Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “When have I ever ignored you to watch ESPN?” he asks, clearly irked.

  “It was a joke.”

  “It was a bad joke. Way to stereotype. Next, why don’t you ask me what I’m doing for Cinco de Mayo?”

  “Sorry. I take it back. Jeez. Oh! None of my friends.”

  “Please. Which of your friends would I possibly want to sleep with?”

  I take a moment to consider that question. “Michelle?”

  Carlos winces. “Ugh. Too much baggage.”

  I’m inexplicably offended by the way he immediately dismisses her. But I come back with, “Fine. Then Lauren would…”

  “Minivan Lauren? No.”

  “What’s that supposed to be mean?” I snap.

  “Honey, I love Lauren. But she’s overwhelmed all of the time. And her house always smells like grape jelly.”

  “Kayla?”

  Carlos looks mildly scared. “The urologist?”

  “Don’t give me that look. I’ll bet she knows her way around a penis.”

  “Would you have sex with a gynecologist?” he counters.

  Ugh. “Fair enough.”

  I struggle for another suggestion, then come up with a cute single friend. “Vanessa?”

  “Nah. Only dates young guys. I’d worry my balls would look saggy to her.”

  “I…” I quickly shake my head to do a triple take. “Wait… are your…? Never mind. What about Alexis? She’s beautiful, successful, well traveled…”

  “Are you forgetting I do Alexis’ taxes? She spends more on shoes than we do on our mortgage.”

  “You don’t have to marry her in this theoretical universe, you just have to say she’s cute enough to make out with her. Plus, I’ll bet she’d wear really cute shoes on the date.”

  “And I wouldn’t be able to control myself," Carlos begins. “I’d just stare at them and want to yell, ‘They’re shoes!’”

  I cross my arms, insulted. “So basically, you don’t like any of my friends.”

  “I love your friends. I just don’t want to fuck any of them.”

  I take an angry sip of champagne. “Fine.”

  “You’re actually upset that I don’t want to date any of your friends?”

  “Yes!" I blurt out. “I don’t actually want you to date my friends, but I would like you to like my friends enough to think they are dateable.”

  Carlos counters dryly. “Really? Do I have any friends you’d date?”

  “Toby," I answer immediately.

  Carlos narrows his eyes. “You pulled that one out of your pocket really fast.”

  “I can name one. You have to name one.”

  Carlos considers my ultimatum. Finally concedes, “Fine. Alexis. Maybe she’d wear just the shoes…”

  “You’re not sleeping with Alexis!”

  Carlos shakes his head slowly. “Seriously, I cannot win here.”

  “No friends," I repeat. “Oh, and no one from work.”

  He turns to me. “Wait, why?”

  “Why?!” I snap, ready to have this argument again. (There is a woman at his office named Stacey who totally has a crush on him, and he is so completely clueless he can’t see it.)

  He puts up the palms of his hands in surrender. “Okay, no one from work. And none of the parents from school.”

  “Agreed.”

  Carlos clarifies, “That includes no staff. No principals. No vice principals.”

  “What? You still think I want to fuck Will?” I ask him.

  “Oh, you would totally hate fuck Will.”

  “Ew," I stammer out. “Seriously, when did that expression become a thing? No public dates within fifty miles of home.”

  He tosses down his phone on our counter. “I’m out.”

  “Wait, why?”

  “I am not driving all the way to Rancho Cucamonga just to have sex. I have a life.”

  “You can have sex within fifty miles, just no public dates. Otherwise, someone might find out our arrangement," I begin. Then suddenly what he says registers. “Wait, are you going to have sex?”

  “Isn’t that the whole point of this?”

  Which throws me for a loop. “Huh. I don’t know. I guess I was just thinking about the kissing part.”

  “Wow. That is so… female of you," Carlos concludes. “No, if I have to bother listening to yet another woman tell me about her day, I want sex. Oh, no spending more than fifty dollars on a date.”

  “I’m the girl. I’m not going to spend any money on a date.”

  “Wow. You’re not even going to give the illusion of paying your own way by pulling out your wallet?”

  “No. I’m going to give the illusion of being the woman on the date.”

  “I’ll bet Alexis pays for her own dates," Carlos snipes.

  “Every woman you’ve ever met pays for dates, believe me," I say a little bitterly.

  Carlos smiles a little and shakes his head. “Fair enough. Speaking of paying for dates, I really need to get ready for work," he kisses me on the cheek and heads out of the kitchen.

  “You want some company in the shower?” I ask, throwing a Hail Mary.

  “I would, but then I’ll be late," he yells from our stairway. “I’ll make it up to you tonight!”

  I’ve been in this marriage long enough to know he won’t. He’ll want to… very much. But we’ll have the chaos of the first night of homework and dinner and having to get up at six tomorrow morning, and we’ll both be out cold and snoring before Sofia has brushed her teeth and David has had his fifth meal of the day.

  I take my champagne flute and the bottle, and head over to my computer. I check my emails. One from Jolene, the studio coordinator, confirming we start at ten tomorrow morning. Another from the school welcoming us back, and reminding us of the upcoming “Staff Development Day” (AKA, the day the kids get off for no fucking reason) on the last Wednesday of the month. (And always on a Wednesday. Because why make it a little easier on families by giving us a three day weekend at least?) A tutorial on the FAFSA I need to fill out, various emails telling me my bill is ready, various stores I bought from once announcing a sale…

  Nothing fun.

  I sip my champagne, and scroll down to an old email from a few days ago that I have yet to answer.

  Hey there,

  Hope this is still your email address. It was really good running into you the other day. David has grown into an amazing young man. I can’t believe how tall he is and how smart he is. Colleges are going to be lining up! You must be so proud. If he or Sofia show any interest in Brown, let me know, because I do some of the alumni/student interviews, and it never hurts to know someone.

  I should have asked for your number when we saw each other. My number is

  I read the number, wondering if it’s his cell or his home. Then I wonder why I care. I reread the rest of the note.

  Call me. Or write back. Or have them call or write me. I did find them on Facebook, but I think a guy with no kids friending a seventeen year old girl would be creepy. ;-) I’m still on Facebook, if you ever want to friend me. I miss being your friend.

  Best,

  Tom

  I pick up a pen and begin hitting it rhythmically against the top of my desk. Then heave a big sigh. Then ruminate some more.

  I should just write back. Why am I overthinking this? It’s one email. I’m being ridiculous. One email should not take up a fraction of my mind for days on end.

  I take a big gulp of champagne, then close the email. Unanswered.

  When did life get so complicated? Or is it actually deceptively simple, and we just make it more complicated the older we get?

  Eight

  Alexis

  I nearly had two car accidents during the drive over to the shelter in Van Nuys. I had put Tunny on the passenger’s seat of my Porsche 911. Actually, that’s not true. I tried putting him in the small backseat. But he kept leaping into the passenger’s seat, and at some point I got tired of picking him up during every red lig
ht to toss him back into his rightful spot. Once I gave up the backseat fight, he moved on from the front passenger’s seat to jumping into my lap.

  I have not been to work yet, and I already have dirt and sand all over my dress. He’s not making friends here.

  I got one text during the drive, but not from Connor. Lauren wrote:

  I know you’re ignoring me, and I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but please don’t drop him off at the shelter. We will take the dog if you’re desperate.

  I continue to ignore her.

  Around 10:00, I pull into the parking lot of the shelter, and turn off the car. Tunny jumps up from my lap to look through my window, and wags his tail excitedly. He is wearing a dog tag with his first name and Connor’s last name but my phone number. I have a brief flash of what life would have been like if I had married that imbecile: our kids would have had his last name, yet I’d be the one actually responsible for their well-being. Thinking of kids that never were still makes me sad, so I push that thought out of my head.

  I unbuckle Tunny’s collar and toss it in the back seat, pick him up, and head out.

  About halfway to the building, Tunny starts going ballistic. Long dog nails begin digging into my chest as he tries to climb over my shoulder and run back to the car. I clutch him angrily. “Stop that. It’s only for a few days. Maybe even hours.”

  A wrestling match ensues. At some point, Tunny breaks free, and races back to my car, nearly getting hit by an SUV in the parking lot en route. I run to retrieve him, but he won’t let me pick him up again. I chase him around my car twice before giving up.

  “Fine," I say in frustration, and open my car door. “Get back in the car, you son of a bitch.” Tunny regards me warily for a moment, keeping his distance, then shoots back into the car. I slam the door shut with him inside and me outside.

  Okay, carrying him in won’t work. And I can’t use his leash without his collar, which he can’t wear because it has my phone number on it. So here’s my plan: I will go in and ask them for a temporary leash, which I will put on Tunny in the car, then drag his ass into the shelter. I will give the shelter a very generous donation. Very. And then I will leave, completely guilt free, because there is an owner out there missing their dog. I’m the good guy here.

  When I walk into the shelter, I see it is empty, save a woman behind the counter on the phone. She smiles pleasantly and puts up her index finger to ask me to wait a minute. I smile and nod.

  While she talks, I kill time by reading all of the signs in the lobby: lost dogs, found dogs, ads for vets, dog walkers, groomers, etc. I overhear the woman explain to the person on the other end of the phone, “I’m saying, you can absolutely drop off the dog. Unfortunately, this time of year we can only keep a dog for seventy-two hours. If someone doesn’t claim or adopt the dog, he will have to be euthanized.”

  I feel a twinge of nausea. Maybe guilt?

  I hate the smell in here. It smells like antiseptic and fear. Maybe Tunny smelled the same thing when we got close to the building?

  No, I’m being ridiculous. Dogs can’t smell fear. Furthermore, this is not my problem. This is Connor’s problem, and I am not saving him one more fucking time.

  The woman hangs up the phone, and when she looks at me, her face lights up. “Oh, yay," she says happily. “Someone actually coming to adopt a pet rather than drop one off. What can I help you with? A cat or a dog?”

  “Uh… a dog actually," I say, not wanting her to hate me.

  Her smile brightens. “Great! What size?”

  “Um… I don’t know, sixteen pounds?”

  “That’s pretty specific. Did you have a breed in mind?”

  “A mutt.”

  “Well, we have plenty of those," she tells me cheerfully. “Do you want to come to the back and meet a few new friends?”

  The woman walks towards a big room filled with cages.

  I start to follow her, but when she opens the large door, a blast of doggy yelps and smells hit me, and I stop. Maybe I’m wrong: maybe Tunny could smell fear.

  “Um… Can I ask you a question?” I ask. Her eyes let me know I can. “Are the dogs here… afraid?”

  Her eyes widen a little, not knowing how to diplomatically answer me. “Some are," she admits. But then she quickly reassures me, “But we can find you a friendly one.”

  I sigh, suddenly seeing dog poop, marked up couches, and shedding fur in my future. “You know what? I don’t think I can do this."

  She looks disappointed. “Oh.”

  “I want to, believe me," I assure her. “I had this idea about how this was going to go,” I begin, slowly backing away from her, towards the door where I came from. “But I already have a dog. In the car. Probably shredding my leather seats even as we speak. And he’s been abandoned. Not by me – it’s a long story. But he’s scared and neglected and…” I sigh loudly. “I gotta go.”

  And then I turn and race out the door before I have time to reconsider the moronic choice I just made.

  When I get back to my car and open the driver’s side door, I see the little pit of needs sitting on the passenger’s seat, an exploded snack size Cheeto bag empty beside him. He eyes me watchfully, keeping a safe distance between me and his side of the car.

  “So I take it you found my emergency stash," I tell him.

  Now he actually does look scared.

  “You have ONE DAY to learn the rules," I say, climbing in and closing the door.

  The second I turn on my car, and he’s sure we’re leaving, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Tunny changes personalities, and gleefully jumps into my lap.

  Great, more Cheeto dust to flavor the sand and dirt already on my dress.

  I sit there for a minute and think. I can’t send Tunny there, I’m not that horrible of a person. But I really don’t want a dog. I like my house a certain way. I like my life a certain way. And maybe this does make me a horrible person, but doggy breath in my face and feces and urine stains on my beautiful couch will not improve my life.

  I look down. Tunny has curled up in my lap, and is already snoring.

  Yeah, you’ve had an exhausting morning, marking your territory, destroying my floors with your nails, and messing up my kitchen and car with Cheeto bombs. I think to myself as I stare at the dog.

  They say talking to a dog can lower stress levels. I give it a shot. “You know, there’s an old saying that a drowning man doesn’t care who throws him the rope. But, trust me, I am not a good rope. And I don’t know the rules myself.”

  Instead of waking up to acknowledge me, Tunny opens his mouth slightly, and drools on my dress.

  I swear, I will get even with Connor for this if it’s the last thing I do.

  Forty minutes later, I walk into my production office. Finally, a place where I am comfortable being the alpha bitch.

  My voice changes to all-business Alexis the moment I hand the leash to my assistant, Ashley. “This is Tunny. I need you to send him with a PA to the groomers to get his nails clipped, his fur trimmed, and the Cheeto dust washed off. Then I need you to find me a dog walker in Malibu who can meet me at my home tonight and is available to start walking the dog tomorrow. Throw as much money at the problem as you need to, but find someone. Call the bookstore and get me a dog book that will tell me how to keep a dog from peeing in the house. Finally, take some pictures of him, and use all of your social media to try to find his owners.”

  I sound pretty authoritative with my plan.

  Trouble is, I’m middle aged. Which means I already know nothing ever goes according to plan.

  Nine

  Michelle

  No one tells you about the pink cloud of optimism that you fly on right after finally making the decision to separate. I should have felt betrayed by Steve, and I probably will later, but in this moment I am feeling incredibly optimistic and like I’m moving forward for the first time in years.

  I feel almost giddy as I head to the Starbucks by my office to get my usual Venti skinny vanill
a latte and slice of pumpkin loaf.

  My office has coffee. Good coffee. High-end clients routinely come in, so we have a pod machine, an espresso machine, even a professional tea maker I have no idea how to use.

  But Starbucks has Max. Max is beautiful. Mocha skin, clear light brown eyes, full lips. Max is an actor working as a barista until his big break comes. (And today I’m feeling so optimistic I think, “Who knows? Maybe his big break will actually come. Acting is a job, and somebody has to get the job.”)

  Max is probably twenty-five and I’m sure would have zero long-term interest in me. But every morning he tells me I look great, and that compliment has frequently been my lifeline to get me through the day. I know a middle aged woman having sex with a barista almost half her age would be a pathetic cliché and probably have nothing to do with the sex itself. But just the possibility that it could happen is one of the reasons I finally had the nerve to leave Steve. I patiently wait my turn in line, then smile as I see Max’s face brighten when he sees me. “Good morning, beautiful. I love that blouse on you.”

  “Yeah?” I say, making a show of looking down at my sleeveless red blouse, which I bought last week at Barney’s specifically so I could wear it in front of Max.

  “Oh absolutely. You should wear red more often. Makes you look fierce. The usual?”

  “Yup," I say. Then I realize I’m not hungry. “Actually, I don’t need the pumpkin loaf today. I’m on a bit of a diet.”

  “Really? How come?”

  I try to tone down my excitement as I announce, “My husband and I split up and I want to get back on the dating scene. Need to have a revenge body for that.”

  Max’s face falls. “Oh my God. I am so sorry. Are you okay?”

  I don’t know what I was expecting his reaction to be. Maybe immediately taking my hand and leading me to his apartment to kiss my neck and move down from there was a bit optimistic. But I wasn’t expecting a crestfallen face and a look of abject pity. You’d think I’d just told him I had two weeks to live.