Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “I’m fine," I quickly stammer. “I’m great actually. Looking forward to beginning a new chapter of my life.”

  “Venti skinny vanilla latte! Extra shot!” he yells to the girl making the drinks as he presses a button on his cash register. Then he turns back to me to ask sympathetically, “So do you have kids?”

  “Um… yeah. A boy and a girl.”

  “How did they take it?” he asks sympathetically.

  “They were pretty grown up about it," I lie, hearing my voice crack a little.

  “My girlfriend was devastated when her parents told her they were getting divorced," he tells me. “Are they in therapy? Are you in therapy?”

  A wave of embarrassment and vulnerability floods over me, and I want to immediately get out of both this store, and this moment in my life. “Um… not yet," I manage to answer.

  “Our therapist is amazing,” Max tells me. “Really helped Kelly get through her issues with her parents splitting up. I can get you her number if you want.”

  “Kelly’s?” I ask, confused.

  “No. Our couple’s therapist. We used her for our premarital counseling. But she helps families of all kinds. Seriously, she’s so good.”

  Premarital counseling? How old is this guy?

  “I think we’re good," I say as I hand Max my Starbucks card to pay for the drink.

  “Okay, good," he declares with all kinds of seriousness. He smiles at me, and I can feel the pity underneath the warmth. “You hang in there. Lots of women your age go on to lead really fulfilling lives.”

  Wow.

  I force a smile. “Thanks. You hang in there, too. And best wishes on your wedding.”

  I quickly walk over to the pickup line, grab my drink the second it is ready, and book out of there and over to my car.

  Once I am in the car, I just sit there.

  Again… Wow. Got kind of ambushed there. I mean, I didn’t really expect “guy I couldn’t have had even back in college” to ask me on a date, or even to meet me out back during his break so he could take advantage of my vulnerability and quickly fuck my brains out. But that look of pity? Jesus.

  I hear my phone ding. I pull it out of my purse, and smile.

  Still on for eleven?

  Yes. Still buying me lunch afterwards?

  Anywhere you want. ;-)

  Anywhere? Cool. There’s this lovely boite in Paris. Or sushi at our place.

  Ha! See you then.

  Ah, Ethan. The day’s looking back up. I stare at my latte, and think maybe I should have ordered an iced black coffee.

  I really should be on a diet if I’m going to start dating again.

  At eleven, I met Ethan Wooster at a four bedroom single family home with a home theater, views to die for, and one of those super clean kitchens that’s all Viking appliances and white granite. This would be my dream house if I ever won the lottery. My client offered almost four million dollars for the property, which is typical in this part of Los Angeles, and utterly absurd in most of the rest of the country. Both buyer and seller are anxious to close and, once the house passes inspection, I am set to make one of my highest commissions ever.

  Ethan is a home inspector, one of the best, and I use him for all of my clients.

  By the time he was done going through the place, he had found enough hidden problems to knock almost a hundred thousand dollars off the price. Sweet!

  “The seller agreed to the price reduction, and my buyer wants to know where she can send you a box of Cohibas," I tell him happily as I put away my cell phone.

  “Excellent. You’ll have to join me for a cigar when they come," he tells me cheerfully, then signals to our sushi chef. “Two more orders of Ebi for the lady, and an albacore and an eel for me.” He points to my beer. “Another Sapporo?”

  “I probably shouldn’t," I say indecisively, hoping he’ll convince me otherwise.

  “Can we get another large Sapporo?” Ethan asks our waitress. Then he turns to me to continue the conversation we were having before my phone call. “Okay, your turn. Ask me anything.”

  “Hm," I say. Then ask, “If you could suddenly wake up with a new skill, what would it be?”

  “Successfully picking lottery numbers.”

  “Ha. Ha," I say dryly.

  He tries again. “Successfully picking women?”

  “You don’t successfully pick women?” I ask.

  “I do okay," he decides. “But I am divorced, so my record’s not spotless. What about you?”

  “I’d be fluent in Japanese," I state.

  “You could order for us," he says, taking his chopsticks to pick up a piece of salmon sushi. “Me next. Last song you sang to yourself?”

  I shake my head, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m not admitting that.”

  Ethan’s eyes light up and he stops his chopsticks in midair. “Oooohhhh, it’s a good one.”

  “Not a good one. Just embarrassing," I say, taking a nervous sip of beer.

  Silence as he waits for me to admit my foibles.

  Finally, I relent. “Nasty Girl by Vanity 6.”

  Instead of bursting out laughing, Ethan raises one eyebrow, and smiles. “Really?”

  “Really," I confess.

  “Huh. Still waters…” Ethan says, his blue eyes crinkling a little, making his smile even sexier. And for the millionth time, I think about leaning over to kiss him.

  “Okay, your turn," I say, forcing myself back to reality. “Last song you sang to yourself?”

  “1917," he answers without hesitation.

  I search my brain. “Green Day?”

  “No. Do you know David Olney?”

  “I do not.”

  “Oh, he’s an amazing singer and songwriter. We should go to one of his concerts next time he’s in town. The song’s all about a prostitute.”

  “Charming," I state.

  “Charming in its own way. She’s a French prostitute who falls in love with a soldier one night. He’s on a three day leave, and he’s scared, and she’s his respite. Her room is a safe, loving haven. And when she says to him, ‘Tonight the war is over’? I’m telling you… that line makes my stomach drop every time.”

  “Wow," I say. Then I think back to my world history class. “Wait, but wasn’t World War I over in 1918?”

  Ethan nods. “Yeah. Which is why saying ‘Tonight the war is over’ is powerful: because it’s only over that night. Everyone needs someone to make them feel like the war is over sometimes. Don’t you think?”

  “I want to kiss you," I blurt out.

  Shit – that was not how I planned this. I should have just leaned in. Now I risk all of the rejection without any of the reward.

  Before Ethan can say anything, I rush in with, “Steve and I are getting divorced.”

  Ethan looks startled by my news.

  The waitress leans in between us to refill our glasses with the new giant Sapporo, and remove the first, now empty, bottle.

  The intrusion gives us both just enough extra time to make everything even more uncomfortable.

  When she leaves, Ethan stares at me. His eyes are wide, his mouth ever so slightly open. It looks like he’s about to talk, but then he doesn’t.

  So I nervously fill the silence. “It’s been coming for a long time. It has nothing to do with you. I mean... It does have to do with you. I like that you pay attention to me. I like that we play this game where I get to learn all of this stuff about you. I like listening to you. I like that you never check your phone, except when I excuse myself to use the bathroom. I like how cute you are…”

  “I’m seeing someone,” Ethan interrupts.

  I stop talking. Shake my head quickly, as if to clear the cobwebs. “Oh. I… didn’t know that.”

  I didn’t know that because we are Facebook friends, and his relationship status says single. I also follow him on four other social media sites, and nowhere is there mention of a woman. Then I realize, “Did I just sexually harass you? I just harassed you, didn’t I?”


  “Not at all…” he assures me, his voice stilted and at least an octave higher. “It’s not like I never thought about… you and… but... you know, there are rules… Anyway, it’s new. She just met my kids.”

  If she’s met his kids, that doesn’t sound new. That sounds real. Possibly permanent. Yet not out in the open.

  Weird. Did he hide her from me on purpose? Swimming in embarrassment, I quickly pivot. “Well, congratulations. After all of those disaster dates in the past year, you must be relieved. Tell me about her.”

  “No, no. We can talk about her another time.” Then his tone changes to one of a funeral guest speaking with a thirty-four-year-old widow. “What’s going on with you? How are you holding up?”

  My phone beeps. I pull it out and read. “Oh shoot. That’s my kid’s school," I lie. “I really need to go.” I look up at the waitress and ask, “Can I get the check please?”

  Ethan puts his hand on my arm. “Can’t you stay for a few minutes? We just ordered another beer.”

  “You know, I really shouldn’t have done that. It’s early afternoon, and I’m such a lightweight.”

  “Well, can we order you a tea?” Ethan asks as the waitress hands me the check. “You still have Ebi coming.”

  I immediately slap my credit card into her hand and tell her, “Thanks. I’m in a hurry. Can you run it now?” Then I say to Ethan. “You take it, and enjoy the beer. Really gotta go. Send me your report as soon as possible.”

  “Michelle…”

  “School calls," I tell him lightly. “But I promise I’ll join you in a cigar when Ms. Simmons sends them to you.”

  I race toward the front door, and tap my foot while I wait for the waitress to pull out my receipt from the credit card machine. She does, and I quickly tip, sign the slip, take my card and race out of the restaurant so fast you’d think I was in Pamplona during the running of the bulls.

  Ethan doesn’t follow me.

  Fuck. I’m an idiot. How could I have read the room so wrong?

  When I get to my car, I pull out my phone to answer the text, which is not from either kid’s school, but from Zoe.

  Some days marriage sucks.

  I quickly write back…

  It sure does. I broke up with Steve. Or maybe he broke up with me – I’m not sure. Can I come over?

  Ten

  Alexis

  “Look, I’m just saying you catch more flies with honey than vinegar,” my producer Paul tells me over the phone as I walk though the production offices of my show Diamond Girls.

  “And you catch even more flies with shit," I counter. “What’s your point?”

  “Did you just call our show ‘shit’?” Paul asks.

  “No, but I am calling the editing I saw today a shitshow.”

  “Point taken. But you didn’t have to go all Alex Quinn on them.”

  “Oh please. If I were a man…”

  “Jesus, can we not do this again?” he mutters on his end of the phone.

  “Fine. But I am not here to make friends, and your editors completely ignored my notes. We need to lose three of the engagement ring closeups, and swap them out with a close up of Susan’s diamond necklace and Jill’s bracelet in the lunch scene, and one of Tiffany’s tiara at the charity function. I can not be clearer than that.”

  “Understood. But I think we’re a little confused as to why we’re not able to focus more on Anastasia’s engagement ring.”

  “Because an engagement ring is an antiquated symbol of how much a man values us, not how much we value ourselves.”

  “So what does a tiara symbolize? That you want to run your own country?”

  “Everyone wants to be Queen. That’s different.”

  “I know you’re my boss, but can I make a suggestion?”

  “No.”

  He ignores me. “Alex: Women. Like. Weddings. I know you don’t, but most women do, and an engagement ring is a built-in ad for the show to let viewers know we have a multimillion dollar wedding coming up.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Don’t be like that," he says like’s he’s appeasing a three year old. “Remember how much you liked the crab wontons at her last wedding?”

  “Those were good wontons,” I admit, thinking back to her wedding less than eighteen months ago.

  “Plus women like jewelry. Diamond Girls is a show about the heiresses of the top five diamond families in the world. You need lots of diamonds. What if we keep the ring shots, but I also get the other jewelry in there.”

  “They are not just heiresses. These are powerful, rich women, all of whom lead fulfilling lives that are not based on who they’re fucking…”

  “You mean, married to…” Paul corrects.

  “My point is these are women who do not define themselves by their men or what men think of them in general," I tell him as I round the corner to head into Ashley’s office. “These are women who are smart, cultured, make good money, and would never allow themselves to be forced into society’s expectations of what is pretty or feminine or…”

  I stop dead in my tracks. There’s Tunny, adorned with a pink bow on his forehead, and another tied around his tail. He looks at me pleadingly from the arms of a beautiful young blonde.

  “I’m gonna have to call you back," I say, and turn off my phone before Paul can respond.

  The blonde flashes me a nervous smile. “Alexis Quinn?”

  “What the Hell did you do to him?” I ask her accusingly as I run up to Tunny. “Why do people put costumes and bows on their poor dogs? Like it’s not embarrassing enough you have to relieve yourself in front of everyone, by all means let’s make you do it donning a Santa hat or an ugly sweater.”

  The young woman looks down at the dog, who looks back up at her helplessly. “Uh… I didn’t do anything. The groomer did that. She just dropped the little furball off a couple of minutes ago. I was the only one here, so she left him with me. She wanted you to know that they bathed him, and that he is officially free of Cheeto dust, fleas, and dander, but that the gum had to be shaved off, so his left leg will be rather shorn compared to the other legs for the next several weeks.”

  I sigh. “Okay. Do you have the dog books?”

  The girl looks a bit thrown. “I think so. Some guy from Amazon Prime came here with those…” She points to four dog training books on Ashley’s desk. “And no one was here, so I said I’d get them to the right person.”

  “I see. And you are?”

  She grins wildly and darts out her hand. “I’m Kris McGuinness. And you’re Alexis Quinn. Like THE Alexis Quinn. I think I can die happy now.”

  Wait, what?

  Never mind, I’ll use it. I shake her hand. “Call me Alex. So how much do you know about dogs?”

  “Um… well, I know this one just lifted his leg to pee, so I swooped him up. The surprise kept him from doing anything. Do you want me to take him outside for you?”

  “I could not want that more," I assure her. “So where do you live in Malibu?”

  “Um… the Malibu Beach complex?”

  “Near Pepperdine. Great, I’m only a few miles from there.” I head through Ashley’s office and into my own. “Ashley, my assistant, must be at lunch. Take Tunny out, come back here as soon as you can. We’ll chat.”

  As Kris marches out with the dog, I yell towards her, “And can you get those fucking bows off of him? He’s a dog. Not one of the twins from The Shining.”

  “They wear barrettes, but I’m on it!” she assures me.

  I call Paul back to let him have one extra engagement ring shot, not all three, then call my favorite bakery and order two dozen cookies to be sent to the editing bay as an apology for my outburst earlier.

  Five minutes later, Kris is sitting across from me at my desk, smiling and nodding as I explain what I need from her. “OK, this little rugrat,” I begin, pointing to a now red leashed (and de-pink bowed) Tunny, sitting obediently next to her. “Is probably a rescue, but not by me. So this is a not a long term job by
any stretch of the imagination. My ex-boyfriend,” I clamp together my thumb and forefinger as I enunciate, “Who it is imperative that we refer to as ‘Fuckface’ at all times…”

  Kris nods eagerly. “Fuckface. Got it.”

  “…will be taking Tunny back as soon as is humanly possible. But in the meantime…”

  “Tunny?” Kris repeats. “You mean like from American Idiot?”

  I sigh. “Oh, shit. How old are you?”

  She seems startled by my question. “Eighteen.”

  I place my hand on the side of my forehead, hoping I’m not about to get a migraine. “You’ve never dated a guy almost three times your age named Connor have you?”

  “No, ma’am. Is Connor Fuckface?”

  “In so, so many ways," I assure her, shaking my head and sighing. “Back to what I need from you. I can walk the dog in the morning, but it is imperative that he be walked at noon, then again at four. I’m home by eight most nights. But also, you’ll need to be available some nights to dogsit. I’ll make it worth your while to leave your nights available to me for the next few weeks. I am not leaving this thing by himself to shred my floors and leave yellow stains all over my white linens. ”

  Kris looks a little scared of me as she nods vigorously. “Okay. Now is he crate trained?”

  I look at her blankly. Finally shrug. “I’m gonna say ‘no’?”

  “You don’t know what crate training is, do you?” she asks carefully.

  “Noooo…” I say, trying to jog my memory. “I know what a crate egg is, but that won’t help us.”

  “What’s a crate egg?” Kris asks.

  “Basically a dickhead.”

  “So, like a fuckface," Kris helps.

  “Oh, I like that," I tell her, immediately wanting to put her on my payroll. “Let’s call Connor Crate Egg from now on.” Pleased, I jot down a note on a post it. “I think I’ll have the girls start using it on the show, too. It’ll get past the censors.” I rip the pink post it from its pad, and put it on this week’s shooting script. Then I smile. “Crate egg. Very nice.”

  “Can I get a copy of that when you’re done with it?” Kris asks, pointing to the script.