Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Man, I have got to keep myself from snowballing like that. I text both kids at the same time:

  Yes. It’s fine. I’ll be home in plenty of time for David to borrow my car and pick you up at 10. Oh, and I got you eggnog. In September. Check the fridge and be very impressed.

  Sofia really loves eggnog.

  I try to empty my head while listening to Whitney Houston sing So Emotional. I pick up my pace, and smile as I pass a mommy in yoga pants bouncing a screaming baby, trying in vain to soothe her.

  Okay, I don’t miss that part.

  As Whitney ends and Stacey Q begins, I check Facebook, and see I have a message from Tom.

  The morning after I friended him, I got back an enthusiastic…

  I have my old Facebook friend back!

  Followed an hour later by a…

  I’m Facebook stalking you. So much more fun than Google stalking you.

  I wrote back:

  If you tell me I’m old and fat, I’m leaving.

  An hour or so later, up pops…

  Nope. You’re gorgeous as ever.

  Seriously?

  Oh yeah. How’s this for politically incorrect? After scrolling back at least five months to find a picture of you, upon seeing it my first thought was “I’d hit that.” And then I remembered, “Oh wait…”

  I laughed out loud at the note, and suddenly we were friends again. No awkwardness, no heartbreak, just an easy person to talk to.

  Plus, no one had described me in such visceral, vaguely offensive terms in years. Which was delightful.

  We started zinging Facebook emails back and forth. Very light, short, occasionally flirty. But nothing that couldn’t be read back to me by a court stenographer with Carlos in the front row of the courtroom.

  Then last night, I was battling a bit of insomnia, and went down to the kitchen to microwave some nachos and watch a little late night TV. While waiting for the microwave to do its thing, I got on my phone to check Facebook, and Tom popped up.

  You’re here! ☺

  Hey there.

  I was just thinking about you. So have you talked to Sofia about Brown?

  Yeah. She has decided she wants to shoot for MIT and Harvard, or stay in California. But thank you.

  No problem. I still can’t get over that you have two kids about to go to college.

  I still can’t believe you never had kids. I used to be quietly appalled you wanted four boys.

  Oh that’s right! In our parallel universe with our four boys.

  Ah, the parallel universe. There is an astronomical theory called the “parallel universe," or the multiverse, which basically hypothesizes that what we think of as our universe may exist in one bubble, which sits on a network of many bubbles within the universe. Possibly an infinite number of bubbles. And, if it is infinite, there are scientists who believe that several different lives exist simultaneously for each of us: the life where you’re a rock star instead of an actuary. The one in which you have four kids instead of two. Or no kids. The one where you move to Paris, and the one where you move to New Jersey. The one where you marry royalty, and the one where you end up alone.

  Most of us are guilty of wondering “What if?” particularly on days when our lives are not turning out as we’d hoped. But Tom and I turned the “What if?” into an art form.

  He used to call it the “parallel universe." Cara, my roommate at the time, dubbed it my Kryptonite.

  Tom and I met at the type of party I used to love back in my early twenties, when I could throw on a mini skirt and heels and pretty much pick any guy I wanted for the night. I had been doing stand-up (my God – THAT was another life ago) and a famous comedian had seen my stuff and invited me up to his house in the Hollywood Hills for a big party. It was the type of party I could see myself having when I was fifty: a bartender whipping up cocktails, a chef in the kitchen whipping up hors d’oeuvres. In my mind, it was just a matter of time before I was that successful. (Ha!)

  I literally saw Tom across the room, and plotted my move for over an hour. I had no game back then. (Still don’t.) But did I mention the mini skirt and the twentysomething legs? I think eventually I came up with the brilliant pick up line of, “Hi.”

  It worked like a charm.

  And while I might have been hooked by the bait of his clear hazel eyes and adorable baby face, it was his humor which reeled me in. (Which, oddly enough, in a roomful of comedians, can be hard to come by. They can be a dark little bunch.) Within five minutes, I thought he was one of the funniest guys I had ever met. You know how girls in their twenties do the fake, “Oh, you’re so funny," complete with a giggle and vaguely suggestive rubbing of his arm? Not me. I don’t laugh unless something is funny. And when I do, it’s a graceless, loud guffaw. In his case, a guffaw that was accompanied by smacking his arm, grabbing my stomach from laughing so hard, and tears streaming down my face.

  Tom was also a stand-up comedian, but one who worked regularly. And while that career choice doesn’t make much money when one first starts out, it can become quite lucrative if one can get on a sitcom as either an actor or a writer.

  Speaking of one: that night I could definitely see him as the one.

  Until, after cracking each other up for at least an hour, he suddenly mentioned that he had a college girlfriend who was going to be moving out here soon. I was disappointed. But I actually liked the guy and he was making me laugh, so we kept talking.

  Then at some point late in the evening, as I was telling a story about I don’t even know what, I noticed him staring at me with an expression I couldn’t read. “What?” I asked.

  “Nothing," he said, seeming completely entranced by me. “I was just thinking that, in a parallel universe, I’d be trying to figure out how to kiss you right now.”

  And that was enough for me. I leaned in and kissed him.

  And my lips felt like they had kissed an electrical socket.

  BOOM!

  If I could invent a drug that could make women feel like that all the time, the world would be a thinner, happier place, and I would be so rich I could afford to redo my bathroom – in my summer villa in Lake Como.

  We made out at the party, we made out in his car at every red light as he drove us to his place, we went to his apartment and… I did something I had never done. I had sex with someone I barely knew. And it was beyond fantastic. This was the guy I had been waiting for. This was my soul mate. Forget the parallel universe: this universe was perfect.

  Until the next morning, when the sun came up, the birds chirped happily outside… and Tom freaked the fuck out. He told me that he had made the worst mistake of his life. That he was totally in love with his girlfriend, and that this never should have happened. I said fine, and I got out of there so fast, you’d think I was heeding a hurricane warning. I remember driving home and thinking, “This is why women don’t have one night stands. This feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like I’m a dirty whore and I’m about to throw up. Ugh. Never again.”

  But then came the weird part: that night, my phone rang, and it was him.

  And we talked for hours. And I really liked him. He was funny and interesting to listen to, and he seemed to genuinely care about me. We liked a lot of the same books and movies. We had similar families, similar goals in life. The conversation flowed effortlessly. At around three that morning, he told me that he felt like he had known me for a thousand years. And by four in the morning, after much deliberation, we decided we’d be good friends. But just friends.

  Then, at five in the morning, right before we got off the phone, he flirtatiously told me that in a parallel universe, I wouldn’t still be on the phone talking: I’d be asleep in his bed, exhausted from all of the orgasms, and calling in sick to work the next day for round two.

  I took it as a huge compliment.

  Later that week, I saw him at The Comedy Store on Sunset. We hung out at the bar afterwards for drinks, and once again I laughed so hard I cried. He walked me to my car and… well…
it wasn’t my most chaste moment. He followed me home to my house.

  He came over again that Friday night. I made dinner. And the bedroom was so close to the dining room…

  Saturday morning I awoke to him deciding once again that he had made the worst mistake of his life. Didn’t I remember? Girlfriend. Long distance. Going to get married. Cannonball back in my stomach.

  After the week we had had, I was actually ambushed by the news, and I spent the day reeling. My friend Cara and I were roommates at the time, and she immediately jumped into high gear, coming home with three kinds of ice cream and a bottle of wine. We played Trivial Pursuit all night while I cried intermittently. Yup, I cried over a guy I had known less than a week.

  Monday, he called. I saw the caller ID and knew not to pick up.

  Meaning I didn’t pick up until the fourth ring.

  We only talked for three hours that time. Just as friends. Then again Tuesday night. At which time, we named the boys Thomas Jr. (T.J.), Michael, David and Jack (in our parallel universe). They would play ice hockey. Tom’s voice got excited as he described how, on weekend mornings, he’d grab a large Starbucks and head to the ice rink, shivering on the sidelines as he watched our boys in tiny skates follow in their Daddy’s footsteps. I’d get to sleep in.

  And I pictured my whole life falling effortlessly into place.

  Tom disappeared Wednesday and Thursday that week. But by Friday, Cara cleared out so that I could make dinner. By Saturday, she was back to buying me ice cream and booze.

  It’s amazing how, when you look at a situation from the outside, you can see how stupidly you were acting. But every time he talked about the parallel universe, he had me.

  We’d live near the beach with the boys once we both got TV series. We’d have sex twice a day, every day, and three times on the anniversary of the night we met. We’d have a big wedding, where we’d play Your Song as our first dance.

  This bizarre roller coaster of weekly breakups and makeups went on for months. But honestly, from what he had told me about the girlfriend, I was sure she was never moving here. She was a wanna-be artist who had had no success whatsoever, yet no interest in leaving New York. And from what he had told me, she had very little interest in him. I suspect she was dating others during that time as well. So I figured if I just bided my time, eventually the long distance thing would die out, and my prince would be free.

  And then, out of the blue, he sold a sitcom pilot based on his stand-up. There had even been a bidding war with the studios. Suddenly, there was money. Real money. And, lo and behold, within a few weeks, the girlfriend showed up. I was out without so much as a proper breakup. He just disappeared.

  I was a mess for months. Ghosting was not a thing back then, so his disappearance was both an ambush and a humiliation I internalized. Oh sure, I had been broken up with. We all had. But how could he have picked her over me? He seemed to love me. He seemed like such a nice guy. How could I have read the situation so wrong?

  And so, I vowed never to put my heart out there again. I would never again listen to the dreams of a guy, never be emotionally available, never wait by the phone, never let a man into my heart. I would use men for sex. I would be the asshole who pretended to be nice, but really couldn’t give a shit.

  Until Carlos.

  But anyway, back to Tom and his parallel universe. I reread his last comment.

  Oh that’s right! In our parallel universe with our four boys.

  I stared at my phone, startled. Maybe a little sad? I didn’t know what to say to that. Finally, he wrote back…

  Hello? Out of line? Too soon?

  And suddenly I felt ridiculous. Everything worked out exactly as it was supposed to. If he hadn’t dumped me, I never would have met Carlos, and I never would have had my family. Fuck the parallel universe: this one was way better.

  Too soon? Nah… It’s been over 20 years. I was just thinking about how lucky I am in this universe. I have the best husband and two best kids in the world.

  Tom didn’t write back right away. I decided to change the subject…

  Anyway, I see you’re still doing stand up. (Yes, I Google stalked you, too.) The stuff I found on YouTube was pretty funny.

  It took a moment, but…

  Thank you. It’s getting a little harder at my age. I just can’t tour the way I used to. Which YouTube clip did you see?

  There are a million of them. You did well for yourself.

  Did. Past tense.

  Meaning?

  Oh, I’m just turning 50 soon, and I’m in a mood.

  I hear that. We seem to be at an age where either the things we were dying to have happen never did. Or they did and at some point the gravy train came to a screeching halt. Or they did, and it didn’t make us feel like how we thought it would make us feel.

  Amen sister.

  Before I could type back a response, he wrote…

  I’m thinking of moving back home.

  Really? What’s stopping you?

  He typed her name.

  And it didn’t hurt anymore. (Huh. Imagine that.) So I asked more questions…

  Okay, so what is making you want to go?

  Dad passed away last year, and Mom’s not in the best of health.

  Oh God. I’m so sorry.

  Thanks. It’s been a weird year. I feel like I’m just maybe starting to be me again. I send money when I can. But my sister’s doing all the heavy labor, and she has three kids, so I feel like I need to start pulling my weight.

  Before I typed back a sympathy response he wrote…

  I’m sorry I’m unloading on you. You can tell me to shut up.

  Absolutely not. So… Continue. You feel like you should…

  Well, we don’t own our house and we don’t have kids, so nothing is really leashing us here. I’ll have a union pension that I can take anywhere in a few years, so I figure if…

  We ended up talking into the wee small hours, about everything and nothing. Not on the phone like we used to, but we were still us.

  It was nice. Comforting. Like old home week. Like everything had worked out exactly as it was supposed to.

  And then I didn’t hear from him at all on Thursday.

  Just in case I didn’t forget: we were still us.

  But this time, it was okay not to hear from him. This time my feelings weren’t hurt, I wasn’t waiting by my phone, I didn’t feel like I was somehow not enough. We were good.

  And yet I still get a slight rush of happiness just now when I see he has messaged me. So win-win. I click on.

  Happy weekend! How’s your day going?

  Pretty well actually. Just finished up an interview with one author, recording the next soon. Should be out by 3.

  And suddenly he pops up as “active now."

  Awesome! Have time for Happy Hour?

  I’m startled by the question. It’s one thing to be talking to him via computer. It’s fun and it’s old times. But to actually see him? I don’t know how I feel about that. I probably wouldn’t feel any of the old feelings, but what if I did? The guy still broke my heart once. A zillion times. So it’s hard not to feel one’s Spidey Sense perk up.

  Plus, I’d have to run meeting up with him past Carlos, and… I don’t know why, but I just don’t want to talk to Carlos about this. It’s like I suddenly have this thing that’s just mine. A person who I can talk to about anything. A hidden treasure. Like a bag of double chocolate Milanos that I don’t have to share with anyone.

  While Stacey Q describes her, “Two hearts that beat as one…” I type…

  Can’t. How is your day going?

  Huh. You’ve grown.

  What does that mean?

  You used to spend five minutes explaining to me why you couldn’t go out. Now all I get is “Can’t.”

  Family night. A baby changes everything.

  Fair enough. Then how about tomorrow?

  Can’t. I have a trapeze lesson, followed by a girls’ night.

  Wai
t… what?

  Oh, didn’t I tell you? I’m a circus performer now.

  Wait… what?

  I quickly explain our women’s group.

  Ah. Well, tell Cara hello for me.

  Yeeeaahh… not gonna do that. She hates you.

  Still?

  I have no idea. But I’m going to keep you my little secret for now.

  He types a blushing emoticon. And I feel like I want to end on that good note. So I lie…

  Sorry – gotta go. Work calls.

  Go. Have a great rest of your day.

  And then I find myself texting something ever so slightly risqué.

  Meant to tell you - I liked that picture you posted with Marc Maron from the 90s. I’d totally hit that. (Oh, wait…) ;-)

  Got another blushing emoticon.

  That was kind of fun.

  Eighteen

  Michelle

  Friday night dinner is traditionally family night in our house. Everyone is expected home by seven so that we can have a leisurely evening talking about our weeks over pizza or pasta, then card games or a board game. Steve is taking the kids tomorrow night to stay at his brothers’. But tonight the kids are all mine, and I plan to keep everything as normal and pleasant as possible.

  This week has been all about me trying to keep everything as normal and routine as possible. But I know my family. We are currently like a dormant volcano: a peaceful hill with trees and birds and little furry animals bustling about. To the untrained eye, we are at peace.