Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  And no, please don’t tell anyone. It’s a little out there. Just because you don’t judge doesn’t mean Lauren won’t melt down in front of me.

  I hit Send, then check the rest of my emails.

  Tom has written again.

  Subject: So happy to see your email.

  My friend’s back! Huzzah! Let me know what Sofia says.

  P.S. So am I allowed to stalk you on Instagram and Twitter or is that super creepy?

  The Huzzah! makes me laugh. He’s the only person I know who uses the word Huzzah.

  I write back one line:

  I don’t Instagram. I’m not 20.

  Then hit Send.

  As I go through some other emails, I see he has already written back.

  Subject: What about Facebook?

  Because I’m nothing if not a walking cliché. It’s either start flirting with exes on Facebook, buy a Porsche or run a marathon.

  Dye my hair, grow a beard to cover up my aging jawline, dye said beard, knock up a twenty five year old, grow my hair long enough to pull it into a ponytail and take up yoga…

  Have a heart. Don’t make me take up yoga.

  I grin as I read his email. I can just hear the way he would say, “Don’t make me take up yoga.” I click on Facebook, type in his name, and see we have a few friends in common. I’m about to use my mouse to click the “Add friend” button.

  But then I don’t. Not sure why.

  Yeah, I am. It’s been over twenty years, and I am still competing with this guy – and his wife – in my head. I don’t want him to see that I have not been on a stage since the babies were born. I don’t want him to see my old wedding pictures. (Our wedding was on a budget, a backyard affair at a friend’s house. Theirs was at the Hotel Bel-Air.) I don’t want to have to scroll through over ten years of pictures just to make sure I don’t look fat in any of them, or have a double chin, or sagging boobs, or a prominent furrow between my brows.

  I turn off my computer and head out of the office.

  Then I stop.

  Wait a minute. So what if I haven’t been on stage since I became a mom? If you had told me when we broke up, “One of you gets to have a successful stand up career, and one of you gets to be the parent of the two most amazing people in the world.” I would have chosen parent 101 out of 100 times. My wedding was fucking amazing. It was fun, with great food and wine, and it was a night where all of my favorite people were dancing until midnight. Okay, so I’m not as skinny as I was back when I was working out two hours a day, and trying to break my smoking habit. And who cares if he notices my sagging boobs? That just means someone’s looking at my boobs.

  I turn my computer back on, and request my old friend.

  Sixteen

  Alexis

  Dinner with John and Kris was an unexpected treat. I don’t have people over all that often. I can’t cook, and all of my friends are in the city and rarely come out to see me (even though they said they would when I bought this place). It was nice not being alone.

  And speaking of not wanting to be alone… Damn, if I were twenty-five, John would already be an ex and a story by now. He’s handsome, funny, has this certain laid-back calmness to him that would complement my crazy perfectly… And he genuinely seems like a good guy.

  But I’m not twenty-five anymore, so no point in giving him much thought. I mean, first off, I can think of a million reasons why he would never date me: He’s a single dad of three. I can barely handle a dog. He basically makes his money as a handyman. As far as I’m concerned, the word “nail” is a verb, not a noun. And you don’t use a hammer, you get hammered. Plus I’m sure I make a shit ton more money, and guys may say they like that, but most of them are lying. The average guy takes one look at my Hermes handbag and checks out. That’s just reality. Plus, he’s really good looking and almost fifty, so I’m sure there’s a woman around, even though during the thirty seconds it took for him to use the guest bathroom, I quietly asked Kris what his deal was, and she assured me that he never dates. Poor, naïve little girl. A guy who looks like that dates. He may just not want his daughters to know about it.

  Men have needs. Which is the other reason not to give him much thought. I am no longer normal in that department, despite the patch sticking to my lower belly, as my last few times with Connor have proved. Sadly, no matter what AARP or Grace and Frankie “You go girl!” platitudes say, in reality it’s time to pack things up, so the whole dating issue is moot.

  But, that said, it sure was nice to have them here. I hope they come back even after the dog has left.

  Over dinner, Kris had managed to get Tunny somewhat used to the crate. She tossed a rawhide bone in, then waited for him to wander in after it. At first, Tunny was dubious. It took an hour or so, but eventually he wandered in, got his sniff on with the blankets, and gnawed on the bone.

  “What a good dog!” she had said, emphasizing the T sound (apparently, dogs like the T sound) as he circled twice, then dropped down onto his new plaid blanket. While the three of us talked on the couch, Tunny briefly made himself at home in the crate, noshed on his bone, then eventually wandered back out to join us, lying down by my feet.

  I was quite pleased.

  Kris and John left around nine, leaving me to get to know the dog for a few hours.

  The two of us watched a little TV, arguing periodically over whether or not Tunny was a lap dog. Well, I argued. He’d jump up on the couch, I’d firmly command, “Off!” while grabbing him with both hands and putting him back down at my feet. Then a few minutes later, he’d jump back up. We danced this 1,2,3 dance several times during the evening.

  It’s now almost eleven, and after returning from my kitchen, where I poured myself the rest of the wine and snuck a chocolate chip cookie, I not only come back to Tunny on the couch, but this time he has taken my spot on the left cushion.

  “Wrong," I command, then toss him onto the middle cushion. Tunny looks at me with those stupid wide eyes. “Hey, I’m giving you seventy five percent of the argument here. You get to stay on the couch. But you don’t get my spot.”

  He still stares at me expectantly. I put up my feet, and turn on CNN.

  Tunny rests his nose on my lap. I push him back to the center of the couch and return my attention to the news.

  By the commercial break, Tunny’s cold wet nose returns to on my lap, along with a slight amount of doggie drool. “Usually when a guy drools on my lap, it’s more fun than this," I tell Tunny.

  He doesn’t budge. I take a sip of wine and give up.

  After headlines at the top of the hour, we make our way out to the beach for the final pee of the night. Tunny continues to claim a lot of beach property with his urine. By my calculations, he is already worth over fifty million doggie dollars in Malibu real estate.

  I’ll admit, I am not a dog person, but there is something sort of nice about walking with him on the beach before bed. Although I’m sure it’s safe for me to walk alone at night on this beach, I don’t really do it much. Single woman alone and all that. But if anyone got near me tonight, Tunny would bark and growl and bite, so I feel safe. And as I walk past my neighbors’ houses, and peer through their lit windows to see them watch TV, read, or just putter around getting themselves ready for bed, I feel a little more connected to my community. It’s a little thing, but the whole experience is pretty relaxing.

  After our walk, I get ready for bed, letting Tunny watch from the bathroom doorway as I brush and floss my teeth, moisturize, pluck a random chin hair, etc. I don’t talk to him again. Kris suggested doing so because supposedly the dog likes the sound of my voice, and John insisted that it makes people feel better to talk to their pets. But the whole thing seems silly.

  Still, he is proving himself to be a decent silent companion.

  I head back downstairs to the living room, and toss two doggie treats into the crate. The moment Tunny chases in after them, I calmly shut the door and lock it. “Excellent,” I say in a soft voice. “What a good d
og you are!” (Per the book, emphasizing the T’. Yay, me.)

  Then I cheerfully shuffle upstairs and turn out the lights.

  At which time the yipping begins. Followed by whimpering. Then a weird combination of this whining/barky thing. The sound is so hideous, it could make paint peel.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake…” I mutter, angrily jumping out of bed, turning on the hall light, and heading downstairs to the living room.

  The moment my feet hit the bottom floor Tunny stops crying, replacing that noise with the thump of his wagging tail. “Okay, it’s bedtime," I announce. “You are safe. You are in your den. Now go to bed.”

  I trot back upstairs, turn out the hall light, and proceed to lie…

  WWWWHHHIIINNNNEEEEEE. YIP!

  God damn it! What is wrong with that thing? I softly but firmly said good night. I let him know the rules. What the fuck?

  Whine, whine, SCREAM, bark, whine, whine… (Now I need more wine.)

  Back to turning on the hall light.

  The barking stops.

  Okay, maybe he’s just afraid of the dark. I wait, careful not to move. Silence. All right, I can sleep with the light on. I tiptoe back to my bed when…

  YAP! YAP! YAP!

  That’s it! I run downstairs, and this time he does not stop until I yell, “Shhhhh! There are people trying to sleep here.”

  Tunny puts his paw up against the bars like a lovesick Romeo trying to dance with Juliet at the masked ball.

  I sigh. “Do you need to pee again?”

  He answers me with the dreaded puppy dog eyes. Sigh.

  I open the crate, slide open the glass door, and let him out.

  While he goes about his business just outside my door, I fall onto the couch and evilly fantasize about him running away.

  I grab my phone and text Connor:

  Wanna come over? We’ll have fun.

  I thought about a doggie style joke, but that’s beneath me. I stare at the left side of the phone, hoping to see the dot, dot, dot of someone typing a response.

  Nothing.

  And a moment later, the dog is back.

  After another minute or two of waiting for a response, I close and lock the beach door, then carry Tunny’s crate upstairs, with him walking so close to my feet that he almost trips us both.

  I put the crate on the floor next to my bed. “Okay, you can stay with me tonight," I tell Tunny as he sniffs the outside of his crate suspiciously. “According to the book, you like my scent. Or find it soothing or… something. So you can smell me all over this bedroom. Knock yourself out. This is just for tonight, and you’re welcome.”

  I head back to my hall to turn out the light and close my bedroom door.

  By the time I return to the bed, Tunny has jumped into the middle of it and started circling.

  “Wrong," I tell him firmly, pushing him off the bed.

  Poor thing yelps (bum leg and all that). “Okay, I feel bad I hurt you," I admit. “But we have GOT to establish some ground rules here. I can not have you getting doggy yuckiness all over my Pratesi sheets. I barely allow Connor to get his yuckiness all over these sheets, and he’s a… Well, granted, he’s a dog, but more figuratively and who the Hell am I talking to?”

  As I climb under the sheets, Tunny jumps back up, this time at the foot of the bed. I sit up. “Seriously, how are you able to do that with only three good legs?”

  He stares at me. I sigh aloud. “Fine," I concede, deciding it’s only for a few days. “But stay at the foot of the bed.”

  I watch Tunny circle a bunch of times before lying down.

  What is up with that? What exactly are dogs looking to find? Whoops, I was just about to fall asleep right here when a cat magically materialized out of thin air. I better not lie down yet. Let me circle a fifth time to make sure there are no cats.

  Tunny finally lies down, and I’ll admit he’s kind of cute all curled up like that. I grab my phone from the nightstand, snap a photo of him, and send it to Connor.

  There’s a new man in my bed. LOL. But seriously, when are you coming to get Tunny? He misses you.

  Then I add…

  xoxo

  I’m hoping that last part will give him a false sense of security, and the bastard will come over, and I can pounce.

  Because twenty-four hours in, I want a dog even less than I ever did. I don’t like the smell of dog food when he needs to be fed, and I certainly don’t like the smell when it comes out the other end. And God knows how much he’s already perfumed my couch, since he lies there on his tummy right after he’s peed.

  Admittedly, the walk was nice. And he sure thinks I’m swell. I’ll admit there is a certain charm to having someone around who just wants to be included.

  But seriously: the smell. I just don’t do doggie bags of that nature, and I’m not suddenly going to get used to it.

  I turn out my bedroom lamp, lie down, and roll to my left side.

  By the time I flip around to my right, I am slammed with doggie breath.

  So he’s ruined my best pillowcases, too. Fantastic.

  Seventeen

  Zoe

  “And that can be a challenge, being in the pubic eye,” movie star and ghostwritten actor Drew Stanton says to me on Friday morning.

  We are at the studio recording my latest episode of Write Now. And right now, I’m wondering if my headphones stopped working. “I’m sorry?" I say, trying to keep my tone of voice steady and non-judgmental.

  Drew looks down at a pink notecard in his hand. “Oh, she wrote ‘public’. That makes more sense.” He looks up at me. “We’re not live, are we?”

  “No. Your publicist was very insistent on that point.”

  Drew grins at me. “Excellent.” He turns to Ty, my producer and sound engineer, on the other side of the glass window of the studio. “Ty, can we punch that last part?’”

  “Absolutely,” Ty says. He hits a button on his soundboard, then tells us, “Playing back…”

  Through my headphones, I hear the first part of Drew’s answer to my last question: “But you have to be true to yourself. Even if that means some people think you’re nuts. Love what you love, love who you love, don’t let anyone else make those decisions for you.” The sound goes from Playback to Record, and Drew speaks into his microphone to finish his thought. “And that can be a challenge, being in the public eye. But I play so many people in my job, I gotta be me in real life.”

  “That’s good advice. Unfortunately, our time is up. This is Zoe Adams Reyes. You’ve been listening to Write Now with our guest, Drew Stanton, Golden Globe winner and author of his new autobiography, But I’m Not Done Yet. Please join me next time when I speak with Jonathan Demsby, Oxford professor and New York Times bestselling author, who will be discussing his newest book The Nonproliferation Agreement. And now a word from the good people at Audible.”

  “And we’re clear,” Ty says.

  It takes less than five minutes for Drew’s people to herd him out of there, which is actually a shame because… so pretty. But it also gives me time for a quick break before we record the second segment for the day.

  “Dr. Demsby just called. He’s stuck in traffic, but says he’ll be here in half an hour.”

  “That’s cool. Then I’m going to go out to get a little exercise," I tell Ty.

  I grab a bottle of water from the kitchen, turn on my headphones for an iPhone workout that exactly duplicates my favorite mix tape from college, and head out.

  Normally, I try to get in the ten thousand steps my phone nags me about every day anyway. But this week, I’ve been even more diligent. Because Carlos and I have agreed that this Saturday night we are both going to bars, he with his guy friends, and me with the girls, to experiment with this open marriage thing.

  Which means I have to look good. Which means my red dress. Which means I should avoid the free donuts in the studio kitchen. And the Halloween Oreos. The instant hot chocolate, the peanut butter pretzels, the fifth of Ketel One…

&nb
sp; So instead: water, walking, and 80s music.

  As I head out the lobby door, I check my texts. One from Sofia:

  Can I study at Lizzie’s tonight? David said he could pick me up if he can borrow your car.

  Or I can take a Shared Lyft. Would stay until around 10.

  Below her text is her brother’s.

  Sofia says to tell you I need to borrow the car to get her at Lizzie’s. I think she told me the time, but honestly Mom, she talks so much I tuned her out.

  Sigh. Ever since I forced those two to get their licenses (and what is it about that generation that no one wants a driver’s license?), no one wants me to pick them up anymore. I kinda miss it.

  Here’s a no-win situation about parenting: When I first became a mom, my babies needed me for everything. Ev-er-y-thing. For the first few months, I was physically wiped out, totally sleep deprived and vaguely resentful. I couldn’t wait for them to need me less. I had a countdown going for when they’d leave for college and give me my life back. (T minus eighteen years, six months… T minus eighteen years, five months…)

  And then they actually started needing me less. And truthfully, it’s kind of sad. With every day that goes by, they get a little more independent and a little further away. And now they’re almost fully formed adults, and I’ve lost my purpose in life. I now look at exhausted young Moms, with their hair in ponytails, their eyes pink and moist from lack of sleep, staring blankly into space, wondering where their lives went, and I’m jealous.

  Yup. I’m jealous of the woman carrying the infant car seat at Starbucks who hasn’t had a shower in three days. I’m jealous of the Mom just trying to get around Costco, toddlers in tow, so that at the end of the hour – whoopee! – she has toilet paper. I’m jealous of any man my age who could choose to chuck it all, leave his current wife, and get a younger one and a new baby.