Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  I’m happily basking in my plan as I drive up to my house a little after seven, admiring the pinkish sunset, and wondering if I should paint one of the smaller canvasses the same swirling shades of pink. I see a flower delivery man with a big bouquet of dark purple and bright white calla lilies waiting by my front door. I tap my horn twice to him and wave as I pull into the driveway. Then I quickly turn off my car, grab a five-dollar bill from my purse, and head out.

  “Are those for me?” I ask excitedly as I get into my car.

  “Are you Michelle Conway?” he asks me, walking toward me with the flowers and a clipboard.

  “Indeed, I am," I tell him.

  He hands me the bouquet. “These are for you.”

  “They are gorgeous!” I exclaim. “And this is for you.” I hand him the five-dollar bill, but he just looks down at it and sighs.

  “I can’t take your money ma’am," he tells me sadly. Then he hands me a large manila envelope. “Unfortunately, this is for you, too. You’ve been served.”

  “What?” I ask, tilting my head.

  “They’re… divorce papers," he explains uncomfortably.

  I stare at him uncomprehendingly.

  “You didn’t know," he correctly assumes. “I’m really sorry. That sucks.”

  I look down at the envelope, and realize my hands are shaking.

  “This is my first summons,” the delivery guy tells me. “They said to bring flowers so you’d…”

  Not run away, I think to myself as his voice trails off. “Man, this sucks," he reiterates.

  “Yes, it must be horrible for you," I tell him in a clipped Miss Manners tone. “Sorry to have ruined your day.”

  He stands there sheepishly. I look at him and ask, “So… what’s the deal… do I have to sign something?”

  He shrugs. “I think you’re supposed to get a lawyer and… respond?”

  “I’m sorry. Then why are you still here?”

  “I don’t know," he says, giving me a look filled with pity. “You just look… lost.” He rubs his neck self-consciously, then asks, “Can I buy you a drink or something?”

  I look at this kid, maybe twenty-five, and think, I’m being hit on by the process server? It that funny or pathetic?

  “Thank you no. I have a date," I manage to stammer out, then walk past him to get to my house.

  Where I quickly read through the papers, then call Steve.

  He answers on the first ring. “Did you get the flowers?”

  “I did," I croon. “The summons calls for a response. You’ll have one by Monday.”

  And then I calmly press the red hang up button, and walk to my computer.

  Where I change all of the credit card passwords. (Not that he ever knew any of them. I paid all of the bills every month.)

  Then I cancel any credit cards under his name.

  Then cancel him as an authorized user on all of mine.

  Next, I close every one of our bank accounts, transferring every last dime into an old account I still kept from before we were married.

  Then I cancel his cell phone, since that number is in my name. (Effective immediately.)

  And, finally, the piece de resistance: An email to the head of the Founder’s Committee at Megan and Roraigh’s school.

  Hi Francene,

  Yes, I would love to help volunteer for the snack table at the school’s annual Harvest Festival and to help set up the corn maze. Thank you so much for asking.

  Also, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but I am heartbroken to announce Steve and I are filing for divorce. Unfortunately, he was having an affair with Olivia Bates. She did stuff with him sexually while we were married that I cannot even put in an email, it’s so filthy. After he came home with his third STD, I just had to put my foot down. But please keep it under wraps. Our family is requesting privacy at this difficult time.

  xoxo

  Michelle

  Did I mention Francene’s nickname is ‘The Daily News’?

  Shoot at the Queen, Steve?

  You better kill her.

  Thirty-nine

  Alexis

  Late Friday night, Tunny and I are on the couch, enjoying leftover deli from the set caterer and the Hallmark Channel. It’s Christmas in the movie. The soon to be lovebirds onscreen are walking through the small town Christmas Fair, drinking hot cocoa, and showing all of us girls out here in the big city that we need to quit our jobs and open a cupcake shop in a quaint town in New England (really shot in Canada), because only then will we finally get the man of our dreams.

  Speaking of, John and I have exchanged a few texts since he invited me to dinner Saturday. Let’s just say, I’m cautiously optimistic.

  And I miss him. And I know that makes no sense. How can I miss someone I barely know? And someone I never had.

  “You know, God may send you the wrong boyfriend, the wrong job, sometimes even the wrong parents,” perfect guy tells imperfect but delightfully quirky girl. “But he never sends the wrong dog.”

  I feed Tunny a slice of roast beef from my sandwich. As he eats, I say, “You do know that’s never going to be us, right?”

  My phone rings, and I look at it, hoping it’s John.

  I’m surprised to see it’s Kris.

  I pick up immediately. "Hey there.”

  “Um… hi. Is this Alexis Quinn?” I hear a tense teenage girl ask me.

  “Kris?”

  “No, this is her friend Tokyo. We’re at this party, and we need to go home. Like, now. Can you come get us?”

  “Sure. Is Kris okay?”

  “She is, but she’s been drinking and she can’t drive.”

  “Okay, will she let you drive?”

  “Ummm… I’ve kind of been drinking… Hold on a minute,” Tokyo tells me. A minute later, she whispers into the phone, “I’m back. Kris is with this guy Tanner, who’s like this total player, but charming. See there’s this other guy she liked, Brody…”

  “I know who Brody is.”

  “Oh,” Tokyo says, sounding relieved not to have to catch me up. “Okay, well, Brody showed up tonight, and I was trying to help her get together with him, and things were going great, but then his ex suddenly showed up, and he left with her. And there was all this drama and now… well, she’s drunk and mad and she doesn’t want to leave, so I can’t call an Uber. But Tanner is making moves on her, and I can’t call her dad because she’d kill me, but I know she, like, worships you so if you tell her she has to leave, she will.”

  “Stay right where you are. Give me the address.”

  Fortunately, I am trying to drop a few pounds before tomorrow’s barbecue, so instead of wine tonight, I drank cucumber water. And within ten minutes I am at a teenage rager at a mansion down the beach from me.

  Which features every “my parents are gone for the weekend” cliché you can imagine: The Weeknd blasting so loud I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t called the cops. An empty whiskey bottle on the ground. Kids surrounding a keg next to a fire pit on the outdoor patio. Lord, was I ever this young?

  I yell at the top of my lungs, “I need Tokyo and Kris out here this SECOND!”

  Asshole eighteen-year-old Malibu douchebag walks up to me like Eddie Haskell trying to placate a parent. “Good evening ma’am. Were we being too loud?”

  I quickly take my You want a piece of me? gang girl stance and ask him with all kinds of underlying threats, “You gonna ma’am me?”

  “My bad," he says, smiling as he throws up his palms in surrender. Then he looks me up and down like I’m a Popsicle. “That was dope. Wanna hang out?”

  “First of all,” I begin with my index finger up, “You are waaaayyyy too white to say ‘dope’. Second of all, don’t make me call your parents. Third of all…”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Babe…”

  “You ‘babe’ me again, I will hit you so hard your children will be born dizzy,” I interrupt. Then I lean in and whisper in his ear, “And if you don’t think I am one step away from breaking you
like a twig, you’re out of your Goddamn mind.”

  He gulps. “They’re upstairs.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you," I say, quickly heading for the stairs. “Tokyo! Kris! Now!”

  A cute little redhead runs up to me from the kitchen, holding two purses. “I’m Tokyo.”

  I do allow myself a moment to think, Redhead? Tokyo? Seriously? Then I ask, “Where is she?”

  She points upstairs. I nod. “Do you have her keys?”

  She holds up what I recognize as Kris’s red purse. “In here.”

  I hand Tokyo my keys. “I’m the purple Porsche in the driveway. Wait for me in the car. I’ll get her.”

  As Tokyo takes off, I head up the stairs.

  When I hit the top step of the hallway, I immediately see them: Kris, a beer bottle in her hand, leaning against a wall, clearly intoxicated; and in front of her, almost blocking my view, is a boy who I can only assume is Tanner.

  As I march up to them, I hear him ooze, “I have protection.”

  I flip this brat around, slam him into the wall, grab his collar with one hand and raise my fist with the other. “So do I.”

  Kris’s eyes widen like saucers. “Alex! What are you doing here?”

  Actually, it sounds more like, “Alesh whr doin hrrr.”

  “I’ve had a dog emergency and I need you at my house," I tell her sternly.

  “Wait, who are you?” Tanner asks me.

  “I’m her boss," I tell him, then grin like the Joker. “And I am batshit insane.”

  Now he looks scared.

  Excellent.

  Pretty sure Kris says through her drunken stupor, “I can’t go with you. Tokyo is here. And girlfriends don’t leave each other at parties.”

  Although it came out more as “I sound like the teacher in an old Charlie Brown cartoon.”

  “I know. She’s already in the car," I say, taking Kris by the hand, “Come with me.”

  Kris doesn’t fight me. She stumbles a bit as we walk down the hallway. Tanner yells out to her. “Kris, if you and Tokyo want to stay here…”

  I flip around and point to him. “Batshit crazy!”

  He startles a moment but lets us leave.

  Several friends ask Kris if she’s okay as she leaves, and I realize these kids aren’t bad at all, they’re just kids. Just a minute and a half ago I was one of these kids: getting drunk at a party because someone’s parents were out of town. Or (worse) when someone’s parents were there, but had no idea how drunk we were getting.

  Where did the time go?

  We get to my car and, with Tokyo’s help, manage to pour Kris into the backseat.

  As I drive, Tokyo tells me gratefully, “Thank you so much for getting us. Kris is going to stay at my house tonight. I live on Zumirez.”

  “I hate men!” Kris yells from the backseat.

  “We all do, Sweetie. It’s the sisterhood of the traveling motherfuckers. Does your dad know you’re at Tokyo’s tonight?”

  “Yeah, but my overnight bag’s in my car. We need to go back and get it.” She tells me before moaning, “Uh-oohhhhhh…”

  I immediately pull over to the side of the road. “Tokyo, open the door!” I command.

  “On it,” she says, while simultaneously opening the door and allowing Kris to push her head out of the car and vomit profusely.

  Three times.

  I forgot how unpleasant that sounds.

  After the third retch, Tokyo and I wait. Sounds of PCH traffic echo as Tokyo looks at me for guidance. Finally, I watch Kris fall back into her seat. “We all good back there?” I ask.

  “I hate men," she repeats. “And romantic comedies. And Mike Pence.”

  Tokyo tilts her head to me. I shrug. Suggest, “Maybe she should stay at my place tonight.” Then I turn to Kris. “Are you done throwing up?”

  “Yeah, but you might want to keep the window open. I didn’t completely make it out the door the first time.”

  Ah, the pungent fragrance of hydrochloric acid from the stomach mixed with beer, Vodka and… Hawaiian punch? Do I smell Hawaiian punch?

  I take Tokyo home, bring Kris to my house, and prepare for the wrath of John.

  “What the Hell is this?” John asks me forty-five minutes later, holding up his phone in my driveway as I scrub vomit out of my car. I look at his phone screen and read:

  So quick change of plans. Needed Kris to help me with some dog training. Paying her overtime. She said she could spend the night.

  “Huh. Did not expect you to come over," I say, surprised to see him. “Kind of figured you were on a date and would just text back.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing," I say, realizing my voice went up two octaves. “Dog had diarrhea, turns out there are pills for that stuff. Kris was so tired, she went up to the guest room. Can I get you something to drink? Maybe some cheese?”

  John crosses his arms and stares daggers at me. “I texted Kris our code.”

  I wince. Then slowly pull her phone out of my pocket to look at it.

  What’s my favorite color?

  Green.

  “That was code?” I ask. “I’ll admit it seemed like an odd question.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She really is upstairs in my guest room. She’s just… kind of… passed out drunk.”

  He starts to head toward my front door, but I scurry over to block him. “Please don’t go up there.”

  John stops. His jaw tightens. “That’s my daughter.”

  “I know. And she loves you. And she’s really embarrassed. And I’ll bet she’s never going to do this again. Well, until college. But you don’t have to be there to see that.”

  Why am I still talking?

  John continues to stare and seethe, but the fact that he’s not moving makes me think I might be making an inroad. “She’s safe," I continue in a calm voice. “She didn’t drive, she didn’t sleep with anyone…”

  “Sleep with anyone?!” he says, his jaw dropping. “I’ll kill him," he growls, trying to get past me.

  “No, you won’t," I counter as I continue to block him. “You’ll let your daughter do that on Monday. Or Tokyo. She’s actually pretty cool for a cheerleader, and frankly I think she could take him.”

  “You are not her mother!” John explodes at me.

  Seeing him get mad like that scares me a bit. Not because I feel in danger, I’m just surprised to see such anger come from such a calm guy. The two of us stare at each other for a beat. I look down at the ground. A little part of me I don’t want to explore is hurt. “I know that," I say timidly.

  “No. You don’t," he warns, calmer now but still full-on Papa Bear. “You have no fucking clue what it is like to be a parent. You haven’t done colic or diapers or first day of school hysteria, or fifteen-year-old girl screaming and crying for no reason hysteria. You haven’t gone through trashcans on Christmas morning looking for an accidentally thrown-away toy piece, you haven’t had someone follow you into the bathroom, or slam a door while telling you why you suck. You haven’t fought with three girls over orthodontia, you haven’t had to sit in a Victoria’s Secret awkwardly while your kid buys her first bra. You have no fucking clue what you’re doing. And you’re not taking away my kid.”

  “I’m not trying to take your kid.”

  “Yes, you are! You’re trying to get her to go to college, and you’re trying to pay for it and you’re trying to date her Dad and you’re trying to take care of her when she needs her father.”

  “You know what, John?” I say very quietly, suddenly seeing him in a very different light. “Fuck you. I’m trying to take care of her because she doesn’t need a Dad tonight. She needs a girlfriend. She needed someone who could get her out of a party without embarrassing her, and who would let her throw up in her car without ever bringing it up again. She needed someone who could sit with her at the toilet, and hold up her hair while she alternated between vomiting and muttering, ‘I hate men.’ Over and over again. And,
yeah, it would be great if it could be her mother. But those aren’t the cards she was dealt. And another thing, I’m getting really fucking tired of you lording over me the fact that you got to have kids and I didn’t. It doesn’t make you better than me, or smarter than me. It just makes you luckier.”

  John appears startled by my outburst. Surprisingly, his face softens a little. He looks up at the guest room window. Then sighs, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to know my baby girl went to someone else when she needed something and not me?”

  “No. I guess I don’t. It must suck.”

  “It does. It sucks. I hate it. Do you have any idea how hard it is to raise someone of the opposite sex?”

  I shrug. “You’re asking the wrong person. I would have given everything in the world to feel that pain and frustration. I’m sorry. I know that’s not the right thing to say. But I would have.”

  “It’s not the right thing to say. At all," he tells me sadly, putting the final nail into the John/Alexis dating coffin.

  He looks over at his car, and debates. “You’ll get her home safely tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely," I promise. “I’ll feed her breakfast, take her to her car, and never bring it up again.”

  He rubs his chin. “Okay.”

  But he doesn’t move. “Okay," he repeats, and walks purposefully back to his car. “If she needs anything, just text.”

  “What color?” I ask.

  “What?” he asks, confused.

  “What color code means something’s wrong?” I clarify.

  “No. You can just say you need me. But red. If something’s wrong, she says red. If everything is okay, she says plaid.”

  And he sadly gets into his car.

  I watch him drive away. Then return to my car and continue to clean out the vomit.

  About a minute after that, I hear the guest bathroom window open and Kris meekly call out, “Alex? Can you come up here a second?”

  “Be right up.”

  I head up the stairs and toward the guest bath. As I am about to enter the doorway, I see a puddle of vomit about five feet from the toilet, and Tunny trying lick it up. “Get out of here!” I command as I pick him up and fling him out of the room.