Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  I look up at him, starting to tear up again. “Carlos, I…”

  “Can I finish?” Carlos asks, a little softer this time.

  I nod.

  “And then Sofia had medical problems, and one of us needed a job with great insurance and one of us needed to stay home. So, yes, you had to quit doing stand-up. But I took a really boring job that I hated. And you know why? Because I loved you. And yes, I also loved them… I love them more than anything in the world. But on days when I was exhausted from working ten straight hours just to come home and immediately put in another eight hours, only this shift with screeching, vomit, poop, pacing around floors at two in the morning, driving around neighborhoods trying to get people to sleep at four in the morning and for the first year not even so much as a “Dada” for all of my efforts, some days… No, some hours… Fuck it, some minutes… the only thing that kept me going was I. Loved. You. And I wanted to give you everything you ever wanted. I still do.”

  He points at our house. “And so this monstrosity suddenly pops up when a former client’s kids wanted to sell it ASAP, without an agent, so they could split the money and never speak to each other again. And no, it wasn’t in the neighborhood we wanted, and yes, it needed some work and yes, I pretty much bought it without consulting you, and yes, that was wrong. But we got it for a ridiculously low price, and we are the only people I know whose house will be paid off by the time they’re fifty without inheriting some windfall. And I’m pretty fucking proud of that.”

  I want to say that I’m proud of that, too, but I don’t want to interrupt him. So I just stare at him and wait for more. “Can I say I’m proud of you, too?” I ask.

  “You mean ‘that’?”

  “No, I mean you. This house was all you.”

  He smiles a little. “Thank you.”

  And he pulls me into a hug. “I know that you are a mess that the kids are leaving, and I know that you can not imagine what life is going to be like without them. But truthfully… there’s a part of me that’s kind of looking forward to it. Don’t you think I miss bed day? Don’t you think I want to go to London, and stay at five-star hotels and eat out all the time? Don’t you think I want to go to sleep without a shirt on? I want to wake up naked next to you every morning for the rest of my life. That’s my goal.”

  “Mine, too," I say. Then I pull back to look into his eyes. “So how do we fix this?”

  “We move on, like we always do. I try not to think about what you did, and you try to make it up to me for the next few years.”

  “It’ll never happen again," I promise.

  “Oh, I know. Because if it ever does, I will kill the guy.”

  I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not. Doesn’t matter.

  I nod slowly. “Fair enough.” Then I look over at the Mercedes. “That’s a pretty car.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How much did you get for the Prius?”

  “Nothing. This is just a rental Alex helped me get from a company in Beverly Hills who rents out fancy cars for her shows. I have to give it back Monday.”

  My face must register surprise because Carlos asks, “What? You think I’m going to spend almost a hundred thousand dollars on a CAR?”

  I smile. “No…” I say, then rub his shoulder. “So… Alex, who’s the whole package?”

  He looks at the Mercedes, smiles, and nods. “Indeed.”

  I don’t want to ask, but I have to. “So… did you tell her what happened?”

  “I did.”

  I feel a knot in my stomach as I ask, “And...?”

  He turns to me. “You want to know the best thing about having an old friend?”

  I fan my eyebrows up to show I do. Carlos says, “You can tell them that you are about to drive off a cliff and, without any judgment, they’ll tell you to make a U-turn, and drive over to them to talk. And, if they’re a really good old friend, by the time you get there, there’s ice cream.”

  I smile. “So want to give me a ride?”

  “I do,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to the passenger’s side of the car. “I want to go to Canter’s and order a mile high pastrami, shoestring fries, and a chocolate milkshake.”

  I smile. The night I met Carlos, we ended up at Canter’s after the party. After a perfect meal, we drove up to Mulholland Drive, parked, and made out in his car.

  Where we were interrupted by a police officer and a flashlight. At the time, I was mortified. Carlos kept calling him, “Sir." He was given a ticket, and we were given a lecture.

  Turned out a little different this time around: we still go to Canter’s, then head up to Mulholland and make out like newlyweds.

  And get interrupted by a police officer and his flashlight. Only this time, Carlos calls the officer, “Son." And when the man asks us what we are doing, he answers, “Well, son, I’m making out with my wife of more than twenty years. I’m sure you have parents…” The officer smiles to himself, and lets us go.

  The next morning, I wake up early, and drive all the way to Venice Boulevard to pick up a dozen donuts from that shop he likes.

  And the two of us get to eat the whole box by ourselves.

  Forty-eight

  Alexis

  At 6:30, I brace myself, take a deep breath, and knock on John’s door.

  I know exactly how this will go. He will open the door and I will say, “I screwed up and I’m sorry. But I am not giving Kris a scholarship because of you. I’m giving it to her because she’s going to do something with her life. She is amazing, and she is going to be somebody. And maybe she doesn’t have all As, and maybe she’s still figuring out her way. But you’re not supposed to know what you want to do with your life at sixteen. And even if you do, it’s not going to look like what you thought it was going to look like.”

  And then he will look at me, realize how pure my intentions are, and know that I was only trying so hard because he is worth it.

  Then I will continue, “She didn’t need a father last night, she needed a mother. Or an aunt. I’m sorry. I know it sucks. But sometimes girls, and boys, need a grown up version of themselves to let them know that it’s normal to like a guy who doesn’t like you back. And it’s normal to want a pretty pair of shoes, even if your dad doesn’t understand it. And to go bra shopping. And that there are a lot of women out there who like hardware stores, but it’s completely okay if you’re not one of them.”

  John will open his mouth, but I will not be done talking. “You know what you did for me last week with the toilets? And with Connor? You helped. Because I was in way over my head, and I didn’t know how to fix it. Well, this week, I thought you were in over your head, and I could help fix it. But I was wrong. And I really want to start over. So how can we start over? Because you are the most amazing man I have met in forever. You’re smart and gorgeous and so calm, well, most of the time, and I just want to spend the rest of my…”

  John opens the door, startling me out of my fantasy, and throwing every preconceived notion of mine out the window. “Hey there!” he says, all smiles and wearing a white apron with a big green shamrock and the words, An Irishman walks out of a bar. No, really, it can happen. “I thought you weren’t going to be here until seven.”

  “Uh… yeah," I stammer, up to my eyeballs in nerves and beyond excited to realize I still have an invitation. “I was just here because…” Because… what? What was I saying? I look into his ocean blue eyes and get even more lost. “Because I couldn’t remember what kind of wine you wanted me to bring. So I figured I’d ask you, then head out to the store and go pick up some… thing?”

  “Oh,” he says. “Well, don’t worry about it. Come on in. I’ve got beer. Lots of dead yeast to go around.”

  As he walks past his bed (which now looks like a couch), I am already thinking of a better solution, and am about to say, “Beer with ribeyes? No, I’ll go get you the perfect…”

  But I stop myself before saying a word. “Beer sounds great," I tell him honestly, s
miling as I follow him through to the kitchen. “Whatcha got?”

  “I have IPA,” he says, opening his refrigerator, “and red ale, a vanilla porter, lager…”

  “I’ll take a vanilla porter," I say. As he grabs a can of porter, then gets a pint glass from his cabinet, I look around and notice the dining room table. It’s been set for three and, at the center of the table, on top of the mouth of a vase, is the signed Pedro Martinez Red Sox ball, still in its case. “So that’s an interesting centerpiece.”

  “You like it?” he asks, pouring the beer perfectly into a pint glass. “A friend got it for me instead of green daisies, which I guess she thought looked weird.”

  “Huh," I say. “So you’re not planning to give it back?”

  “To my friend? Nah… she has enough balls. She doesn’t need any of mine.”

  I smile. Maybe blush. He’s keeping it. Yay me.

  John hands me the pint glass, and we toast. “Slainte!” he says.

  “Slainte,” I repeat.

  What I want to say is, “Careful. Say that to the wrong girl and you might get kissed.”

  But I refrain. Instead, I point to the table. “I like your chairs, too," I say. “So, which one’s yours?”

  He smiles, immediately appreciating my reference. “That one,” he says, pointing to the chair nearest to the barbecue grill outside. “But you’re the guest. Pick whichever chair you want.”

  “I think I want you to pick my chair.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  He smirks (but, like, in a cute way), clinks my glass again, and points to the center chair.

  Kris soon comes downstairs, and the three of us have a very fun dinner, followed by a game of Cards Against Humanity, then a comedy special on Netflix.

  Around ten, Kris hugs me goodbye and heads up the stairs. John walks me to my car.

  As we walk, I try to think about what I can do to get him to kiss me. I got nothing. The night has been fun, but not sexy. Plus Carlos’s words keep playing in my head about being a control freak. (My words – not his. I’m such a control freak I even try to control other people’s comments about my controlling.)

  But it’s okay. In the last few weeks, I have made two pretty awesome new friends and one new “man’s best friend." I can be in Holland. Holland is pretty damn nice.

  “So, we’re off to church tomorrow at eleven,” John tells me. “Any interest in coming to check it out?”

  “I would love that,” I say.

  “Great," he tells me. “There’s this cool little barbecue place we can go to afterward. My treat.”

  I resist every urge to say, “You don’t have to do that. I’ve got it. Thank you for including me.” Instead, I say, “I’ll bet they can’t hold a candle to your ribeyes. Mine was perfect.”

  “Well, of course not," he jokes. “But they do a slab of baby back ribs that’ll knock your socks off.”

  I turn to him to say…

  And he kisses me.

  Out of nowhere. Just like that. No staring deep into each other’s eyes, no trying to figure out how I can lean in and make my move. We’re kissing.

  Slowly, I drop my purse and put my hands around his neck as he wraps his arms around my waist.

  Hmmm... So many feelings: It’s amazing, it’s a tease, what does it mean, oh that feels nice…

  And then it’s over, as quickly as it started. John pulls way from me, smiles, and says softly, “See you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I say quietly. I touch my lips as he walks back toward his condo. They’re tingling.

  So is another part of me that hasn’t tingled in ages.

  “Can I ask what that was?” I yell toward him.

  John turns to me, still smiling, inordinately pleased with himself. “That was me showing you how I’m not Connor.”

  Certainly not. And it’s at that moment I realize, I didn’t lose all interest in sex because I was going through early menopause. I was just going through early menopause with the wrong guy.

  Forty-nine

  Michelle

  Sunday afternoon, Steve drops off Roraigh and Megan around one. By the time they’re in the house, everything’s all cleaned up, and back to normal. I was up until three a.m. cleaning, but it was totally worth it.

  Because I wasn’t kidding when I told Steve that I had some thoughts on what I wanted to do with our old wedding china. And all I needed was to go to the hardware store to buy white spray paint, white sanded grout, grout sealer, glue, nitrile gloves and putty knives. Everything else I needed was already in my dusty old art studio out back that we had turned into storage space years ago.

  After Steve leaves, I bring the kids out to our backyard, which now sports a large wood table that I sanded the top of about an hour ago.

  “What’s this?” Roraigh asks skeptically.

  “This is going to be our new outdoor table. Do you guys know what a tessera is?

  Megan and Roraigh shake their heads. “A tessera is a small piece of stone, tile or glass used to make a mosaic," I tell them as I hand them each safety goggles. “Can you put these on please?”

  The kids put on their goggles, then I hand them heavy weight gloves. “And these, too?”

  They do.

  I give Megan one of the red Fiestaware plates we normally eat off of, and hand Roraigh a blue one. “Tessera can also be a broken plate.”

  The kids look at me in confusion. “This may be a terrible idea, but bear with me. Tomorrow, your father and I will officially begin divorce proceedings. Which sucks. But this family really will be happier when the parents are apart. It’s just going to take awhile to get to that happy. Today is the first step. Wanna get out some anger and break a plate?”

  Roraigh and Megan glance at each other. Silent sibling code: Mom has lost it.

  “The plates are kind of a metaphor: sometimes in life you have to bust something apart to put it back together in a more beautiful way. In the form that works best for you. Friday, after your dad sent me the divorce papers, I threw a bunch of plates. I was so mad that…”

  CRASH!

  Megan threw her plate down with so much force, it hit my jean covered legs. Roraigh, upon watching his sister do it, throws his against the backyard pavement as well. “Nice,” I tell them approvingly, handing them two more plates. “Now do that five more times each.”

  To steal from the Flintstones: Bam, Bam, BAM-BAM-BAM.

  “Perfect. And now, we are going to make a mosaic. First, I will grout the top of this table. And then we are going to take any plate fragment you love and think looks pretty, and put it onto the tabletop. You can use any of the colorful plate pieces, or I have a box of other pieces right there.” I point to a box next to the table, filled with the broken wedding and everyday china from Friday night. “Once we’ve covered the table in our favorite tesserae, I’ll coat it with epoxy, and we will have a beautiful table that hopefully is more beautiful than what we started with. Does that sound okay?’

  I get a “Sure,” with a shrug from Roraigh, and a very quiet, “Okay,” from Megan.

  And so we begin. “And while we do this, we can talk," I tell them as Megan picks a shiny purple piece. “And you can tell me everything you’re feeling. There are no right or wrong words. Let’s just talk.”

  I’d love to be able to say that we had a happy afternoon repurposing the old china, and everyone lived happily ever after. In truth, the afternoon had lots of angry words, tears, and pizza. That night, everyone slept in my bed. But by morning, the table was dry, the kids were cheerful, and I knew we’d all be okay forming our new mosaic family.

  Epilogue

  Zoe

  That October, I headed back to my home away from home: the Comedy Store on Sunset Boulevard. A venue famous for hosting the most talented comics on the planet: everyone from Richard Pryor to Robin Williams, from Roseanne to Leslie Jones, and all of the Chris Rocks, Freddie Prinzes and Marc Marons in between.

  And me. For the first time since I
was pregnant with my babies.

  I have been terrified of this night since I called one of the bookers I knew from back in the day and talked my way into a slot. But I have also felt more exhilarated this past month than I have in years. In preparation for my five-minute set in the Original Room, I went to twenty-six open mike nights at lesser known clubs in the past month to try out new material. Twenty-six nights filled with twenty-three-year-old boys making the same seven jokes about pot, anal sex and Tinder. Twenty-six nights where I was frequently the only woman performing, and always the oldest person. Twenty-six nights following rim job jokes with jokes about diapers. Following jokes about co-dependent relationships with hot, crazy women with jokes about co-dependent relationships with teenagers.

  Some nights, I heard crickets. But usually I heard laughter. And I was hooked all over again.

  The evening’s host does a few minutes, then introduces me to the crowd, which includes my posse: Kayla, Michelle, Alex, Lauren, Vanessa, Cara and Rebecca, plus a variety of significant others willing to be dragged out on a Wednesday night.

  And Carlos. My Number One Fan.

  “Thank you," I say, immediately picking up the microphone so I can pace around the stage. “Everyone give a round of applause for Sarah J. Halstead!”

  And they do.

  “So, do we have any single ladies here tonight?” I ask the room. “Where are my single ladies at?”

  I hear a “woot woot” and some enthusiastic applause. “And where are my moms at?” I ask in the same, Who’s here to party? voice.

  A smattering of applause. Nothing urgent, very sedate. I laugh to myself. “Yeah, I get it. Not as sexy to admit you’re a mom. It’s kind of like asking ‘Who’s from Vallejo? Woooooo…’” I get the laugh, then continue, “Sacramento in the house? Raise the roof!” Laughs as I turn to a young African American man in the front row. “Yes sir, I just said raise the roof. I am the mother-in-law of your nightmares.”