The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Kerry, you know as well as I do that Sam calls the shots in your relationship. If he wants to be with you, you’re there like an eager puppy. If he doesn’t, you mope around and eat too much and drink too much—” She shoots a look at the drink just placed before me.

  “I’m quite capable of ending my relationship with Sam, thank you very much! And I’d also like you to know how much I appreciate your support and faith in me. It’s so nice when a girl can always count on her mom.”

  “Kerry . . .,” she starts, but I am already standing, guzzling my Flaming Walter.

  “I’ve got to go. . . . Big day at the ad agency tomorrow. That’s where I work, by the way.”

  “What?” They are looking at me like I am drunk and crazy—which I guess I am.

  I throw a couple of twenties on the table. “See you later.” I march (in a fairly straight line) to the door and out into the night.

  That was awful. Maybe I should take a tip from my brother and move to the other side of the planet? Then perhaps she’d have a change of heart and brag about me to my cousins and aunts. But I refuse to let her drive me from my home, from the city that I love.

  It is not easy having it out with my mother, but I feel better for having said my piece. This should give her something to mull over while she’s baking vegan brownies or doing upward-facing dog at yoga class.

  Unfortunately, my big exit is somewhat destroyed when I can’t catch a cab and am still standing on the sidewalk when my mom and Darrel leave the restaurant. I quickly duck behind a mailbox but then realize that my larger-than-usual ass is poking out and revealing my position. It doesn’t matter anyway; they’d already seen me.

  “Come on, Kerry,” my mom says in a resigned voice that clearly says “Where did I go wrong? Where?” “We’ll run you home.”

  Chapter 4

  What a shitty week—but on the bright side, it is Friday and I will have some good stories to tell the girls over drinks. The communications plan being erased by my left buttock will be a good laugh, and then my decision to end things with Sam will provide a serious discussion topic. . . . They may not take it all that seriously, since this is far from the first time they’ve heard it. But I will tell them about the avoidance plan and the caller-ID box. I will also ask them if they know anything about using hypnosis to make someone really gorgeous look like Danny DeVito.

  Sneaking out of work just before five, I race home to shower, change, and apply makeup. Since I’m a free agent, it is imperative that I look my best every time I go out in public. (Note to self: Must stop eating bowls of cream-cheese icing before bed.) While trying on several stylishly sexy outfits, I dance around the apartment to some very upbeat and boppy Kylie Minogue. I am a happy-go-lucky, free-spirited kind of gal! I am a fun-loving and carefree woman who is perfectly capable of getting another boyfriend as gorgeous and sexy as Sam. Not that I need one.

  I am meeting the girls at the Lizard Lounge, a trendy Capitol Hill bar that has slushie machines with alcohol in them. Needless to say, this is a very popular spot for girls who are barely of legal drinking age, so it may not be the best choice for a bunch of cougars like us. But we are all still attractive and youthful women who—

  Ouch! Damn! My bopping to Kylie Minogue has caused me to stab myself in the eyeball with the mascara wand. There is a bunch of black goop stuck to my contact lens, and my right eye is watering like crazy.

  Despite my best efforts to clean it, the lens is destroyed, and I am forced to wear my glasses. This may not sound like a major disaster, but then, you haven’t seen my glasses. They are out of style, to say the least. In fact, they are the same large, tortoiseshell-frame-with-dropped-arm pair that I have had since 1986.

  I can handle this. My vision is not really that bad—at worst, negative five or six diopters. I will take off my glasses as soon as I am safely inside the cab. Once inside the vehicle, I begin to feel a little carsick looking out at the blurry scenery, and I have to lean over the front seat so my nose is four inches from the meter in order to read what it says. But I’m here now.

  I stumble into the Lizard Lounge and scan the large industrial-style space. It is a sea of gray—concrete floors and walls, and black and charcoal furnishings. Shit. I haven’t had my vision checked in years, and it has obviously worsened. Maybe I am legally blind now? I am about to resort to surreptitiously putting on the fifty-eight-year-old-bank-teller glasses when I notice an arm waving. I am going to take a chance and hope it is waving at me.

  As I get closer, I begin to make out the familiar forms. When I am about a foot away, I realize the arm belongs to Sandra.

  “Hi!” I say, relief sweeping over me as I fumble blindly for the chair. God! I feel like Stevie Wonder. “Sorry I’m late. I had a mascara accident.”

  “Poor thing,” Sandra says. “How are you?”

  “God! What a week. I need a drink.”

  “This is a squashed strawberry cannonball,” Michelle says. “It’s really good.”

  “What’s that?” I point to the glowing orange concoction in front of Sandra.

  “Mango tango madness.”

  “And that?”

  “Vodka soda,” Val says. “I’m on a diet.”

  I know I should go the vodka soda route, too, but after the week I’ve had, I opt for a wacky melon-baller.

  “So tell us what’s been going on?” Sandra asks. Sandra and I have known each other since college. She is pretty in a plump, blond, rosy-cheeked kind of way (like Nancy Drew’s friend Bess). Sandra has been involved with a married man for three years and is therefore the only one of my close friends who is more screwed up than I am. And she’s not even in therapy. She seems to think that sleeping with your boss who is almost sixty and married with three kids is an absolutely fabulous life for any single, thirty-something gal. It is all very strange and mysterious. She never admits that their relationship is more than a boss–assistant kind of thing, until Christmas rolls around, and we all have to take turns talking her out of slitting her wrists.

  “Well . . .,” I say, and then I tell the deleted-document story and that I’ve ended my relationship with Sam.

  “Great,” Michelle says. “I hope you mean it this time.” Michelle, on the other hand, is Nancy Drew (except that she’s director of marketing for a software company and not a girl detective). She is so close to perfect that I can barely be friends with her. She is thin, gorgeous, and single by choice—for real! Her focus is her career, and she doesn’t want a man to get in the way of her climb up the corporate ladder. She has a date now and again, but they never turn into anything serious. She certainly never gets drunk and sleeps with the guys on the first date, or gets obsessed or freaked out if they don’t call. And half the time, when a man does call, she says, “Thanks, but no thanks,” because his earning potential wasn’t quite in line with what she had in mind, or he had back hair or feminine hands. She spends at least one weekend a month at a spa retreat so she can get “centered.” She and my mother get along fabulously.

  “I do mean it this time.” I address Michelle directly. “But I’ll really need the help and support of my friends.”

  “We support you, Kerry,” Michelle says, patting my hand in what could be a sincere gesture, but in my current state of mind comes across as completely condescending. God. Sometimes I think she is in my life only to provide a benchmark to ensure that I will never feel adequate.

  “Thanks, then.” I smile falsely and order another drink.

  “I think you’ll do it this time,” Val jumps in. She is a few years older than the rest of us, and half Chinese. She is twice divorced, so hypothetically, that should put her ahead of me on the screwed-up scale. But, her first marriage was to her high school sweetheart back in Walla Walla, so it doesn’t really count. And everyone is allowed one failed marriage, right? Val really has her act together now. She has to, because she has a daughter. She can come out with us only when Taylor spends the weekends wi
th her dad. Taylor is seven and really sweet.

  “I will do it this time,” I say, slurping the last of my wacky melon-baller. I turn to Michelle. “I know it’s not going to be easy. Not everyone can be as independent as you are.” I wanted to say “cold and emotionless,” but I don’t want this evening to end up like the one with my mother. There’s no way I could storm out of here without my glasses on.

  “It’s true,” Val agrees. “You are the only woman I know who doesn’t feel the need to have a man in her life.”

  “Well, you don’t,” Michelle counters.

  “That’s because I have Taylor. I barely have time for you guys, let alone a man.”

  “Then stay away from men,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “We don’t want to lose you.”

  Val smiles, and I can tell it means a lot to her. “You’ll do it this time,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze, too.

  “The reason I don’t need a man is because I don’t want children,” Michelle says. “So there’s no pressure. I’ve got my whole life to find someone.”

  I ponder this for a moment. Sure, I’d like to have a couple of kids one day, but not for ages. The thought of gaining forty pounds, swearing off cocktails and caffeine, and doing Kegel exercises every waking moment is not particularly appealing. Neither are the poopy diapers, chapped nipples, sleepless nights. . . . I’ve heard all the horror stories from Val and cousin Mandy.

  “Well . . . I don’t think any of us are ready to get out the turkey-baster just yet,” I joke.

  “Admit it, Kerry,” Michelle says. “Your biological clock must have played some part in your staying with Sam for so long.”

  “Oh . . . you would have had such beautiful babies!” Sandra gushes.

  “Thanks. That’s helpful,” I snap.

  “If I ever change my mind about children,” Michelle says. “I’ll adopt. So I still wouldn’t need a man. Anyway . . . for now I want to focus on my career. It’s a man’s world, and taking time out for a family is going to set you back at least seven years. Even if you go straight back to work after, you’re not going to be able to put in the hours required to play with the big boys.” She drones on about how she is the youngest director in the company and is sure to make VP before she’s forty.

  I am feeling blue now, which is obviously the opposite effect I wanted from a night out with my girlfriends. Girlfriends are supposed to lift you up, not put you down further. I slurp my grape-a-licious. Thanks to Sandra’s comment, I can’t stop thinking about the beautiful dark-haired children with dimples like their father that I will probably never have. No fixed-up old house with shutters and a flower garden. No cries of “Daddy, Daddy” as Sam comes home from work and the gorgeous children run out to greet him.

  And it’s not like I’ll have a fabulous career to replace all I am missing out on. Unlike Michelle, I am definitely not on the fast track at my company. At the rate I’m going, Gavin will be my boss in a year or two.

  Well, hello! What’s this? It seems there is a very handsome guy sitting up at the bar, and he’s looking right at me. I squint to get a clearer picture and then realize squinting isn’t very attractive or subtle. It also causes crow’s-feet and frown lines. But this dark-haired stranger is definitely looking this way. Oh, my god! He waved! I wave back—just a little wave.

  “Hey . . .” I tap Michelle beside me, who is still talking about her type-A personality. “See the dark-haired guy up at the bar?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she says appreciatively.

  “Not bad, eh?”

  “Not bad at all,” she says.

  That’s all the affirmation I need. I’m going to go talk to him. This could mark a new beginning for me. There’s still hope for those beautiful dark-haired children! I’m not sure about the dimples—I’m still too far away to tell—but there is still a chance that I won’t end up an overweight spinster with a boss nine years my junior.

  “Excuse me for a second.” I get up and feel my way toward the bar, careful not to knock over any chairs or waiters. I can feel the eyes of my friends on my back. “What is she doing?” they are wondering. “Is she going to talk to that handsome fellow at the bar? How brave! Carpe diem, Kerry!”

  I will show them how over Sam I am. That Sam I am, that Sam I am, I do not like green eggs and ham. Oooh, that grape-a-licious went right to my head.

  “Hi,” I say to the dark-haired guy, who waved. I walk up very close in order to get a good look at him. Definitely handsome.

  “Hi,” he says with a smile.

  “I’m Kerry.” I hold out my hand, and he takes it briefly.

  “Glen.”

  “So, Glen . . .” I smile flirtatiously.

  “So, Kerry . . .” He smiles back.

  “So . . .”

  “So . . .”

  Jeez, for all his staring and waving, he’s not exactly making this conversation easy. “So umm . . . do you come here often?” I can’t believe I said that! How lame! I may as well ask him his astrological sign.

  “I do, actually,” Glen says. “My fiancée is the hostess.” He points to said fiancée, who is standing at her post, directly behind the table my friends and I occupy. She is bare midriffed, with long copper hair and a nose ring. She looks about twenty-two. She waves.

  “Great! Great!” I enthuse. “You know, Glen, I actually thought that you were someone that I had met before at a party at my boyfriend’s house. Did I say boyfriend?”—hysterical giggle—“I meant fiancé. The man I love so so much. He’s at home waiting for me. Anyway, obviously I am mistaken, so I think I’ll just head home to be with my wonderful fiancé.” With another hysterical laugh, I turn and stumble blindly away. When I arrive at the table, my face is burning with shame.

  “What was that?” Sandra asks.

  “I thought I’d met that guy before at a party with Sam because he looks exactly like this guy that Sam went to school with, but apparently he only looks almost exactly like this guy that I met before with Sam. Anyway, I’m gonna go.”

  “But it’s still early,” Val says.

  “Don’t go,” Michelle adds. The three of them are looking at me, their eyes full of pity.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say through the lump in my throat. “But I’m in the mood for an early night.” I turn and walk toward the blurry shape that is the exit door.

  Chapter 5

  I have successfully avoided Sam for nine days. The caller-ID box is a godsend! Now, I can still talk to all the people I want to, but can also see when Sam is calling and refuse to answer. It’s amazing!

  There does seems to be something wrong with the box, though. It appears that Sam has called me only twice over the last nine days, and that can’t possibly be right. I mean . . . he doesn’t know I’ve decided not to see him anymore. For all he knows, we are currently broken up but seeing each other casually while we explore our feelings as individuals. There’s no way he could have called me only twice! I will exchange the box for a new one when I get around to it. On the bright side, it has ID’d twenty-seven calls from my mother, most of which I have avoided. She now thinks I have an actual social life and have been getting tons of fresh air.

  The journal of mortifying moments has not been opened since the entry on Sam. With the way I feel lately, dredging up one more painful interaction with the male species would have me hanging from the ceiling fan. My therapist is mad at me for not following through on her great idea. Although, therapists don’t really get mad, do they? They say, “So . . . you’ve chosen not to utilize the useful tool I recommended that may get to the bottom of all your dysfunction. Would you like to tell me why? Mmm-hmm. Mmm-hmm. How does that make you feel?” Anyway, I am concentrating on work.

  Today is the internal creative presentation for the Prism campaign. After all the stress over my hapless communications plan, Sonja basically rewrote the thing anyway. With one phone call to the VP of Marketing, she managed to get an extra forty grand so that we can afford to do a TV campaign after all. Sonja has no soul,
and antifreeze courses through her veins, but she is very good at her job. Dave is happy, too—or as happy as a serial killer ever gets when he is stuck in an office and not out murdering people.

  We convene in the boardroom. For some reason, Sonja doesn’t feel it necessary to invite half the company to critique Dave’s creative presentation as she did with my communications plan. In attendance are Sonja, Gavin, myself, Pam (broadcast producer), Tanya (art director who is Dave’s creative partner–lover), and Dave . . . who, by the way, has three ex-wives, which absolutely baffles me. How can there be three women in the world who would marry him? Dave is not a bad-looking guy, but to compensate for that personality he’d have to be Brad Pitt.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone,” Sonja begins, as formal as ever. “As you are aware, I managed to come up with some extra funds to make a TV campaign possible, so we hope you’re going to blow us all away with the creative today.” She smiles at the creative side of the table. “Prism needs an amazing campaign to raise its market share. We need to turn the dial up to eleven on this one!” She giggles a little.

  What the heck was that? Was that a Spinal Tap reference from Sonja? How out of place . . . and out of character! She’s a weird one, all right. I look over at Gavin, and he is shaking with laughter and muttering “Eleven!” gleefully under his breath. God. I wish Dave would drop his creative director facade and murder the two of them right here and now.

  “Okay,” Dave says, oblivious of Sonja’s attempt at humor, as are his cohorts. “We’ve got some tissues today. . . .” Tanya pulls a stack of loose papers from her portfolio. “We spent a lot of hours on this, and we’ve come up with something we feel strongly about. We will present just the one concept, take it or leave it.” He looks around challengingly. Of course, none of us is about to speak up.

  “Okay . . .” Dave lays a few rough drawings out on the table in a loose storyboard fashion. “First scene . . .,” he begins.

  I listen in shocked silence, my mouth gaping open in horror. The script is . . . It’s just . . . I can’t . . . I’m not sure how . . . I’ll lay it out for you as simply as possible.