It’s Handled

“Did you have a nice time with your father? I like your hair that way, you look pretty.”

“You’re not supposed to give me compliments about my looks, remember? That’s old-school parenting.”

For the love of God.

“Dad took me to that vintage store I’ve been wanting to check out and bought me some rad stuff. Then we went out to lunch with Marie, I like her, she’s cool.”

Who the fuck is Marie?

“Wash those clothes, you never know what could be on them.”

“You’re kidding, right? They’re already clean mom. Anyway, Marie is getting me a pair of jeans from the denim company she works for. Their jeans are made in a really nice, eco-friendly factory right here in LA, not like a sweatshop in Bangladesh.”

“I bet they are. I bet their workers have health insurance and paid sick days and proper lunch breaks and good air conditioning in their work rooms.”

“Mom, chill. Marie is cool. Be happy Dad is not dating a 21 year old actress hyphenate, because he totally could be. All my friends say he’s a silver fox.”

A silver fucking fox.

“We’re having vegetarian lasagna tonight. Does that meet your current eating standards?”

“I actually started eating meat again this weekend.”

Jesus Christ.

“Marie said I don’t have the right blood type to be vegetarian. She said that to maximize my health and well-being I should be eating free range chicken, grass-fed beef and non-farmed salmon five times a week. But lasagna is fine too.”

“Okay then, well I’m going to maximize my health by drinking a glass of wine right now. Go do your homework.”

“I’m not ten. You don’t need to tell me to do my homework. And by the way, I’m getting like almost straight A’s, so maybe just take it down a notch Laurie.”

She did not just call me Laurie. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Jessie went to her bedroom, grabbing a bag of caramel popcorn off the kitchen counter on her way.

Laurie popped the lasagna in the oven then poured herself a glass of Chardonnay. In the livingroom she watched an old episode of Scandal for the tenth time. There was something soothing about watching the show over and over again. Olivia Pope wouldn’t be dealing with a ridiculous teenager and someone named Marie. Olivia Pope would “handle it,” and then go have sex with Jake, or the President, or both.

Maximize her health and well-being. Go fuck yourself Marie. How is it that Mike is introducing Jessie to the woman he’s dating? Does that mean he’s in a serious relationship?”

Laurie texted him: “Hi. Jessie had a nice time with you and Marie. R u two in a serious relationship? Pls keep me in the loop. Thx.”

Jessie came to dinner wearing a black Joy Division t-shirt.

“So that’s one of the vintage pieces your dad bought you? Do you know the lead singer committed suicide? There’s a documentary about the band if you’re interested. He suffered from horrible depression.”

“Good lasagna mom,” said Jessie, ignoring her mom’s comments.

“Thanks, I’m glad you approve.”

“Mom, I don’t want you to freak out or anything, but I got the feeling that dad and Marie are really a thing. Like really together. I’m just giving you a head’s up.”

“That’s sweet of you, but don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I want your father to be happy – I’m glad he’s met someone.”

Wow. That was fast Mike. We’ve been divorced for less than nine months and you’re already in a serious relationship.

Later that evening Mike texted back:

“Hi. Yes, Marie and I are together, we’ve been dating exclusively for five months, I was going to tell you. She wants us all to get together for dinner. Can you do Friday night? I’ll have my assistant book us a table. Thx.”

Five months? Dinner together?

After throwing in a load of laundry Laurie went out by the pool to smoke a cigarette from her secret stash.

“Sounds great. Looking forward to it!” she texted back to him.

FUCK.

“Why did you say sounds great and looking forward to it?! You cannot go to that dinner alone, we need to find you a date,” said her oldest friend Molly the next day.

“No, that would make it worse. It would make me seem desperate and sad and I’m not desperate and sad, I just wasn’t prepared for a ‘Marie’ yet” answered Laurie, checking on the non-farmed salmon.

“Gotta go. Jessie just got home and tonight she’s bringing a friend with her. This morning she actually told me what to wear and asked me to “act normal,” at dinner. Love you.”

“Oh Lordy. Love you too girl.”

Laurie had followed her daughter’s instructions and worn her high-waisted jeans with her hippie blouse tucked in and her large gold hoops. She had even put on mascara and lip gloss. Last time Jessie had a friend over she had been more than just a friend, so she was expecting the same this time.

“Hi mom, we’re home and I brought an extra guest!” yelled Jessie from the hallway.

“All good!” Laurie answered as she set another place and added more salad to the bowl.

As she put out an assortment of drinks for the kids to choose from, she poured herself a glass of wine.

“I’ll take one of those too if you don’t mind,” said a deep voice.

Who. The. Fuck. Is. That?

The most handsome, swoon-worthy man was standing in her kitchen doorway. What was her daughter up to? She wanted to strangle her, kind of.

“I’m Daniel, Emily’s father. Sorry the girls sprung this on you. They’re such operators.”

Laurie handed him a glass of wine, glad that she had put on mascara and lip gloss.

“Not a problem. I should have known something was up when Jessie told me what to wear for dinner,” she said laughing.”

“Can I do anything to help?” Daniel asked.

“Thanks but everything’s done. Let’s go outside for a few minutes and relax.”

From the cupboard Laurie grabbed a bag of Salt N’ Vinegar chips:

“These go really well with wine.”

“I like the unicorn pool floatie,” Daniel said.

“Me too. Jessie is mortified by it, but she’s mortified by most of what I do and say, so you know…” said Laurie crunching on a chip.

“God these chips are good,” said Daniel with salt stuck to his upper lip.

Those lips. Wow. Stop staring Laurie, you freak.

Daniel continued:

“Is it wrong to say I hate teenagers? I just want to fast forward to the college years or whatever this generation is going to do instead of college. I can’t take it.”

“I know, it’s brutal. Jessie has started referring to me as Laurie.”

Daniel laughed hard, almost spitting out his wine.

The laughter and chatter continued until the oven alarm went off and they went inside for dinner.

“So girls, how was school today?” asked Laurie.

“The usual,” answered Jessie.

“I love the usual,” said Daniel, digging into his salad.

Jessie took a selfie of Emily and her.

“No phones at the table,” Laurie said. “Also, are you two a couple?” She could feel Daniel hiding his smile.

“No. We’re trying to make Emily’s ex-girlfriend, Sarah, jealous” said Jessie.

“Got it. Well hope it works.”

“Are you guys ready for your science test tomorrow?”

“Of course we are Dad,” answered Emily, rolling her eyes.

“Just two more years,” whispered Laurie to Daniel. He tilted his head and smiled at her.

Laurie caught Jessie sneaking a photo of her and Daniel.

“What are you doing? I told you, no phones at the dinner table. Stop it already.”

After dinner Daniel and Laurie cleaned up and continued chatting:

“Thanks again for dinner, it was delicious. And sorry about the ambush…”

“It was my pleasure. I had a lovely time.”

“I would love to bring you out to dinner, no teenagers, just us. Are you free Saturday?”

I’m free right now. Kiss me. Please kiss me.

“I would love that.”

Later that evening as Laurie was finishing some editing work, Jessie stopped by her office. Leaning against her mother’s desk with a popsicle in her mouth, she said:

“Did you like Emily’s dad? Isn’t he cute? I thought he was your type.”

“You are quite the little trickster,” said Laurie, grabbing Jessie into a playful bear hug.

“I knew you would like him,” Jessie said, giggling like a little girl. “I just knew it!”

“You are an amazing young woman, you know that? Don’t ever forget it” said Laurie, kissing the top of her head.

Friday night, at Fia in Santa Monica, Laurie and Jessie met Mike and Marie for dinner. Marie had that effortlessly slouchy-chic look: a satin slip dress under a belter cardigan and vaguely western ankle-boots.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Marie said as she extended her hand.

“Likewise,” answered Laurie smiling.

“I ordered you a Chardonnay,” Mike said kissing her cheek.

“Thanks.”

A tray of drinks and appetizers arrived and they all raised their glasses.

“To getting to know each other,” Marie exclaimed.

They clinked glasses and Laurie took a long sip.

“Dad, I wanna show you something,” Jessie leaned into him so he could better see her phone screen.

“So, I hear you work for an eco-friendly denim company, that sounds really interesting.”

“It is. It kind of combines my two passions: fashion and the environment.”

“Who’s this?” Mike asked Laurie as he was looking at Jessie’s photos.

Laurie looked as Jessie flipped the screen to show her.

“Oh that’s Daniel, Emily’s father. They were over for dinner the other night.”

“Mom is going on a date with him tomorrow night,” said Jessie proudly.

Marie looked at the photo:

“Wow, he’s handsome. He looks like Mark Ruffalo.”

Laurie sipped her wine and smiled.

Yes he does.

Lucky Star

TRIGGER WARNING FOR SEXUAL CONTENT

Why can’t I get just one kiss?
Why can’t I get just one kiss?
There may be some things that I wouldn’t miss
But I look at your pants and I need a kiss

“I love your earrings.”

“Thanks. I got them at Le Chateau.”

Why can’t I get just one screw?
Why can’t I get just one screw?
Believe me, I know what to do
But something won’t let me make love to you

“Why do the guys always play this song at every party?”

“They think it makes them cool.”

“As if.”

“I know.”

“Do you think Ed likes me? I thought he did, but now he’s totally ignoring me.”

“Ed is failing French and he’s like barely even cute. You are better than Ed.”

“Okay, okay, thx Jess.”

“Is it just me, or are there no cute guys here? Like not even one.”

“I know, it’s like being at school but with booze. We need new people.”

“I feel like shit, I think it’s these wine coolers. I might throw up.”

“Oh no! Want me to come with you to the bathroom?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just gonna lie down in Emma’s bedroom for awhile.”

“Don’t choke on your puke! That’s how rock stars always die.”

“I’m not going to choke on my vomit for God’s sake. I’m just lying down for a bit and if I don’t feel better I’m outta here.”

“K. I’m gonna check out the backyard scene.”

“K.”

Emma’s bedroom and bathroom were on the third floor – like her own little dusty rose, wall-to-wall carpeted apartment. Jessie tried throwing up the disgusting Strawberry coolers but nothing happened, so she went into Emma’s bedroom and lay down on the peach-quilted bed.

The bedroom was huge: two single beds, a desk, a long curvy dresser, a Pier One Papasan chair and a vanity table covered with makeup and perfume bottles.

She looked at Emma’s clock radio: 10:45 pm.

“If I don’t feel better in fifteen minutes I’m going home,” she said out loud.

Jessie stared at the ceiling. There was a beautiful crystal chandelier, softly-lit, creating a romantic vibe.

“She even has a dimmer for her light? Jesus.”

She looked again at the bedside table: gold ornate Kleenex box, 2 Swatch watches, one red, one cobalt blue. The newest Cosmopolitan magazine and a heart-shape framed photo of Emma and her beloved, but now dead, cat Gus.

“God I feel nauseas. Maybe I just need to eat something. Did I even have dinner?”

She thought back to earlier in the night. They had all ordered pizza, but Jessie had only eaten a few bites because it was covered in ham and pineapple.

She tried on the cobalt Swatch, it looked good.

A soft knock sounded:

“Jessie, you okay in there?”

“I’m fine Jen, don’t worry, I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“No, it’s Derek, not Jen” said Derek as he opened the door.

“Oh hi Derek, sorry, I thought you were Jen. What are you doing upstairs?”

“I heard Jen talking about you not feeling well, so I figured someone better check on you.”

“Oh thanks, I’m okay. I didn’t eat enough dinner because the pizza was disgusting and then I drank those wine coolers…”

“Wine coolers are never a good idea,” said Derek, sitting down on the bed.

She sighed, “I know.”

“Those football dudes from Sherwood Collegiate just got here and they’re fucking idiots. Who even invited them?”

“I think Sharon whatsername did, she’s into one of them.”

“Sharon smells, like she always smells like baked apples,” said Derek as he lay down next to Jessie. “I mean what? Does her mother bake pies all day? It’s weird.”

“Well, there are worse things to smell like, right?” said Jessie.

“True!” laughed Derek

“I can’t forget to take off this watch before I leave, it’s Emma’s. Can you imagine if I accidentally stole it? Christ.”

“Emma’s too muscular, she’s built like a rugby player,” said Derek.

“I think she’s really beautiful. Like if I were a guy I would totally be into her.”

Jessie started to sit up.

“I feel gross. I’m going home.”

Derek took Jessie by the wrist, the one with the Swatch and lay her back down on the bed.

“Come on, just hang out here with me for a little while.”

“Fine, but for like 5 min max.”

“So, are you and Mike still dating?”

“Mike? No, that’s way way over. I think he’s dating that fake goth girl Chrissy.”

“Oh well, his loss. You’re gorgeous and she wears black lipstick. I mean what’s his problem?”

Jessie laughed.

“Derek, just to warn you, I could literally throw up any minute and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I’m willing to take the chance.”

“Were you and Mike serious?”

“Well, we weren’t not serious, like we only dated each other. At least I think we only dated each other. At least I only dated him.”

Laughing, Derek said, “you’re funny,” then rolled over on his side and pressed himself up against her.

“Kiss me.”

“Are you insane? I literally just told you I feel like barfing and you want me to kiss you? No.”

He slid his hand up her sweater. It was her new Esprit sweater, dark grey with lime green lighting bolts on it.

“Derek, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but just stop it. I don’t want to fool around.”

“Relax, relax, it’s just a kiss,” he said as he pulled his hand off her chest and kissed her.

“Stop, it. I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Derek started pulling down her black tights.

“Have you lost your mind? Did you smoke too much hash? Get off of me right now or I’ll scream.”

“No one will hear you.”

“Derek, please.”

“Take a chill pill. We’re just fooling around, that’s what people do at parties.”

Derek had lighting-fast undressing skills and before Jessie knew it her tights were halfway down her legs. Her pale thighs exposed and the bottom half of her legs still covered in opaque black. She was wearing her favorite ankle-boots, the ones that looked like Madonna’s in the Lucky Star video.

“Stop. You’re hurting me.”

“I’m not hurting you. God, I didn’t realize you were so uptight. No wonder Mike left you for Chrissy.”

Jessie tried willing herself to throw up. If she barfed, Derek would surely stop.

“Dear God, please help me puke so that Derek gets off of me.”

Derek was now yanking her underwear down.

“I thought you liked Andrea Henderson? She likes you too you know.”

“I know she likes me. I’m going out with her tomorrow night.”

He managed to get her underwear pulled down while he simultaneously unzipped his jeans. All the while he was holding her down with one surprisingly strong arm.

“Please stop Derek. I don’t want to have sex with you. We can do something else. How about I go down on you?”

Jessie had no desire to go down on Derek but thought it was worth a try, it would buy her some time.

“Come on, you know this is better.”

He continued kissing her, mostly on her neck and strangely they were soft kisses. They were everything that his deep, painful thrusts were not.

Out of the corner of her eye Jessie saw a flash of cobalt from her wrist. She focused on it. She thought of the Swatch magazine ad she’d recently seen in Mademoiselle magazine. It was a color wheel of Swatch Watches, every shade of the rainbow. The fluorescent green one had been her favorite. The cobalt blue was nice though, it was a bright cobalt.

Derek rolled off her.

“That was amazing.”

He turned to her and kissed her on the mouth, a long, deep kiss like they were a happy girlfriend and boyfriend couple.

“I’ll see you downstairs Jess.”

As he zipped up and closed the door behind him, Jessie took off the cobalt Swatch and placed it on the bedside table. She slowly pulled up her underwear and her tights. Easing herself off the bed, she made sure to plump the pillow and smooth out the wrinkles on the quilt, like a hotel maid would do.

At Emma’s vanity table she fixed her hair and sprayed her neck where Derek had been kissing her – with a bottle of Beautiful. Looking closely at each of Emma’s seven lipsticks, she finally decided on Maybelline’s “Iced Berry,” which she applied with her fingers. She took a final look around the pretty bedroom and shut the door behind her.

She decided to go pee because she’d once read that peeing after sex prevented infections.

Downstairs she made a beeline for the study, where she found her black purse and vintage leopard print coat under a massive pile.

“Jessie, are you leaving? Did you throw up? I met this cute guy named Trevor, he’s in Grade 11 at Wrightly High. You look super pale, are you okay?”

“Can you call me a cab? I need to get some air.”

“Ya I’ll call now.”

Jessie was already on her way outside.

“It’ll be here in five minutes or less. Want me to wait with you? You look bad. I mean not ugly bad, just like sick bad.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine. Call me tomorrow and let me know what happens with Trevor, k?”

“K. Hope you feel better,” Jen said as she hugged Jessie.

Outside Jessie fished a cigarette out of her purse. Though she didn’t smoke regularly, she always liked to have a pack on her. She inhaled deeply and tried exhaling like the movie stars did in the late night classic films that she sometimes watched.

As her cab pulled up Derek poked his head out the front door:

“Just wanted to make sure you were getting home safely. Have a good weekend Jess.”

Jessie stared at him, tossed her cigarette on the sidewalk and got in the cab.

This story was inspired by a sexual assault I experienced in high school.

TWO WEEKS

Mural in Echo Park

The first day Emily slept until 3:00, walked to Sunset and bought an ice cream cone from Icy Rush. Back home, with caramel still glossing her lips, she flopped on her bed, not waking until 10:00 pm. After microwaving a frozen burrito, Emily watched reruns of “Keeping Up With The Kardashians,” the episodes where they still looked human.

Day Two Emily woke at 1:00, threw on old Levis cut-offs, a white tank, Birkenstocks and a vintage kimono. She Ubered over to Figaro Bistrot, (she didn’t trust herself to drive yet, the exhaustion was only just now beginning to seep out from her body). Sitting on the sidewalk patio, Emily ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, a Croque Monsieur with frites and then settled in to people watch from behind her scratched Ray Bans.

“That’s an insane kimono. LOVE.” said the woman sitting next to her.

“Thanks, I love it too. It was a gift from a Costume Designer I worked for,” answered Emily as she stabbed frites with her fork.

The woman was on her way out and they waved goodbye.

“Thank God,” thought Emily, “I don’t have the energy for an actual conversation.” Before leaving the bistrot she bought several desserts to go, then got into a yellow Uber sedan.

“Hideous,” thought Emily. She despised yellow cars. Only vintage Volkswagen Bugs like the one Goldie Hawn drove in Foul Play should be yellow.

Once home Emily answered a bunch of texts and emails then grabbed the desserts and headed over to her neighbor Jim’s house. She actually had five neighbors: the six of them each lived in tiny one-bedroom casitas, sharing a main courtyard filled with aloe vera and jade succulents. Jim was a writer who had recently – finally – sold his first screenplay. Emily had been on location when she heard the exciting news, so she hadn’t been able to properly congratulate him and celebrate.

“Jim, you there? I come bearing sweets and a rad vintage Metallica t-shirt that I scored for you.”

Jim opened the door,

“Holy shit balls, you’re back!”

He grabbed forks for them and they settled on lounge chairs in the courtyard, passing the box of desserts back and forth.

“Jesus, these are delicious, thx Em. And I love my t-shirt, I think it might actually be a collectors item. Where did u find it?”

“Toronto. I was there shooting the new Lily Collins movie. It’s a cool city, but I barely made it through filming. I was so exhausted that my whole system went out of whack: I felt really depressed, no energy and I started getting anxiety attacks when eating. It was actually really scary.”

“Oh God Em, I’m sorry. You’ve been going from project to project, working ludicrous hours – it’s not sustainable. I’ve been worried about you.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that, I really do. My Doctor says I’m suffering from burn-out. She wants me to take a few months off, she’s writing me some kind of note. It’s ridiculous though, what am I going to do, give a doctor’s note to my wardrobe union? Plus, I’m due to start working on a new series in two weeks, it’s filming in LA thank God. But enough about my stupid health drama, I want to hear all about your screenplay selling, tell me everything!”

After her visit with Jim, Emily slept until 8:30. She had just enough time to grab a ride-share and bike over to the Vista Theatre where they were playing “The Maltese Falcon,” a classic which she’d never seen. Emily settled into a back row seat and ripped open her Red Vines, jamming a whole piece in her mouth.

It was an especially beautiful evening, so Emily decided to walk home even though she was tired. As she made her way east on Sunset towards Echo Park, she spied the cutest couple holding hands. They were dressed in a very i-D Magazine mash-up of 80’s preppy/70’s punk. She was tempted to speed up so she could eavesdrop on their conversation, but she was distracted by a well-dressed elderly couple drinking expresso at a rickety cafe table. She stopped for a moment to take a few sips from her water bottle, leaning against a mural-ed wall. On the street in front of her were two young blond women kissing. It felt as if their kisses were sending off little rays of love into the universe.

She was about to start walking again when she felt wobbly. Was it anxiety? Maybe she needed to call an Uber. She sat down beneath the Mi Familia mural and took a few deep breaths. But it didn’t feel like the anxiety she had recently experienced. What was it then? Why was she sitting on the dirty street like a homeless waif feeling wobbly?

Suddenly she felt like a character in a scene from a movie she might have worked on. As a wardrobe shopper Emily would have shopped her character’s whole look, from her floral underwear to the vintage kimono. It had always been Emily’s dream to work in the film industry. She loved storytelling and the role that clothing played in it. But when did Emily get to write her own story? When was there even time for her to live her own story?

Seeing the three couples – the hand-holders, the smartly-dressed seniors and the two blondes – had penetrated something within Emily. Something very fragile that she had been keeping buried within her, without even knowing she was, without even knowing what it was, had been punctured. She felt like she was bleeding out. Bleeding out invisibly on Sunset Boulevard – now there’s a screenplay idea for Jim.

She looked down on the grimy pavement, smeared with God knows what and realized she was not having an anxiety attack – she was having a loneliness attack. “But is that even a thing?” asked the rational side of Emily’s brain. “Can a person be so deeply lonely that their body manifests a physical reaction?” “Yes,” she said out loud, “Yes it can.”

Emily wondered if her Doctor would write her a second note:

Dear Wardrobe Union: Your highly esteemed member & wardrobe shopper Emily Jenkins, is suffering from a life threatening case of loneliness. As you probably know, but perhaps you don’t think about, as a wardrobe shopper Emily works primarily on her own. She spends her days in malls, boutiques and costume houses, with almost no opportunities to meet available straight men. I have written Emily a prescription which requires you to provide her with one hour a day of exposure to at least three men. These men must be emotionally mature, ready for a relationship and politically left-leaning. Thank You. Sincerely, Doctor Govindarajan.

Emily laughed at the idea of the letter, got up and continued walking home. She’d forgotten how long a walk it was, but she needed – as Taylor Swift said – to shake it off. So she walked and walked and walked. Tears started falling and she let them do their thing, not wiping them away. Soon she started sniffling and within a few minutes she was full on sobbing, the ugly variety, with snot and tears mixing together, forming a kind of sadness facial.

“Senorita, estas bien?” asked an older woman.

“Si, yo soy bien, gracias,” answered Emily in her best Spanish.

“God, I must look like a woman having a nervous breakdown,” she thought.

Emily broke out into a slow jog, not ideal in Birkenstocks, until she made it home. Inside she quickly locked the door, as if she could keep additional loneliness from entering if she locked it fast enough.

She considered taking a shower since she was sweaty, snotty and tear-stained, but then decided against it. “Fuck it,” she thought, “let’s see if this snotty, tear-stained sadness facial makes my skin all glow-y in the morning. You never know.” She took off her clothes, letting them drop on the floor, got under her favorite linen sheets and was asleep within a minute.

And in the morning Emily’s skin was glow-y. She was lonely, but radiant as hell.

MAE

Artwork by http://www.hannah-Michelle.com

Mae dropped off her boss’s lunch in the usual place: in her office, on the lucite coffee table, in front of the greige velvet sofa. It was one of those frightfully uncomfortable modern sofas, like you were literally paying $10,000 to get back pain. Her boss’s lunch was always the same: Nicoise Salad, plain iced coffee & half a vanilla cupcake. The restaurant, “Lola’s,” knew Mae and they knew her boss and they always cut the cupcake in half before putting it in its plastic, planet-killing container. Then they gave Mae the other half which she would eat on her way back to work.

Mae ate her own lunch three floors down in a tiny, empty office that had one of those really good office chairs and a small desk. Mae had stumbled upon this perfect, private oasis when she accidentally took the elevator to the wrong level. The entire floor was inexplicably vacant, though occasionally a tall janitor would walk by and they would wave to each other. Mae loved the quiet. In fact this secret lunchroom was Mae’s favorite thing about her job.

As she munched her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, (layered with plain Lay’s chips – the only way to eat a PB & J), she pondered her future. She was 25 years old and she had no real life plan. She didn’t even have a Pinterest board for inspiration. No “If You Can Dream It, You Can Do It” quotes, no “Bucket List Travel Destinations,” no “Dream Weddings.”

As Mae fixated on her lack of a life plan, she started perspiring, one of those cold sweats. Her heart starting beating quickly and a wave of dizziness swooshed over her. She lay down on the carpet and placed her cold Diet Coke can on her forehead.

“OMG I’m going to die here in my secret lunch spot and my body will be found by the tall janitor. And all anyone will say, is, ‘she was that 25 year old girl with no life plan.’”

She moved the cold can to her wrists and then to her neck. She started feeling better, but decided to stay lying down for a few more minutes. As she rested with her Diet Coke can on her left temple, she realized that in fact she was not a complete loser. Being 25 and not having a life plan was not that bad. Being 35 and not having a life plan would be bad, really bad. Like you’d basically be a failure. But Mae still had time to get her shit together. Her first step would be to start a Pinterest “Life Inspiration” board this weekend.

“R we still on for tonight?” she texted her friends Becky and Nicole.

“Of course girl, #thursdaynightmargaritas” Becky texted.

“See u beauties at 6:30” answered Nicole.

Mae got up and tidied her lunch area. She always made sure to keep it spotless and take her trash with her. Back at her cubicle, which was stationed right outside her boss’s office, she started answering emails and checking phone messages.

“Mae!”

“Coming,” Mae called out, as she grabbed her iPad.

“I have a dinner right after work. Totally forgot about it. Fucking Carolyn Rosenhip. Can’t stand her, but she’s the wife of a good client, so I have to go. I usually keep an extra outfit here, but it’s at the cleaners. You need to pick it up – corner of Queen and John. And I need a gift. I want a box of those chocolates from that local shop that was written up in the New York Times; their chocolates look like colorful little balls. Get me their most beautiful box. Also, my bronzer has vanished. The only one I like is by MAC. Buy me two – it’s called, ‘Finely Spun Golden.’ You know what, get yourself a bronzer too, you look a little pale.”

“Oh that’s so generous of you, but it’s okay, pale is kind of my look.”

“I’m not saying you have to Kardashian yourself, but a little bronzer, just a touch would do you some good. I can’t have my assistant looking 90’s heroin-chic. I’ll text you if I think of anything else.”

“Okay, I’ll be back soon.”

Getting to do errands for her boss was Mae’s second favorite thing about her job. While other assistants grumbled about errand-running being “beneath them,” Mae thought of it as a perk. She loved getting out of the office and going shopping. Then Mae had a horrible thought: what if the fact that she thought of errand-running as a perk, was actually an indicator that Mae had no ambition? A person with no ambition would also be someone with no Life Plan. Fuck. Mae would have to discuss the issue with her girls tonight.

After picking up the swanky dress and knee-length jacket with embellishment from the cleaners, she headed to MAC. There she met the most beautiful makeup artist named Sammi.

“So, we’ve got the two bronzers for your boss, what else can I help you with. Do you want to try one of our new lip stains? I think Raspberry Smash would look really good on you,” he said.

“Actually ya, that would be great, I need a new lip color, but put that on a separate bill. Also…my boss wants to buy me a bronzer, in fact she insisted on it. She said she didn’t want an assistant who looked 90’s heroin-chic.”

“She did NOT say that. First of all, that whole early 90’s vibe was a dope look. Plus, what kind of boss forces you to wear bronzer? Pretty sure that’s not even legal.”

“I know, right? But I have to get one and I have to be wearing it when I get back to work.”

“I can’t even…but let’s keep it positive. I’m trying to change my energy vibration because I’m becoming a Light-Worker. It’s important that I always stay in the light and not put negative energy or words out into the universe.” Mae had absolutely no idea what a Light-Worker was, but she nodded knowingly.

“We’ll do a highlighter for you instead of a bronzer, your boss won’t know the difference and I think you’ll dig the look. You’ll need a brush too, which your boss will buy. I’ll get you sorted, don’t worry” assured Sammi.

Mae left MAC feeling amazing. She felt happier and prettier and kind of bouncier – like a fairy or good witch had sprinkled joy-dust all over her. In Mae’s eyes Sammi was already a Light-Worker and she felt lucky to have met him.

Her Uber driver was not very chatty, so she spent the ride over to Persephone’s Chocolates people watching on Queen Street West. There were so many colorful characters, including a gorgeous Goth Girl wearing a long black lace dress and black Granny boots. Mae wondered if Goth Girl was only allowed to date other Goths. What were the Goth rules? What if she fell madly in love with an Adidas sweatsuit-wearing person? Would the other Goths shun her? Would she be kicked out of their scene? So many questions she would never know the answers to.

The chocolate shop was heaven. Each chocolate ball looked like an expressionistic painting, as if Monet had breezed in and quietly spray-painted them all. This is why Mae liked doing errands for her boss: she got to peak inside a high-end world, often filled with great beauty, like the chocolates.

The store manager was excited about Mae’s boss buying a gift. Whitley Communications was highly regarded both in Toronto and across North America, famous for re-branding dying companies.

Using his own communications savvy, the store manager put two small boxes of chocolates into an elegant bag, one for Mae’s boss and one for Mae, sliding his business card beneath the ribbon on each box:

“Anytime your boss needs a special gift, or if you have a large corporate event, I look forward to assisting you. Please send my best and thank you to Mrs. Blackwell.”

“I will. Thank you so much.”

On her ride back to the office Mae was suddenly tired. She opened the window, leaned her head against its edge, closed her eyes and let the wind scatter her L’Oreal Rose-Gold highlights. The rest of the afternoon was chaotic, so Mae’s tiredness had nowhere to go but away.

“I told you a little bronzer would look good, huge improvement. Huge. Now I have a very chic-looking assistant.”

By the time Mrs. Blackwell swished out of the office to her dinner, Mae barely had time to freshen up and catch the streetcar. Thursday nights the girls always met up at their favorite Mexican hangout, “Rosalita’s.” The vibe was flea market-chic meets old school Mexican grandmother’s house, with all eighties music.

Nicole and Becky were already seated with their margaritas, chips and salsa and a drink for Mae.

The three of them had been friends since junior high and knew each other inside out. Occasionally they fought like sisters, but mostly they were just there for each other. They were there for the un-important stuff like, “what should I wear on this date,” and they were there for the important stuff like, “can you sit with me while I pee on this stick? I think I might be pregnant.”

Becky was complaining about her new girlfriend, Violet, whom she’d only been dating a month.

“You have an epically long list of grievances against your girlfriend and it’s only been one month. I say move on or lighten up,” said Nicole in her usual super direct way.

“I agree with Nicole. And to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of Violet – she’s too agro with her veganism. Last week she ripped me to shreds for ordering a pepperoni pizza on movie night. And we were at my apartment! Who does that?”

Nicole laughed.

“You girls are a total delight tonight,” said Becky, glaring at them.

“Listen, I need to ask you something,” said Mae as The Smith’s ‘Girlfriend in a Coma’ played in the background.

“Que paso?” Nicole asked

“Do I need more of a Life Plan? I know we’re only 25, but like should I be doing more for my future? Am I just floating along too casually?”

“Yes, you are. You’re acting like my mom did when she was our age and she’s a Generation X-er.” said Nicole flatly

“You do need to get more on it girl, 25 is the new 30,’ said Becky.

“OMG. I can’t believe you two have been thinking of me as a slacker character from Singles. When were you going to tell me?”

Their second round of margaritas arrived with their usual dinner, The Taco Platter, which they always shared.

“Listen, calm down,” said Becky. “We just thought that you were figuring things out.”

“But I thought that’s what our twenties were for – figuring things out,” said Mae trying to keep her voice calm.

“Once a week Becky volunteers at her local shelter. She’s also taking an on-line class in Social Work at U of T. And she sells a curated selection of early 90’s fashion on Depop. That’s all in addition to her regular job. She’s making things happen for herself, moving things forward,” said Nicole before devouring her fish taco.

Mae took a long sip of her margarita, this conversation was not going as anticipated.

“Nicole is prepping for grad school, researching schools, starting to fill out applications. Plus she has her weekly internship and ‘Wellness With Nicole’ is blowing up on IG – she’s got 10,000 followers!” said Becky approvingly as she scooped up guacamole with a chip.

“But what are you doing other than work?” asked Nicole looking her straight in the eyes.

Mae stalled for a moment by taking a long sip of her margarita.

“Well, I’ve been keeping this a bit of a secret because I feared being judged, but the truth is…I’m training to become a Light-Worker.”

Other than the sounds of crunching tacos, the slurping of margaritas and The Smiths playing in the background, there was complete silence for about ten seconds. Then, Nicole said firmly:

“Ok then, well you’ve already got a Life Plan, you’re totally fine. You’re becoming a Light-Worker. You’re working towards your future, that’s great news.”

“I feel like the beef tacos are a little too spicy tonight,” said Becky.”

Sephora’s Best Seller

“An ileostomy is a surgery that makes a temporary or permanent opening called a stoma. A stoma is a pathway from the lowest part of the small intestine, called the “ileum,” to the outside of your abdomen. This helps solid waste and gas exit the body without passing through the colon or the rectum.”

Does this description sound both gross and a little X-Files-ish to you?👽 It does to me too. It’s been five years since my cancer surgeries, (for Peritoneal Mesothelioma) and I still have a tough time accepting my stoma. I know today’s ethos is all about celebrating and loving your body the way it is, but I truly struggle to do that.

Yet, since there’s nothing I can do to change the situation, I gave my stoma a name: Ron. Ron is actually a beautiful shade of red. If Ron were a lipstick he would be Sephora’s Best Seller.💄 He lives two inches below my belly button and three inches to the right of it. He’s smooth and shiny and he’s shaped like a tiny mound.

Ron moves too – wtf? Sometimes he’s smaller and almost flush with my tummy, other times he enjoys showing off and gets bigger and longer. The first time he pulled that trick I was terrified and yelled out to my partner to bring me a measuring tape so I could measure Ron in the shower.🤣 Mostly though he’s about the size of a small tootsie pop – remember those?

Ron is Celebrity-style high-maintenance. He requires a special 3-piece outfit on him at all times, which includes a small beige bag 👜 to collect liquid-y waste. I empty the waste or, “output,” into the toilet, ten or more times per day.

Ron is extremely picky about food. I used to eat a mostly plant-based diet, but Ron let me know – in dramatic and painful ways – that eating vegan was not an option. Most fruits and vegetables give him trouble, particularly their skins.🍅 Nuts, seeds, legumes and beans are also difficult for him. There is literally almost nothing in a plant-based diet that he likes except green juice, smoothies and creamy vegetable soups.

What does Ron like to eat? Basically he loves hospital food. Give him a piece of plain chicken with mashed potatoes and a tiny cup of ice cream 🍨 and he’s the happiest little red intestine mound you’ve ever met. But if you dare try to fake Ron out with foods he doesn’t approve of he will make you suffer.

Once, in a moment of weakness and right before a Flaming Lips concert, I decided to eat half a grapefruit – one of my favorite fruits. I chewed it carefully, (with ileostomies you have to chew everything a million times), but I forgot that grapefruits are encased in those little linings/skins. Well, halfway through the concert Ron lost his fucking mind!🤯 He erupted with thick paste, resulting in his 3-piece outfit peeling off my skin, causing gross mayhem.💩

I must say though, if ever there were a perfect concert to have a stoma accident, it would be The Flaming Lips. Everyone was high and dancing, there were unicorns 🦄 and I think the singer was in a giant clear ball, so no one noticed me racing to the bathroom.

I always travel with supplies because you just never know. Luckily the bathroom had great speakers, so as I cleaned myself up and put on a fresh new outfit for Ron, I was still able to enjoy the concert. Though I can laugh about it now, accidents are stressful and they make me feel vulnerable. In all honesty, I am never fully relaxed when I’m out and that is emotionally exhausting.

Body Image & Fashion:

Most people I know have a favorite body part that they often highlight when they dress. Maybe they have legs for days, a long graceful neck, or defined yoga arms…I used to like my mid-section. I didn’t wear crop tops, but I liked high-waisted, 70’s style wide-leg jeans with a top that hit the waistband. I wore lots of other styles too, I enjoy using clothing as a form of creative self-expression. Now I’m no longer able to wear anything fitted.

My stomach is split in two sections, separated by a 12 inch scar (the scar doesn’t bother me). The left side of my tummy is its normal self, but due to surgery, my right side is now slightly rounded, as if it just binge-ate an entire baguette. 🥖 I hate it. While I don’t spend my days obsessing about it, I do sometimes feel sad. Also, I’m sick of wearing long, flow-y tops.🤦🏻‍♀️

Ultimately though I’m very grateful to Ron.🙏 Because Ron, along with my incredible surgeon & HIPEC & lots of luck, have allowed me the privilege of living much longer than anyone expected.

A final few ileostomy facts🤓 :

– There is no smell.👃🏽 No one will ever smell your stoma or bag.

– Ileostomy supplies are extremely expensive.💰

– You can swim and play any sports you want.🏄🏻‍♀️ There are accessories to help keep the bag secure.

– Partial bowel blockages are fairly common & scary. I’ve had 6 of them in the past 8 months, so my Dr. is investigating.🔍

So that’s what it’s like living with an ileostomy, for me. It’s Ron and I together for as long as I get to live.👫

Ron’s 3-piece outfit:

Stretchy “donut,” it goes around Ron/stoma to help protect the stomach’s skin from rashes.

The “flange” (redheaded Lady is standing in for Ron/stoma 🤣) This adhesive flange goes over the stoma & over the donut and sticks to your tummy. (You cut the centre to fit your stoma)

Finally, the bag, which snaps onto the flange.

xo 💖💩💜

Chasing Cars

When Jen needed a good cry she listened to the Grey’s Anatomy soundtrack, particularly the first few seasons. There were so many songs that helped Jen excavate her tears, which were always buried deep underneath layers of smiles and loveliness. Of course she didn’t admit this to anyone because what kind of a freak needs to listen to Grey’s Anatomy songs in order to cry?

Recently Jen had been going to a nearby park where she would sit on a bench, preferably one under a tree and listen to one of three Cry Playlists on her phone. She would sob for a few minutes or longer depending on how she felt. One day a pimply-faced teenage boy asked her if she was okay and she answered:

“Ya, I’m good, just letting out some toxic shit you know? Thx for asking.” Though Jen didn’t normally swear, saying “toxic shit” was her way of showing respect to the young man who cared enough to check on her.

Jen wondered why she had such a difficult time crying. She asked her therapist about it and Dr. Kesselman told her maybe it had something to do with Jen feeling like she always had to keep it all together. Or, that Jen was sub-consciously worried that if she started crying she might never stop. But Dr. Kesselman approved of Jen’s Grey’s Anatomy technique, telling her it was a creative solution.

This morning, under a pink tree – crab apple? cherry? – Jen listened to the most recognizable Grey’s Anatomy song, “Chasing Cars” by Snow Patrol. It had played during the scene when Denny Duquette died and Izzie Stevens, who was dressed in a prom dress, wouldn’t let him be taken to the morgue. She was lying with him on the hospital bed until Alex lifted her up and took her away.

Oh God what a scene.

Izzie loved Denny so much, they were soulmates. Jen wanted that kind of love. And she didn’t care if most people with Bachelor Degrees thought the idea of soulmates was like believing in crystal healing. Jen had a Bachelor’s Degree in Education and she knew soulmates existed.

Though Jen did not currently have a soulmate, she did have a mate. Jen likened the difference between soulmates and regular mates to the difference between a good lasagna and a poorly made one. A well-made lasagna was hearty, sometimes even a little bit heavy. But, if the lasagna was too light and the tomato sauce seeped out in huge puddles on your plate, well, that was a regular mate.

Jen’s regular mate was Jim. He taught political theory at a local college and he was an avid long-distance bike rider. Every Wednesday night Jim made dinner, each time focusing on a different cuisine and always writing the dish on the kitchen chalkboard. Last week’s dinner had been Authentic New Orleans Creole Gumbo. Jim was a decent enough cook, but no matter how tasty the dishes were the dinners were inevitably ruined by Jim pontificating about the history of the dish he’d prepared, the city or country it originated from and their people.

Last month, when Jim cooked a lamb dish from Western Africa and started talking about the incredible beauty of its local markets, Jen had seriously thought about leaving him on the spot. Like just getting up from the table, taking her phone, laptop and charger and leaving the house forever. What the hell did Jim know about beautiful markets in Western Africa? Pontification should be added to the List of Seven Deadly Sins, Jen would need to write the Pope.

Today’s crying session lasted 7.5 minutes. When Jen arrived home she applied a warm washcloth to her eyes to help them de-puff, then ate cinnamon raisin toast for breakfast. She always took out the raisins first, tossing them in the backyard for the squirrels and birds to eat.

A brief stint of makeup applying and Jen was off to the children’s non-profit where she worked. It was only a ten minute bus ride and she usually spent it reading while secretly checking out the men who boarded. Maybe her soulmate rode the same bus as her and they just hadn’t met yet.

But instead of her soulmate she got Gina Trochanter, one of her work mates, who out of nowhere was suddenly standing next to her. Wearing a lavender raincoat and matching rain boots, Gina was inexplicably dressed for a storm, though there was not a cloud in the sky. Gina spoke in a loud, bold voice except when she was gossiping. When gossiping she whispered sideways into your ear, so that half the words just swooshed by.

Gina had a long list of bad, ineffective ideas which she planned on bringing up at their Back To School project meeting. Today they were brainstorming strategies to get school supplies and clothing donated. The families in the community they served could barely pay their bills, let alone buy new backpacks and sneakers for their children.

When the meetings were particularly suffocating, with everyone jockeying for their boss’s attention, Jen’s work friend Beatrice would pour a little Bailey’s in Jen’s coffee to take the edge off. Beatrice was one of those super cool girls who could pull off paper-bag waist pants, cowboy mules and a mullet and look like she just walked off a Paris runway. Jen was nowhere near as cool, but over the years she had developed a style that suited her: one part something floral and one part something plain black – so as not to look like a walking garden. Today she wore a black pencil skirt with a floral blouse she had found in a thrift store for $5. Jim was vehemently against Jen buying anything secondhand, he worried she would bring bugs into the house. Jen thought he was insane, so she lied whenever she bought something used.

After work Jen usually went straight home so she could have a little time to herself before Jim arrived. Tonight they were having pizza. Every Tuesday night they ordered pizza and every Tuesday morning Jim wrote it on the kitchen chalkboard: “take-out Pizza night.” But tonight Jen wanted something different, she just didn’t know what. She felt this weird tingling, almost tickling sensation all around the edges of her body. As if someone had traced the outline of her with one of those feather cat toys. Though she liked the feeling, she also wondered if it was perhaps some weird form of neuropathy.

Jen decided to try a local bar that she had walked by a million times. It looked straight out of the 1940’s and appropriately enough was called Bogart’s. Usually she would feel self-conscious going to a bar alone, but today she didn’t. She sat at the bar instead of a table and when the 60-something year old bartender asked her what she wanted she found herself saying:

“A Whisky Sour please.” Jen had never had a Whiskey Sour before and had no idea what the sour part was. Lemon? Lime? But it sounded like the right kind of drink to order in a bar like this, on a night like this, when her body was electrified.

“Thank you,” said Jen to the bartender. “It’s my first time here, I wanted to try something different.”

“Here’s looking at you kid,” he said as he clinked his glass with hers. Jen smiled at the Bogart reference.

The drink was delicious and for an instant she felt cool, like Beatrice. Beatrice would order a Whiskey Sour. Beatrice would never order a Pinot Grigio which is what Jen usually drank when she was out. Jen swore to never ever order another Pinot Grigio. There was no way she would find her soulmate and the life she craved if she was drinking Pinot Grigio.

Finding a soulmate would involve taking chances and living boldly, or at least boldly-ish and tonight was Jen’s first step: instead of being home reading the new Sue Grafton novel and eating goldfish, she was at a bar by herself, with her electrified, possibly neuropathy-laden body. Ready. Ready for it all.

Half and Half

“Make sure it’s exactly half and half. Half Pomegranate, half Original flavor. Last time it was 3/4 pomegranate. And go to the Pinkberry on Montana Ave, it’s the only one I trust.”

“Got it.”

“My new Ferragamo loafers have to be dropped off at Roberto’s, he needs to put a protective sole on them. You do that with expensive shoes. But I guess you wouldn’t know that, you wear Nine West, I mean no offence, but…”

“Non taken.” you privileged narcissist bitch

“At Whole Foods get me the snap peas and sesame tofu and a ginger kombucha. And Jett needs to eat too…maybe the barbecue chicken, potato salad and some kind of cupcake. Large containers for him, small containers for me.”

“Can I get you anything else while I’m out?”

“No that’s all. Except gas, you know I always like my gas topped up to 100% full.”

“I sure do.” you freak

In the Range Rover Emily cranked KCRW then let out a death-metal loud scream:

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

She chewed CBD gummies as she ran errands in Santa Monica. Using voice memo she left notes for herself for the screenplay she was working on. It was about a personal assistant who falls in love with her boss’s 18 year old son and the two of them plot to kill his mother.

Her phone rang.

“And it goes without saying don’t forget to pick up Jett from school at 3:00. I gave you snacks for him, they’re already in the car. Gotta go, my acupuncturist is here.”

God it would be so fun to stick needles in you

“I’m on my way to pick him up now.”

“Get in loser we’re going to Taco Bell. I mean unless you want this rotting apple, melted cheese sticks and nuts that you mother packed for you.”

“Why the fuck does she pack me the same snack every single day?”

“And the nuts are always from Starbucks.”

They laughed as they pulled into Taco Bell’s drive-thru.

“How do you eat this five days a week? It’s gnarly.”

“How do you work for my mom five days a week? SHE’s gnarly.”

They drove a couple blocks and stopped at a park where Jett liked to eat outside so he could smoke a little weed before going home.

“So was school scintillating today? Did you finally talk to Ben? Are you guys ever going to get together?”

“We hung out for like a minute at lunch. His parents are going away this weekend so he’s having a party. I’m gonna feel the vibe out then.”

“Cool. But just be careful and safe and all that shit. Your crowd is wild, you know that right?”

“Don’t worry Mama Emily, I won’t do anything other than weed, I never do. It’ll just be dope to spend some time with Ben. It’s not like I can have him over to the house, Mom would lose her shit.”

“Honestly Jett, I don’t think she would. Your mom fucking loves you. I mean she packs you after-school snacks every damn day and she does it herself. I know she drives you nuts, she drives me nuts too. But when it comes to Ben she would be okay, trust me on this one.”

“Ok, I’ll think about it…want some? Jett offered Emily his joint.

“No, I’m good. I gotta get you home and we need to pick up Pinkberry for your mom.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He took a final drag and tossed his Taco Bell wrappers in the garbage.

In the car Jett blasted Led Zeppelin, they were his newest obsession. They drove with the windows down with Jett’s right leg sticking out and his shoelace blowing in the breeze.

“Want anything at Pinkberry’s?”

“Maybe like a bowl of those rainbow colored toppings, no yogurt, just the toppings and some gummy bears and chocolate chips too.”

“Can’t tell that you’re high at all.”

Jett gave her the peace sign, put on his Warby Parkers and turned up the music.

“I love living in Southern California” said Jett as he ate his bowl of Pinkberry toppings. “But like when I go to college, I want to go far away. I guess like New York? I mean where else is there to go?”

“Don’t be so elitist.”

“What do you mean? I’m not elistist. I feed the homeless once a month.”

“Los Angeles and Manhattan are not the only cool, interesting cities in the U.S. Think outside the box. Maybe The University of Texas in Austin. Austin is super cool and liberal. Plus, I think it would drive your parents crazy if you went to college in Texas, so there’s that added bonus.”

“Love that idea, gonna research it tonight, thx Em. By the way, what happened with that guy Ron?”

“His name is Jon and I’m not dating him anymore.”

“Why? He sounded like halfway cool.”

“He has a pet rabbit.”

“What? Who the fuck has a pet rabbit?!”

“But wait, there’s more. We were watching Netflix and the rabbit, whose name is Stacey, sat next to him the whole time on the couch. And he petted her over and over and over. Like OCD petting. Like I’m surprised she has any hair left petting.”

“Come on,”

“Jett, I shit you not. That damn rabbit sat with us for two episodes of Designated Survivor and I swear to God she was giving me side-eye the whole time, like “get away from my man” kind of energy. So so epically creepy.”

“That’s wack and you can never ever see him again. That dude would for sure chop you up and feed you to Stacey and then mom would have to hire a new personal assistant.”

“Thanks for the love Jett.”

“No problem.”

“Alright, let’s do this, pop some gum because you smell like hot sauce.”

“I’m on it.”

“Emily where have you been? You’re late! We’ve got to go over next week’s calendar before you leave. Next week is challenging. I’m hosting a small dinner which I forgot to tell you about. I’ll pay you time and a half of course. Jett did you eat your snack? How was school? How was that wretched Mrs. Taylor? I’m going to talk with your principal if she doesn’t start treating you better.”

“Hey mom, what’s up? Mrs. Taylor is all good man, nada to worry about.”

“Half hour of video games then homework. I don’t want you up half the night finishing your math. And call your father. You didn’t call him yesterday and he was livid. Livid.”

“My yogurt is melting, give it to me Emily. After you put everything away meet me in my office. I am just so stressed. I mean I just have too much on my plate, what with hosting dinners and appointments and Jett and planning the new guest cottage. It’s simply too much. Women are expected to do too much in our society, it’s not fair. And bring me a glass of Rose, there’s a bottle chilling in the fridge, I need something to take the edge off.”

Wow. Just wow.

“Okay, I’ll be right there.”

After putting the groceries away Emily went into Mrs. Jeffries’ Birkin, grabbed a few Ativan and slipped them in her pocket. Then she poured her a glass of wine, taking a few sips for herself first.

“Emily? I’m not getting any younger.”


Sent from my iPad

24 hrs

So maybe there were a few red flags. Like a tree’s worth of red flags. Like picture a cherry tree, but instead of beautiful blossoms there were 500 glittery red flags. But you know, our insecurities our powerful mutherfuckers and sometimes they run the show. So I got engaged.

At the time I was working for a fashion designer and she and the CEO toasted my engagement with champagne, the CEO said:

“Well obviously she’s going to design your dress.”

No. No. No. I had planned on finding and wearing a vintage dress. Plus, I was friends with the designer and I knew she was stressed, the last thing she needed was the pressure of making me a dress. But I said,

“That would be amazing, thank you!” because at thirty-six yrs old I still had trouble asserting myself – sad but true.

The fittings were difficult, sprinkled with moments of laughter. She was my friend and boss, which is a complex dynamic. From the beginning of the process I felt unable to speak my mind, hold my ground or say “no.” Though I found it hard to breathe in the dress, like really hard, she told me, “that’s how it’s supposed to fit” and I stayed silent. It was bound to end badly and it was all my fault.

Hop a plane with me now would you? As we fly from Los Angeles CA to Ottawa Ontario, Canada’s lovely capital city where I grew up and where the wedding dress debacle continues…

At the hotel I came face-to-face with what I knew before but could not admit: the dress was beautiful but I did not feel good in it. I did not feel confident in it. I felt exposed. Plus, you know, I couldn’t breathe. It felt like I was wearing a beautiful nightgown, bias cut silk-satin gorgeousness. All the dress needed was a cocktail, a cigarette and a handsome lover. Walking down the aisle in it would feel like wearing haute couture lingerie. I had to buy a new dress and I had two days.

The hotel suggested a boutique where I found an antique-y vibe pouf dress. Was it what I imagined my wedding dress would look like? No. But then again I had never been the girl who dreamed of her wedding day and bridal gown. I had dreamed of getting a dog and and visiting Paris. But I felt confident in this dress, like I was wearing big pouf-y armour. And I could breathe. There was only one tiny problem, the dress was three sizes too big. It would have to be altered in 24 hrs. No pressure.

Meanwhile, in Red Flag Land, on the day of the epic alterations I found out my fiancee had lied about a major financial issue. I forget exactly what it was because I’ve worked hard to block it out, but it was something big enough that I clearly remember thinking:

“I could legitimately pull a Runaway Bride move here. Now is the time in the Rom-Com where the bride-to-be runs away with the help of her friends.” And my friends, who by the way are each pretty badass, would have 100% supported my decision. But I didn’t tell them. I was too busy worrying about all the relatives who had flown-in for the ceremony, for some it was their first time in Canada.

“I can’t cancel the wedding because it’s not fair to the guests,” is what I thought. Did I mention I was a chronic people pleaser? Emotionally it felt impossible to cancel the wedding, but had I possessed more self-love, more self-confidence, I would have apologized to the guests and walked away.

Wedding day involves a flurry of activity and frankly Xanax should be given out to everyone. Part of the flurry is getting hair and makeup done. Having not lived in Ottawa for a million years I didn’t know the scene, so when it came to choosing hair and makeup professionals mistakes were made. The result was a bridal look that aged me ten years, including heavy 80’s makeup and early 2000’s pin-straight Rachel from Friends hair.

On the balcony of the hotel my dad walked me down the aisle. He looked so handsome and somehow vulnerable too. What was he thinking? Had he seen all the red sparkly flags? After our vows and the breaking of the glass – “Mazal Tov!” – one of my favorite songs, The Cure’s “Friday I’m In Love,” played. I wasn’t in love, but it was Friday and I was now married. Dear God what had I done?

Despite the wreckage that my insecurities and I caused, everything worked out in the end. My former boss and I became even closer friends. My ex-husband and I are still in touch and keep each other up to date on major life stuff, like: “Did you get your Covid vaccination? Is your family alright? How’s your dog doing?”

I still struggle with standing up for myself, speaking my truth and saying “no.” But my insecurities no longer run my life. They may ride alongside me as I live my life, like a trail of bugs, but I swat them away when they come too close.

#weddingdrama #lifestories #insecurities #24hrs #Xanax #losangeles #weddingdresses #selflove #vintageweddingdress

The Peas Are Working

The city of Toronto is run by raccoons. We have north, south, east and west-side gangster raccoons. They are afraid of no one and do as they please. One summer we could barely use our deck due to an east-side family having taken up residence there.

The raccoons are the reason I currently have two metal pins sticking out of my ring finger. Two weeks ago I took our dog Lexie out for a midnight pee. A massive pandemic-fat raccoon named Fred was perched on our backyard fence. All 34 pounds of Lexie went ballistic. But Fred didn’t move an inch, he just stared at us with a look that said, “you are inferior to me, go away.” Lexie wanted to battle Fred over her turf, but instead I dragged her down the alley and around to our front door.

Turns out that during the drama Lexie had, on her adrenaline high, pulled me quite hard. My ring finger was swelling quickly and turning black and blue.

“I’ll just ice it with some peas, it’ll be fine,” I told my partner as I grabbed the frozen bag. He eyed my finger, then eyed me like I was completely nuts.

“Your finger is twisted, you probably fractured it.”

“It’s fine. It doesn’t even hurt, these peas are already working.”

The next day, after emailing finger photos to my doctor, (by then even I had to admit it looked a bit crooked), she immediately sent me to get x-rayed. After x-raying me the technician said:

“Ya, it’s totally fractured, go to the hospital right now.”

Yay, it was only fractured, I thought, not realizing that fractured was the same thing as broken, (I have zero excuse for not knowing what fractured meant.) A couple of days later I was operated on by a lovely plastic surgeon, awaking from surgery to find two metal pins sticking out of my finger. I also had a large cast that because of the anaesthetic felt like a 100 pound salami.

Throughout the week as I became accustomed to the cast, (I’ve never broken a bone before), I started doing more things. I decided that my lockdown-hair, (Ontario has been in lockdown for a thousand years), needed to be twisted up in a bun. I almost had the bun complete, though to be fair it wasn’t the chic-est of buns, when I realized that my hair was caught on the two pins sticking out of my finger.

“Oops.”

“What did you do now?” my partner asked.

I walked over to him with my arm stuck to the top of my head.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I just wanted to put my hair up in a bun, I…”

“Christ Almighty.”

He carefully extricated my hair from the pins without having to cut my hair (though to be honest a little haircut wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world). He sighed deeply.

“Can you please just take it easy, this thing needs to heal, it’s serious.”

“I know it’s serious. It’s just that, what am I supposed to do with my hair? I look like Crystal Gayle from the seventies. Remember how long her hair was?”

“For the love of God. I’m going to Costco. Don’t touch your hair while I’m out.”

Why tho?

#torontolife #torontodogs #raccoons #personalessay #pandemiclife #pandemichair

Fringed Purse (mini-fiction based on a real-life story)

“Where’s my fringed purse?  Don’t let anyone take my fringed purse.”

“I’ve got it, don’t worry.  I’m literally holding it.”

“Ok but be careful b/c if it’s not snapped shut then all my stuff will fall out.”

“It’s snapped shut and it’s secure.”

“Alright, but keep it with you.  You have no idea how many compliments I get on that purse, it’s a highly desirable accessory.  It’s from a British-Moroccan company, I forget the name.”

“Relax, everything is fine.”

“This place smells disgusting.  Like urine, vomit and desperation.  I’m so humiliated.”

“Don’t worry, no one is judging you.”

“Someone *literally* just stared at me like I was a sad low-life who had hit rock bottom.  Though at least my purse makes me look less pathetic.  I mean that’s the power of a good accessory, a great purse or a pair of stunning shoes can literally change your life.  I…”

“Sir if you could just move to the right, we’ll get her on the stretcher.  Are you riding with us?”

“Yes I am.”

“And he’s bringing my fringed purse with him.  Don’t let him forget it.  I’m feeling better anyways, maybe I don’t need the stretcher.  Plus, I kind of like it down here.  It smells gross but the cold tiles feel soothing.  Maybe I can just lie here a little longer?”

“Ma’am, we’re bringing you and your purse to the hospital on this stretcher.  Why don’t you just try and relax.”

“Okay, I’ll try, though relaxing is not my specialty.  I’m more of a go, go go person, you know?”

“Could you please stop talking and let them do their job?”

“Alright, Jesus.  I’m the one picking up god knows what diseases from the subway platform, you’d think you’d be nicer to me.”

“If you don’t stop talking I will leave your fringed purse here.’

“That’s cruel.”

“Mr. Paramedic Tom, you said your name was Tom right?  This is my first ambulance ride, it’s a little exciting, you know?  Like with the lights on and everything, swooshing through the streets…”

“Well, if you’re lucky, this will be your last ambulance ride.”

“Good point.  You are very nice.  Thank you for being very nice, I appreciate it.  I’m just going to close my eyes for a few minutes.’

“Good idea.” Tom said.

“Ma’am?  We’ve arrived at the hospital.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Paul, do you still have my fringed purse?”

“It’s right here, don’t worry.”

“Oh thank God.  I see a man over there, barfing and that other guy looks like he’s shooting up.  People do drugs right outside the hospital?  Oh God, those poor souls.  Tom, I think you and your partner need to help them, I’m fine.  They need you more than I do, I can walk into the hospital with Paul.”

“Ma’am, just let us finish our job, okay?  We can’t take you off the stretcher, we’re not allowed.”

“Oh, sorry.  Sorry to be a pain.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“Paul, can I have my purse?  I just want to hold it.”

“Here, I’ll rest it next to you on the stretcher.”

“I feel like I’m passing out, even though I’m already lying down.  Why did I collapse like that?  I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Everything is going to be okay, it’s all going to be okay.”