The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  “Thanks,” I say as sincerely as possible. “But I’d better just grab a sandwich and keep working.”

  “But I really need to talk to you about this fucking Rory situation,” he pleads.

  Fucking Rory is the guy Trevor has been dating for three weeks. Last week (or was it the week before?) Trevor was concerned that they were getting too serious too fast. “It sounds crazy,” he said. “But somehow we just know that this is it . . . that we’re meant to be together. Am I crazy?”

  “A bit,” I said.

  “Why am I even asking you?” he snapped, annoyed. “Like you’re one to judge relationships.”

  The tables have turned this week, and fucking Rory is thinking that he should give his ex, Ken, another chance. “I really need to talk Kerr Bear,” Trevor whines. “Pleeeeze? I’ll treat?”

  I sigh. “Okay.” My already tight office walls seem to be closing in on me, and I feel the possibility of a claustrophobic fit coming on. Besides, there’s not much I can do about this plan anyway until I can accost someone who was paying attention in the meeting and get them to tell me what was said—without, of course, letting on that I was daydreaming through the whole thing.

  At the restaurant, we sit cross-legged on dingy satin cushions while our shoes perch on the ledge beside us. Given this position, I am thankful that I didn’t wear a skirt today—not that Trevor would notice anyway. We each order the “B Box.” Then Trevor closes the sliding rice-paper screen for privacy before launching into the details.

  “He says he loves me and he knows I’m the one, but he needs closure on the Ken thing before he can move on. He thinks that if he doesn’t give his relationship with Ken another chance—with one hundred percent effort—he’ll never be able to feel positive about moving on with me.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say, sipping my green tea. “If he knows you’re the one, why does he need to go back to Ken unless he thinks there’s a chance that he’s the one?”

  “I know!” Trevor says, banging his hand on the table and sloshing our tiny cups of tea. “That’s what I said! Fucking Rory. He’s got to go.”

  “I’m afraid so,” I agree.

  “I can really pick ’em,” Trevor says morosely.

  “I hear ya, sister.”

  “So what’s going on with gorgeous Sam, then?”

  Ugh. Sam. At the mention of his name, I feel the familiar churning of my stomach, the involuntary reddening of my face. It does not help that Trevor insists on referring to Sam as “gorgeous Sam” as if the fact may have escaped me. Not to mention that, in contrast, he calls me just plain Kerry—I mean, not like he calls me “just plain Kerry,” but he might as well. Anyway, I refuse to fall apart at the mere mention of Sam like some pathetic lovesick loser! I can be cool. I can be calm. I can be “I don’t really care that much about him anyway so, like, whatever . . .”

  I shrug, feigning indifference. “We’re having dinner on Thursday, I think.”

  “And where do you guys stand on the moving back in together issue?” Trevor asks.

  “On the fence.” I blush a deeper hue despite my cool facade. The fact is . . . since I moved out of Sam’s apartment last spring, we haven’t even discussed moving back in together. But I have sort of led everyone to believe that it is inevitable.

  I clear my throat nervously. “Can I have some of your wasabi?” He passes me the green paste. “Thanks,” I mutter, sighing heavily as I dab the end of my chopstick in my tiny dish of soy sauce. “I’m just so stressed about this communications plan.” I am, of course, but I am mostly trying to change the subject away from Sam. “I mean, I don’t even remember what went on in the meeting, and I supposedly chaired it.”

  “I’m going to help you,” Trevor says magnanimously. “I’ll ask Gavin for you.”

  “That’s a great idea!” Gavin is guaranteed to have paid attention and to know every syllable that was uttered and by whom, as he is some kind of advertising wunderkind.

  “Besides,” Trevor says. “I think Gavin might be gay—or at least not completely decided either way. I might be able to persuade him to join our team,” he says suggestively.

  “Ewww. Why would you want to? He’s a gross little wiener.”

  “He’s cute. He’s just very slight.”

  “Slight? He’s the same size as my cousin Mandy’s daughter. She’s six.”

  “Well, not everyone can be built like you, Kerry! What do you call that build again—‘big-boned’?”

  “Oh, fuck off.”

  Chapter 2

  Later that night, I am sitting at the tiny pine kitchen table I recently purchased from IKEA, trying to transpose the notes I took from Trevor’s debriefing. I tap away at the office laptop, attempting to turn this gibberish into some sort of comprehensive document. Apparently, Gavin was very forthcoming with Trevor. Maybe he is gay?

  It was nice of Trevor to gather this information for me, but now I am left trying to decipher all his catchy advertising phrases and turn them into plain English. As a matter of principle, I never use catchy advertising phrases. If they turned up in my document, Sonja would know at once that I hadn’t been paying attention in the meeting and had sent Trevor to get all the details and report back to me. Okay . . .

  Move the needle. = Increase sales.

  Think outside the box. = Be creative.

  Take it offline. = Discuss further at a later date.

  I get up and take three steps until I am at the counter in my galley kitchen. My apartment is bright, sunny, and about the size of the average refrigerator. Since I moved out of Sam’s place, I could afford only a tiny suite on my pathetic advertising wage. Thankfully, I didn’t have to resort to living in one of Seattle’s distant suburbs and enduring a two-hour commute every day. I found this one-bedroom apartment in a heritage building settled steeply on Queen Anne Hill. Several years ago, the Historical Preservation Society or some such group rallied to keep developers from demolishing it and replacing it with trendy new condos. Of course, I appreciate their efforts, but there are times when I think that a structure built in the 1880s isn’t entirely appropriate for modern life.

  For example, there are two electrical outlets in the kitchen, but they cannot be used simultaneously without blowing a fuse and plunging the entire east side of the building into darkness. This means that you cannot pop popcorn and microwave butter at the same time. The same applies for making toast and coffee. I guess residents of such old buildings are not meant to own a lot of kitchen appliances. Unfortunately, I amassed a ridiculous number of them when I lived in Sam’s spacious high-rise.

  With a sigh, I reach for a bottle of wine that is wedged between the toaster and microwave, careful not to knock over the food processor or coffeemaker. I pour myself another glass of Shiraz. I prefer to work at home where there are no distractions and there is wine.

  Okay, focus. So then Dave said, “They can lick my crack if they think I’m going to do some corny back-to-school campaign with apples and pencils—” Oh, phone is ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, babe.”

  Sam! I feel giddy, relieved—he is phoning me; he still loves me! At the same time, I feel nauseated and tense—he’s drawing me back in and will eventually stomp my heart into a bloody pancake.

  I force a casual tone. “How’s it going?”

  “Good. Good. What are you up to?”

  “Working, actually. I’ve got to have a communications plan for Prism on Sonja’s desk by nine.”

  “Well, don’t kill yourself,” he laughs. “You know it’ll never be up to her standards.” Without having met her, he manages a very accurate impersonation of Sonja. It is so nice how he mocks my boss to make me feel better.

  “True,” I say. “What are you doing?”

  “Well . . . Ed and the guys want me to go out for a beer. . . .”

  My stomach drops. In the span of three milliseconds, I have visualized Sam at the bar: a beautiful blonde approaches, she joins him for a drink, they fli
rt and giggle, then leave to have the best sex of their lives. “What a toned body you have,” he says, admiring her nakedness. “My last girlfriend was rather—”

  “But . . .,” he says, interrupting my disturbing fantasy. “I was kind of hoping to see you tonight?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about you all day . . . about us. But if you’re working—”

  “Give me an hour!”

  The communications plan is slapped together at best, but obviously this is far more important. Sam has been thinking about me all day! About us! With ten minutes to spare, I have applied makeup and changed into a black push-up bra and matching thong. Unfortunately, since our relationship fell apart, I have sought comfort in cream-cheese icing, wine, and endless hours of TV. As I stare in the full-length mirror, I can’t help but notice that my butt is bearing a disturbing resemblance to my grandmother’s. (I had the unfortunate opportunity of viewing hers this summer when my mom and I took her swimming at the community pool.) This is not at all a good sign. It took my grandmother eighty-three years to develop that ass: I am well on my way at thirty-one.

  I finish dressing and return to my laptop (purposely left open to give the impression that I have been working the entire time and not rushing around putting on makeup and sexy underwear). The intercom rings, and I pause before answering, not to seem too anxious. I buzz Sam in and then give myself the once-over. I’m wearing casual yet flattering jeans, a red V-neck sweater, and quite a bit of makeup (but in very subtle colors, not to be too obvious). My hair looks a little too “done,” so I muss it up for a devil-may-care look. That’s better. He won’t think I’ve gone to any extra effort for him—until he discovers the lacy, black underthings. I mean if he discovers them. He may just want to talk about our future.

  When he knocks on my door, I wait six seconds (one Mississippi . . .) before answering it. This is probably overkill, as I could run around the apartment thirty-five times in six seconds, but it is meant to convey the message, “Oh! You’re here already? I was so immersed in my work that I actually forgot you were coming!”

  “Hey,” I say, opening the door.

  “Hey,” he says as he enters, kissing me quickly on the lips. He is wearing faded jeans and a black sweater with a rugged, outdoorsy, fleece jacket over top. Sam is tall and muscular, with ridiculously thick, soft, wavy dark hair, smoldering gray eyes, and dimples a la Jeff Bridges. He is far, far too good-looking for me.

  And this is the problem. Even though we’ve been seeing each other off and on for two and a half years, I still melt at the very sight of him! Despite the fact that I lived with him for a year and witnessed him plucking his nose hairs and turning the bathroom into a toxic fume zone, it seems to have had no ill effects. I still turn into a fluttering schoolgirl in his presence! Apparently, I am so shallow and superficial that I will put up with all sorts of shabby treatment from a guy if he is gorgeous enough. Sam is definitely gorgeous enough and he drives a Mercedes . . . hence, the therapy.

  “How did you make out?” He points to the open laptop on the kitchen table.

  I wave my hand dismissively. “It’s crap.”

  “I’m sure it’s good,” he says.

  “No. I can’t seem to get into work these days.” I give him a meaningful look to let him know I’ve been preoccupied with thoughts about the tenuous state of our relationship, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “How’s work for you?”

  “Busy,” he says. “Big project coming up in SoDo.” Sam is an executive with Kazzerkoff Developments, Seattle’s largest property development firm. “He’s done very well for himself,” my mother incessantly points out. (He is also far too successful for me.)

  “Cool. Do you want a beer?” I ask. I keep beer in the fridge just for him.

  “Sure.” He follows me into the kitchen.

  “So,” I say, squeezing into the fridge. (The door cannot open all the way because of my water cooler.) “What were you thinking about today?” I pass him a beer.

  “Thanks.” He takes it and twists off the cap. “Sorry?”

  “Umm, you said you were thinking about me today. . . . About us . . .” I refill my wineglass. This will be my third, or is it fourth? I’m feeling a bit tipsy. “So . . . I was wondering, you know, what you were thinking?”

  He takes a long pull of his beer and then looks at me intently. “I was thinking about you today,” he says in his deep husky voice. “I was thinking about how sexy you are . . . and how hot you make me. . . .”

  Oh, no. Not this again! He doesn’t want to talk about our relationship. He is only here for a roll in the hay. Well, not this time, buddy. I want to talk, and until we do, there will be no hanky-panky!

  But then he is behind me, his hands running up and down my body, his lips on my neck. The proximity of him makes my knees go weak—actually more than just my knees, my resolve, too. Weak, weak, weak, that’s what I am. He steers me to the kitchen table and lays me down on it. All my work papers flutter to the floor; the laptop is somewhere under my left thigh. Yes, very, very weak.

  Later, we are cuddling on the couch, watching Law & Order.

  “I knew the son did it,” Sam says, clapping his hand onto my leg. “I’d better hit the road. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I say wanly. I want him to stay, but I have my dignity . . . at least a little dignity. Besides, we’re having dinner on Thursday.

  “Oh, and about dinner on Thursday . . . I’m going to have to pass. We’ve got clients in from out of town.”

  “Sure,” I respond. “I’ll see you later, then?”

  “Later.” He kisses me and is gone.

  Isn’t that just fucking typical of fucking, bloody bastard Sam! When will I learn? This is how he treated me the whole time we were living together—and now? More of the same bloody crap! I shuffle to my bedroom to change into my flannel pajamas. This stupid thong is practically cutting me in two lengthwise. I know—I’ll make a bowl of cream-cheese icing. May as well add a few more lumps to this ass since I am unlovable anyway.

  The next morning I am late for work. I seem to have a sugar hangover from the bowl of icing and couldn’t get moving until I’d had three Tylenol and two cups of coffee. As soon as I reach my desk, I boot up the laptop. I will print the communications plan and put it on Sonja’s desk. I hope she’s tied up in a meeting or giving Gavin a foot massage or something. If she’s there, I’ll say, “Sorry I’m a bit late, but an old lady was hit by a car at Westlake and Olive. I felt I had to stop to help.” Make that a blind old lady.

  File. Open. Prismcommplan.doc. What the—? Close. Try this again. File. Open. Prismcommplan.doc. What? It’s blank! The whole document is blank. And then it comes to me—the laptop somewhere under my left thigh. That vaguely annoying pressure on my left butt cheek appears to have been the backspace key. Shit, shit, shit!

  This is all Sam’s fault! Actually, it’s my fault for being such a slut every time I get around Sam! This is bad—very, very bad. Before, my relationship with Sam was damaging only to my self-esteem and self-worth. But now, it could ruin my career. I’m cracking up. I’m truly cracking up. I need some help—this is an emergency! I pick up the phone to call my therapist.

  “Oh, there you are,” Sonja says behind me.

  I drop the receiver, and it clatters loudly against the phone. “Oh, hi!” I jump. “Sorry I’m late, but there was a blind dead woman at Westlake. . . .”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she murmurs. “Have you got the Prism plan done?”

  I swallow loudly. “There’s a problem.”

  “What kind of problem?” Her eyes are like a rattlesnake’s before it strikes and kills you.

  “Well . . .,” I begin. “It’s a funny story, actually. I had sex on the kitchen table with my ex-boyfriend, who keeps stringing me along, and apparently, the laptop was under us and my left butt-cheek was pressing the backspace key the whole time!”

  Of course I don’t say that—although, a joke a
bout doing a half-assed job springs to mind. “There’s something wrong with the laptop,” I say instead.

  “What do you mean?” Her rattlesnake eyes narrow as she asks.

  “My document . . . It’s blank.” I look at her with my saddest, most emotionally devastated expression. How could this happen, my face says, how?

  “I’ll call IT and get them to look into it,” she says coolly. “In the meantime, I suggest you start working on another document on your PC. I’ll buy us some time with the client. You have until tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay.” I gulp.

  “Kerry . . .” Shit! I thought she was gone. She comes into my office and sits in the chair across from me. “Is everything . . . all right?”

  The rattlesnake expression is gone, and now she looks like . . . like . . . Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. Oh, she is a clever chameleon!

  “Of course!” I say with a loud, joyful laugh. “Why?”

  “You just seem . . . a little out of sorts lately. A little . . . tense.”

  I smile brightly. “Nope. Fine.”

  “Well, I just want you to know that if you ever feel like you’re having trouble coping . . . or you need to talk to someone . . . a professional . . . the company has a great mental health plan.”

  She seems so bloody sincere that for a moment, I consider confessing my biweekly therapist visits. There’s no shame in it, really. But then I get a mental picture of Gavin smirking at me in every meeting and thinking, She’s crazy, nuts, bound to fall apart at any moment, and then her wonderful job will be mine! Allllll miiiiiiiiiiiine!

  “Thanks, Sonja,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind in case I ever need it in the future.”

  “Great,” she says, instantly cold-blooded and reptilian again.

  I was lying semiconscious in the dentist’s “recovery” area. The room used to be a coat closet, but with the addition of a cot and some cheerful pictures of kittens and flowers, it was now perfect for convalescence. “My bofren ith coming to get me,” I mumbled through the cotton packing my jaw. “My boyfren ith thooo nithe. I freally, freally love him. . . .”