Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  One line in the book really hits me:

  One of the hardest parts of life is accepting people for who they truly are. But think of the gifts you get when you do.

  I look up from my iPad and consider that statement. Isn’t it amazing how many people we lose touch with (or actively get rid of) because they disappoint us in some way? Because they don’t agree with us politically, or make us laugh enough, or make our lives easier in some way, or fit the mold of loving us in the way we want to be loved. How much love do we miss out on because it doesn’t look the way we think it should look?

  I walk over to my computer and check my email. Tom has written to me again.

  The subject line is brief: Hello?

  I click on the email and read.

  This is silly. I have been apologizing for more than twenty years. And in the next twenty years, one of us could be dead. I want my friend back. If you want to yell at me, call and yell at me. If you want to email me and tell me what an awful person I am, just write back and title it, “Fuck off, Tom.” But when we ran into each other, David specifically said his sister wants to apply to Brown. Why won’t you let me help? Just, at least, honor our relationship enough to write back. You and I both know what Zoe Adams would have said about people who don’t call (or in this case email) back.

  Your Humble Servant,

  Thomas Crane

  I stare at my screen, and sigh. Not from the signature – that’s just a bad private joke.

  He’s right. I am being silly. Tom broke up with me in the most humiliating way: he left me for another woman. But that was more than twenty years ago, and he has tried every few years to contact me and make it right ever since then. I suppose you don’t put yourself out there for two decades unless the person was important to you in some way.

  Plus, if he hadn’t dumped me, I never would have met Carlos. And I wouldn’t have my babies. So what he did to me was literally two lifetimes ago.

  I hit Reply.

  Hey there,

  You’re right. Let me talk to Sofia, and see how serious she is about Brown. I’ll keep you posted.

  Your Humble Servant,

  Zoe Reyes

  Thirteen

  Alexis

  That night, I walk into my house carrying a large pizza in one hand, and a six pack of Diet Pepsi in the other. “Hi Honey, I’m home!” I say, projecting my voice through my kitchen, down the hallway and into the living room. “I brought pizza and diet soda! It’s pretty much the same as lunch on set, but no A.D. yelling for everyone to finish up and be ready in five!”

  “In here!” I hear a distinctly masculine voice call from my living room. “Strange man in your house! Don’t be scared!”

  Are the painters back? As I put the pizza box, sodas and purse down on the kitchen counter, I call back, “I’m only scared if you start lecturing me about having gluten in my pizza!” and walk through the hallway towards my living room.

  The moment I walk into the room, a burst of sunshine glitters across my life.

  Which is my way of saying, Daaammmmnnnn… Cute guy kneeling on my floor.

  Yum! Looks about my age, with dirty blonde hair sprinkled sporadically with strands of silver. I can tell from his white T-shirt and blue jeans that’s he’s athletic, like a runner or maybe a former hockey player. No wedding ring.

  He looks up at me and smiles. Zowie. Stunning blue eyes. The second he makes eye contact, my stomach becomes a lead weight, immediately dropping into my belly button. Weird. I haven’t had that kind of a physical reaction in years.

  But why is there a cute guy kneeling on my floor? He isn’t the painter, or any of the assortment of merry workmen I’ve had in here since I naively (and stupidly) bought this fixer upper eighteen months ago.

  As if reading my mind, the man sits up. “I’m John. I’m here to look at your floors.”

  My immediate thought is to joke, “Well, as long as you’re already kneeling, I have another job for you.” But instead I just answer dumbly, “Um… okay.”

  “I’m with Kris. She said you were concerned that your new puppy’s nails might have damaged your floor.”

  “Oh, my dog walker! Excellent!” I say, walking over to him. “So how are they?”

  He looks at the floors and smiles approvingly. “They’re pretty great, actually. I mean, first of all, I just love the look of reclaimed wood. And you have oak, which is a really good wood for a dog. Nice and hard. Plus, it’s a light color, so it won’t show scratches as much. And it’s a satin finish instead of gloss, which is a good choice for a beach house, and for a dog.”

  I smile proudly. “Thank you," I say, all glowy inside. A man who knows about such things thinks I chose the perfect wood for my dog.

  Who is not my dog. Not the point.

  Also, truth be told, I didn’t pick the floors. My production designer from work did. She told me I needed “whitewashed reclaimed oak” so that sand wouldn’t destroy the wood, so I called my contractor and demanded he install whitewashed reclaimed oak. But I paid the guy. So I should get credit for picking the floors.

  “So do you have time for pizza?” I ask John. “Or should I just get you a check and you can be on your way?

  Say pizza, say pizza…

  John laughs uncomfortably. “You don’t owe me anything. I was just doing it as a favor for Kris.”

  “Oh," I say, not knowing how to take that. “So… Do you do a lot of ‘favors’ for Kris?”

  He laughs again and shrugs. “I guess you could say that.”

  Ewwww… Well, John just got about a million times less attractive.

  Through my floor to ceiling windows, I see Kris jogging up with Tunny, returning from a walk on the beach. She slides open the glass door, then takes off Tunny’s leash.

  A newly freed Tunny immediately runs at me, and I hear the clackity-clack-clack of toenails destroying my floors. (Or, apparently, not destroying my floors.) Tunny runs so quickly that when he tries to stop he slides right past me. I watch him crash into my bright white wall, and wonder how long it will be before the painters have to come back.

  “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Kris says, beaming, as she runs up to John, hugs him and pummels him with three kisses on the cheek.

  Oh! Grrroooooosssssss!

  Seriously – he’s my age. Maybe even a little older. If I were to hit on an eighteen year old, Kayla and Lauren would never let me hear the end of it. But a forty-something dude can just sweep in and fuck someone young enough to be his daughter, and no one in this city thinks twice about it.

  Kris happily trots up to me. “We had a very good walk!” she tells me, handing me Tunny’s leash. “I see you met my dad. Dad…” She makes a show of using her hands like a magician’s assistant presenting his latest trick. “This is THE Alexis Quinn.”

  Dad? And in less than three quarters of a second my brain processes: Oh, she actually is young enough to be his daughter. Wait… do Dads look like that? Doesn’t matter. I don’t date guys with kids. Not that I’m dating right now – I have sworn off dating. I am so fucking done. But still… Rats.

  “Oh, THAT’S why you’re doing favors for her," I blurt out to John. “You’re legally obligated to do so.”

  He laughs at my joke. “I guess you could put it that way,” he says, smiling but a little confused.

  I like the way he laughs. Makes me feel good watching it.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude. I thought you guys were dating," I admit, a little embarrassed.

  “Oh my God! Gross!” Kris exclaims, seeming to brace a little. “Like I couldn’t do better than an old guy?”

  “Sure am glad I changed around my plans for tonight,” John says dryly to his daughter. “The appreciation and love in the room makes it all worthwhile.”

  “Sorry," Kris says quickly to him. Then she turns to me. “I just wanted you guys to meet. I can take Tunny out at noon and four every day this week, but next week I start school. So Dad’s agreed to take the noon shift starting then.”


  I have to admit, there is suddenly a teeny fraction of me that kind of hopes the dog will still be here next week. And that I can find a reason to be home at noon.

  “Are you sure that won’t be a problem?” I ask John. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

  He opens his mouth to speak, but Kris beats him to it. “It’s no trouble at all. Dad’s the manager and maintenance guy at the Malibu Beach Complex. He can just drive over at lunch.”

  “Do I get to talk?” John asks Kris sarcastically.

  “Please don’t," she begs. Then she leans into him, widening her eyes, and lowering her voice. “I really want this job.”

  Kris points to a medium size crate that she has placed next to my sofa, and asks me in a normal voice, “Did you see the crate I got for Tunny?”

  “That looks nice," I say, and I try to walk over for a closer inspection. Tunny scurries up right next to me, rubbing up against my legs, and trying to walk in a figure-eight around my feet. “Knock it off, hound!” I warn, kicking my foot slightly to get him out of my way.

  I bend down to examine the box. Inside the crate is a red plaid blanket, a plastic ball and a stuffed bunny toy.

  “It looks cozy," I say.

  “It’s supposed to cater to their den instincts," Kris tells me.

  I sit next to the crate, pick up Tunny, and try to stick him in. He writhes in my arms, struggling to get away. So I climb into the crate with him, then try to push him toward the back so I can get out unharmed. I hear John calmly begin, “That’s not the way to crate train…” Just as Tunny escapes my clutches, and hurries out. Before Tunny can escape, I grab the dog by the back feet, and pull him into the box with me. In a split second he flips his body around and…

  “Ow!” I scream, letting go of the dog, who scurries away. “He bit me!”

  “Oh my God!” Kris exclaims in panic.

  I watch Tunny race out the glass door, which Kris left open. And all I can think is, “Good riddance.”

  “Grab the dog!” John commands Kris. “I’ll check Alexis.”

  Kris grabs Tunny’s leash from the couch and races out after the dog as John walks up to me, and I try to figure out how to get myself out of the crate with a little dignity.

  “You okay?” John asks, putting one hand on each arm, then gently pulling me out.

  “No, I’m not okay, I’m bleeding!” I yell, adrenalin surging as he finishes pulling and I flip my legs around to sit up in kneeling position. I hold out my hand to show him the damage. As John checks my hand, I realize there’s no blood.

  All that pain and nothing to show for it? It’s like the dating of doggy bites.

  “He didn’t bite you, he just nipped you,” John says calmly, sounding relieved.

  “Well, it sure felt like a bite," I snap.

  “I’m sure it did," he says, gently rubbing his hand over the mark Tunny made on my lower thumb.

  I let him rub for a bit. It feels good to have a man take care of me, if only for a moment. To have a guy stroke my hand without plotting to stroke my shirt off to get to his real goal. Let’s just say Connor is not very nurturing. “Thank you," I tell John, a little meekly for me.

  “You’re welcome," he says, smiling, then lightly kissing the mark and releasing my hand. “Now, I don’t want be accused of mansplaining, but do you know anything about crate training?”

  “Not a damn thing," I admit. “I don’t know anything about dogs in general. The only thing I can keep alive in this house for more than a few days is the yeast in my wine bottles.”

  “Isn’t the yeast dead once the wine is bottled?” John asks.

  “Probably," I concede. “So I’m batting a thousand. You want to mansplain the dog real quick?”

  “Well, for one thing, there is a specific way to crate train. If someone tried to grab you and shove you into a room, wouldn’t you bite them?”

  I joke. “Depends on the room. And what my oppressor looks like.”

  John laughs lightly. Then he continues, “Also, the nervous energy in here is through the roof, and the dog is picking up on it. There’s you, unsure of the rules and not acting like the alpha that you are supposed to be. And Kris, who clearly worships you and is stressing out, trying to figure what you want from her so she can impress you. Meanwhile, the dog has been here less than a day, and is just trying to figure out what is expected of him so he can get free room and board.”

  “That makes sense," I say. “So I just need to be calmer and the dog will calm down?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, well nothing calms me down quite like pizza with pepperoni and extra cheese," I say, standing up. “Can I interest you in some dinner, and a glass of dead yeast?”

  “I would love that, as long as I’m not putting you out," he says, standing up and following me to the kitchen.

  “I’m happy for the company," I tell him, excited that he accepted my dinner invitation, and in the back of my mind already picking out wedding china. “Now, would you like your dead yeast in the form of beer or wine?”

  “A beer would be great. But I’m easy. Anything you have on hand that you think goes well with pizza.”

  I like his laid back demeanor, and there’s a part of me that’s jealous of it. I am tightly wound every second of the day. I can’t do yoga or meditation because I can’t be alone with my thoughts for too long. And if by some miracle my mind does empty out, I immediately fill it with mental lists of things that I need to do. Or replay the Rubik’s cube mystery of Connor and try to find a new solution not thought of before.

  “So, you thought I was dating a sixteen year old, huh?” John asks teasingly as he sits at one of the barstools next to my marble kitchen island.

  “Wait… she’s sixteen?” I say as I pull a bottle of Connor’s favorite lager out of my refrigerator. “She told me she was eighteen.”

  “Sadly, that doesn’t surprise me,” John says. “As you can see, she clearly wants to impress you.”

  “Impress me? Why?”

  “Are you kidding? Meeting you today was a huge deal for her. That’s why I paid so much for it at the auction.”

  I pull a bottle opener from a drawer and pop off the cap. As I grab a beer mug from one of my cabinets I say, “The auction? I don’t understand.”

  “Last year, you donated a day on the set of Diamond Girls to our high school for its annual silent auction. It was the one thing she’s asked me for all year. And she never asks for anything, so…”

  “Oh that’s right!” I say, suddenly remembering. “That was so long ago, I totally forgot.”

  I deliberately forgot, because the passive-aggressive neighbor who asked me for the donation totally makes me feel like shit every time I see her. She likes to mix it up, either passively insulting me because I work to earn the money to own my house (as opposed to marrying money, which believe me, would have been far more preferable. Or inheriting it, which would have been ideal), or aggressively for my not having kids (again: not my first choice) or for voting for more public paths to the beach (because it’s a public beach, for Fuck’s sake, and I may not look it, but I’m a working stiff who thinks my fellow working stiffs deserve a walk on the beach sometimes). This is not a particularly popular political view in Malibu.

  “So, do you have kids at the school?” John asks as I pour his beer into the mug.

  “Kids? Ha! I can’t even take care of a dog. Can you imagine how I’d do with kids?” I ask, handing him his beer.

  “Fair enough,” John says.

  “No. I mean I wanted kids,” I quickly backtrack. “It just didn’t work out. I ended up in Holland instead of Italy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. Private joke. So, you have Kris, she’s amazing. Any others?”

  “Yup. Greta and Nora. Nora just started at the University of Oregon. Greta is in her sophomore year at Yale.”

  “Wow. You have grown kids," I say, visibly surprised. “What? Did you have them at twelve?”

&nbs
p; He smiles, maybe blushes? “Thank you. Can I call you when I turn fifty in a few years?”

  Before I can happily flirt, “Of COURSE you can call me!” and begin planning a birthday dinner for him in my head, I hear Kris yell from the living room, “Got him!”

  And the flirting/fact-finding mission comes to a screeching halt.

  Which is probably fine. I can think of a dozen reasons why this crush won’t work.

  That’s yet another difference between your twenties and your forties. In your twenties, you’re sure that this new romance will lead to great sex at the very least, and a new family at the most. By your forties, you know it will just lead to you feeling like shit about yourself.

  Fourteen

  Michelle

  After Zoe calmed me down, I called Steve, and we managed to snag an emergency meeting with our couples therapist, and quickly settle upon a plan for how to tell the kids: Steve would pick up Megan from her after school classes (allowing me to avoid Olivia. Or as she now will be referred to: the slut. Maybe the cunt. I’m still playing with pet names). I would pick up Roraigh after basketball practice. We would meet at their favorite Italian restaurant, where we would hear about the kids’ days, and we would actively listen, letting them know that they can tell us anything.

  We would then go home and calmly explain to them that Steve and I have decided to take a break from each other for awhile. We would provide a unified front. We would stay calm. Let the children know that none of this is their fault, and that we both still love them more than anything in the world. We would not blame each other. Or the slut. And we would let them know the custody schedule, which we had calmly planned out in advance in therapy. No one would use the word “divorce” under any circumstances.

  “So I say we get the lots o’meat deep dish pizza…” I begin as the four of us sit down to our Last Supper.

  Megan begins whining, “Oooohhh maaannnn…”