“Last night. It’s a long story.”
“It always is. Dropping off. Give me a minute.”
While I hold so Lauren can be a Mom, I look over at the mutt. “That’s, like, the super organic, non growth hormone, all meat dog food. How is it you chose a half bag of stale Cheetos over that?”
Tunny looks up at me sheepishly. And for one brief second – just one! – he is my compadre, as I will choose a half bag of stale Cheetos over a super-healthy premium organic meal every God damn time.
Lauren returns. “Okay, I’m back. So is he a stray or does this have to do with Connor?”
“Let’s say both.”
“Is Connor coming back for the dog?”
“If I were to guess, I would say eventually, but not for several days.”
“Okay, then you need to figure out where he found the dog, then go to the shelters around there to see if anyone’s missing…”
“Right! I can drop him off at a shelter! You’re brilliant!”
“No!” Lauren snarls at me. “Bad sister! If you drop him off and no one picks him up, he’ll be euthanized.”
“Not for several days," I happily point out. “And by then he’ll be Connor’s problem. Thanks for your help. Gotta go.”
“Alexis…” Lauren begins, and since she’s used my full name, I can tell a lecture is not far behind.
So I hang up.
Lauren calls back, but I let her go straight to voicemail. I get dressed for work, put the leash on Tunny, then head out to find a shelter in the Valley.
Seven
Zoe
Carlos and I have had a standing breakfast date on the first day of school since the kids began kindergarten. We call it, “Bed day."
I gotta say, I miss bed day. Back before we were parents, every Sunday morning began with a glass carafe of orange juice and a bottle of champagne on the nightstand, and a naked Carlos and me in bed, dividing our time between reading the paper, watching cooking or home improvement shows on TV, and making love like it was an Olympic event.
He always brought his “A” game, as did I.
Afternoons depended on our mood: some days we might hit a museum, others a cultural event, sometimes it was a hike on the beach or in Griffith park. My favorite days were when we’d open a second bottle of champagne, and only leave the bed to throw on robes to get take out from the delivery guy at the door.
That was such a long time ago, sometimes I wonder if I dreamed it. Once the kids were born, everything changed.
When they were babies, they constantly ended up in the bed with us, so nudity was out of the question. Not that you’d want to be naked when at any given time the sheets could be covered with spit up, vomit or pee. And back then, Carlos and I barely had a chance to actually sleep in the bed, much less engage in other nocturnal activities. When they were babies, the kids played a fun game where they would take turns being up in the middle of the night: David liked to be up from one in the morning until three. Sofia preferred the four to six a.m. shift. Sundays went from waking up well rested, nestled in slightly perfumed sheets, my husband waking me by kissing my neck at ten or eleven, to being up by seven at the absolute latest, my eyes barely open after maybe five and a half hours of sleep, watching a Baby Bach DVD and debating how soon I could pour my tenth cup of coffee.
Once toddlers, Dave and Sofia morphed into wildly active greyhounds, and every day we needed to get them out of the house and run them around. Every. Single. Day. Bed day morphed into zoo day, an afternoon at the Aquarium, or the dreaded playground.
Man, I hated the playground. Time went by so slowly, one would think I was on the StairMaster. If I never have to push a swing again, I will die a happy woman.
Preschool added birthday parties every weekend. Elementary school kept the parties, then piled on soccer games, dance classes, art projects and homework. Middle school had fewer parties, but more trips to Michael’s art supply for things like posterboard for science projects.
Plus like many families, we also had doctor’s appointments and therapies for medical problems that fortunately have long ago been resolved. It’s amazing how quiet parents are about the medical aspect of the job. Maybe because we’re so scared when we’re in the middle of it, then so relieved when it’s over that we never talk about it.
By high school, the kids were no longer in the bed with us, and they both slept until noon. Or one. (Hell, David could sleep until four if I didn’t eventually yell, “Get up!”) Carlos and I could finally get back to being us, and not just Mom and Dad.
But something had changed over all of those years. The exhaustion seemed cumulative, for both of us. Carlos hasn’t kissed my neck in… When did he stop kissing my neck? It’s been so long, I can’t remember. And I certainly don’t have the physical strength or the flexibility to do what I used to back before the kids were born. The sex is fine: I still have fun. I have nothing to complain about.
And yet… I miss bed days.
To our credit, we still do a version of bed day once a year.
The day the kids started kindergarten, I took the day off from work and convinced Carlos to do the same. I lugged the silver champagne bucket out of the garage and back into our bedroom, along with a glass carafe of orange juice, and we took off our clothes and got busy.
And it was very nice.
Well, okay, it wasn’t great. We ended up spending most of our time talking about the kids: Sofia was very excited about her new class, but we were worried about David.
But it wasn’t just the talking and worrying and putting so much work into forcing this day to be like the effortless ones from our twenties that made it… not as fun as I’d hoped. Sex with the same person is a little like going to Maui every year: it’s great and fun and definitely better than going to work. But once you’ve seen Maui a few times, you’ve seen it. You might occasionally happen upon a new waterfall you hadn’t noticed on the road to Hana, or discover a new tropical drink. (A coconut Mai Tai? Don’t mind if I do.) But for the most part, there are no surprises. And, while one of you may be dying to see the sunrise at Mauna Kea yet again, the other one might have only tried it a few times to be nice, not because she particularly enjoys that activity. And after twenty years of vacations in Maui, she might take a pass on the sunrise and sleep in. And he may take that long walk on the beach for the millionth time if she nags him, but really he’d prefer to be at the pool nursing an IPA and a plate of nachos.
So, bed day had become like Maui. Always nice, and still something I looked forward to. But not the same as it used to be.
Or at least it wasn’t.
This morning’s bed day? Ho-lee FUCK. Turns out Carlos still has an A game. I don’t know what was going on with him, but Yowza! Right now, I feel twenty-five again.
“I need more bacon," Carlos declares, a few minutes after round two. (Which for me was kind of like round four. Remember back in the day when it was better to be the woman?)
“I would love another mimosa," I tell him, feeling so good that I think I might hover over the bed. “But can you go a little lighter on the juice this time?”
“And by ‘lighter’ you mean whisper the word ‘juice’ in the direction of your glass, then pour you champagne?”
I make a joke of placing my hands over my heart, and choking back tears. “You get me.”
Carlos gives me a quick kiss, then stands up, takes our flutes from the nightstand and heads to the kitchen.
“How much bacon is left?” I ask, projecting my voice as I hop out of bed and walk around the house naked: another indulgence that stops the minute you have kids. (I wonder how many empty nest parents bring back “naked Saturdays” the week after they drop their youngest off at college?)
“One strip left!” I hear from the kitchen. “You want it?”
“No. Enjoy!’ I say as I walk into the kitchen. Carlos is stooped over a greasy paper toweled plate, snagging the last piece of bacon. I cannot help but tease, “Unless you’re still on your diet.�
��
“I am," he answers through a mouthful of pork. “But… You know. Bacon.”
I smile as I open the refrigerator door to grab bottle #2. As I place the bottle on the ancient Formica counter on our kitchen island (gold flaked, permanently stained, and not even vaguely matching the chipped Mexican tile counter in the rest of the room) I ask, “So how do we want to do this open marriage project? Swingers club?”
Carlos shrugs. “Meh. Swinging doesn’t seem like your thing.”
“Probably true," I agree as I untwist the cage on the bottle. After I pull the cage off, I hand it to Carlos. “Can you do this?”
“Sure," he says, throwing a dish towel over the cork. (I hate popping a cork. I like the sound of it, but for some reason the pressure from the bottle always scares me. I’m afraid I’ll blow my eye out.)
POP!
As Carlos takes my glass, tilts it, and fills it, I ask, “So what do you think is my thing?”
“Doing nothing while being chased by a bunch of doe-eyed suitors?” he half-jokes, the tone of his voice somehow managing to compliment me and insult me at the same time.
“Why would you say that?” I ask, a little offended.
“Just basing my hypothesis on when I met you," he tells me with a smile as he hands me my glass. Then he holds out the last bite of bacon for me. “So what do you think my thing is?”
“Based on when I met you?” I ask, then let him feed me the last piece. Through a full mouth I joke, “Clearly, it’s chasing women way out of your league.”
Carlos laughs. “Clearly. Fortunately, it worked out pretty well for me," he puts the champagne bottle down on the yellowing Formica counter. I think I hear him sigh before he asks, “Ok, so what’s your plan of attack on this open marriage venture?”
“Let’s start with the obvious. What about Ashley Madison?”
“You mean the site where the men outnumber the women by… Let’s see, if you sign up, then the ratio of men to women will jump to all of the men on the site to one?”
I consider his point. “You might be right." I pick up the bottle to fill his glass. “But can we at least look at the site to see what’s out there?”
“And give a company that’s been hacked our credit card numbers? Pass.” Before I can pour, he waves the bottle away. “I’m actually going to switch to coffee. So what other thoughts do you have?”
My Spidey senses perk up. “Wait. Why are you switching to coffee?”
“I’m going to have to go into work for a few hours,” he answers apologetically.
“What?!”
“I know. But it’s only for a few hours. Bob Wakesfield goes to Zurich tomorrow for a month, and this afternoon was the only time he could see me.”
“If you knew you had to go into work, why did you have me open a second bottle?” I whine.
“Because it’s still bed day. Just because I need to work doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy yourself.”
“Drinking alone at eleven o’clock in the morning?”
“Now that’s just limited thinking. It’s seven o’clock in Paris.”
I look down at the floor, disappointed.
“Awww…” Carlos says. He puts his index finger under my chin, and softly nudges my chin up to force eye contact. “Didn’t you have fun this morning?”
I want to say, “Of course, but I’m not done yet. Can’t we just have ONE day when it’s just us? I’m asking for one day out of three hundred and sixty five.” Then say, “I want to lie in bed lazily and talk about that life coach last night. Or ask if we can take a cooking class at Sur La Table. Or dream about London and walking around the Tate Gallery for hours.”
What comes out is a whiny, “Yeeaaahhhh… But…”
“And wouldn’t it be fun to spend the day alone, with nothing to do and no teenagers in the house to dirty your dishes or complain about graph paper. Nothing but time to just sip champagne and read a good book or binge on some TV show you’ve been dying to see without interruption?”
“Of course. But I wanted to do those things with you.”
“What if I promise to buy graph paper while I’m out?”
I know when I’m licked. (And when I won’t be for the rest of the day.) No point in fighting it. He’s not going to work because he wants to. He’s going because we need the money.
I furrow my brow and say in an almost baby voice, “You suck.”
Carlos laughs and pulls me into a hug. “Come on. You’re not really mad at me, are you?”
“No," I begrudgingly admit as I hug him back. “I mean I hate you right now, but how can I be mad at that face? You’re lucky you’re so cute.”
“Not luck," he says, grinning as he pulls away from me. “I’m well-loved and well-fed. Let me go jump in the shower.”
As he turns to walk out of the kitchen, I say, “We’re not getting on Tinder.”
“Huh?” He says, turning around. “Oh, that. Why not?”
“Because you have to put up a picture. And I haven’t taken a good picture since 2004.”
“Aw, babe, how can you say that? You’re gorgeous.”
“And you don’t have your glasses on," I deflect. “What about Match?”
I think I hear Carlos sigh as he realizes this conversation isn’t over. He walks back to me. “Too mean. People are looking for mates on there. Let’s just agree no computer dating of any kind. Including no Facebook.”
“How exactly would one date on Facebook?”
“Oh please, the number of ex-boyfriends who have tracked you down on Facebook boggles the mind.”
“It’s not all exes trying to hook up, you know. And if you gave it a chance, you might not hate it so much. It’s an easy way to catch on up on people’s lives.”
“You mean the well curated lives of all the liars out there?”
“Not everything on Facebook is a lie," I say as Carlos picks up his cell on the counter to get online.
Carlos clicks on his account, and reads the top post from his newsfeed: “First up: your friend Lauren, showing us a picture of all four boys quietly reading in a library with the caption, ‘Sunday morning bliss.’ She was just bitching to you last night about how one of them dumped a glass of chocolate milk all over his brother during a fight, and she took them to the library to force everyone to settle down.”
“Lauren is not the best example of…”
“Here we have Cara: with yet another political post that will change no one’s opinion about anything ever.”
“I’ll admit Cara is a bit passionate about…”
“Speaking of passionate: here’s one from Mike, saying he’s ‘feeling in love’ and giving a ‘Happy Anniversary’ shout out to his wife of fifteen years, thanking her for being ‘gullible enough’ to marry him.”
I stop to look at Carlos’ phone screen. “Wait, isn’t that the guy from your work with the mistress?”
“THE mistress?” Carlos clarifies. “He’s got at least five on the back burner on any given Tuesday.”
I look at their wedding photo, and raise the left half of my upper lip into an Elvis sneer. “If you ever write something that sickening sweet, I will snoop through your phone so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
“If I ever write anything that sickeningly sweet, check my credit card statements, because clearly I’ve lost my mind I have dementia. Put me in a home.”
“So you can meet all those casserole ladies? No.”
As Carlos continues to scroll through his newsfeed he mutters, “I think it would be a relief, just once, to read the Facebook update, ‘Some days I wonder if it’s all worth it.’” His face lights up and he turns his phone screen around for me to see. “Here’s a real one! From Alex," I look to see a picture of a gray dog with the caption: Fuckface found this mutt, then abandoned it with me. Anyone know who it belongs to? Please share, retweet, and whatever else you need to do to get this SOB out of my life forever.”
I frown. “Oh dear.”
“Do you think sh
e means the dog or Connor?”
“Probably both. But we both know which one of them will be sticking around.”
Carlos turns off his phone. “So can we agree no exes? Facebook or otherwise?”
“Sure. Oh, and no hookers.”
“You mean no hookers or no prostitutes?” Carlos asks casually.
His lackadaisical tone jars me. “Both. What is the difference?”
“A hooker is a streetwalker, getting her etymological name from reeling in men from the street.”
“Wait, do you really want to have an etymological discussion right now about the difference between a hooker and a prostitute?”
“There’s a difference. A hooker is a prostitute, but a prostitute isn’t necessarily a hooker. It’s sort of like on the SATs, when they do the question about how an apple is a fruit, but a fruit is not necessarily an…”
“Great. We’ve moved on from etymological discussions to SATs. This open marriage thing is super hot so far.”
Carlos does this mini glare thing he does when he’s peeved with me, but doesn’t want to deal with me, then concludes, “High-end escorts are different.”
“Hey, how much does a high-end escort charge?” I ask out of the blue.
“I have no idea. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Let me look it up.” Carlos types into his phone, and a few moments later reads, “Apparently a few thousand dollars an hour. Can be tens of thousands, depending on how long you want her to stay and what you want her to do.”
“You spent less than thirty dollars on a pair of jeans at Ross last week. I’m no longer worried that’s a viable option," I tell him. “Can you look up ‘girlfriend experience’?”
“Why?”
“I’ve just always wanted to know what it was.”
He types, then hands me his phone. I read the screen. “Huh. I’ve been naughtier with you after you bought me dinner." I hand him back his phone. “I wonder if you can rent ‘boyfriend experiences’.”
“What would a boyfriend experience even be?” Carlos asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Turning off ESPN to hear about my day?”
Hangovers & Hot Flashes Page 7
