Pretty in Ink

by Lindsey Palmer

  “From now on, twice a day Laura will be e-mailing the staff with suggested tweets about articles we’re trying to promote online, plus goings-on about the office,” says Jonathan. “And I’ll be encouraging you to tweet Hers beauty tips and giveaways.”

  “As in, the stuff we already tweet on the official Hers handle?” Zoe asks.

  “Yes, but a hipper, funner version of that.” Zoe smirks; even she knows “funner” isn’t a word.

  Lynn raises her hand. “Here’s the thing. I use Twitter to share news about my favorite artists and their gallery openings—like, which ones will have free wine and cheese, wink wink. And to chat about which sexy male singers I’d like to serenade me. You know, the usual stuff. So how exactly does Hers fit into that?” Jonathan looks perplexed.

  Abby jumps in: “I think what Lynn’s getting at is, How we can separate the personal from the professional on our Twitter accounts?”

  “Aha, excellent question,” says Jonathan. “That brings me to my next slide: Be human.” The slide actually says this, next to a photo of two women who look as if they’ve spent a collective six hours getting ready; they’re fake-laughing and huddled over their phones. It does not surprise me in the slightest that this is Jonathan’s idea of “being human.”

  “I definitely don’t suggest just posting whatever we send you like you’re some sort of droid,” Jonathan says, and then launches into a performance of a very impressive robot dance. I wonder how long he’s practiced. “The point is to bring your own unique personality and flair to the tweet so that users will really connect with you and get a glimpse of what it’s like to be in the glamorous world of Hers. If I just tweeted, ‘Sephora now has neon lipstick,’ would anyone pay attention?”

  “No way!” says Laura. That girl has a tendency to answer rhetorical questions.

  “Instead, I get folks’ attention with something like ‘Neon lipstick is the new Brazilian wax: Risqué, but so now—& the boys’ll luuurve it! Hit up Sephora to try.’ I rock my Jonathan-ness, and followers respond. I infuse the professional with my personality. See?” Lynn is nodding, but Abby’s brow is furrowed. I wonder what Jonathan would think of my husband’s and my no-Internet Brenner Unplugged nights.

  “OK, activity time!” Jonathan accompanies his clap with a little leap. “Everyone take a worksheet and pass. I’ve blocked out 140 characters—the length of one tweet. I’d like you all to define yourself using this space. Bonus if you can do it in 125, so followers can retweet your answer.”

  Is he serious? How vapid must you be if you can be summed up in 140 characters? Victoria winks at me, so I face the paper. “Hers editor, mom of triplets, wife of Rob, lover of wine.” Oh, God, I’m not even halfway through the allotted characters and I’m already drawing a blank. I read over my list and add in “Soon-to-be-ex” at the start, but I manage to cross it off before Zoe peeks over my shoulder.

  “I have wine lover, too,” she says. “Only I say ‘pinot-phile,’ natch. Adorbs, right? That fairy faker may be at the front of the room leading this thingy, but I will most certainly have the best self-definition.”

  I try again. “Words and wine lover, bookworm, morning person and nap enthusiast, head over heels for Daisy+Rose+Lulu+Rob, yearning for prebaby weight.” There we go, that sounds a bit more like me, but also like some twisted online dating profile: a housewife on the hunt for an affair.

  Jonathan asks for volunteers to read their self-definitions aloud. Zoe’s hand shoots up. “Livin the Hers life, luv celeb gos-sip &beauty tips, pinot-phile, trying to balance home&work&play. (Moonlight as TMI Hers sex blogger! LOL)”

  “Love!” exclaims Jonathan. Zoe raises her eyebrows at me, as in, That’s how it’s done. “See, folks, how she promotes Hers, but also breathes her own personality into her description? Who wouldn’t follow her on Twitter? This is a perfect example of being human.”

  I excuse myself for the bathroom, where I splash water on my face and have one of those ever-more-frequent out-of-body moments, wondering who the pale, haggard person is that’s staring back at me in the mirror.

  When I return to the meeting, Jonathan is directing our attention to the screen. “Look, an hour ago I tweeted my followers asking if they thought bright red lips were sexy or slutty, and I’ve already gotten thirty-two retweets, twelve favorites, and thirteen new followers. This is called engagement, people!” This is called inane, I think. I wonder how Rob would react if I started a Twitter account with a handle like @momofthree and simply decided to crowdsource the entire raising of our children: “Triplets R 18months, my boobs R worn out. To keep breastfeeding or to switch 2 the bottle? (Or 2 turn 2 the other bottle?!) Please RT!”

  “We want all your great ideas for growing Hers’ Twitter followers,” says Jonathan. “Kindly submit your memos to me by end of day. And stay tuned for upcoming meetings on Hers’ Facebook and Pinterest accounts and our Foursquare and Instagram presence, plus plans for expansion onto other social networking and Web platforms.” It’s a relief to think I’ll probably be out of here by these follow-ups.

  The next morning, I call my former coworker Liz for my daily venting call. “Look, why don’t you ditch your office and come meet me for an afternoon date?” she says.

  “In Brooklyn?” Pre-parenthood, back when we lived in Williamsburg, Rob and I spent many a boozy Sunday brunching and playing poker with Liz and Jake at their brownstone in Cobble Hill. That feels like a century ago.

  “You say that like it’s San Francisco. Yeah, in Brooklyn. Why not? Your girls have Maria. Keep your phone on to field the crazy boss lady’s demands and come out here to yuppie babyville. You can call it story research.”

  I meet Liz at one of those coffee shops that open at ten a.m. and don’t seem to offer the option of plain black. Off a menu of drinks bearing the names of women writers, I request an Eavan Boland Earl Grey tea. Liz is sprawled across a divan in the corner, sipping a Lydia Davis latte and cooing at her baby, Matilda. We exchange a double kiss. “Sorry if I’m sweaty,” she says. “Tilly and I just came from mommy-and-me yoga-lates.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course you did.”

  “So what’s new in Hell?” she asks, waving to a pair of women who walk in pushing strollers.

  “Now Mimi wants us to whore ourselves out on Twitter.”

  “Leah, everyone’s on Twitter. I follow this coffee shop’s feed, and if you can match the tweeted quote to the author who wrote it, you get that drink for free. It’s fun.”

  “Oh, spare me. Also, all these random freelancers have started appearing in the office. It’s like we’re hosting the Oscars and we’ve got seat fillers.”

  “The parade of new faces. It’s inevitable, right? Believe me, you’ll be thrilled when you’re finally gone.” Liz doesn’t even pretend she thinks I won’t be fired. A woman taps her on the shoulder and says she’s looking forward to baby sign language tomorrow.

  “What is this, a flipping commune? A cult?” I whisper.

  “I know, I know, but it’s great. Doesn’t it feel isolating not to be around people who have babies your girls’ age? Ooh, I know, you should start a club in Westfield for moms of multiples!”

  “And when exactly would I do that, Liz? At four a.m. before the rest of my day begins? We could meet at one of those after-hours clubs where our screaming babies would fit in quite nicely with the wasted clientele.”

  “OK, I get it. All hail Leah Brenner, the busiest person in the world.”

  “You got that right. So, do you really like this new life, the whole no-job thing?”

  “I do. I adore it, genuinely.”

  “Huh.” Liz does look fantastic. She’s replaced her prebaby full face of product with just a dab of blush, mascara, and lip gloss, and it suits her. She even looks like she’s been sleeping. I wonder why I’m not dripping with envy. “No offense, but do you feel like your brain has gone to mush?”

  “Hmm, it’s possible. But to tell you the truth, I don’t really mind. I’m high on the endorphins o
f motherhood.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I say, meaning it, although I’ve only gotten an endorphin rush from a long run. Certainly never from an afternoon with my triplets.

  “Listen,” I say. “Rob and I are taking a trip to Vermont this weekend, just the two of us. We’re hoping to live out the illusion that we’re still actual people, beyond just our identities as parents.”

  “So you’ll hit the clubs and dance all night? Swig mimosas at breakfast?”

  “Yeah, right, I hear there’s a crazy club scene up in rural Vermont. More like, I can’t wait to get eight hours of sleep and to take a shower without three separate interruptions while I’m working up a lather.”

  “This is it, huh? You’re shipping out and abandoning all your dear friends in the tristate area?”

  “Hey, you abandoned me first, remember? I’m down in the Hers trenches every day, while you, my supposedly trusty comrade, went AWOL to go sip lattes on the sidelines.”

  “Amen.” Liz raises her mug. “Seriously, I think you’ll love it up in Vermont. Send me some maple syrup. So, who’s watching the girls?”

  “Well, Maria’s staying over on Saturday, and my mom, God help us, will be there on Sunday. Actually—”

  “I know, you want me to come over and supervise so your mother doesn’t get your daughters drunk on martinis or start reorganizing your bookshelves by degree of feminism, right?”

  “Oh, would you please?” Liz is such a gem. “Just for an hour or two. And afterward, you can fill me in on exactly how much terror my mom’s inflicted on her granddaughters.”

  “Tilly and I will be there, no question.”

  I throw my arms around my friend, whose chest is even more substantial than usual. “Wow, your boobs are huge.”

  “I know, isn’t it great? Speaking of which.” She whips one of them out and Matilda latches on. It looks sort of peaceful, breastfeeding just one baby. No one in the coffee shop bats an eye.

  After Tilly is done feeding, Liz and I stroll through Prospect Park and visit the zoo. The monkeys entertain us with their unabashed copulation, and Liz shields her daughter’s eyes. Then we break for more drinks, this time at a teahouse where you can mix your own blend from a list of fifty flavors. It’s all lovely and pleasant, and when it’s time to go home, I board the train, wave through the window at my old coworker friend, and feel genuinely happy for her that she’s in such a place of bliss.

  I settle into my seat, and at first the buzz of overcaffeination is a thrilling rush. The train lurches forward, and I’m content to watch the scenery whoosh by and to half listen to the conversation of the couple behind me. But I quickly grow antsy, at once overstimulated and listless. I pull out my Hers folder and begin editing a story about limiting your kids’ Halloween candy intake. I cut words to clean up the prose and tweak the structure to crystallize the service. The work calms and centers me.

  “You must be dying to get home to your daughters,” Liz said to me before we hugged good-bye. It somehow seemed shameful to admit that I wasn’t, so I just nodded. I love my girls, of course, but I haven’t missed them while spending the day with Liz and her kid instead of with my own. In fact, as a rule, by Sunday night, after two full days in mother mode, I’m usually itching for Monday morning—to get back to work and to using my brain.

  The thought of not having a job strikes terror in my heart.

  The preparation required for parents of three toddlers to skip town for twenty-four hours must be on par with orchestrating the invasion of a small country. I call on my own army of help: Maria has agreed to stay the night, but needs to duck out early on Sunday for a niece’s baptism. My neighbors on either side are on standby for emergencies. And though my mother moaned plenty about it—she has Cara’s play programs to finish, and tickets to a Broadway matinee, plus she could use some peace and quiet considering all the stress I’m putting her through with my job insecurity (thanks, Mom!)—she’s agreed to watch the girls on Sunday. Reinforcements will arrive in the afternoon in the form of Liz and her daughter.

  I’ve bottled what feels like a lifetime supply of breast milk, written out a book’s worth of instructions for the various caretakers, and even managed to throw a few things into a duffel bag for our trip. Finally Rob and I bid a weepy good-bye to the girls (the tears are ours, not theirs) and make our escape.

  I’m not sure if it’s the fresh country air or the fact that it’s our first adults-only getaway in over a year, but after five hours in the car of rocking out to Radiohead, Talking Heads, and (though Rob barely tolerated it) Katy Perry, I am positively giddy. It’s late afternoon—the sky cerulean and cloudless—when we pull into the dirt driveway of the first house we’ve arranged to look at in Windham County, Vermont.

  “Hey, folks!” Our realtor is waiting for us outside, clipboard in hand. He proceeds to tour us through three so-so houses. The dullness of hearing about yet another set of stainless steel bathroom fixtures is mitigated by the fact that his spoken words are just as entertaining as the script he wrote for that PowerPoint he sent us. How he describes it, a house doesn’t have two half-baths, a mudroom, and central AC, but rather “two additional cozy sanctuaries to steal away for some privacy,” “a designated spot for the hustle and bustle of transition, a veritable way station between public and private life,” and “a cool sense of comfort in every nook and cranny of these 3,400 square feet.” You’d think he was selling enlightenment rather than real estate.

  Just as I’m starting to think the house featured on the PowerPoint was a fake, the kind of bait I remember Manhattan realtors would use to lure you in to the dumps that were actually in your price range, we pull up a long, winding drive, woodland all around, and there it is: the dream house, even more dramatic than it appeared on our screen. Inside, the decorating is terrible, just as I remember, but it smells like chocolate chip cookies. I know it’s an old seller’s trick to bake before showing your house, but I don’t care; it smells like home.

  Rob listens diligently as the realtor goes on about the post-and-beam construction that will give us a special historical link to the Ancient Greeks who first popularized the architectural style; meanwhile, I slip upstairs. I discover an alcove off of the bedroom, where floor-to-ceiling windows give me a spectacular view to the backyard, all hills and running water. The setting sun is a fireball hovering over the creek, and the sky’s the color of ripe peaches. It’s easy to imagine transporting my basement office hovel to this grandiose spot. I immediately cook up several coverlines I wish I’d pitched in our recent meeting. Here is a place I could be creative.

  A moment later, I feel a pair of arms envelop my waist. “Hey, Ms. Vermont,” Rob says in my ear. “Our realtor-slash-spirit-guide is taking a call. Remember the PowerPoint slide of the bedroom, the one with the couple?” He’s kissing my neck.

  Rob obviously wants to reenact that scene of copulation, but I’m preoccupied by the fact that this is someone else’s bed, and who knows when they last washed the sheets. “We’ve got a B&B for later, sweetheart,” I say. I lead him down the hall, hoping he doesn’t get the idea to undress me on the staircase.

  “This is double the size of our house,” Rob says. “And half the cost. We could afford to send the girls to that fancy private school.”

  “Well, at least one of them. Maybe two.”

  “I read about this great cheese shop for dinner,” Rob says, and I realize I’m starving.

  After devouring three grilled cheeses between the two of us and buying two blocks of cheddar to go, Rob and I discover a general store that sells two-dollar pints of “reject” Ben & Jerry’s, meaning the factory screwed up and put in a double dose of chocolate chunks in the Chunky Monkey. I think I could be forever happy here. Happy and fat, but who would even care so far from civilization? We browse a thrift shop, and all the skirts are long and flowy, all the tops empire waisted. Picturing the future fat and happy me, I buy a paisley-printed peasant blouse for twelve dollars.

  On the drive to ou
r inn, I spot a sign that reads MAGAZINE SHACK. “Pull over,” I tell Rob, then hop out of the car. I’m on autopilot, scouring the racks for Hers, like I do in every airport and supermarket. It’s usually front and center in the women’s section (and when it’s not, I take it upon myself to rejigger the display). But here, the title is nowhere to be found. “Excuse me,” I ask the clerk. “Do you have Hers?”

  “Uh, her what? And whose?”

  I wave her away, not wanting to get mired in an Abbott and Costello exchange. I content myself with browsing through the titles about hiking and skiing and environmentally sustainable cooking. I’m sort of intrigued by a place where Hers doesn’t seem to exist, where it might as well be a figment of my imagination.

  “The new Brattleboro Bulletin came in yesterday, if you’re interested,” the woman says. I smile, wondering if I really pass for a local. She brings me a copy.

  The cover image is beautiful—a pair of backpackers perched on the precipice of a waterfall—though the coverlines could use some work: “6 Tasty Microbrews of Summer” takes the top left spot. Apparently no one told the editors that even numbers don’t sell on the newsstand. Or maybe they do here in Vermont; who knows?

  It comes to me like a bolt: I could be the editor in chief! Before I even open the darn thing, I’m already dreaming of my future life in command of the Brattleboro Bulletin.

  When I do crack the issue’s spine, I’m appalled to discover—on the very first page, no less—a grammatical error of the most egregious sort: the presence of an apostrophe when none is needed. It’s a blunder I’m barely willing to excuse on a sign for an immigrant-owned business (YUM YUM SOUP AND SALAD’S). I keep flipping pages. The editors’ page features photos of haggard, makeup-free women: One identifies her hobbies as canning and bird watching, and another says she’s a romance language enthusiast and full-time mother to Uno, Deux, and Tre, which is apparently not a joke. I flip back to the well. The features are a four-page story on how to start beekeeping in your backyard and a six-page profile on a local woman who’s been championing an “If it’s yellow, let it mellow” initiative, with considerable success. I gag, discarding the magazine.