Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Vanessa walks up to our table carrying a tray of three martinis. “Time for new drinks. I forgot Rule Number twelve: a martini says you’re a guy’s girl who would be a good hang at a steakhouse, and that you enjoy sex. Chardonnay…” she says, pointing to Zoe’s glass disapprovingly, “…is annoying. It basically tells the man, ‘I have no opinion, and I will not get out of my comfort zone. I barely move during sex.’ And do not get me started on Chocotinis," she says, moving my now empty Chocotini glass out of the way. “That thing is a real martini as much as white chocolate is real chocolate.”

  As Vanessa expands upon her drink theories, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in real life walks into the bar. By himself. Most handsome man ever. Shiny black hair, glowing skin, slightly scruffy beard. We’re in Santa Monica: he’s got to be a former model. Age appropriate. No ring. And did I mention he walked in by himself?

  Vanessa again, “…while a Syrah says, ‘Yes. I party. Hard. I don’t believe in nuance, and I may just fuck you in your car.’”

  “Wait. A guy is thinking all of this from a Syrah?” Zoe asks in confusion. “How does he know it’s not a blend?”

  I stand up, throw back the martini in one gulp, and announce like a sergeant, “I’m going in. Wish me luck.”

  “Wait. What?” Vanessa snaps. “You don’t make the first move. Have you listened to anything I said?”

  “Yup. And I want that one," I say, pointing at my target across the room.

  Zoe pops her head around Vanessa to get a good look as Vanessa turns around to see.

  Zoe lets out a low whistle. “Wow. What do you say to a guy like that?”

  “You don’t say anything," Vanessa counters. “You let him…”

  “Wrong," I tell Vanessa firmly, and walk right over to the guy.

  By the time he takes a seat at the bar, I am standing right next to him. “Hi. I’m Michelle," I say, putting out my hand.

  He turns to me to show stunning, clear blue eyes, and black eyelashes so thick it looks like he’s wearing eye liner. “Dan," he says, smiling easily and shaking my hand. (Not too hard, not too wishy-washy. Good start.)

  “Hi Dan. Do you want to go outside and make out?”

  He narrows those gorgeous blue eyes at me suspiciously. “Uh… okay…”

  “Great, Dan," I say, taking his hand firmly yet gently, and leading him out of the bar.

  Once we are outside, Dan says, “You’re not a seri…” And I turn and plant him with a kiss. Within seconds, his mouth is parted, and I have pushed my way in with my tongue! His lips are so soft. I didn’t know a man could have such soft lips.

  And everything in my world suddenly feels perfect. I haven’t kissed a new guy in almost twenty years. I forgot what a rush it was.

  Eventually I pull away and guess the rest of his sentence. “Serial killer? Serially monogamous? Voice of Siri?”

  He cocks his head to the left, and smiles at me. “I was just making a weak attempt at a joke.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, if it was ‘serial killer’… No. I just don’t have the kind of time necessary to clean up a room of all traces of DNA. I have two kids, so I already spend half of my life cleaning. If it was ‘serially monogamous’… No. In that case, I have neither the time nor the interest needed to learn yet another team’s starting lineup. I assume you live near here?”

  He watches me, appearing charmed. “I do.”

  He is so hot, I want to start waving my hands up and down excitedly. Sooooooo cuuuuttteeeeee…… But instead, I keep my focus on the prize. “Do you have a wife, girlfriend, partner, kid or parent living with you?”

  “Parent? How old, or young, do you think I am?”

  “Great. Let’s do this. Can I set some ground rules?”

  Now Dan begins looking around suspiciously. “Wait… Am I on, What Would You Do?”

  “Now see, that’s a better joke. So I’m thinking about two hours of dry humping on your couch, followed by a lot of foreplay. A. LOT. And then we’re going to take turns looking at the ceiling.”

  Again with the amused smile. “That sounds like a solid plan.”

  “Yowza!” I exclaim, throwing my hands up in the air like a champ.

  “Yowza?”

  “Indeed. Yowza," I say, nodding happily. Then I lean in and announce, “I’m gonna have to kiss you again.”

  A few more minutes of kissing, then I come up for air long enough to ask him, “Where’s your car?”

  “In my garage. I live a block from here. I walked.”

  “Even better. I won’t be tempted to fuck you in your car.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good. You wouldn’t want me to get the wrong idea about you,” he jokes.

  I return the joke. “Absolutely not. I’m not that kind of a girl.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Do you have a bottle of Syrah at home?”

  Four hours later, I was three orgasms richer and a thousand times happier. Dan tried to convince me to stay, but I told him I had an early morning, and he didn’t push it. He walked me to my car, and I kissed him goodbye, thanked him for the wonderful evening, and refused to give him my number.

  It. Was. Perfect.

  Twenty-two

  Zoe

  The night was a bust. I couldn’t connect with anyone, and I didn’t feel comfortable just grabbing some random cute guy and asking, “Do you want to go outside and make out?”

  I’m slowly realizing that I don’t just want a first kiss. I want a first kiss with someone who makes me laugh. I want a first kiss with someone who knows me – at least a little bit. Or who at least wants to buy me a drink and get to know me better. (And doesn’t care what I drink. Geez… Vanessa and her lists! I’m still not clear on why pumpkin beer is bad, and I am suddenly longing for the good ole days when a guy was happy talking to me even though I held a red Solo cup.)

  I think I need to go out on an actual date.

  By nine o’clock, I had gone through my cheese platter and two glasses of wine, and was ready to go home. I said goodbye to Vanessa, who was holding court between two good-looking men. She offered to let me take either guy, but I quickly demurred, gave her a kiss on the cheek and an “I love you," then headed to my car.

  On my walk over, I check my Facebook, and am happy to see a message from Tom.

  I grin as I stare at my phone. A small consolation prize in an ego crushing night.

  How is girls’ night going?

  I type back.

  Weird. I’m actually heading to my car now. I forgot how much bars fuck with my already fragile self-esteem.

  By the time I am in my car, I see he has popped up online.

  Yeah. It must be awful having all of those men around to buy you drinks and tell you how gorgeous you are.

  Sure. Let’s go with that.

  You don’t know your effect on men, because you have Carlos. But I promise if you were single, you’d have them forming an orderly line to the left.

  You’re sweet. So what are you up to this evening? Are you doing a set?

  Nah. I was at The Comedy Store last night, and I’ve been onstage 5 times this week already. Very exciting evening. I had a Lean Cuisine and am debating whether to watch a rerun of Veep or Silicon Valley.

  Riveting.

  What can I say? You dodged a bullet when you got rid of me.

  I want to write, “You got rid of me. Remember?” But then I realize, what’s the point? He knows what happened between us. He might be the only other person besides me who knows the truth. So why bother?

  Then I almost write, “Why are you talking to me? If you never really wanted me, why are we talking in the middle of the night after decades? And why are you talking to me instead of your wife?

  But again – why? Who cares?

  Are you okay to drive?

  I’m fine.

  Are you sure? I could come to you, drive you home, and you can Lyft back to your car in the morning.

  My chest suddenly constricts. Do I even want to see
him? No, I really don’t. I like talking, sure. But I’ve been to this fire before.

  That’s sweet. But I only had two drinks. I’m more filled with cheese than booze.

  He doesn’t write back right away. I wait to turn on the car, just to see if he’ll be back. Then…

  Call me so I know you’re not slurring.

  I can feel the outer corners of my lips rise in salute as I read the text. It would be nice to hear his voice.

  But then I decide that might be wading too far into the deep end.

  I’m fine.

  Every drunk thinks they’re fine.

  Oh Jesus. Okay, you win. I’m in my car. Give me your number, and I’ll call you once I’m on the freeway.

  He does. I put his number into my Bluetooth, turn on my car, and head back to the Eastside.

  Once I’m on the 405 freeway, I hit the green Dial button on my car’s screen.

  Tom picks up on the first ring. “Hey there," he says, his voice soft and cheerful.

  And my lungs stop for a moment. “Hi," I answer, realizing my voice sounds a little softer and sweeter than usual. “So, what did you choose? Veep or Silicon Valley?”

  “Chose to walk the dog. That way I can talk to you.”

  “Hey, do you want an extra dog?” I ask, my normal voice coming back to me.

  “Probably not. Why?”

  “Friend got a dog. Long story. Anyway, as you can tell, I’m not slurring.”

  “Damn. Would have been the perfect excuse to see you. Although I’m not sure Carlos would be happy to see me in your driveway.”

  “Not sure Carlos would care anymore," I let slip before I realize what I’m saying.

  “What does that mean?”

  I shake my head (even though no one is in the car with me) and deflect. “Nothing. So did you decide to go on the road next month?”

  “I did. Agent thought it was important. Plus, you know, what could be more fun than doing my kind of humor in the middle of Birmingham, Alabama? But back to the Carlos thing: why don’t you think he’d care if I were in your driveway?”

  I sigh. I guess a little loudly. “Why are you talking to me?” I ask abruptly (and with a pinch of anger for flavor).

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah you do. You’re on the road all the time. You’re cute, you’re successful, you’re charming. You could fuck anyone. Why are you wasting a Saturday night talking to me?”

  “Ummm… because I like you?”

  I shrug to myself. “Yeah… well.”

  “Oooooooo…” he says, then makes the sound effect. “Boing!”

  “It’s not boing," I counter.

  “Boing!”

  He’s turned “Boing!” against me. When we were dating, anytime I asked him an uncomfortable question he didn’t want to answer, not just about our relationship or she who shall not be named, but also about his family, his career, etc., rather than be honest, he’d make a joke. Sometimes it was a funny joke, sometimes it was a lame joke. But no matter what the joke, in reality he was deflecting, and I used to call him on that shit by making the sound of a pinball bouncing off one of the noise makers in the machine: Boing!

  So, do I tell him about the open marriage? Do I even open up the can of worms of why I want one? Can this lead to anything but more pain?

  “Okay,” I begin cautiously. “I have something to tell you: but you can’t judge me.”

  “When have I ever judged you?”

  I think about that for a moment. “I guess you haven’t. But this is a little weird.”

  “Like wearing high heels to bed weird?”

  “Oh my God. Jesus. Never mind.”

  “No, no. I’m sorry. It was just a joke. It didn’t land. I take it back. Can I take it back?”

  I don’t answer. Wanting to confide in him was a bad idea.

  “Come on, what were you going to say?” Tom prods.

  “It’s not important.”

  “Of course it is. I’m sorry. I’m listening.”

  Once again, I don’t answer. Tom tries again. “No more sex jokes. I promise.”

  Debating…

  Finally, “No one pays attention to me anymore.”

  I take a moment to collect my thoughts. Then I monologue in stream of consciousness like a William Faulkner character, “I mean, I know Carlos loves me… But he doesn’t act around me like he used to… He checks his phone constantly, he’s always thinking about work or the kids… He wears a T-shirt to bed… And most days it’s fine. We’ve been married forever, and this is exactly how it’s supposed to be… And he’s a good man... I just wish… I wish he would take me out to a nice dinner once in awhile… without the kids. And without having what it’s costing floating around in the back of his mind, because we have two kids off to college next year and we’re saving and saving, and for what…? I mean… I know for what… It’s just… Whatever happened to going to the museums in London? You know? One of us could be dead in the next twenty years and what if we never hit the museums in London? What if never see Rodin’s The Kiss?”

  My speech sort of putters out. I’m not sure where I was going with it anyway. As I drive down the 405 toward the 101, I look out over the lights of the Valley, and try to figure out how to say what I meant to say.

  “If we were together, I would lavish you with attention," Tom tells me sweetly.

  And that is exactly what I wanted to hear and didn’t want to hear, all at once. “Thanks," I tell him weakly. Then I attempt my own joke. “And I guess we’d be at the Tate right now, right?”

  “Nope. We’d be in New Zealand.”

  “Why on Earth would we be in New Zealand?”

  “Because we would have already been to Europe with the boys several times, and now that our youngest is off to college, we’re off to New Zealand.”

  Wow. Even in my pretend life my kids are leaving me. His statement comes charging at me at a hundred miles an hour to hit me in the crosswalk. “Jack is already in college? That’s so sad.”

  “Why is it sad?”

  “You don’t have kids. Trust me. It’s sad. Can I get off the phone now?”

  “You can do whatever you want," he assures me softly. “But you don’t have to.”

  “I really want to get off the phone.”

  “Okay," he says reluctantly. “I’m near the house anyway. Call me tomorrow?”

  “I’m not sure if I’ll have time," I lie. (Boing!)

  “Fair enough. Facebook me tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay. Safe trip home.”

  “Thanks. You take care.”

  I hang up, then turn on Sirius to '80s music and blast the Go-Gos.

  A text beeps. I don’t pick it up to read, but it’s short, and I can easily see it’s from Tom:

  Sorry you sound so sad. You deserve everything in the world.

  I turn up the Go-Gos even louder and, in my mind, go back to the time in my life when I thought being an adult would make life easier.

  Twenty-three

  Alexis

  Apparently, there was not a good enough selection of toilets in stock at our local Home Depot (!), and so my latest crush and I began the least romantic trip I have ever taken around the city. And that includes the unfortunate “celebrity graves” tour I took with a very pretty Goth I dated in my early twenties. After a trip to a Lowe’s, a second Home Depot, and a local place that was closed, we end up at a twenty-four-hour hardware store in a city called Commerce.

  As the two of us stand in aisle seven, looking up at a row of toilets, I am questioning every decision I’ve ever made in my life if it has led me to a hardware store non-date on a Saturday night.

  John has been talking for what seems like eons, explaining every toilet in excruciating detail. He actually looks excited. How is that even possible? As I watch him (so pretty!), all I can hear is, “Blah, blah, blah (something about a seal maybe?)”

  “I don’t care," I assure him for the twenty-seventh time in almos
t as many stores. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “Come on…” he prods cheerfully. “You must have some opinion.” Then he points to another one happily. “Now with this one, you can flush eighteen golf balls down without any clogging.”

  “Dude? How would someone even know that?” I ask. Before he can answer, I yell in exasperation, “And how can you be so happy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re looking at toilets. TOILETS. On a Saturday night. We could be having a 2010 Mouton Rothschild on the beach at this moment, and instead we’re here.”

  He pretends to look surprised. “We could be having a 2010 Mouton Rothschild on the beach? When did I miss that option?”

  I continue whining, “This should not be called shopping. That’s a misnomer. There’s nothing fun about this! Grocery shopping might not really be shopping, but at least you can buy cookies! This is just…” I shake my head. “Everything you don’t like about being a grownup all rolled into one.” I point to a white toilet that looks exactly the same as all of the other toilets. “And yet, you’re looking at that thing like it’s a Swarovski-encrusted Louboutin on sale.”

  John grins at me. “Ah, and see, because of your shows, I now know that you are referring to a shoe with crystals on it that no one has any business ever buying.”

  “I’m serious! I… Wait. You watch my shows?’

  Keep it cool, Alex: do not start waving your hands around like a toddler hyped up on cake and juice boxes.

  John emits a slight laugh. “You’re funny.”

  “No, seriously. No straight man watches my shows. Not even the men who are actually on my shows. What’s your deal?”

  He furrows his brow while continuing to smile at me. “Well, I could say I only saw it because I live with three women, one of whom worships you. But the truth is, Kris had a bunch of them TiVoed, and so after I met you earlier this week, I watched a few.”