“So, family,” Mom interjected, not wanting to dwell on my distress, “let’s plan out the rest of our day!” She tossed her blond lob over one shoulder and pulled out her phone for notes. “I have a massage scheduled at ten fifteen, but after that, I say we shop. The Hoffmans are still asleep, so when they wake up, we should head over to—”
“GET OFF ME, YOU BEAST!!!”
Our heads all whipped around toward the sound of the yelling, and then snapped back in shock. Muffin had somehow made his way out from beneath Mom’s feet and onto the lap of an elderly woman, ripping the pancake that she was eating straight out of her wrinkled mouth. The lady pushed Muffin off as she jumped up, banging into the table and knocking a hot teakettle onto her husband’s lap, who had been sitting across from her.
“AHHHHHHHHHH!” he cried, leaping to his feet, his pants soaked by the molten Earl Grey. Muffin seized the opportunity to jump onto the man’s empty chair and then onto the table, his flat face gobbling up the remainder of the man’s granola. Baguette howled at the commotion.
“NO! Muffin! DOWN! SIT!” Mom screeched, as though Muffin has ever heard any of those words. Dad ran over to the table and threw Muffin over his shoulder as the older man hobbled around furiously, his khakis now draped around his ankles, revealing much-too-tight and now see-through tighty-whities. The woman had begun sneezing uncontrollably as nervous laughter took a firm hold of my mother.
“I’m so, so sorry!” my mom pleaded between panicked giggles. “This has never happened before! Normally he’s so well behaved!”
More crashes filled the restaurant. Baguette had taken hold of the couple’s tablecloth and was pulling it toward her, tug-of-war style, shattering the remaining kitchenware on the tiled floor. Muffin leapt from Dad’s arms to get to the discarded goodies. Mom laughed even harder.
“Here! Let me find their service papers…”
“Get … achoo … your … achoo … dogs out of … achooo … MY HOTEL!!!”
* * *
Alberto (H.E.L.P.)
* * *
* * *
Megan Mitchell
FRIENDS!!! Where are your favorite places to shop in Santa Barbara?? Me, @StaceyHoffman, @ValentinaHansen, and @ShellyHansen are looking for places!!! #SB #fun #vacay #vacation #staycation #sogreat #laborday #weekend #summer #morefun
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Megan Mitchell: OMG and of course @LouHansen oops lol forgot
Dani Widen: Go to State Street!!
Kayla Ray: Just stay away from the Funk Zone lol wayyyy too weird
* * *
* * *
* * *
Shelly Hansen
@ShellyHansen
Beautiful weekend away in Santa Barbara with my fav people and fav things: Sun, Sand, and SHOP!!!
* * *
* * *
Theo
* * *
Alberto (H.E.L.P.)
* * *
4:55 P.M.
* * *
“That’s a great idea!” Mom shouted as she swiped a credit card through the checkout computer of our twentieth boutique shop. “Megan, you don’t mind if Lulu stays with you, right?”
“OMG, of course not!” Megan cheered, clapping her hands together. “Slumber partay!”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to share the couch with Val?” I asked again in a desperate effort. “I really, really don’t mind sharing the couch with Val.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mom said, draping yet another full shopping bag over her forearm. “Why make yourself uncomfortable? Megan has her own room, so it works out perfectly! It’ll be such fun!”
Megan flashed me a dangerous smile, like a cat might at a canary.
Shit.
5:25 P.M.
* * *
I am so tired. Five and a half hours of shopping without so much as a break. My feet are throbbing. I must have gotten fifteen million steps. No wonder all those mall rats stay in perfect shape. Ugh.
Jeez, I can’t believe how messy Megan’s room is! Her clothes are everywhere: the bed, the floor, the desk, the television. It’s as if a small cyclone found its way into her suitcase. Did she even put anything into the cabinets? Let me check …
5:30 P.M.
* * *
Nope. The cabinets are woefully empty, begging to be utilized. This is positively barbaric. Ugh. It’s taking every ounce of my self-restraint to keep from compulsively folding. The bathroom is no better … It’s practically a war zone of makeup products and assorted creams. Who needs this much product, anyhow? What is the difference between body moisturizer and body rehydration oil?!
Anyway, our dinner reservation is only in half an hour, so my time alone with Bitchell in this pigsty is joyfully limited. In fact, maybe if I just keep writing in my journal and don’t make any sudden movements, she won’t acknowledge my existence.
* * *
Mama Shell
* * *
5:45 P.M.
* * *
Good news! If, for whatever reason, I am ejected from a plane in the next twenty-four hours without a parachute, at least my new false eyelashes will save me from plummeting to my death!
“They’re huge,” I complained, gawking at myself in the mirror.
“Psht. Those are, like, medium length.”
“They’re poking the tops of my sockets.”
“Most lashes do! Yours are just shorter than average.”
“I’m taking them off…”
“Ooooo, here’s the thing,” Megan said, scrunching up her nose. “I kinda used like, a supes strong glue, so…”
“Are you saying that I can’t take these off?” I asked, horrified.
“I mean, you can, but like—you might take some of your real ones off with them.”
I looked back at myself in the mirror. The lashes are so heavy, my eyelids just kind of hang there, half opened, like I’m exhausted or stoned or probably both. Between my flaking skin and these broom bristles that are plastered to my face, I’m starting to resemble the drugged-out zombie of an ex-pageant contestant.
Death, take me now.
9:45 P.M.
* * *
Listening to Megan talk about her European adventures was such a snooze fest, I could hardly keep my eyes open. And not just because of the lashes.
“… but the best part about Milan was the fashion show, which was, like, the most gorgeous show I’ve ever been to. Obvi, I wish I were walking the runway like I used to in my pageant days, but being behind the scenes was, like, so rewarding,” Megan finished with a proud nod.
“That’s wonderful!” Mom fawned, her martini splashing around in her glass. “Did you meet anyone interesting?”
“Technically we’re not allowed to talk to the models, but I totes got to hold Kendall Jenner’s boob tape.”
Mom beamed.
“So, Lou,” Buck interrupted, clearly not interested in the ways Kendall holds up her breasts, “how’s the job hunt going? Any luck?”
I strained my eyelids upward so that I could fully look at him.
“Uh—it’s all right,” I admitted. “I haven’t been applying to many places.”
“Why not?”
It was an innocent enough question, but the scrutiny made my face flush. I glanced over at Megan, careful not to say anything that might be compromising.
“Well, I’m not exactly sure what field I want to commit to…”
“Have you considered going back to school?” Buck asked, leaning forward, both elbows coming onto the table. My potato-peeled skin turned tomato red.
“Yes, but I’d rather not, if I can help it,” I said, leaving out that graduating at age twenty-six significantly diminishes my chances of being in Forbes 30 Under 30.
“The last thing she needs is more school,” Mom said, raising the martini to her lips. “I’d like to see her have a little fun for a change.”
“What about traveling?” Stacey asked excitedly.
“Or volunteer work?” Dad suggested.
<
br /> “Or writing a memoir??” Val cheered.
“I’m just taking it moment to moment for now,” I said, overwhelmed by the suggestions. “But thanks, everyone.”
“I understand,” Megan said, her own false lashes fanning the table. “It’s, like, really hard out there. I have so many friends who are totes lost…”
“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m lost, per se—”
“… I mean my friend Tata? She graduated two years before me, and she’s, like, still a hostess at this diner back in the Bay Area with a degree in finance. It’s, like, so sad. But just keep trying, you know? You’re, like, SOOOOO smart. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
Mom smiled at Megan like she was Delphi’s fucking oracle. “That was beautiful, Megan. Thank you.”
“Yeah. Great. Thanks,” I mumbled.
“Oh my gosh!” Mom gasped, leaning over to take a closer look at Megan’s chest. “Where did you get that necklace?”
“Which? Oh, this?” Bitchell fiddled with the cursive gold Megan that rested on her neckline. “My friend at work makes them. She’s, like, SO talented, I can’t even.”
“It’s just like the Carrie Bradshaw necklace!” Mom cheered. “I’ve always wanted one.” She gave Dad a sideways glance, dropping a major hint. Dad shook his head slightly.
“OMG, I can totes get you one, Shell! You’re, like, such a Carrie,” Megan said, turning her gaze toward me and puckering her lips. “Hmmm. I’d get you one too, Lulu, but I think you’re more of a Miranda.”
That’s it. I’m not going to let Megan ruin this vacation for me. I don’t care how many passive-aggressive Sex and the City references she throws at me: this Miranda is going to the Mission District. I have one more day to enjoy myself, so I’m waking up first thing tomorrow morning before anyone else does.
SEPTEMBER 7
7:05 A.M.
* * *
Megan’s alarm just went off. Apparently, she’s going to the gym for an hour. On Labor Day.
“Can’t you go later? The sun’s not even up yet,” I complained, my eyes sealed shut from exhaustion/some residue lash glue.
“No way, José! The early bird catches the rockin’-bod worm.”
Seriously. VANDERBILT. There HAS to be a brain hiding between those white gold hoop earrings.
Anyway, while she’s doing squats in the gym, I’m going to be sipping an artisanal latte and climbing the stairs of Old Mission Santa Barbara to see the famous murals. Mom was sufficiently tipsy from last night’s martini and a half, which means a late morning is surely in store for today. Dad will probably sneak an early coffee/plate of bacon alone, and if Val wakes up, she’s bound to use this time as a photo opportunity. This means I should have at least three glorious hours to myself, which is just enough time to see the murals, and possibly even snag a McConnell’s ice cream before anyone notices!
* * *
Mama Shell
* * *
TRANSCRIPT: POLICE REPORT
CT = Call Taker
CT:
Santa Barbara Police Communications, how can I help you?
Woman:
I’d like to file a missing person’s report.
CT:
All right. What is the name of the missing person?
Woman:
Muffin.
CT:
Martin?
Woman:
No, Muffin. Like the pastry.
CT:
Oh. Uh, I see. Okay. What’s the surname?
Woman:
Hansen. H-A-N-S-E-N.
CT:
Okay. Age?
Woman:
Just turned six years old.
CT:
All right. How long has he been missing?
Woman:
I went back to the hotel about five hours ago and he was gone.
CT:
… Five hours?
Woman:
Yes.
CT:
Ma’am, you realize you have to wait twenty-four hours before filing a missing person’s report.
Woman:
I know, but isn’t a year in dog years like seven years? So for Muffin it’s been twenty-four hours at least—
CT:
I’m sorry, ma’am—this is a dog?
Woman:
Yes.
CT:
You’re filing a missing person’s report for a dog?
Woman:
It’s Labor Day weekend in Santa Barbara and we’ve been searching for hours. Who would you turn to?
CT:
I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m afraid we don’t help locate missing animals.
Woman:
Then who’s the person I need to contact to arrange for a proper search party? Charlie, hold on, I’m on the phone. The police. Well, what was I supposed to do? Oh, that’s a LOT coming from a man who wouldn’t pull over with a flat tire! Hysterical? What do you mean, I’m being HYSTERICAL??
CT:
Uh, ma’am—
Woman:
Don’t tell me to calm down! My baby is missing! Oh, Lulu, thank goodness you’re here. I’m on the phone with the police. What? Of course I did! Why isn’t anyone taking my side here?
CT:
Excuse me, ma’am—
Woman:
I don’t care about that! He’s been gone for hours and the only— (Inaudible arguing and phone rustling)
Woman 2:
Hello?
CT:
Uh, hi? Who is this?
Woman 2:
This is Shelly’s daughter, Lou. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience this has probably caused you.
CT:
Oh. It’s all right, ma’am, but I really do have to—
Woman:
GET THE NUMBER OF A SEARCH PARTY.
Woman 2:
Mother, there is no animal search party! WE are the search party!
Woman:
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU EAT ICE CREAM.
CT:
Lou?
Woman 2:
Hello? Yes?
CT:
Where was the last place Muffin was seen?
Woman 2:
Excuse me?
CT:
Your dog, Muffin. When was he last seen?
Woman 2:
Uh, he was at my parents’ hotel in their room. My family left to meet me at McConnell’s on State Street, and when we returned, Muffin was gone.
CT:
Were there any other dogs with you?
Woman 2:
Yes. Her name is Baguette, and she was sitting on the bed when we returned.
CT:
So only one dog is missing?
Woman 2:
That’s correct. We’ve searched all around the area and talked to the front desk, but we haven’t been able to locate him.
CT:
All right. What’s the name and address of the hotel? I’ll send someone there right away.
Woman 2:
Are you being serious right now?
CT:
Of course. I have three dogs at home. We can’t just let Muffin go missing.
* * *
7:31 P.M.
* * *
I don’t think I’ve ever been more deeply exhausted than I am in this moment. And that includes the time I stayed up for seventy-one hours and consumed so much coffee that I genuinely thought I had crossed over into a different relative space-time continuum. Muffin was FINE. After hours of running around the hotel and city, asking everyone in our path if they had seen a handsome fawn-colored pug wearing a particularly chic collar, and even filing a police report, we found our little diablo. Apparently, Muffin had caravaned on the bottom of a room-service cart that Dad was hiding in the closet after a late-night cookie order. When the maid came in this morning to remove the cart, Muffin went along with it. Now the specifics of the next four hours are unclear, but somehow Muffin found himself down the street at a neighboring Labor Day cook-off, where he blended in
with the band of twelve other party-going pups. It wasn’t until Muffin went inside the house and ripped apart an antique leather couch that belonged to someone’s great-great-something-or-other that he became the odd dog out.
At this point, we received a call from the party hosts, explaining that they had found our dog and that we owed them five thousand dollars.
Anyway, we’re going the hell home. I can confidently call this past weekend the least relaxing vacation of my life. I’ve basically molted my skin, half of my eyelashes have been pulled off, McConnell’s was closed, so I never got my ice cream, and now—thanks to the Mystery of the Missing Muffin—my blood pressure is probably dangerously high. HUMPH.
SEPTEMBER 8
Theo
* * *
12:15 P.M.
* * *
Good news to report: I’ve finally shed the last of the disgusting facial flakes, which have given way to a dewy pimple-free glowing epidermis that is so soft, I can’t stop stroking it. My cheeks feel like they’ve been sandpapered. It’s no wonder Megan spends so much money on tiny lotions … When your face is this soft, anything is possible.
More good news: Theo is positively high off his new job! He told me all about it tonight over takeout Indian food, which we ordered at my request as a reward for surviving my family vacation—a feat on par with running a marathon, which I’m officially taking off my list of long-term goals. We sat cross-legged on the floor, plastic forks shoved deep into our tikka masala, chatting away over his limited-edition Scrabble board. According to Theo, the restaurant is all about the communal dining experience, so his background in catering has been helpful. Cooking for large groups of people is his specialty. That being said, he can’t help but have moments of insecurity when working in such a talented kitchen.
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