Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “You can have this one," I say, peeling off my pink post it, then handing her the script.

  Kris stares at the script with a smile on her face that I usually reserve for donuts or Idris Elba posters. Then she looks up at me. “Sooo… Back to crate training?” she asks nervously.

  “Right. I’m sure you’re great at it. Here.” I pull a credit card from my wallet, and hand it to her. “Go get Tunny a crate, and whatever else goes with a crate. Blankets maybe?”

  Kris takes the card, but furrows her brow. “Are you sure you want a total stranger to have your credit card?”

  “You are adorable for asking that. Buy yourself something while you’re at the pet store. My treat. Oh, and can you get him treats? Dogs like treats, right? Plus, is there a way to figure out what kind of toys he’d like?”

  “I bring him into Petco, and see what he likes?” Kris guesses.

  “Huh. They let you bring dogs in there?” I ask.

  “To a pet supply store? Yeah.”

  “Perfect," I say as I write down my address on the next Post-it note. “Here’s my address, and the code to get in. The keypad is just to the left of the front door. Here’s a front door key. And can you stay with him for the afternoon?”

  Kris smiles. “Absolutely.”

  “Great. I’ll bring home salads for dinner. Oh, look at you, you’re a zygote. You probably have the metabolism of a hummingbird. I’ll bring home pizza. Thank you, Kris.”

  “No worries,” Kris says, hiking up Tunny’s leash in such a way that he immediately follows her out the door. She stops at the doorway. “Oh, do you think I could visit the set of Diamond Girls some day after Tunny has been reunited with his owner, and you’re calmer?”

  “Huh? Oh… yeah, sure.”

  “Thank you! And I will not let you down!” She tells me.

  And they’re gone.

  Thank God. I take a deep, cleansing breath, and begin to relax.

  Okay, if I do say so myself, I am nailing today.

  So the universe threw something at me that I was not prepared for, did not want, and could not see coming? So what? I handled it perfectly. And if I can handle that situation, I can certainly get my life together enough to get rid of Connor once and for all.

  Take THAT, Universe. Bring it on! Show me what else you got!

  Ashley walks into my office. “Are you done with Kris McGuinness already?” she asks, looking around and seeming surprised.

  “Yeah. She was a great choice. Thank you. Really seems to know her shit.”

  “Oh… good,” Ashley says, appearing a bit confused as she turns to leave. “I take it the dog hasn’t come back yet?”

  “He did. Kris has him. I’m meeting her back at my house tonight.”

  Ashley immediately stops in her tracks and turns to me. “Say what now?”

  “Tunny got back from the groomer’s early, Kris signed for him. I explained what I needed, gave her my credit card, and she’s already off getting things like crates and toys and… I don’t know… Bacon treats? Doggie Valium?”

  Ashley covers her face with both hands. She does that when she’s afraid I’m going to blow up.

  I narrow my eyes. “What?”

  “Kris McGuinness is the winner of that auction item you donated, Diamond Girl for a Day,” Ashley says, wincing. “You were supposed to meet her, take her to lunch, then bring her to the Beverly Hills set and introduce her to the Diamond Girls.”

  “Say what now?”

  “It’s been on your calendar for weeks,” Ashley tells me defensively. “And I just texted you about it again this morning.”

  When I was at the shelter, and ignoring work. Whoops.

  I calmly click on my phone to check my calendar. There she is: Kris McGuinness. “Huh. Well, maybe with a little luck she’ll just ransack my house, then steal the dog. Can’t do any more damage than Tunny already did this morning, right?”

  Eleven

  Michelle

  Zoe texts me back in less than thirty seconds.

  Oh my God. Of course! Come over right now! What do you need? What can I do?

  Which is exactly what I knew she’d say. As shitty as my life has been generally, and my day has been specifically, I know how lucky I am to be surrounded by my tribe of girlfriends.

  I make it to Zoe’s house in less than ten minutes. When she opens the door, I see she has a bottle of champagne raised in her left hand and a fake smile plastered on her face. “Congratulations?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Not sure. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

  She puts up her right hand to show me a bottle of Tequila. “I’m sorry. And I will be your solid alibi if Steve has an accident.’”

  I weakly attempt a joke. “Hm. Let’s keep that in our back pocket for now.”

  Zoe juts out her bottom lip in sympathy, puts down the two bottles on the table next to the door, and throws out her arms for a hug. I walk into her, and my eyes are wet the moment my chin rests on her shoulder.

  We hug for awhile. She lightly strokes my back and sporadically says things like, “Shhh…” “It’s going to work out…” “Everything’s going to be fine…” and all of those other bullshit platitudes we tell our girlfriends (and ourselves) after a breakup.

  I don’t sob exactly. Yes, tears stream down my face. But it’s a welcome release. I felt like the moment she hugged me I could let the adrenaline I’d been dumping into my blood for weeks finally leave my system. I could let the anger go. I could let my brain rest for a moment after months of straining to solve a million tic-tac-toe games and puzzles that never get solved.

  Eventually I break the hug.

  “Do you smell like booze?” I ask (hopefully, non judgmentally) as I pull away and whisk off stray tears with my index and middle fingers.

  Zoe winces in embarrassment. “Sorry. I was having Mimosas with Carlos earlier, celebrating the first day of school.”

  “Oh God, I forgot!” I exclaim. “It’s your first day of school tradition, and I’m invading. I’ll go.”

  I turn to leave, but she lightly grabs my arm and pulls me further into the house. “Don’t be ridiculous. Carlos had to go to work for a few hours. Now if you don’t want Tequila, I have coffee.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Diet soda?”

  “No.”

  “Well, would you like?” she asks.

  “To be twenty three again and to start over?”

  Zoe gives me a sympathetic look as we sit down on their overstuffed couch. “So what happened?”

  I shrug. “Just… everything I’ve been complaining about for months.” I roll my eyes, embarrassed. “Years.” I shake my head slowly. “You know just last night, the moment Steve and I agreed to separate for a bit, I felt this huge swell of relief. Like maybe I wasn’t going to always feel trapped and like nothing could ever get better. I had such optimism. And now… Jesus, it’s been less than twelve hours, and I suddenly want to take everything I said back and go back to the way things were.”

  I wait for Zoe to respond. For her to give me some great advice, or say something to make me feel better. Or at least say something to make me feel like I am on the right path. Instead she eyes me sympathetically, waiting for me to continue.

  I turn away from her and stare at their beat up, old hardwood floor. Sometimes it’s easier for me to talk when I don’t have to make eye contact. “Marriage is the better box you know. The one you check on the forms? No one ever wants to check ‘divorced’.”

  “Some people do," Zoe gently points out.

  “Okay, I’m not one of them. I don’t want to be forty-four and divorced.”

  “Well, I’d rather see you that than forty-four and miserable," Zoe counters.

  I take a beat to think about that. “I guess," I admit, shrugging. “Maybe. I don’t know. I do know that I don’t want to be a single parent. I don’t want to sell my house. I don’t want to worry about money. I don’t want to date.” I let myself fall sideways onto a dec
orative pillow. “What am I going to do?”

  “First of all, you’re not going to be a single parent," Zoe assures me. “Steve is a great Dad, and he’s not going to disappear from the kids’ lives if you divorce.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do," Zoe counters firmly.

  I sit up and shake my head. “I’m not so sure. I came home last night and NOTHING had been done to get ready for school. There were dishes everywhere, he didn’t get them the right supplies, I had to fill out all the forms…”

  “Ooooh… So, in other words, you married a man," Zoe jokes. “I went through the same thing last night. That’s just motherhood. And there’s a support group for it: it’s called every Mom at pickup today.”

  I smile, almost laughing. Zoe smiles and reassures me, “Steve is a great dad. And the kids will be fine.”

  “No, they won’t. Have you ever heard Alex and Lauren talk about their mother? They still haven’t forgiven her for the divorce.”

  “Please. Both of their parents are selfish, narcissistic assholes. You and Steve are not them.”

  I shrug. “We don’t know that. You never know what mistakes you are making as a parent until years later.”

  Zoe considers that. “Okay, fair enough. So… let’s try this from a different angle. All marriages go through rough patches. It’s part of the deal. Just because he leaves for a few days, that doesn’t mean this story is over.”

  “He’s already sleeping with someone else.”

  Zoe’s jaw drops. “Wait… He cheated on you?” She points to me. “You?”

  I nod sadly. “Get this – with Olivia Bates.”

  Zoe’s eyes widen. “Ripley’s Mom? But she’s soooo…” Zoe stretches out the word to try to come up with an appropriate adjective.

  “I know! Right? I mean, she’s got that weird Tori Spelling jawline...”

  “Plus she’s kind of a chunk.”

  I shrug, telling her disparagingly, “Well, you know what they say about fat women.”

  Zoe looks at me blankly. “No. What?”

  “And blow jobs?”

  “Oh, right.” Zoe waits for me to say more. I don’t. She stands up to head to her kitchen. “Have you eaten? I have potato chips, a giant Kit Kat bar, and a frozen Sara Lee cheesecake. What can I start you with?”

  I laugh uncomfortably. “I had all of six pieces of sushi and half a beer, and I am so full, I can’t even imagine sipping a glass of water right now, much less eating.” I fall sideways onto the couch again. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  My statement is definitive. The last word. Or so I think.

  Then Zoe zings me with, “But you don’t want to feel alone while you’re lying in bed next to someone anymore either, right?”

  I lift my head up to glare at her. “You know, for a happily married woman, you are eerily spot on with that question.”

  “I prefer to think I’m observant," she tells me. “Do you mind if I grab some coffee?”

  “Go for it.”

  Zoe walks back over to rub my leg quickly in sympathy, then walks away and disappears into the kitchen. I hear her pour some coffee, throw it in the microwave, and set the cooking time.

  As the microwave begins, I sit up and yell to the other room. “Would you mind doing that for a few minutes?”

  “Doing what?” I hear her yell back.

  “Countering everything I say.”

  Zoe pops into the kitchen doorway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to counter…”

  “No, it’s a good thing," I interrupt. “I said I don’t want be alone, and you pointed out that I’d rather be alone than be whatever I am now. Can we do that with a few other thoughts currently zinging through my head?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. ‘I don’t want to lose the house.’ Go!”

  “Hold on. I need a minute to think.”

  I hear the microwave ding, and Zoe disappears again. “Wouldn’t it be nice to get to look at pictures you want to put up, in frames you chose, while sitting on the sofa you wanted? Even if it’s in a smaller house?” She calls out.

  “Oh, that’s good," I tell her, feeling a modicum of relief already. “I don’t want to date again.”

  Zoe walks back in with her mug. “No, you don’t want to go on a first date again. But wouldn’t it be great to have a third date again? With a man who thinks you’re pretty, and is scheming to figure out how to fuck you.”

  “Fuck?” I say, put off by the word. “Can we say make love?”

  Zoe gives me a pitying look. “Do you really think that’s how the guy is feeling on the third date?”

  “Crass. How about seduce?”

  Zoe puts her hands up in surrender. “It’s your dime, baby. I’m on the clock.”

  “I don’t want to lose a family member…”

  “There are ways to have an amicable divorce.”

  “Really? What ways?” I ask her accusingly.

  “I’m not sure off the top of my head," she admits. “But there are millions of exes who co-parent and seem to get along just fine.”

  I barely hear her, because my mind is racing in so many directions. I sit up, weave my fingers together, and push the top of my head down with both hands. “Ergh… I don’t want Steve to hate me.”

  Zoe eyes me sympathetically as I let my elbows cover part of my face. Finally she says softly, “Not to be harsh, but when was the last time you felt like he actually liked you?”

  I separate my elbows and raise my head just enough to look at her. She makes a good point. But… “I don’t want to spend Christmas alone.”

  “Steve’s Jewish," Zoe points out.

  “He still celebrates Christmas.”

  “Okay, so you’ll figure something out. You’re fast-forwarding right into Armageddon right now. Take a breath.”

  I let my hands drop, and do exactly as she suggests: I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Eventually, I open my eyes. “I didn’t actually want a divorce. I wanted the threat of a divorce to motivate him to change.”

  Zoe does not have an immediate comeback to that.

  And that gets my mind racing again. “What am I going to do? I don’t even know what to do for the next hour, much less the rest of my life.”

  Zoe sits down next to me, “You don’t have to decide anything right now. This isn’t over. Men have affairs all the time. They come back. Most men never leave. And Steve won’t actually go anywhere permanently unless you let him. He doesn’t have the balls. So whatever you want to have happen will happen.”

  I consider that. She’s probably right. “Do I even want him back?” I ask her, my voice cracking a little.

  “Honey, only you can answer that.”

  I shrug. Right now, I have no answer. “Ethan’s seeing someone.”

  Zoe looks at me blankly. “Ethan?”

  “The home inspection guy I work with. We usually have lunch after an inspection, and…”

  “And you wanted to make sure, if you jumped ship, there’d be some sort of life raft to fall into.”

  Zoe makes this statement like it’s a fact. “Am I that obvious?” I ask her sadly.

  “No. Not at all. It’s human nature to want a safety net.”

  I cover my face with my hands and sigh, “Jesus, I don’t want to be a divorced person. I don’t want to go to parties and not be able to flirt. I don’t want to have people ask me if I’m married and have to admit, in the first few minutes that I have met them, that I have failed. I don’t want to meet someone new. I hate meeting new people. I don’t want to face my kids tonight and break their hearts. I don’t want my kids to have a stepmother and I certainly don’t want it to be Olivia. I don’t want to be alone on Thanksgiving...”

  “You’re not going to be alone on Thanksgiving," Zoe assures me.

  “No. Even worse, I’ll come to your house and pretend everything’s okay when it’s not. I don’t want to do this. I love Steve. I trusted him. This isn’t how my life was supposed to turn
out. I’m not a divorced person. That’s not my personality.”

  “Really? What is the personality of a divorced person?” Zoe asks.

  “I don’t know. Fucked up.”

  “Says who?”

  “Everyone. Society sees a divorced woman as a fuckup. She’s either too picky, too demanding, or can’t keep her man. Honestly, why couldn’t Steve have just died? Then I’d be a widow. No one blames widows.”

  We’re both silent for a bit. Zoe finally says carefully, “I understand what you’re saying, but you don’t really want Steve to die. If for no other reason than you wouldn’t want your kids not to have their father.”

  Okay, she makes a valid point.

  Then she continues, “You have come here for Thanksgiving for years. You will continue to come here. And we’ll invite Steve, and if he comes, great! And if the kids have to leave early to go to his house, fine. It’s just a day. There are three hundred and sixty four more of them in every year. And as for how your life turned out? All of us are in Holland. Nowhere near Italy, and constantly trying to navigate the waterways and figure out the pluperfect form of ‘try’ in Dutch.”

  And with that one statement, Zoe made me feel a little bit better. And all she had to do was invite me to a Thursday dinner, and remind me of the punchline of a story we’ve all tossed around our group for years.

  My lungs stop feeling like a rope is lassoed around them, tightening them together. I feel able to breathe.

  And it feels good.

  I am going to get through this. Everything will be okay.

  Of course five seconds later, I’m back to feeling like crap.

  Twelve

  Zoe

  After Michelle left, I sobered up, and read a book from an author I was interviewing later in the week. I am a host of the radio show, Write Now, a thrice-weekly program with a semi-national audience. We are syndicated in most major cities, and people can download my show on their iPhones. Which is my way of bragging that after almost twenty years in radio, I now make less money than I did when I started. But hey, if part of your job is having to read The New Yorker once a week, life isn’t exactly handing you lemons.