Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Now I have his attention. “Wow," he says, his anger just starting to percolate. “You seem to have thought everything out pretty thoroughly.”

  “Actually, I haven’t. I have no idea what I want, but I sure as hell know what I can’t live with anymore.”

  Steve sighs. “I think I’m going to go stay with Jason tonight.”

  “Do not get your family involved," I warn.

  “No," Steve says slowly, deliberately. “I need to not be with you right now. No matter what I do, it’s never enough. You’re not the only one who’s fucking done.”

  Where the fuck did that come from?

  Suddenly my mind flips one hundred and eighty degrees, and I go from pissed off to terrified. “What are you saying? Are you leaving me?”

  “No," Steve assures me. “One night isn’t a break up. I just… I… just… can’t do this one more night either. I’ll go pack a bag.”

  Steve practically stomps to our bedroom.

  I take a moment to try and process what just happened. Clearly this has snowballed, and we both need to take a breath. I calmly walk to the bedroom, and try to begin a civil conversation. “Okay, you know what? I’ve had a very long day…”

  “No," Steve says calmly, putting up the palm of his hand. “You’re right. Everything you’re saying is right. I don’t feel like you ever care about what I want or need either. I don’t feel like you ever forgive me when I screw up. I don’t feel like you particularly want to have sex with me or find me attractive. I think, instead, you somehow see sex as this… barometer of our relationship. Like it’s something you feel like we should be doing. I’ll be back in the morning before the kids are up, and we’ll do the first day of school like we always do. But I don’t want to be here right now. I can’t even look at you.”

  Part of me is relieved that he is leaving, and looking forward to having the bedroom to myself, snore free, and the TV to myself, sports free.

  Part of me feels like I am going to throw up.

  And part of me surprises myself by saying, “Fine.”

  Four

  Alexis

  Kayla stays for one more drink, and helps me clean up. While we clear dishes and I kill the rest of a bottle of Veuve Cliquot Rose, we talk about her daughter Rachel’s upcoming Bat Mitzvah, and Kayla’s frustrations at work. (Being the only woman in a mostly male profession has it’s own unique set of aggravations, like when you call an older patient about a lab result, and they ask to speak to the doctor. Being African American is the icing on the cake: then you can walk into the patient’s hospital room while on call, and they demand to see the doctor.)

  Then I pummel her with questions about my early menopause. Yeah, at forty-five, I’m already in full-blown menopause. And it sucks. It’s officially called premature ovarian failure, and did I mention it sucks? The only plus is that I don’t get my period anymore. In the minus category, I now need lube to have sex, orgasms take way longer to achieve and, frankly, it’s like I went from “I need sex” to “I’d like to have sex but… meh… Seems like a lot of effort. What’s on Netflix?”

  Kayla has been incredibly giving of her time helping me make sense of this new chapter in my life.

  “So hormones won’t help with sex at all?” I ask her.

  “Oh, they can. Absolutely," Kayla tells me as she places a final white dish into my stainless steel dishwasher. “What I’m telling you is that there is an increase in certain types of cancers among women who take hormones. Some doctors feel very strongly it’s not worth the risk. Others think the risks are overstated, and your quality of life is more important. You really have to make that choice for yourself.”

  “What would you do?” I ask as I put plastic wrap over the leftovers of a cheese plate.

  “My mother took hormone replacement therapy back in the 90s, and in one year she grew a tumor in her breast that was almost an inch and a half in diameter," Kayla informs me as she fills the soap container with powdered detergent. “But since then, we’ve learned a lot. Medicines have improved, we know more about proper dosages. Plus, some doctors would argue the studies don’t show risks to be as high as once thought.”

  “So would you take hormones?”

  “I’ve got breast cancer and blood clots in my family, so no. It’s not a risk I would take. But I’m not you. Talk to your doctor.”

  “You are my doctor.”

  “I am your former roommate and number five on your speed dial. I am not your doctor.”

  My phone pings a text. I grab it from my marble counter, and sigh aloud.

  Hey there.

  Those two words make my body flush with relief (We’re still talking!) then dread. (We’re still talking.)

  Kayla eyes me knowingly as she closes the dishwasher door, then presses Start. “Connor?” she asks in a neutral tone.

  I shrug and give a weak smile. One thing I love about Kayla: I’m always in the judgment free zone.

  I haven’t seen Connor in weeks. He doesn’t exactly ghost me – that would make what to do about him easy. (Dump. The answer would be Dump. Good answer! Clap, clap, clap. Survey says…) Instead he just sort of pops up for awhile, then disappears for awhile, then pops up for a few days, then goes away…

  Except he’s never completely gone. If I text him, he texts back within the hour. Sometimes within the minute. If I call him, he usually picks up by the second ring. And if he doesn’t answer, he’ll text an immediate explanation for why. So he must sort of like me a little, right?

  Right? No seriously, I’m asking.

  Hence my internal debate about what to do about him. I kind of, maybe, have had twelve years to figure out where this is going. But it’s very confusing to have a relationship with a man who’s phenomenal in bed when he’s around, but then leaves like nothing ever happened.

  Yes, I need a man who’s good in bed. But I also need a man who doesn’t disappear for a month or two until he’s sure I’ve lost interest, then reappear just long enough for me to fall back in love, then leave. I don’t need a man who routinely breaks my heart. I don’t need a man who constantly makes me question my value.

  Connor has been breaking my heart for twelve years.

  But back to phenomenal in bed. Like, when we first started dating, “five orgasms in an hour, then passing out from exhaustion for an hour, then right back to orgasming” phenomenal. I mean, I have asked around: that is rare.

  But then I paid for that great sex with the heartbreak of wondering where he went for weeks on end. He’d kiss me goodbye, then head out God knows where to see God knows whom.

  That went on for years. Still does.

  But, as I said, not completely. I can always find him if I’m the one doing the pursuing. Plus I periodically stalk him on Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, etc. He’s not secretly married or anything.

  You know what? I’m boring myself. Moving on…

  “Can I ask you a medical question that’s kind of skeevy, but like a patient question?” I ask Kayla as I move crackers into a Ziploc bag.

  “Of course," Kayla tells me, moving to my sink to rinse her hands.

  “When I’m with Connor these days I’m not as…” Hmmm… how to put this? I start over. “Maybe because the sex is more complicated… I…”

  Kayla tries to assuage my discomfort by finishing my thought, “You’re not having orgasms?”

  “No, I am," I say in a high-pitched voice that betrays, Not really, no. “But let’s say… I am, but not as much. Is that normal? You know, for what I’m going through?”

  “It can be,” she tells me noncommittally.

  I let my shoulders slump. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Not give me a straight answer.”

  Kayla smiles as she dries her hands. “There is no straight answer to give, because every woman is different. For most post menopausal women, orgasms are more difficult to achieve…”

  “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

&nbs
p; My phone pings again. I read Connor’s next text.

  Hello?

  As I debate my next move, Kayla asks, “Do you want me to help with the wineglasses?”

  “Nah," I answer. “They have to be hand washed. I’ll leave them for the housekeeper tomorrow.”

  “So, in other words, ‘Get out’?” She jokes.

  I laugh more out of politeness than because it’s funny. “I know. I’m pathetic.”

  Kayla nods and smiles. “True. But all of us are pathetic over at least one guy. Tell Connor, ‘Hi.’” She gives me a kiss on the cheek, grabs her coat, and starts to head out.

  As I follow her to the door, she asks, “By the way do you want me to add his name to your Bat Mitzvah invitation?”

  “No. It’ll just depress me if he doesn’t show up," I tell her.

  “Should we put ‘and guest’ just in case?” she asks as she opens the door.

  “Lauren would point out it is rude to write ‘and guest’ on a formal invitation," I say, giving her an out for the expense of an extra guest.

  “And I would counter that it is rude to make one of my favorite people show up to a party by herself unless she wants to be," Kayla says, not missing a beat.

  I smile, touched. “That would be awesome. Thanks.”

  “Love you," she says as she sees herself out.

  “Love you, too!” I say, then shut the door and begin typing into my phone.

  Just hosted the girls. Lauren got us a 28 year old life coach.

  Yikes! What did she say to do about me?

  Please. If 3 therapists can’t help me figure you out, some Barbie doll doesn’t stand a chance. What’s up?

  He asks if he can come over and of course I say, “Yes."

  I quickly shower off from the neck down, dry off, then pull out a sexy new white lace bra and panty combo from my dresser, and throw it on the bed. I plan to wear it under my robe. Plan to do a teasing thing where he can see a little skin as we kiss, then I cover up, then flash a little skin, cover up, etc. I’m still naked as I brush my teeth, squirt on a little Diptyque perfume, spray a little on the sheets for good measure, light the matching candle in the corner of my bedroom, and then…

  I look down at the little sticker on the lower left side of my belly – right about the ovaries. My estrogen patch. It’s not really a patch – more of a sticker.

  Yes, I lied to Kayla. Truth is, I went on hormones a few weeks ago. Why? Because I don’t just miss sex – I miss desire. I miss building my whole night around the possibility of doing something that makes me roll my eyes back into my head and arch my back.

  Having said that, I am not ready to let anyone know about it. Particularly Connor, who, I’m sure, had already noticed my lack of interest, lack of orgasms, and sand-like dryness. I unstick the patch, slip it into my nightstand drawer, and then pull out something else to combat my dryness.

  Okay, I bought a vibrator on AdamandEve.com.

  I know - TMI. But let me finish.

  Because of the menopause, lubrication is trickier, and lube tastes gross and it’s embarrassing to have to use because I need to get it down there without Connor’s knowledge because how would he not think it had something to do with him?

  So, a few weeks ago, in addition to the hormones, I also tried to attack the problem from another angle. If I can just achieve an orgasm before I see him, I should have enough of my natural moisture so that I won’t have to use anything during, and we can make love like we used to.

  Solution: vibrator.

  I lie down on the bed, turn the machine on and…

  Okay, maybe I should have read the directions. But how difficult can this be? Women have been using vibrators for… ouch, this feels weird. Like, bad weird.

  Well, of course it feels bad weird, I need to be thinking about something sexual before I just go to town with this thing.

  Something sexual. Let’s see… All right, Connor and me when we were at the suite at the Ritz Carlton. Granted, the one I paid for, since he never has a dime to his... And where the hell has he been for the last two weeks? A person can’t just quit talking to someone for two weeks – not even a text – and then just expect to come over. That’s bullshit. I wonder who the latest woman he’s been spending his nights with is.

  I’m not naïve. In the last twelve years. I’m quite sure there have been other women. I accidentally found out about one a few years ago. I think most people would agree that I’m prettier. In better shape. Smarter, more educated, richer and way more successful. Yup. By all accounts, I’m the way better choice.

  The problem is, there’s only person’s vote that matters, and clearly he thought she was prettier. And all of those other things. But the one that always shoots down my self-esteem the fastest is prettier.

  “Ow! Son of a…” I yell out, suddenly in pain.

  I look down at the vibrator. Shit! The friction is like sandpaper, and thinking about all of the other women Connor has been with has made me dryer than a Mormon wedding. I turn it off, and toss it onto my nightstand.

  Why am I doing this to myself now? Why am I thinking about how he probably told that other woman that he loved her, yet he never says it to me? And never wants me to say it to him either. Or how he thought she was better, or he wouldn’t have picked her over me (at least for a while)? And prettier. With girls, it usually circles back to prettier or thinner. It never circles back to, “Wow! What a dick! Really dodged a bullet there.”

  Yup. I’m forty-five years old, and in my soul I’m still the same insecure fifteen year old who is wondering what she did wrong to make some dumbass think it was okay to treat her like shit.

  The doorbell rings. I quickly throw the vibrator into my closet, put on the lingerie and robe, and race-walk downstairs and through my front hallway to answer.

  When I open the door, I once again remember why I put up with Connor’s bullshit: because he is the sexiest man on the planet. Those blue green eyes: clear, bluish sometimes, greener when he’s tired. A clean-shaven, poreless complexion, always tan, even in winter. Shoulders you dream about. Glossy, black wavy hair, always a little in need of a haircut.

  Yup. I’m back. I’m like an alcoholic trying to figure out how to have just one bottle of Guinness. It’s never going to be just one. And no matter how long I stay away, unless I go cold turkey, I’m hooked all over again.

  The only part of this image that is keeping me from catching my breath lustfully is that Connor is holding a leash.

  A sexy new game he’s thinking about introducing me to? I wish. In this case, on the other end of the leash is a small, dark gray dog.

  “What the hell is that?” I ask.

  “It’s a peacock,” he jokes, kissing me on the cheek and walking in with the dog. “I have had the strangest week.”

  I close the door behind them as the two make a quick beeline through my front hall and kitchen. “That thing’s housetrained, right?”

  “I’m not really sure. Hey, do you have, like, a water dish or something?”

  “Connor, do I look like I have a water dish? Does any part of this house look like it would contain a water dish?”

  They continue through my dining room/living room to the back of the house. “Can I take dogs out on your beach? Pretty sure he needs to poop.”

  “I have no idea," I say as Connor slides open the glass door to the beach. “Wait! Connor!” I say, quickly racing across the house towards him. “Aren’t you supposed to have, like a baggie or something?”

  He stops and turns around. “Oh yeah. Do you have a baggie?”

  “Hold on,” I say, quickly scurrying to the kitchen and rummaging through my pantry. “I have a Macy’s bag," I tell him, then run back and hand over a small red and white plastic bag.

  He brings the grey mutt outside, and I notice the dog is limping.

  “What happened to him? Her?” I ask as the pooch begins sniffing the sand.

  “Not exactly sure. Couple nights ago, I was at the recording studio in Van
Nuys, jamming with some guys… You know Adam...? He got me that gig at the Troubadour…”

  The dog begins to squat. Charming.

  “So the studio is in this industrial area," Connor continues. “But this chick who was… I guess the lead singer’s girlfriend…? Anyway, she said this dog was just wandering around. At, like, four in the morning.”

  “Wait. You’ve had the dog for several nights?” I ask, mildly horrified, and trying to look away from the defecating hound.

  “Yeah. See, the guys decided I should take the dog, since I’m so empathetic.”

  Sure. Why not?

  Connor continues, “But we put up all these ‘Lost Dog’ signs, and nothing. And like, this chick, the girlfriend, said to go to a vet and see if he’s chipped, but I haven’t had time to do that.”

  The producer in me cannot help but begin asking questions to try to fix the problem. “Okay – let’s start over. Why is the dog limping?”

  “Oh, is he limping?”

  “Yes, he’s limping! You…” I take a deep breath to calm myself, then begin again. “You said you needed to find out if he’s chipped. What does that mean?”

  “Uuuuhhhh… I don’t know.”

  Wow, I thought the vibrator was causing friction in my evening. “Let me get online to see what we are supposed to do," I tell Connor as I make my way back inside. “Clean up his mess, and put it in the big trash can at the side of the house. I don’t want anything smelly in my home.”

  “You mean except me, right?” Connor jokes.

  “Ha. Ha.”

  I quickly learn what we are supposed to do, (and what Connor should have done days ago). We need to go to a twenty-four hour veterinary clinic to see if:

  1. The dog has a chip in its neck that can be scanned to find out his/her name and his/her owner’s name and phone number.