667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  I unwound and said, “So yes, that’s when I started my new…career.”

  365. Of professional deceit

  “I’m also lazy with the laundry, get jealous of Mel when the cat is cuddling with her more, and flip other drivers off.”

  I put the spicy potato curry in the microwave and zapped it.

  He perused the food. “You have a nice selection here.”

  “Really? I was so worried. I’m totally clueless, except about what I think is tasty.”

  “Then I shall have to cook for you. My mother had no daughters, so all four of her sons know how to cook. I’m the best one.”

  “Really?”

  He nibbled on his lip. “Third best.”

  “Third?” I clapped. “So you’re really second worst.”

  “Yet another flaw for me. That’s fifteen for me and two for you.”

  366. If I only had two, then they were the size of Long Island

  I bit my lip. “So…do you think your mom would like me?”

  “No.”

  It was the way he said it—like no freaking way, you piece of gum under my mother’s shoe. “Oh?”

  His eyes went soft and apologetic. “I’m sorry, but she will never like any non-Desi girl I bring home. It’s not personal.” Suddenly, a sheepish cloud passed over him, and he crossed to the fridge to grab a beer. “Would you… Would you beta read my new book?”

  I dropped the plate I held. It crashed to the floor, making both of us jump backward. My heart spiked into life yet again, but, thankfully, the plate had been clean. “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  He faux-cowered against the cabinets across from me. “Yes, I’m very nimble.”

  “As I’ve learned. Sorry, I was just shocked at what you asked.” And at how fast he’d changed the mother subject. Oh, well. My own parents hadn’t liked me—one more source of disapproval wasn’t a big deal.

  I removed my oven mitts and took his hands over the shattered plate. “I’d be so honored to read it, you have no idea. But I’m very intimidated.”

  “No, no.” He squeezed me back. “I don’t write lofty screeds examining the inside of my navel. Or at least, I try not to. There are enough people doing that. It’s commercial fiction, and you are more than woman enough to handle it.”

  My smile was real and grateful. “Thank you.”

  OMG OMG OMG gimme gimme gimme book book book!

  The microwave beeped just as I’d gotten on my knees to collect plate pieces. Yash said, “I’ll get your broom, if you have one?”

  He made as if to seek out the closets and crannies of my apartment, and ha ha ha no, that could not be allowed. He might wonder where Mel’s bedroom was. And I’d been the most anal person in the world—half the items in my bathroom sported my name for organizational purposes. Blade had been very particular about his items only being for use by him.

  Asshole.

  I said, “I’ll grab a broom. Why don’t you watch dinner, mister third best cook?”

  He shot me a very rude gesture, which I returned, and I sought out my dustpan and broom while laughing. I swept up my mess in my miniskirt, my tits swinging in the breeze. It was actually kind of fun having a sweet domestic scene with Yash while I was half naked, and he, wholly.

  That last part especially.

  I leaned a hip against the counter after I’d finished cleaning. “I’m a piss-poor flight attendant, making you heat up your own food.”

  “Don’t make me fly the plane, and we’ll call it even.”

  Our dinner service reheated, I insisted he return to the bedroom so that I could perform my job. I cleaned off the kitchen cart so I had something to roll and loaded the food, plus a bottle of wine.

  I’d fetched my hat, so I added that to my ensemble of skirt. I wheeled my cart to the bedroom. He laughed and applauded when I entered.

  With a curtsey, I asked, “You ordered the Indian sampler?”

  “That’s the name of the last thing I did in bed.”

  FYI: It had been delicious.

  After he’d put his pants back on—hot food plus naked laps equals boner-killing emergency room trip—I loaded up a plate for him, heaped naan on top, and poured him a glass of wine.

  I climbed into bed after having shucked my skirt and donned a long button-down opened to a scandalous level. We toasted wine and shared the goofiest smiles ever. The word ‘besotted’ flashed through my mind. Such an excellent word. An old-fashioned-sounding word. It wasn’t ‘enraptured,’ which had an air of too-pure loftiness. It wasn’t ‘dumbstruck,’ which implied a disparity of interest levels.

  I was besotted with him. And he with me.

  The certainty made me sway. I hadn’t been looked at this way in such a long time. Maybe not quite ever. It was the kind of look that people started wars to keep fixed upon them. I had to close my eyes, the emotions overwhelmed me so.

  His lips brushed my forehead, his hands gently twining into my hair. And in that moment, my besotted state fled. I landed in the middle before I understood what had begun.

  367. I was in love

  Chapter Fourteen

  F*ck-Ups Three-Sixty-Eight through Three-Eighty-Seven

  Love Is a Many Stupid Thing

  368. I was in love

  369. I was in love

  370. I was in love

  371. I was in love

  372. I was in love

  373. I was in love

  374. I was in love

  375. I was in love

  376. I was in love

  377. I was in love

  378. I was in love

  379. I was in love

  380. I was in love

  381. I was in love

  382. I was in love

  383. Oh, damn it all to hell

  384. I was in love

  * * * *

  My chest started to ache from so many mistakes all at once. Like heartburn caused by drinking lava.

  I shoved a samosa into my mouth to cover what was surely yet another odd expression on my face. Who the hell fell in love in what—three weeks? Four?

  Ruination! Despair! Havoc! Splat.

  God—I couldn’t draw breath. I floundered among the covers to find the remote control—Save me, Airplane!

  Yash captured my hand. “I want to watch the wonderful and theme-appropriate movie you’ve chosen, but I was wondering…”

  “Yesh?” I said, a crumble of potato shooting from my mouth.

  “I want to know what it’s like to be a flight attendant. It seems quite a brave job.” He grinned, taking an interest in my occupation. It was so sweet, I hate-loved him for it.

  385. Just imagine how perfect he’d think ‘editor me’ was for him

  At least I could give my brain something to consider other than love love love blerg. The cogs in my head turned to remember the flight attendant learning I’d done via the University of Google. “Well, it’s a fun job, most of the time, but a lot of hard work. We’re not only the face of the airline, but the safety crew as well.” Everything I’d read from the point of view of flight attendants had made me respect the hell out of them. All customer service jobs are tough—gaze in wonderment at the burn scar on my shoulder—but to do it at thirty thousand feet while constantly remembering emergency procedures, smiling, and controlling entitled passengers…or the worst kind, the violent kind.

  “First-class service is more involved than coach, actually, because there are fewer passengers, so it’s more intimate. Sometimes I’ll have to facilitate a fine against a smoker who thought they’d get away with it, or I’ll accidentally spill a drink on someone, which is the worst.”

  “What do you do then?”

  I fed him a bite of samosa because he was ignoring his meal to concentrate on me. “I grovel and hope they aren’t mean. The airline will reimburse dry cleaning.”

  He chewed the food and smiled, so I fed him another bite. This time he licked the tip of my fingers, and I melted. “I— Anyway, it’s an interesting job.”


  “Do you have to sleep on the jump seats?”

  “No. We have tiny crew rooms tucked here and there. Low ceilings, multiple beds crammed together. Usually, we sleep right next to another crew member, separated by a curtain, so you have to lie pretty still and not mind bumps here and there.”

  He laughed. “You toss and turn so much, though! Maybe you’re only comfortable sleeping with miles of air beneath you.”

  “Maybe I should get an air mattress.”

  My dumb joke made him grin, and he finally turned on the movie, thereby ending my interrogation, thank goodness.

  It hit me again, a sucker punch to the heart.

  386. I love him

  Ugh noooooooo. Emotions were so stupid! No way, wasn’t love, just something else that felt exactly like it.

  I hardly enjoyed the brilliance of Airplane! because I now wondered why I apparently tossed and turned in my sleep. Well…not why— I was a double agent in the spy mission engineered needlessly by me. No wonder I churned—my conscience had pricked my sleep bubble. Insert deflated air mattress metaphor here.

  I managed to swallow a few bites of the excellent food before putting it aside and settling onto Yash’s shoulder. My eyes closed, I simply allowed myself to enjoy being here with him. Maybe that was the worst part of the whole thing—the fact that I hadn’t been myself with the best man I’d ever met.

  387. I mean, I had, but the truth of my heart was buried in bits and pieces between land mines

  Or maybe…I was becoming a new person, and the land mines were now a part of me, too. I needed a little explosive in my life. I’d been far too submissive, even if it had been buried under a layer of ambition and intellect.

  Maybe my lies were actually redeeming me. I hadn’t been a whole person before—I’d been every bit as much of an act as now. Only now, I orchestrated the act. I was the leading lady instead of the comic relief servant, bustling from room to room, from order to order, never starring in her own story.

  I sat up and turned to this beautiful man, who’d surely faced his own challenges of being a minority in this part of the world. We all wore masks of necessity.

  Suddenly, I wanted to tell him. I wanted to be real for the first time…maybe ever. I’d played the dutiful daughter, the dutiful employee, the dutiful girlfriend.

  It ended now. I wanted to love as me. I wanted to be loved for me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  F*ck-Ups Three-Eighty-Eight through Four-Hundred-Six

  The Order of the Scum-Defeating Amazonians

  Yash turned to me and paused the movie. “Are you okay?”

  Now was the time.

  Now was the time. Come on, Dagmar. You’d said you would stand up for yourself. So do it.

  I opened my mouth, dry and harsh as a gin martini. Wished I had one of those right about now. “Yash, I need to tell you something.”

  “May I go first?”

  No! Now was the time. But that face… Mother Theresa couldn’t say no to that face. “Yes, of course.”

  “Giselle. Sexy, fun, intelligent, interesting Giselle. Friend to the cats…” Myrtle had been pouncing his feet under the covers for a while now, much to his chagrin. “I think I’m falling for you.”

  I burst into tears.

  His whole face fell. His shoulders fell. I think his skin fell. “Oh, no. That was not the reaction I wanted.”

  Between sobs, I managed to get out, “I—am—falling—f-f-for—you—too.”

  “Really?” He swiped at my wet cheeks with gentle hands and gazed at me as if the sun shone out of my eyes.

  388. I couldn’t tell him now

  389. Not now

  390. Now?

  391. No-w

  “Yes, I adore you, Yash,” I told him, more than honestly. “You’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met. I know it’s crazy because it’s early days for us, but…you make me very happy.”

  He beamed and wound his big hand around the back of my neck. He pulled me into a kiss that lit up my soul. And lit up everything south of it. And north, and east and west and up and down and into the fourth dimension. In only a few moments, he’d ripped off the last vestiges of my clothing and made me forget every lie, every truth, every fleeting moment of good sense I’d ever had and replaced it with his body and heart.

  392. It was the best mistake so far

  * * * *

  Yash was a good influence on me. For the next two weeks, I yanked open the door of JaVaVaVoom a full ten to fifteen minutes early, and I hadn’t come to work drunk in all that time. Tipsy cappuccino-making had been fun, but I’d been there, buzzed that.

  Today, I passed through the tables and spotted a familiar face. “Ms. Hodgkins, how lovely to see you again!” Today my Fairy Bookmother wore a stark-white skinny pant suit with hot-pink patent leather pumps and a matching wool fedora. The hair underneath the screaming hat? Aqua. “My goodness, you look amazing yet again today. You should create a coffee table book about yourself and your dynamic style. And feature other women of a certain age to show that looking fabulous doesn’t end at any decade.”

  Her eyebrows shot up.

  I said, “Shit! That was so presumptuous. I’m Dagmar, we’ve met a couple of times when you’ve been here. And I obviously don’t need to tell you how to do your job.”

  393. I curtseyed

  394. I admonished myself for curtseying

  395. In my defense, she was publishing royalty

  I flustered and babbled and nearly tripped over myself while apologizing when the queen reached out to touch my arm. “Of course I remember you. Please sit. Do you have a moment?”

  “I have about ten, sure, thank you.”

  I sat and slung my purse over the back of my chair. I smiled and froze, but managed to squeeze out, “I started reading Mambo Italiano. What a decadent adventure. And so funny! I think you’re a comedienne at heart.” Her book had made me spend hours researching trips to Italy and planning wild times with gorgeous, curly-haired Italian men who all looked, in my imagination, like Yash.

  Thankfully, Marlene possessed the grace I lacked. “And you’re an editor. A coffee table book about fashionable women in their fifties, sixties, and as old as we can find them would be an amazing idea.” She took a sip of her coffee and closed her laptop. “So… Did you try to get another publishing job after Carmichael?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  I took a deep breath and sighed it out. “I’ve been brutally honest with you thus far—might as well continue.”

  She leaned back. “This had better be good.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know if I’m terribly profound. I lost the job and my douchey live-in boyfriend on the same day, and I realized…I’d been living for these men. For their approval, even as I deluded myself that my excelling was for me. But it wasn’t, not nearly enough, anyway. I’d swallowed a thousand insults and demeaning comments, and told myself I must pay my dues. And in the end…it had all been for naught.” I tilted my head and stared at the table—her regard was too intense, like a heat lamp made of awesome. “Then a switch flipped. And I knew I had to stop trying. Completely. Instead, I decided to do all the things I’d never allowed myself to do, lest some authority figure think badly of me.”

  She licked her hot-pink lips. “So…you got a job you didn’t have to care about long term and tried to bang the boss?”

  “That’s about it. Among other things.” I knew I was blushing, thinking about Taylor, and Deep Throat, and Giselle the flight attendant.

  “And how has this served you?”

  I leaned closer. “I’m much happier, honestly, although I miss making books. I really do. But day to day? I’m finally…me. Or, at least, I’m finally discovering who I want to be. I’ve gotten inappropriately drunk, I’ve taken down evil, I’ve begun being very honest about some things while learning how to bullshit about others. I guess—I’ve learned that being a doormat sucks, and that being the opposite is not the end of the world.
Less goody-goody and more baddy-baddy.”

  Marlene sipped her coffee, the wheels in her head rotating through her shining gaze. I held it this time, because I could be a badass, too. Not ‘stealing a police car in Roma’ badass, but hey—

  396. I’d get there

  She asked, “Have you heard of a blog called Six-Hundred-Sixty-Six Ways to Screw Up My Life?”

  I put on my most innocent face. “Nope. Not at all. Never. And it’s ‘fuck’ up, not ‘screw’ up.”

  Finally, I made her laugh. “Pretty entertaining. It’s got a nice wit, and it says a lot about society’s expectations of women.”

  “I grew up being force-fed those expectations.”

  “I never had a lot of use for them. Husbands, kids.” She made an ‘ick’ face. “When some idiot says, ‘But who will take care of you when you’re old?’ I reply, ‘My boyfriend who is twenty years younger than I am.’”

  Wow.

  She slammed her hand on the table. I jumped. She smirked. I think she was starting to like me. “What number mistake are you on?”

  My shaky jig was up. “Four hundred-ish.”

  “Best one?”

  I gnawed on my lip. “I’m in the midst of bringing public justice down on a roofie-ing rapist.”

  Her eyes nearly bugged out. “Damn, girl. And worst?”

  “That’s easy.” I released a breathy laugh. “The man I’m in love with thinks I’m a flight attendant named Giselle.”

  She set her coffee down with her mouth in an O. “You go whole hog.”

  “Apparently. It’s not going to end well.”

  “Why are you being so honest with me?”

  This answer came easily to me for some reason. “Because I’m tired of faking it.”

  The queen nodded, a slow, regal head bow that made me want to curtsey again.

  Finally, she continued my interrogation. “I made a few calls—I was curious about you. You’re hard-working, smart but not arrogant, driven but honest. Maybe too honest. Your former colleagues told me you tried to give Carmichael Burns a conscience. I liked what I heard.”

  “Uh…bbu…flim…drack…”