grief

Monster

I miss you.
At least I think I miss you.
Though sometimes I wonder if I’m confusing you with someone else, like a man from a novel or a poem.

I’ll remember feeling adored by you, it felt so good. Only then I’ll realize that it wasn’t me who felt adored, it was Keira Knightley’s character in that classic mid-90’s period drama. She was adored by that lanky guy with the swoop-y hair. It wasn’t me.

There is such deep grief in remembering, even in the fake memories there is deep grief.

Why haven’t we developed a machine to excise grief from our psyches? We could go to a Wellness Spa and get Reiki, followed by a Blue Algae Facial and then a session of Grief Excising with Lily, the Nurse Practitioner. She would gently rub a rose gold wand over our cranium. The grief would be sucked up and out the wand and Lily would then tap gently on a triangle signaling the end of our session. Grief Excising would probably have to be done every 3 months, like botox. Wait too long or miss a session and risk having your psyche saturated again with darkness.

I miss us.
Perhaps I miss an us that never existed. Or perhaps I have slightly enhanced the memories, sweetened them. But that’s okay, a rose-tinted view is always prettier. So I guess I miss that rose-tinted version of us.

What to do?
What does one do with this kind of grief?
Write in a journal? “Dear Diary, I’m sad.”
Talk to a therapist? “How do you feel today?” “I feel sad.”
Exercise? “This long walk is reminding me of the long walks I used to take with you.”
Do Ayahuasca in the desert? “I’m so hot and sweaty and I’m not having any magical breakthroughs. I feel like vomiting and all I want to do is lie down in an air conditioned hotel room.”

Or maybe we surrender to the grief. Let the grief monster consume us, let it fucking devour us. And then if we’re lucky, the monster will spit us back out. We’ll look raggedy, like we just came off a scary ride at the county fair, but we’ll be free.

“Can a person die from grief?”

“No. Plus, don’t even think about dying. I already have three mini urns on my mantel, there is no room for a fourth.”

“You’re not getting my ashes. I’m having myself turned into a pod, then planted in the forest.”

“That can’t be legal.”

“It is, I read about it in The New York Times.”

“What will I have to remember you by if I don’t get your ashes?”

“You’ll have my vintage purse collection.”

“I’m listening.”

“And I’ll leave notes in each purse. So you’ll have little memory prompts like, ‘remember when we were Goth for six months in high school and our boyfriends were brothers?’ The notes will help you with your dementia.”

“I don’t have dementia.”

“Not yet, but you’ll probably get it.”

“What a lovely thing to say, thank you. Honestly though, what is up with you and your grief? You’re literally cloaked in it. It’s like a sad girl perfume that you spray on each day. And you spray on so much – like the cosmetic ladies at the mall used to do in the 80’s. It turns people off:
So some of your people died.
So some of your people are currently really sick and are probably going to die soon.
You are alive, you have to live.”

“Do I though? What if I’m just tired and kinda over it all and I just want to take a permanent nap. I should be able to decide my own fate.”

“First of all, if you kill yourself I’ll never forgive you and I’ll haunt your decayed pod in the stupid forest. Second of all – the whole point of life is that we don’t get to decide our own fate, life just unfolds. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get smashed by a dump truck tonight. Or, maybe you’ll live to 103 in a cottage by the sea with only a sprinkling of arthritis. Girl that’s the wild ride of it all, you don’t know what’s going to happen. You can’t control everything.”

“I am a bit of a control freak.”

“Ya think? Maybe you should go do that ketamine therapy, they just opened a swanky clinic near me.”

“That sounds dodgy.”

“It’s not, it’s legal, I read about it in your precious New York Times. Plus their office is really chic, like a minimalist-artisanal vibe. And the doctor who founded the place is hot. Dream-boy hot. Do it! Do the ketamine and shed your sad girl scent. I honestly can’t take it anymore.”

“Okay, okay, you made your point. I get it. My grief spiral has become unbearable, I’ll deal with it.”

“That’s my girl. Now let’s get back to people watching and being snarks. Like what is that woman even wearing on her feet?! They’re kitten heels with a super long toe. Ugliest fucking shoes I’ve ever seen.”

The Penis Diaries

Non-fiction.

WARNING:
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT CONTENT & POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING

High School

In high school, (in the 80’s, pre-internet), no one talked about female sexual pleasure. Giving boys blow jobs was a privilege we were blessed to have. Yay! In fact the whole vibe was:
“You’re lucky to be with this guy at this party where there are no parents, just tons of floral upholstery and wine coolers.”
I didn’t even know that a boy, or a girl, could “go down” on me. Go down where? Do what? I don’t remember one friend ever mentioning the joys of reciprocal oral sex.

University Part 1

The movie 9 1/2 Weeks was released right before I started University, so everyone wanted to use food in their sexual play, it was the “in” thing, (watch the movie if you haven’t, it’s an 80’s classic). My boyfriend bought whip cream and honey, but we both just ended up feeling like barfing.

University Part 2

Later on, during that same first year of university, a different boyfriend became irritated with me when he couldn’t get his penis inside me:
“You’re gonna need a pencil thin dick to get in there!”
Wow. Your mother must be so proud to have such a poetic son.
Backstory: I was raped in high school and I hadn’t had a penis inside of me since then – which he knew. The next day he tried apologizing and I was like “Boy Bye,” except we didn’t say that in the eighties and I don’t remember what I said, but he and his penis were banished forever.

NYC

Later, at The Fashion Institute of Technology, I decided that my Advertising professor was perfect for me. Total dreamboat. I made up excuses to visit him in his office, we flirted and he blushed a lot. But he had morals, (damn), and he followed school rules, (rats), so he didn’t let anything inappropriate happen.

Now my Textiles professor was a different story, he wanted to sleep with me. He had an office a few blocks away, I think it was on 23rd street.
How convenient.
I remember him calling me at FIT’s residence, trying to convince me to have sex with him. His rousing pitch went something like:
“My wife and I have an arrangement, so don’t worry about it.”
Wait, first of all, you have a wife? Second of all, I’m pretty sure she did not sign off on this “arrangement.” I might have been young and stupid but I wasn’t that young and stupid.
“Boy Bye.”

Just One Drink

I was working my dream job ~ managing a vintage store ~ when one of the city’s most notorious bad boys appeared at the cash register. I quipped:
“You’re going to ask me out now aren’t you?”
like I was Lauren Bacall in a 1940’s film. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied, not used to this level of confidence in a woman (granted it wasn’t real confidence, but he didn’t know that). We agreed to meet at the European cafe where everyone hung out. Word had traveled fast (pre-cell phones) and when I arrived early, staff and customers warned me about meeting up with him. I said:
“It’s just one drink, don’t worry about it.”
Because being in your early twenties is all about making the most deliciously dreadful decisions.

We drank wine and bantered, like Howard Hawks was directing our scene. Who was this new version of me? She was amazing. I liked who I was with him. I was more assertive. In the past I had assumed if a guy wanted to date me, I had to date them; like I had no say in my own life. But now I was trying to be pro-active and make smart decisions about men.
Insert Taylor Swift lyrics here:
“This is me trying”

For awhile it worked. I felt some sense of agency and that felt so damn good. Turns out the bad boy wasn’t so much bad as he was badly traumatized, in ways I only fully understood years later. We never stood a chance. In the end it was serious “Boy Bye,” so much so that my psyche blocked out almost the entire relationship, save for a few very tender moments. But what I do remember is that after being with him I completely shut down: No Men. No Dating. No Sex. It was extreme self-protection. Everyone said:
“You’re in your twenties, you should be out there dating & having fun!”
I didn’t care. No one was getting in.

Every once in awhile, when I’m least expecting it, a wave of grief washes over me and I mourn those years ~ Those Lost Years.

Photo: Pinterest @quentindebriey on Instagram

Tiny Homes

My friend lives in a tiny purple house.
She’s always there with a cigarette in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, saying something sarcastic and tossing her head of dark curls back as she laughs.

Her tiny house is kind of like I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle, with that circular couch covered in velvet pillows. Except her cushions have needlepoint cases – which she made herself – that say things like, “Fuck You Very Much.”

Because my friend is so tiny she can no longer wear her favorite silver rings, so I wear one of them every day.

I miss seeing her in person, I’m too big to fit into her house. But every night before going to bed I look at her – her house is on my corner table – and I say something like:

“Hey, I miss you. In the few months since you’ve been gone the world has become an even bigger shit show – really, everything is fucked.”

Sometimes I think:
What if I open her I Dream of Jeannie purple house? Would she come swirling out in a plume of pink smoke?
Then she yells at me:
“Girl get it together, I’m not fucking swirling out, I’m DEAD, remember?!” And a Smiths song blasts at full volume:
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die

I yell back:
“I know you’re dead I’m not an idiot, Jeeze Louise. I remember our last conversation. You were crying while telling me how much pain you were in. I said let me talk with your doctors you need more pain meds. I don’t want you suffering.”

The last thing you said to me was:
“My nurse is here, I gotta go. Love you.”
And I said:
“Love you.”
Then two days later you were dead & before I could say “pouf” you were cremated.

I don’t think I’m going to sprinkle you anywhere. I’m going to keep you on your little alter: there’s a photo of us together, a lovely painted postcard that I took from your office, some rocks from the beach outside your house and a few other mementos.

I like looking over at you. We can chat anytime.

Photo Credit: Pinterest, Country Living Magazine

A

I’m wearing your silver knotted ring as I drive your skull and bones cardigan to the cleaners.

“Smoke. Smells like smoke,” says Tina, the owner of the dry cleaners.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry” I say.

“Smoke, so much smoke. I’m going to cough. Why are you suddenly smoking?”

Jesus. Here we go.

“I’m not, this belongs to my friend.”

“Tell your friend not to smoke,” Tina says grimacing.

“I can’t tell her, she’s dead. This was one of her favourite sweaters and her husband gave it to me. He also gave me her beautiful ring, see?” I say, dangling my hand in front of her.

“Sorry she died. Lung cancer right?”

“Umm, no. Anyway, how long will it take? Can I pay extra to put a rush on it?”

“No, no. No rushes on smoke items. Smoke items are very very hard. Next Friday.”

Sighing dramatically, Tina started writing up a receipt.

“Your friend died too young. She should have taken vitamins. Do you take vitamins? I take 18 vitamins every day and I haven’t been sick in fifteen years. No COVID, no nothing. Perfect health.”

“I’m glad you have perfect health,” I say, wanting to throttle her.

“You have very dark circles under your eyes, you need more Vitamin C. Here, eat this orange,” Tina said, pulling an orange out of nowhere like a magician.

“Oh that’s very kind of you, but I’m okay. Thank you though.”

Glaring at me, Tina made a clicking sound with her mouth.

“Dark circles is just the beginning, then doctor appointments every week, you’ll see. But if you take your vitamins you’ll live a long life. You won’t be dead like your friend.”

Oh My Fucking God.

“I appreciate you trying to help, it’s just that right now I’m feeling sad, I’m missing her. I’m just trying to get through this.”

“Ah yes, you’re hanging on by a thread, not a good feeling. Look at this black thread – see how it’s frayed? It’s about to break, that’s how you feel right?” She ripped the thread in front of me.

Why Universe? Just why?

“Listen, you’re a loyal, longtime customer and your friend died and I feel your bad energy. So, I’m going to give you something to help with the sadness – give me your hand.”

Oh no.

“Hand, your hand, open your hand” she said, making the weird clicking sound again.

I gave her my hand, palm open.

Jesus Lord Please Help Me.

“These look like candy, right?”

“Yes, they look like cinnamon hearts,” I answered.

“Well they’re not, they’re medicine hearts. The recipe is an old one, passed down from my great, great, great-grandmother.”

“Oh wow, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, these are powerful – no monkey-arounding with them. Take one heart every morning at exactly 9:00 AM for seven days. Do NOT miss a day.”

“Okay, got it. What do they do exactly?”

“Well, first you’re going to feel weird, a little out of body. So no driving for two to three hours after taking the pill. Then you’ll notice that your heart feels strange – don’t freak out: your heart is stitching itself back together with the broken thread. Your sadness will be quieted. By the end of the week your sadness will be sitting in the nose-bleed seats, not the front row – if that make sense.”

“It totally makes sense.”

“Good. I see you next Friday, here’s your receipt. And don’t forget about the vitamins: if you want to get old and beautiful like me, you need all the vitamins.”

“I won’t forget. Have a good day.”

Back in the car I start crying, then laughing. Then crying and laughing some more. That was such a trippy scene, like something out of a movie. I want to text you about it, to describe Tina and the medicine hearts and the orange. But then I remember that you’re dead. And that just makes me laugh harder: like Mary Tyler Moore in the episode where she’s laughing at the clown’s funeral.

Photo of Andrea & I, taken by our mutual friend Pam. Late 1990’s I think. Andrea died on July 7th 2023. This story is dedicated to her.

Spaghetti Can Flowers

Receiving wild flowers in a spaghetti can is not something a girl forgets, especially when they arrive with bacon, wrapped old-school style by the butcher.

“Mary Ellen?”

I was staying at a B & B in small-town Quebec when I heard the door knock. Checking that I was presentable, I put on my mask and opened it.

A thin, sun-hardened arm reached out and passed me the flowers. They had clearly been arranged with care, not simply tossed in the can.

“These are so beautiful, thank you, I-“

The other thin, sun-hardened arm reached out and passed me a package wrapped in brown paper.

“It’s for your breakfast with your friend. You’re going to visit her today, right? It’s bacon.”

Wearing a black kaftan, hair up in a bun, mask on, I stood holding the flowers and bacon. The moment felt surreal and for a second I felt like an actress in a scene from a quirky indie film.

Standing in front of me was the man I had dated when I was just twenty-one years old. Now, thirty years later, he stood before me with these sweet offerings.

I had traveled to rural Quebec for a late summer visit with one of my dearest girlfriends. Realizing my old boyfriend lived nearby, I had reached out to him thinking it would be nice to have a coffee and catch up. But that’s not quite what happened…

I ended up sitting on a lawn chair, in a field behind a workshop, drinking wine from a dirty mason jar. An alarming-looking fire in a metal barrel and a giant pirate’s flag were the only decor. Joining us were his ex brother-in-law and a fast-talking man wearing a straw fedora.

At various points in the evening the guys took turns urinating outside.

“If you need to go pee you can just do it out here, don’t worry, we won’t look and you’ll be safe. I’ll protect you,” said my ex.

Wait what? Peeing outside? What is happening?

On the walk over to his artist meets Hells’ Angels living quarters, I had struggled to connect with the man I once knew. He had a hard time making eye contact, was fidgety and clearly drunk.

I learned he had a grown daughter whom he deeply loved. That he knew how to survive in the wilderness (yikes, why?) and had spent time in Ireland. He’d also worked for years on large ships and loved to write poetry. That’s what I got, just a broad outline. But there were details. The details were in the scent he gave off: a blend of grief and complete despair.

“You know me. I’ve been trying to kill myself for years,” he said casually, just like someone might say, “you know me, I love ice cream.”

His pain completely overwhelmed me. I felt like any second it might swallow me up whole. Part of me wanted to run – fast – away from the field. But I also knew that his pain deserved to be seen, his pain deserved to be acknowledged. And so I sat in the field, drinking wine from a dirty mason jar and bore witness to it.

Later that night, alone at my B & B, I was overcome with sorrow. It shattered my twenty-one year old’s heart to see him so broken. I remembered him being wild and troubled when we dated, but also kind and romantic. One time he surprised me at the bus station:
I was returning from visiting a friend and there he was, hands in his pockets, staring at the windows trying to locate me, his eyes lighting up when he saw me. I distinctly remember thinking: “I can’t believe he’s here!” There were no cell phones or emojis back then, but if there were I would have texted my girlfriends:
“OMG he’s waiting at the station for me!💖😍🤸‍♀️👏💕”

Being presented with flowers and bacon the morning after such a crushing evening was not something I was prepared for. But, the moment was tender and real and awkward and despite the sadness I felt it was also beautiful.

#trauma #oldboyfriends #lifestories #quebec

I Remember You

Sunshine hits my face and for a moment I feel like everything is right in the world.

“Girl, you better figure out your shit today. If you don’t, I’m bringing back the grey and rain.”

Excuse me? Who’s talking? There’s no one on the street except three people down the block waiting for the bus.

Like an idiot I answer the voice:

“I’m going for a walk and doing some self-reflection. Then I’ll be writing in my journal. Does that count?”

“No that doesn’t count! You gotta do more than self-reflect. And toss that damn unicorn journal. You’re lost. Your body is here, but your beautiful, vibrant essence is MIA. Find it. Life is short and frankly you’ve wasted a lot of it,”

“Alright, I get it. I’m on it. By the way, are you The Sun?” I ask the voice.

“Of course I’m The Sun, who else would I be?!”

For the love of God. I get one moment of lovely sunshine warming my face and now the actual sun is harassing me. Nice.

Staring at a tree whose pink buds are just starting to bloom, I suddenly feel like crying, but nothing happens.

Fucking anti-depressants.

Walking through the park I imagine myself twirling and dancing but I’m too self-conscious, even though there’s no one around. Wait, it’s a sunny day – why is there no one around?

“For the next half hour the park’s all yours, so use it!” The Sun bellows at me.

“Okayyyy!” I shout back.

Jesus.

I look around tentatively and then spread my arms wide and start twirling. Slowly, then faster, not whirling-dervish fast, but a joyful, awkward twirl like you might see in a Greta Gerwig film.

A 1980’s modern jazz move that I used to do in dance class pops into my head and soon I’m sailing through the air.

Oh I remember now. I remember this girl.

This girl had the kind of energy that drew people to her, she was an introverted extrovert. She needed days of solitude to recharge, but her energy force was electric and her light was dazzling. Not in an obnoxious way, but in a way that made others want to explore their own light.

This girl loved to laugh and she loved celebrating all of life’s beauty:

“I’ve never seen a coral Peony – my God it’s stunning!”

“Look at that handsome man wearing the 1940’s-style suit, how cool is he?!”

“Come here quick – check out the sunset. Can you believe those colors?!”

Oh yes – this girl – I know you!

I want you back. I’m so sorry I let you go. I’m so sorry I let people stomp on you. I’m so sorry I stopped believing in you.

But I’m here now and I want you to know that I’m grateful. For without you I’m just a shell of myself, like an oyster without a pearl.

I promise I won’t let anyone take you from me again.

I’ll twirl every day and leave a trail of sparkle behind me wherever I go. I will fall madly in love with myself and only those who encourage me to be radiant will be allowed in my sacred inner circle. And if anyone dares try to snuff you out again they will be sorry they ever met me.

I’m dancing for you right now – can you see me? It’s not a beautiful dance because I’m out of practice – but it’s all for you. I love you and I need you.

Please come back to me.

My entire body tingles and The Sun whispers in my ear:

“Good job girl, good job.”

I’m crying now, gorgeous gentle tears, that despite my anti-depressants have broken through. I feel like a 1960’s hippie who’s just experienced her first transcendental experience.

“Thank you,” I whisper to The Sun, “thank you.”

“The Sun Goddess,” an original painting by Wincy Xavier, At Saatchi Art.

The Thief

Back in the mid-1980’s if you were a victim of sexual violence you hid it behind your stacked rubber Madonna bracelets and teased bangs. No one talked about it.

As a teenager in that era sex was a fraught issue for me. AIDS was front and centre in the 80’s making it scary. Also, my mother was a recovering Catholic, her internalized shame about sexuality passed down to me like a piece of heirloom jewelry.

When I was raped in high school I was still a virgin. I told no one about the assault and when my attacker gossiped that “he’d slept with me,” I brushed it off like it was no big deal.

The trauma quickly morphed into a skilled thief, stealing years of my life.

I didn’t have sex with anyone for the rest of high school. In my early twenties came a brief stage of boyfriends whom I slept with. The men were not worthy of me, but at the time they were all I felt I deserved. My broken psyche did not like what she was seeing though:

“You’re dating total losers, you’re on a precarious path!” she screamed.

Like the Goddess Artemis, my psyche was my protector. But since she was broken she didn’t know how to best take care of me. Fearing for my safety, she went a bit nuts and shut me down completely.

“No men, no dating, no sex!” she yelled.

So I spent 3/4 of my twenties and the first few years of my thirties single. I was like a flower that had been planted, started growing and then just before it could blossom a crazy gardener came along and put a giant terracotta pot on top of it – killing it.

Of course there is absolutely nothing wrong with being single, but being single because of unresolved trauma is very different.

The trauma thief stole my entire early adulthood. Years meant for learning about myself and relationships. For making mistakes and exploring my sexuality. For learning how to trust my instincts and stand up for myself. For dating wannabe poets and having affairs with much older lovers. But I was completely Shut Down, so I lost an entire decade. Pouf!

I spent part of that decade in Austin, a city I loved. I made beautiful friendships and had a great job. But I spent most nights alone. No cute Austin musicians or Texas cowboys for me.

I still grieve for those lost years. Looking at photos of myself from that time I see such a lovely, lonely girl. Though I’m not a big believer in destiny, I do believe that had I seen a therapist during those years I would have stayed in Austin – that it actually was my destiny to stay there. I can totally see myself married, with a grown child, still living in Texas and fighting the Handmaid’s Tale tyranny of Governor Greg Abbott.

Since then I have had the luxury of being able to work with a couple of excellent therapists, but there will forever be a little nest of grief inside of me. I envision it like a small bird’s nest, but with some glittery grass, for even in my grief there is sparkle. There are no birds or eggs in the nest. It is empty, but pretty and it lives in my throat.

(In the ancient Indian text the Vedas, the throat chakra is associated with the ability to speak your personal truth.)

“Sanctuary” by artist Sarah Treanor

A Million Pieces

“So, Janet, how have you been feeling since our last session?”

“Broken.”

“In what way?”

“In what way do I feel broken? You know, like in the typical broken way. Like if you imagine a vase dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces. And then maybe imagine trying to bend down and pick up the pieces, but in doing so you cut both your hands and feet on the ceramic shards. So now you’re sitting on the floor surrounded by pieces of your favorite flea market vintage vase and you’re bleeding. The blood is staining the ceramic shards so that instead of their pale oatmeal color they are turning a light rose shade. And as you’re sitting there in pain, both because you lost your favorite vase and because you now have cuts – and because you feel broken – you realize that you actually like the light rose color. So you think about just continuing to sit on the floor and allowing your blood to stain all the pieces of the vase. Because this rose color, it’s so much prettier.”

“I see. Well, that doesn’t sound too good.

“Nope.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Japanese tradition of Kintsugi? The art of putting broken pieces of pottery back together with gold? It’s built on the idea that in embracing imperfections you can create an even stronger and more beautiful piece of art. Does that idea resonate with you at all?”

“No.”

“Why do you think it doesn’t resonate with you?”

“Well, first of all I don’t have any gold to repair the vase with. Second of all, I’m kind of like bleeding out on the floor, so I don’t really have the energy to repair anything.”

“I understand. I’m very concerned about you feeling broken. Are you having any suicidal thoughts?”

“You mean like taking the broken ceramic pieces and plunging them into my neck or heart?”

“Yes. Or, any other type of suicidal thoughts.”

“Not really. I’m too drained from feeling broken to take any action, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Okay. Remember in our last session I asked you to keep a Joy Journal? Have you written down any moments of joy from the last two weeks?”

“Let me check…My favorite bakery gave me an extra cupcake, so like I paid for one but got two. I don’t know if that qualifies, but I did write it down.”

“Good. What else?”

“I discovered an affordable eye cream that works just as well as the expensive one I was using.”

“Very good. What else?”

“I saw a very pretty red bird on the bush outside my house.”

“A cardinal?”

“What?”

“Was the bird a cardinal?”

“I don’t know. It was just a pretty red bird.”

“Excellent. What else?”

“That’s it.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. I mean as I told you at the beginning of the session I’ve been feeling broken. So my life hasn’t exactly been joy-packed.”

“Yes, totally makes sense. Listen Janet I have an idea, if you’re open to it.”

“What is it?”

“Let’s pick up all the broken pieces, one at a time. And you name each piece – for instance grief or loneliness – then we’ll explore the emotions that come up for you.”

“I’m open to that. I mean we’re going to be picking up like a bazillion pieces, but okay. I just have one request.”

“What is it?”

“The Joy Journal has got to go.”

Dr. Finkelstein smiled.

LAURA

“Lizzie said I’m too old to wear ‘Mom jeans.'”

Michelle burst out laughing.

“You are! We wore those back in the eighties.”

“I told her that shaming was not allowed in our home and that I could wear whatever I wanted.”

Michelle snorted.

“Do you even look good in those jeans? Because I’m guessing not.”

“I mean they are not my best look ever. I was in Urban Outfitters buying Lizzie a few things and I needed a pair of jeans; the salesperson said I looked amazing in them.”

Michelle was laughing hysterically now.

“Oh my God, stop it Michelle,” said Laura starting to laugh. “Changing the subject now. How’s Joshua?”

“Joshua is driving me nuts. He just asked me for a hundred dollars to buy some new limited edition sweatshirt. A sweatshirt. I can’t believe we have kids.”

“Me either. Remember in high school when we promised each other that we would never marry, never have kids and just travel the world together?”

“I know, such cuties we were. Ok, gotta go. Love you girl.”

“Bye love.”

Laura put the lasagna in the oven then went into Lizzie’s room to gather the detritus of teenage life:
5 dirty glasses
3 towels stained Manic Panic Electric Pink Pussycat
4 empty chip bags
2 cereal bowls but no spoons
clothing everywhere – like an H & M store on a Saturday.
Her bedroom was a tableau of teenage life that you might stumble upon at a cool downtown gallery.

The one thing that Lizzie kept clean and organized was the makeup area in her bathroom: lipglosses, brushes and eyeliners all standing tall and proud in their clear plastic containers.

“I can’t believe my fourteen year old daughter has her own bathroom,” Laura thought to herself.

Growing up she had shared a cramped, second floor bathroom with two younger brothers. Every morning her mother would yell:

“For the Love of God Laura, let your brothers in the bathroom! You can put your makeup on downstairs.”

Laura’s mother would drive them to school wearing curlers in her hair. Though it was mortifying at the time, Laura now appreciated it as a practical mom thing to do.

After tidying up and doing laundry, Laura poured herself a glass of Cab Sauvignon which she sipped while making a salad.

Lizzie slothed into the house with a deflated look on her face. She had dyed her hair pink to impress Violet, her latest crush. Violet was a very tall, very skinny girl who had long straight aquamarine hair. She wore all-black and spoke with a British accent from her years living in London. In typical high school fashion, where getting one’s heart broken was as common as bad cafeteria food, it turned out that Violet was not interested in Lizzie. Violet only had eyes for Brian.

“How could she like Brian?! He’s like – what’s that word you love using mom?”

“Smarmy?”

“Ya! He’s smarmy! And he wears these eighties style polo shirts with the collar up – like ‘ironic-preppy.’ He’s repulsive.”

“He sounds vile. Listen, I am so, so sorry about Violet, but honey on the positive side – your hair looks amazing!” Laura said while kissing her sweet, freckled, fourteen year old forehead.

“Thanks mom.”

“Dinner is fifteen minutes out so don’t eat too much crap.”

Lizzie backward-waved at her from the hallway on her way to her bedroom.

“Smells delicious babe,” her husband kissed her neck as he passed through the kitchen.

“I just need to call Tom Finklestein, be right back,” he said tossing his blazer on the couch.

“Fifteen minutes or I’m never making dinner again.”

The lasagna was a big hit and Lizzie told her dad all about Violet and Smarmy Brian.

“Oh Lizzie, I’m sorry, what an upsetting day. But let me tell you something: anyone who chooses ironic preppy over you has a major problem. As your grandma used to say – For The Love Of God.”

They all laughed. David was very good at making Lizzie laugh when she was upset, it was one of the things Laura loved most about him.

Lizzie’s fuchsia hair had inspired Laura, so in the middle of the night she went into her studio and started working on a new canvas. It would be the final painting in her series entitled “Shirley’s Cakes,” due to showcase at The Topanga Canyon Gallery, where rich Bohemians bought Laura’s artwork.

Her mother, Shirley, had been the love of her life and though she had died over two years ago, Laura still felt raw with grief. Shirley had been an amazing baker and had been especially fond of baking – and eating – cakes. Laura started painting her mother with fuchsia hair and curlers, stirring an oversized bowl of cake batter. The bowl was cauldron-like, as if she was stirring up a magic potion.

As she worked on creating the desired shade of pink, Laura remembered a pink cake Shirley had once baked for her: when Laura first got her period, Shirley had surprised her with a two-layer red velvet cake with pink colored cream cheese icing. It read “Congratulations!” in red cursive and her brothers had been jealous:

“Why does she get a special cake? It’s not fair!’

Shirley had yelled:

“Because she’s a woman today – she got her period! Women deserve period cakes every month.”

Her dad had simply said:

“Stop being knuckleheads so we can eat the cake.”

While painting, Laura often spoke to her mother – out loud. One time David had walked in on her and asked:

“Are you on speakerphone?”

“No, I’m chatting with my mother.”

“Oh…okay…”

Laura told her mother about Violet and Smarmy Brian and about how she and Michelle were planning a girl’s trip to NYC in October.

Shirley always had opinions:

“That Violet is faking her accent, she only lived in London for two years. And For The Love Of God Laura, please buy a proper fall coat. Every time you travel to the east coast you’re freezing – you’re such an LA girl! By the way, I love Lizzie’s her new hair color, what a spectacular young woman she is.”

“I know. Sometimes I just look at her and I want to cry because she’s so precious to me.”

“That’s how I was with you. When you were young I would just stand at your bedroom door with tears streaming down my face; I was overwhelmed by my love for you.

“I miss you mom. I’m going to make coffee now because I need to be awake when I drive Lizzie to school.”

“Before you go: make sure the gallery prices these painting high. Soon half of Hollywood is going to have Laura Keating paintings in their fancy homes. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks Mom.”

Laura made a pot of coffee, then had one of her madcap ideas: she would bake Lizzie a Betty Crocker cake for breakfast. Lizzie loved their yellow cake with the canned chocolate frosting. Laura checked the pantry to make sure she had everything and then, since David was still asleep, she took an army shower and threw on her school drop-off uniform:
skinny jeans, tank top and long, kimono-style robe.

She grabbed some healthy snacks for Lizzie and threw them on top of her black Converse so she wouldn’t forget to take them to school.

At 7:00 am Laura woke her up by standing at her door and blasting The Go-Go’s “Our Lips are Sealed” on her iphone.

“OMG mom seriously?! Stop it with the 80’s music wake-ups!”

“But they’re so fun! Get ready, I have a special breakfast for you.”

“I’m not going to school. I don’t want to see Violet and Smarmy Brian googly-eyeing each other.”

“Wear something fabulous – maybe that new asymmetrical top thing-y, and do one of your dramatic cat eyes. Then just walk down those hallways letting your light shine bright.”

“Mom, you sound kind of lit, have you been up all night painting?”

“Yes I have darlin! Breakfast in 20 minutes.”

Laura gulped down coffee and finished frosting the cake. She poured Lizzie a glass of orange juice and set a place for her at the kitchen table with the cake placed in front of her.

David zoomed through and said:

“I’m late, I’ll grab a Starbucks on the road. Cake for breakfast? You’re nuts. Have a good day babe!” He kissed her on the cheek as he flew out.

“You baked me Betty Crocker for breakfast?!”

Lizzie sat down and Laura cut them both big pieces.

“Lizzie, this cake is to celebrate how fucking spectacular you are. Please don’t ever forget it. Got it?

“Got it,” said Lizzie taking a massive bite. “This is sooo yummy!”

“And another thing: between the cake and the orange juice your blood sugar level is going to crash in an hour or less, so make sure to have one of those protein bars on you, otherwise you’re likely to go off.”

“Will do. Becks just texted me. She wants me to come over for dinner tonight, her mom will pick us up. Can I go?”

“Her mom is that super conservative woman right?”

“Ya.”

“Okay, but just promise me you won’t listen to a word she says.”

“I’m going to tell her you made me cake for breakfast.”

“Oh I love that, please do – she will be horrified.”

They finished eating in happy silence.

Photo:
https://manicpanic.com/collections/hair-color/products/electric-pink-pussycat-classic-high-voltage