.” I stared at my feet rather than at him. His honest, concerned eyes were like the telltale heart.

  444. They were driving me mad

  I knew I needed to confess, to scream my confession to the heavens. But not like this. I had to take my lumps and plead for his forgiveness face to face.

  445. For I was still deluding myself that he would understand and forgive me

  446. It could happen

  447. It could happen!

  448. It could happen…

  I signed off and blew him a kiss.

  He smiled the sweetest smile I’d ever seen and said, “I love you, Giselle.”

  And that’s how my heart broke.

  * * * *

  I met Mel at the café fifteen minutes before our prospective agent, Lillian Reynolds, was set to arrive. The day was snowy and brutally cold, but my nerves kept me warm. And my PMS, too. My lies to Yash had only been half-lies.

  “Listen to what she has to say first,” Mel advised. “We need to be open to ideas.”

  I nodded, forcing my brain into gear. “I know the drill. We’re a commodity that someone wants—we’re in the catbird seat.”

  “You okay?” She squeezed my arm and I put my hand over hers.

  “Nope. Yes. I’m amazing! And in the depths of despair.”

  “Well, you’re a writer now.” She grinned. “That’s normal.”

  Lillian, a rotund pink jellybean of delight, hurried into the café then. She was a fifty-ish white lady with a laugh that shut down the whole room. I’d helped Carmichael take on a book from one of her clients just before he’d canned me, and I’d loved every moment of working with her.

  We both stood, and she rushed over to hug us both at once. “You two!” she said before sitting. “You troublemakers! I was pleased as punch to get your query, and a little shocked, honestly. Dagmar, you seem so straight edge.” She threw her head back and cackled, and we couldn’t help but do the same.

  “I have to ask,” she started to ask, “is everything in that blog real? Did you really get dumped the same day that Carmichael fired you?”

  I nodded, a wry smile creeping onto my face.

  “Well!” She waved our waiter over. “Those bastar
ds. That’s called dodging a man-sized bullet. Or two.”

  We ordered drinks and started browsing the menu while making general publishing chit-chat. Once the most important business was done—food choices—we got down to it.

  Lillian began. “Obviously, getting an email that Marlene Hodgkins has already expressed interest in a book is a very good email to get.” She laughed, and we joined her—you just couldn’t help it. “I’ve been reading the blog since nearly the beginning, and I really love this point of view—that you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. But women are afraid to do that. We have to excel. We have to be the best. And that’s just white women—unfortunately, we have an easier time of it than women of color. Even in such a women-dominated industry like publishing, we’re still second-class citizens. Look at the proportion of men who get reviews in the Times as opposed to women. I don’t have to tell you.”

  We nodded. This was news to nobody paying attention.

  “So I really like the idea of breaking out of this ‘good girls get ahead’ mode.”

  I said, “We should be able to be as complicated as men.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “We’re already as complicated,” Mel said. “We should be able to be humans and still get ahead. We should be able to tell the truth.”

  Our sandwiches came, and we tucked in with glee. My nervous flutters had fled. No matter what happened here, I felt secure in myself.

  Lillian took a thoughtful bite of turkey club and munched. She gave a chubby-cheeked grin. “I stole a peek at your blog stats last night, your Twitter reach. I liked what I saw, as did my partners. We can build the concept into something that’s not just an industry-inside point of view, but a general one for all women. ‘It’s okay to fuck up’ is a universal message. And I’d be proud to represent the book. We have the potential for multiple books, merchandise, and I can see it as a movie or TV concept, easy-peasy.”

  Mel took my hand under the table. We held onto each other and didn’t speak for a moment. I couldn’t find my voice at all. My partner said, her hand still clasped in mine, “Thank you, that’s very exciting. We have queried other agents. Not many—we chose our group very specifically. I mean, we know a lot of agents—”

  “Of course, no problem. If you’re interested in contracting with me, I think we should shop around even if you’re inclined to go with Hysterical. It’s better to know what’s out there.”

  I said, “Well, maybe we can catch up in another week? In the meantime, we want to keep our identities secret.”

  “Sure. Take your time and think of any questions you have for me. I’ll be crossing my fingers!” She gave a hearty laugh. “I want to corrupt the female youth of today.”

  Upon agreeing to this sensible desire, Mel and I paid the bill and left together.

  As soon as we’d gotten in a cab, we whooped and hollered until the cabbie turned up his music to drown us out. Mel checked her phone and said, “Holy shit, we got another bite!”

  “Really? Who?”

  “James Pullings!”

  “Oooooooh.” He was by far the highest profile of the folks we’d queried. Not that being famous—relatively speaking since we were talking about book nerds—was a necessity, but damn, he’d be a coup if he was the right fit for us. “What does he say?”

  “He loves the concept and said that he’d actually been about to approach us.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. I’m going to tell him we have an offer of representation, and that we’d like to meet soon. Right?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  I threw my arm around her shoulder. “Just kidding. Yes!”

  Mel sent the email and bit her lip. “Should we… We should email the others and say we have an offer?”

  “What do we have to lose? One more email, polite, and then if we don’t hear, leave it be.” The cab pulled up to my place and I paid for the fare so far. “Two out of four is damn fine work, sug’.”

  “Damn right, hon.”

  I squeezed her again and alit. Once in my apartment, I flopped across the couch and flipped on the TV. I needed a quiet evening of ibuprofen, heating pad, excessive amounts of saturated fats, and my cat.

  Myrtle jumped up next to me and immediately turned her kitten butt hole to my face. I gently corrected her position to be the little spoon in front of me, and we settled in to watch The Golden Girls.

  Maybe we could have sections in the book about inspirational fictional characters—Blanche Deveraux would teach us all a thing or two about going after a hot man whenever you wanted. Or hot tail in general—we couldn’t leave out our lesbian sisters. Dorothy would teach us to take no crap. Rose, to be open and loving.

  And Sophia—that bullshit stories and lasagna fix everything.

  I made a note of this brilliant (?) idea on my phone and settled into stroking Myrtle again.

  Contentment fell across me like a snuggly blanket. I’d gotten a new job, was on the way to a book deal and had met a beautiful man who cared for me. Sure, I needed to sort things out with him and my real name, but my heart told me everything would be fine. Right?

  Yes, my possibilities were endless! Everything was coming up Dagmar, and all thanks to fucking up!

  * * * *

  I breezed into the office on Monday morning to start the second week at my fabulous new job. The receptionist and one of our marketing staff stopped talking and gaped at me the moment I walked in. “Good morning,” I said. They froze in place and gave me the kind of look that usually follows a very loud, wet fart.

  Had I forgotten to put on a blouse today?

  “Dagmar,” said Jenny, the receptionist, “I am so in love with your blog! I had no idea that was you.”

  All the air sucked out of the room. “Wh-what?”

  “The fuck-up blog! I can’t believe how badass you are.”

  My cell phone rang. Mel. My heart began to pick up into overdrive. I hurried toward my office and answered, “Hello?”

  “Dag. Holy shit, Dag. We’re on DirtyLinens this morning. They exposed us as the two behind 666. They have photos up and everything!”

  “What? No. No!” A staffer turned to stare at me, but I slammed my office door. “How?”

  “It must have come from one of these agents’ offices.”

  I collapsed into my chair. “Mel, I have to call Yash. Are our pictures up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nooooooooooooo!” I screamed it and stomped on the floor over and over again, despair pouring from my very pores.

  “Uh…you need a minute?”

  I turned my head. Latisha had been sitting there the entire time.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I just—”

  “Yeah, I’m guessing you’ve seen DirtyLinens?”

  I took a deep breath. Two. “We— We did not send that tip. We weren’t ready for this.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry for hollering.” I threw my purse on my desk with shaking hands. “I have to make a call.”

  She nodded. “Is that guy you’re dating going to see it?”

  Shit. Everyone knew about my dirty linens now. “Probably. I need him to hear it from me.” My voice came out as a squeak.

  She came around my desk and engulfed me into a hug. “Good luck.”

  I squeezed her back. “I don’t really deserve good luck in this circumstance, but you’re very sweet.”

  My phone rang again and my heart fell clean out of my body and squished to the floor.

  It was Yash.

  A perfunctory knock sounded and Marlene opened the door. “A word, Giselle?” She winked.

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re my boss, but my boy is calling, and—”

  Latisha hurried Marlene out of the door. “We’ll give you a minute.” She shot our boss an ‘oh, shit’ look, and they left.

  I hit answer. “Hello?” I whispered.

  “Hello. Dagmar. And goodbye.”

  He hung
up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  F*ck-Ups Four-Forty-Nine through Four-Eighty-Four

  And Now the Lifetime Original Movie—Pooping Lies: The Dagmar Kostopoulos Story

  I ran. Like I was in a chick flick starring Kate Hudson and her four-hundred-dollar blowout. In my red heels, my black princess wool coat flying behind. I ran from the office. I ran to the street. I jumped then—into a cab. When the cab stopped, I ran to Yash’s door.

  My brain barely functioned. I’d been deluding myself so very much that when the inevitable happened—

  449. It had always been inevitable!

  —I simply refused to believe. Mel was blowing up my phone trying to get me to pick up, but I could do nothing but try to get him back. To explain. To beg.

  I pressed the buzzer for his door. He had to be home. He always wrote in the morning, in the ugly shirt, because his brain was freshest then.

  Buzz buzz buzz.

  My heart thump thump thumped. I couldn’t breathe.

  Buzz buzz buzz.

  The tears started then. No answer. Nothing from him.

  I dialed his code again and pressed the talk button. “Yash, please. I’m so sorry. It was just a silly game I was playing the night we met. An escape from reality.” I really started to sob now. Great, heaving sobs. My knees buckled, but I leaned against the cold stone wall to reach the button. “I thought you were a one-time thing. That it wouldn’t matter. But I love you. I did. I have. And by then it was too late! Oh, God, please just talk to me.”

  450. Nothing

  451. No sound

  452. No love

  A woman exited the building and shot me a dirty look. I tried to catch the door as it closed, but she yelled at me and threatened to call the police. The door caught my fingers and slam!

  I screamed and collapsed onto the tile stoop. I held on to my hand and sobbed, the pain ripping what breath was left from my lungs. The tips of three of my fingers had already purpled, one splitting open in a steady stream of blood.

  The door opened, nearly hitting me. But it wasn’t him. Another man, frowning at me on the way by. “You’re getting blood on the tile,” he said compassionately.