Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “I know," he says sympathetically. “I’ve already moved it from our savings to checking.”

  I shake my head. “We’re never going to make it to London. Whatever happened to free public education?”

  “In Los Angeles? We’ll be more likely to find a unicorn.”

  “You mean a horse who’s had work done. So will you at least think about what I said? You don’t have to give me an answer now.”

  After a few moments, he nods. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  “Mooommmm!”

  I grab the white wine bottle and tell it, “You’re coming with me.” Then I head upstairs to fill out forms, make lists for supplies needed for the next day, make a Costco list since it’s suddenly on my mind, and straighten up their bathroom.

  Ah… parenthood. This is exactly what I thought it would look like when I saw those two pink lines on my EPT. (Yeah… no.)

  An hour later, everyone’s in bed, and I am lying in the crook of my husband’s arm.

  He is stiff as a board and staring up at our cracked ceiling, eyes wide with worry.

  “And you’re really not thinking about leaving me?” Carlos asks.

  I push myself up to look at him. “Of course not," I tell him honestly.

  He thinks a little longer. “Do you have a particular guy in mind?”

  “No.”

  “No hot young guy at work you’ve failed to mention?”

  I lay back down to burrow in further. “I already have a hot guy. I married him.”

  Carlos doesn’t say anything more for the next minute or two. He continues staring at the ceiling.

  “Soooo… What?” he asks. “We go to a swinger’s club or Ashley Madison or… what?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought it through yet. What we don’t do is we don’t secretly resent each other just because we can’t give each other the endorphin rush of a first kiss anymore. Or the rush of a first time.”

  “So… is that what this is really about? You want a first kiss?”

  I think about his question in my admittedly wine soaked haze. “I don’t know. I mean, I miss the first kiss. Don’t you?”

  He considers my question, then shrugs. “Don’t give it much thought.”

  “How about the first time you unhook a new bra? We both know you like that.”

  All I get from him is a pensive, “Huh.”

  I can hear his heart beating through one of his old concert T-shirts he got back in college.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Okay, yes, I do miss the first kiss. Very much. But it’s not worth losing my husb…

  “Okay," Carlos says, interrupting my stream of consciousness.

  I pop my head back up and look at him. “Really?”

  “Yeah," he pauses. “But don’t do anything stupid until we talk more. Maybe establish a plan.”

  Of course the accountant wants to establish a plan.

  But as I fall asleep in his arms, I feel a wave of excitement and anticipation I haven’t felt in years.

  Three

  Michelle

  I cannot fucking do this one more night.

  I took Zoe home to Silverlake before heading back to my house in Los Feliz. Alexis’s beach house is all the way in Malibu, at least an hour’s drive, so I welcomed the company of a carpool. But the truth was, I also welcomed the excuse to stay away from home for even an extra ten minutes.

  Why was I dreading returning to what should be my respite?

  Not because of my kids. My God, I love Megan and Roraigh with every fiber in my being. They are absolutely the best things I’ve ever done.

  I just can’t face everything else.

  As I make a right turn onto our street, I can feel the muscles around my ribs tighten. My breathing gets just a little more labored, like I’m inhaling a cigarette for the first time.

  Half a block from our house, I pull my car over to the curb and park.

  I turn off the car, rest my forehead on the steering wheel and, in the silence of the night, try to brace myself for the chaos I am about to walk into.

  I wonder if I’m too old to run away from home. I wonder if how I feel is normal.

  I know that when I get home, nothing will be done. The kids start school tomorrow. If my husband Steve had worked all day and had an event tonight, by the time he got home, everyone would have been fed, showered, and in their pajamas. Their brand new backpacks would be filled with all of the school supplies needed from the list I downloaded from the school website. Their clothes would be laid out for the next morning, their lunches would be made. Dishes would be in the dishwasher. Clothes would be in the dryer, possibly even folded and put away.

  But Steve didn’t work all day. I did.

  Which means nothing will be done.

  Other than the few hours I took off to go to the life coach session tonight, I have been working since early this morning.

  I am a realtor who specializes in seven figure homes in the zip codes from Los Feliz to Downtown LA. The work can be fun, but it can also be exhausting.

  This morning I awoke at seven to a text of an offer on a 4 bedroom 2 ½ bath I am representing in Echo Park. For the next several hours, while everyone in my house slept in on a Sunday morning, I read through contracts, and answered work emails and texts.

  Then I took a shower, did my hair and makeup, squeezed into a business suit, and headed to not one, but two, open houses. Each of which required I bake cookies, set out brochures and bottled water, and deal with everything from lookie loos who open cabinets and complain about paint colors to true buyers insulting the house, then asking for a discount. And I did all of this while fielding calls and texts from Steve and the kids about everything from locating an errant soccer uniform to tracking down the orthodontist’s phone number to changing Megan’s piano lesson from Thursday to Friday.

  After more than nine hours, I was finally done with my workday, and got to pick up Zoe and head out for a few hours to myself.

  My first night out in over a month. Protected time for me to laugh with my friends, talk about our lives, and not have to think about anyone’s happiness but my own for a few precious moments.

  And I will be punished for that.

  When I walk in the door, the kids will be wide-awake, unshowered, and unprepared for the first day of school. They will have ordered pizza or Chinese food for dinner, then not bothered to put the leftovers away. Dishes will be piled, unrinsed, in the sink. If they even made it to the sink. Some days, they never make it past the dining room table or everyone’s desks. Clothes I put in the washer more than twelve hours ago will still be wet, and needing to be transferred to the dryer. Tomorrow’s backpacks will be empty.

  The chaos has been at a not-quite-manageable, consistent level for over fifteen years. Since the day our son Roraigh was born.

  And everything that needs doing always seems to fall to me.

  Steve also has a full time job, as an upper level marketing manager for a film distribution company. I can’t even quite tell you what he does. But I can tell you that he’s done by six o’clock every day. Then he comes home, tells me how exhausting his day was, then immediately heads to his computer, phone, or the TV, and decompresses. I don’t even remember the last time he cooked, did the dishes or helped the kids with their homework.

  Oh yeah, and he goes on business trips to New York, London, and Istanbul about once a month. I used to hate it when he would leave me alone with two little ones. Now I welcome the break: one less person to clean up after and ignore me by staring at their phone.

  I think I could stand all of the constant work if my husband was actually happy to see me when I got home. If he actually asked me how my day was. Or, in this case, how the life coach was. But Steve will not care how about anything went with my job or my evening. He won’t ask. It won’t even be on his radar. Why think about me when he has a fantasy football team to worry about and the ESPN commentators have some thoughts?


  When Steve and I first met, he talked about how he wanted to spend “twenty-four hours a day lavishing” me with attention. He’d give me the most amazing back rubs. Foot rubs. We would sneak kisses every chance we got. And the goal wasn’t always sex. Some nights we would just talk on the phone for so long, and get so sleepy, that we would put our phones next to our pillows and fall asleep.

  Now that we’re in bed together every night, he barely speaks to me. And he spends his last half hour in bed texting. I can’t even remember the last time we had sex, much less the last time he rubbed my feet.

  It’s been years since I’ve been “lavished with attention." Time-wise, it disappeared in tiny increments: ESPN when he first got home, or a little time on his computer before playing with the kids. Now most nights he stares transfixed at his iPad, his phone, the TV. But not me. I haven’t been stared at in a long time.

  The sex also disappeared a little at a time. Sex twice a day became five times a week, then three, then… when did it stop? Foreplay shortened to twenty minutes, then fifteen, etc. French kissing stopped altogether.

  And instead of being a team, we slowly became opponents, both jockeying for position as we fought about money, kids, values, time. There started to be winners and losers. And I started keeping score.

  Steve: 309. Michelle: 12.

  I take a deep breath, turn my car back on, and brace myself for the coming few hours.

  When I walk up the path to our house, I can already hear Megan, 12, through the door. She has a voice that can project to the back row. “But I need to have notebooks!” I hear her say loudly. (It’s not really a yell, but it’s never relaxing to listen to.) I can hear Steve’s voice answer her, though too quietly to hear his words.

  Here we go…

  I take a deep breath, put my key in the lock, turn it, and announce, “I’m home.”

  Before I can even walk in completely and shut the door, Megan’s on me in a panic. “Mom, what did you do with the college ruled notebooks?”

  I remind myself that I’m not mad at my daughter; I’m mad at my husband. I smile and answer her calmly, “They’re in your room, on your desk. I put out everyone’s supplies last night.”

  “You put college ruled paper on my desk. I need notebooks. Five of them. Assorted colors.”

  “Hey, if you’re going to the store, can you pick up orange juice?” Roraigh yells from the kitchen.

  “I’m not going to the store," I yell to Roraigh. Then I follow Megan into her room to cross check her supply list with everything I bought.

  Five minutes later, I have my key fob, and am walking through the living room announcing to Steve (lounging on the couch without a care in the world), “I’ll be back in a bit. She’s right. I forgot the notebooks.”

  “Wait. Can I come with you? I need the practice," Roraigh says.

  He’s referring to driving practice. Roraigh just got his learner’s permit last week, and God help us all.

  “No, you’re not doing night driving yet. Besides, it’s almost bedtime, and you still need a shower. God, you smell like an onion field in August.”

  “That’s my fault," Steve admits as he stares at some football game on the TV, “We played basketball after dinner. He’s getting really good. Might make Varsity this year.”

  Oh yay: another set of practices and games to chauffeur him around to.

  Just then we hear the shower being turned on by Megan. She’ll be in there for at least twenty minutes.

  “I’m not really comfortable taking you driving until you finish the AAA course.”

  “Fine. But can I come with you anyway? I’m craving orange juice and potato chips.”

  “I can get you orange juice and potato chips.”

  He looks hurt by the rebuff. Now I feel bad. “If you really want to come you can, because I’d love to see you and catch up on your day. But I’m driving.”

  Moments later, Roraigh’s driving us to the store. During the eight-minute drive, he ran a stop sign in minute two, slammed on his brakes for a yellow light in minute four, and almost careened into a truck during minute seven. These learner’s permit months are going to make me age like a President.

  When I get back, Steve has moved from the TV to his computer. He seems to be scanning car websites. Or maybe porn. Honestly, I don’t care. I tell Roraigh to take a shower, unload what is left of the potato chips and juice and a few other groceries into the kitchen, and bring the notebooks into Megan’s room. She’s now in bed, hair wet, nightshirt on, staring at her phone.

  “No electronics after nine. You know the rule," I tell her as I stuff the notebooks into her backpack. “Did you give your dad a hug?”

  “Uh-huh," Megan says sweetly, putting her phone on her nightstand without argument. She flops down on her bed and asks, “Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  I never say “no” to my kids when they ask to talk. Even when I’m exhausted. I mean, if we didn’t talk to our kids when we were exhausted, we’d never talk to our kids. I lie down, gently put my arm around Megan, and soften my voice. “So what’s up?”

  What’s up is first day of school jitters, and by the time I get out of her room, it is almost 11:30.

  I quickly hit Roraigh’s room to give him a good night hug, quietly shut his door, then walk through our ransacked house. Clothes are inexplicably scattered around the living room floor and couch. There are dirty dishes evenly distributed in every room.

  Steve is back on the couch, looking at his phone. I begin picking up dishes as I ask him, “So how was your night?”

  “Fine," he says distractedly. “We have great kids.”

  And that’s it. No more conversation. Just those five words. And he doesn’t ask me how my night went – even though one would think the social contract dictates such a thing: I ask you about your day; you ask about mine. Funny how not one female friend of mine needs this explained to her.

  I sigh. Well, he’s right about the kids. At least we got the right kids.

  I bring a stack of plates and glasses to the sink, which, as I feared, is piled high, including with bowls of something brown and disgusting that smells like… ugh, I don’t even want to know. I grab a sponge, squirt some dishwashing liquid on it, then tackle the kitchen for the millionth time.

  I realize as I scrub the dried oatmeal from the first bowl that tears are starting to well up in my eyes, and my breathing is catching the way it does right before I cry.

  I can’t fucking do this anymore. Not one more minute. Something has to change. Right now.

  I throw the bowl back into the sink, making a loud racket but not breaking anything. Then I lean my elbows onto the edge of the counter, and sink my forehead into outstretched hands.

  Steve walks into the kitchen. “What’s all that noise?” he asks, sounding irritated.

  I lift my head. “That is the sound of me giving up," I answer, my voice laced with repressed anger.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, his tone challenging me.

  Because he doesn’t really want to know. To Steve, “What’s wrong?” actually means, “Start a sentence that I can interrupt either by explaining why you’re wrong to feel this way, or by telling you how sad or angry it makes me that you are feeling bad about something that I have done.”

  “Nothing," I say putting my head back down into my hands.

  “It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

  I look up, and seethe, “You knew I’d be gone for the evening. I told you weeks in advance about the Girls’ Night, and you know I’ve missed the last two, so it was important to me to go. You knew that during that time you were supposed to feed the kids the chicken and potatoes I bought, make everyone shower, get clothes ready for tomorrow, and make sure the backpacks and lunches were ready. You knew that that was what needed to get done tonight. But instead, you ordered pizza, played basketball, and willfully ignored everything that needed to get done so it would be my problem when I got home.”

  “So I’m in trouble for spending quali
ty time with our kids instead of cooking?” Steve asks me sarcastically.

  “You know what? You don’t get to be angry right now," I burst out. “You had a job to do and you didn’t do it. It also would have been nice if you had done some dishes, or at least put the dishes in the sink. I’m not asking for dusting or vacuuming or any of the myriad of other chores I do, even though I have a full time job, too. I’m asking for you to be responsible ten percent of the time.”

  He snorts out a fake laugh. “I do way more than ten percent of the work in this house. I’ve been with the kids all day.”

  “Do you even care how my day was?!” I ask, raising my voice.

  “Okay, now you’re just looking for problems.”

  “Seriously, when was the last time you asked me how my day was?”

  Steve begins shaking his head and pacing. “I don’t ask you how your day was because you always tell me, so why ask? You are making up problems here.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m not. Why don’t we have sex anymore? What is wrong with me? You used to think I was beautiful.”

  At this, Steve actually winces. “Oh, come on, Michelle. We’ve been married for almost twenty years. We’re not going to be having sex the way we used to at twenty-five. We’d never get anything done.”

  “I don’t think once or twice a month is too much to ask," I counter.

  “Well, if you want more sex, a little hint: complaining about the lack of it isn’t the best foreplay.”

  “Steve, do you know why couples are in sexless relationships?”

  “There are a lot of reas…”

  “No. There aren’t," I interrupt. “There’s one: we’ve stopped putting the other person’s wants and needs first, and started putting our own wants and needs first. We’ve stopped listening to each other, we’ve stopped being the other one’s biggest fan. There was a time when I would have done anything for you, and now I just resent you all the time. Because nothing that’s important to me is important to you, too. And, you know, yes, I complain that we aren’t sleeping together anymore. But honestly, who cares? I don’t want to wake up to your snoring anymore. I don’t want to have to Spray and Wash your underwear anymore. I don’t want to go on vacation with you anymore. And I certainly don’t want to nag you one more time to contribute to the family’s well being. ”