Pimpin’ It

Lattes in hand, we’re heading out of the café on our way to the video store when George notices the shelf full of books on the wall and pauses to quickly scan the titles. “So what’s the difference between romances and porno anyway?” she asks.

“Great question,” I answer, holding the door for her as we head out to the car. “I think of romances as having plots and character development, with the sex being secondary and typically related to or forwarding the plot or development of a character or characters’ relationships, while porn—not that I’m an expert on porn,” I add quickly, since I’m something of a mentor to George, “—well, porn tends to be more about the sex, and primarily for purposes of stimulation.”

“Hmmmmm,” says George. “And what’s the difference between soft-core and hard-core porn?”

“Hmmmm,” I say. “Again, this is purely speculation on my part, but I’d say that ‘soft core’ is more about suggestion, leaving a lot to the reader’s or viewer’s imagination, whereas ‘hard core’ is pretty graphic, either visually or descriptively. Actually,” I continue, suddenly remembering, “I once kinda wrote soft-core porn.”

“You wrote soft-core porn? Wait ’til I tell Harry!” exclaims George. “This is going on Facebook.”

“No, wait!” I say. “It’s not quite like that. Seriously. No Facebooking.”

“So then ’splain yoself, ho,” demands George.

It was my first job out of college at 23. Despite having a degree in history and language, I was itching to write, and so of course I responded when I found the ad “Writer Wanted” in a peninsula newspaper. I called about the job every day for two weeks, until the managing editor finally called me back and had me in for an interview, and then I called every day for four weeks after that until she hired me. “I couldn’t stand getting another voicemail from you,” she said, when she finally gave me the job.

“You want to write? You’ll be writing.” That’s all she needed to tell me. Never mind that I’d be writing for an odd mix of magazines – a fitness mag, a women’s bodybuilding mag, and a swimwear mag – which essentially served as wrappers for a swimwear catalog, swimwear being the publisher’s other line of business. Talk about blind ambition; I was ready to do anything to be a professional writer.

“So here’s the deal,” explained Mona, my editor, on day one of the job. “Jed, Suzie and I,” she nodded at my two somewhat taciturn writer colleagues, “will handle the writing for the fitness and bodybuilding mags, since that’s our area of expertise.” (Aha! That explained Mona and Suzie’s necks, which although similar to Jed’s, were beefier than one usually sees on women.) “You’ll help out with those, but you’ll mostly handle editorial for the swimwear mag and the new cheesecake mag we’ll be launching soon. (Fitness, swimwear, food; an ever-more-eclectic editorial mix, but variety would keep things interesting, I thought.)

“Anyway, we’re officially on deadline; just a week before we go to press on the swimwear mag,” continued Mona, “And we haven’t started yet.” (Which, I soon came to discover, was always the case.) “So we need to get moving. And the first thing you need to do is write the Letters to the Editor.”

“You mean edit letters we’ve received from the readership?” I asked.

Mona, Suzie and Jed laughed. “Yeah, sure, if you can find anything worth printing. But most of them are from prisoners. You’ll see,” Mona said, smirking at my shocked expression. “You gotta make that shit up, honey. And it’s gotta be some good shit.”

I felt squeamish about pushing the boundaries of ethical journalism with faked reader feedback. So I did my research; I spent 12 minutes reading through the sorry little pile of letters to the editor, most of them penciled in all caps on folded sheets of lined notebook paper. The gist (minus the spelling and grammar errors) was this:

“Dear [insert name of model here], I really liked those sexy pictures of you in those sexy bathing suits in the last issue. I imagine your sexy self here keeping me company at night. I really would like to hear from you. Would you write to me and send me some more of your sexy pictures, maybe some sexy pictures especially for me? Signed, [insert name here], [insert name of prison here].”

The few that were not from prisoners were letters from young women who included pictures of themselves posing in their swimwear in amateur shots most likely taken by their boyfriends or husbands, although there was the occasional polished professional shot, identified by its hallmark soft focus. I marveled that they entrusted us (the “dear editors”) with these photos, but couldn’t imagine actually using them.

Gulp. Within minutes, I realized I would have to make shit up. We were on deadline, we had no content, my editor had told me it would be this way, and I guess my soul was a cheap sell; the lure of the opportunity to write was too powerful. First, letters to the editor, and if I proved myself with those, then who knew what next?

“So you did it?” asks George. “And this relates to soft-core porn – how?”

“I’ll show you,” I say. When we get back to my house after a stop at the video store, I rummage around in my filing cabinets and pull out a copy of the magazine I wrote for some 22 years ago now. I flip to the Letters section, skim it and cringe.

George grabs it from me and reads aloud:

“Dear Editors,

I happened to pick up one of your swimwear catalogs a few weeks ago. At first, I blushed at some of the designs—I knew I was too self-conscious to wear them. However, I’d spent the whole summer working out, and so I was feeling quite good about my body. Why not show it off?

Well, I ordered the white gauze bikini through your toll-free line, receiving it through the mail only a few days later” –

—“I thought that was especially clever,” I interrupt George. “I managed to work in the toll-free ordering and the fast fulfillment in the letter. Nice, eh?”

“Eh,” says George, and continues.

—“I tried it on immediately and found the fit was absolutely wonderful. Never have I felt so comfortable in a bathing suit. It was the closest thing to wearing nothing at all that I have ever experienced.

How true this was became readily apparent a couple of weeks ago when I was vacationing in Mexico. Needing to cool off a bit after sitting under the blazing sun, I decided to take a dip in the ocean. Upon re-emerging, I found the eyes of most of the people (and all of the men) on the beach were riveted on me—and my wet gauze wrapping. A disconcerting sensation at first, but one I’m sure I’ll get used to.”

“Ugh! Harry’s mom!” says George. “You were a TOTAL ho-bag!”

“I know, I know,” I say. “But it did have some redeeming marketing qualities: I plugged the excellence of the swimsuit fit, toll-free ordering, and fast fulfillment, all in one entertaining package.”

“Ugh,” says George. “Did you write other porno too?”

“Well,” I say, “That gig did lead to a bigger assignment, as I expected.”

Pretty soon, Mona started giving me the Letter from the Publisher, as well as articles for the fitness magazines. And not just because I wanted to write. Often it was because she was nowhere to be found. She disappeared from the office for days at a time, leaving Jed and Suzie and me to do our best, writing stories when we had material and making shit up when we didn’t.

My biggest assignment came a couple of months into my employment. On one of her rare days in the office, Mona called together our motley editorial crew and told us we were going to launch the new cheesecake magazine. “I LOVE cheesecake,” I said, “And I know of a few good places for cheesecake. But that seems light fare for monthly content, if you’ll pardon my cheesey joke, heh heh.”

Mona barked a laugh. “Honey, are you for real? We’re talking cheesecake cheesecake. As in pin-ups. We’re doing a magazine featuring the wholesome girl-next-door in her favorite cheesecake shot. Send in those photos, gals – it’s content on the cheap, baby! We’ll also do a feature on the winner of our recent swimwear competition, and, of course, spreads of our regular models. We’re giving our biggest fan base”—(and here she meant the prisoners)—“what they’ve been asking for.”

And just as I was about to say, “Gag me with a spoon. I quit!” Mona added, “And you can write as much of this new magazine as you want.”

Hmmmmmmmm.

“Wow, Harry’s mom,” says George. “Sounds like a real moral dilemma. I’m assuming you quit?”

“Actually, I didn’t,” I say. “And maybe I was fooling myself, but I thought about it and decided to stay and do the magazine because I figured heck, one: I’d get to do all the writing, Mona being Mona and most likely absent; and two: being that I’d get to do all the writing, I could do an inside job, and make the magazine non-exploitative. Wholesome cheesecake, if you will.”

And I did try. Over the next few weeks, as I essentially wrote that first issue of Cheesecake magazine cover to cover, I took pleasure in knowing that I was doing my best to make the copy as smart and respectful as possible of these trusting young women—many of whom were, granted, more than happy to share photos of themselves scantily clad, for free, if they’d end up in a national newsstand publication.

I tried to set the tone for the new magazine with the opening paragraphs of the Letter from the Publisher:

“If you tried to trace the beginnings of man’s interest in images of women, you could start with the drawings scratched on the walls of our ancestors’ caves. Admittedly, those primitive etchings left much to be desired as far as sexy visual representations go, but they were the beginning of a multi-millennial fascination man has had with viewing the female form.”

I threw in some more history, to serve as a rationalization for the mag, while staking out turf on the moral high ground . . .

“There is one period that captured the modern male’s love of women better than any other—the era of the pin-up girl. In its World War II heyday, the pin-up epitomized an appreciative representation of women that was sexy . . . and fun. The swimsuits revealed just enough to stimulate any young man’s imagination, and the classic pin-ups—from Rita Hayworth to Marilyn Monroe—were provocative enough, even fully clothed, to take most imaginations to new heights. The pin-up girl was beautiful and sexy, without crossing the line of morality and good taste.”

“Nice,” says George. “Sneaky, if not a little academic with the vocab.”

It was. But not as sneakily subversive as my interview with the centerfold, Cherry – or so I liked to think.

A centerfold spread was one of Cherry’s prizes for winning the Cheesecake Swimwear contest. With Mona once again AWOL—at three weeks, now her longest absence—and Jed and Suzie with their hands full writing the other mags, I took the interview.

We did it by phone, which was just as well, because as determined as I was to pull something pithy out of this beauty queen’s mouth, this girl was an airhead, and I had to put myself on mute several times to jab myself in the hand with my pen to stay awake. Nonetheless, in the intro to the final article I wrote:

“Cherry is a young woman of engaging presence. She is stunning; one glance at her pictures and that fact is obvious. Shapely and lithe at 5 feet and 9 inches, she moves with grace and ease. But Cherry’s is a beauty that is much more than “skin deep.” Talk with her for a while. In conversation, Cherry’s charm, wit and intelligence captivate. No wonder then, that the judges chose her as the winner in the recent Cheesecake Swimwear contest.”

In truth, our interview was full of a lot of nothing, but I did manage to make her sound like a woman who was savvy to what she was doing and very carefully and consciously managing her body as her brand.

Not that anybody actually ever read the interview. I knew they wouldn’t once I saw the almost-final layout. There was Cherry, body oiled and topless, arms strategically crossed to conceal, while simultaneously offering glimpses of the upper or lower curves of her tits and her ass. She sported the infamous white gauze bikini bottom, which revealed that she was waxed within a millimeter of her you-know-what, and a red-lipped, open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression on her face as if to say “What? My top has gone missing? And you can almost see my you-know-what? Oh my!” That line of morality and good taste I’d mentioned in the Letter from the Publisher, yeah, well, it was left way, way behind in the dust, without a backward glance as the magazine veered off-course into soft-core porn.

I had tried. And failed.

“Wow,” says George. “So, essentially you pimped yourself, just like Cherry.”

“Yeah, basically,” I concede. “Except I both deluded and pimped myself. Much worse.”

Once was enough. I didn’t want to do it again. After we got the magazine out—and Mona still hadn’t resurfaced—I decided to take our publisher up on his open-door policy and have a discussion, in advance, about the next issue of Cheesecake, and how we might do a better job of staying on the “wholesome” side of the line if we did a little more preparation and had something like, say, a bona fide editorial plan and calendar, with management behind it.

He listened to me without saying a word until I was finished, and then he asked, “How long have you been here?”

“Almost three months, sir,” I said.

“Three months,” he said. “And aren’t you the one who wrote that article on Cherry?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, pleased that he knew.

“Crap,” he said. “That was complete, total, boring crap. You could have done more with that interview. Fantasy stuff. Shit like that. And you tell me you’ve been here just three months. What the hell do you know? Why should I listen to you? Get the hell out of my office.”

I looked at him blankly for a moment. And then I realized: He was right. If I was going to do this thing, I had to do it hard core. I was surprised to feel myself flooded from head to toe with a feeling of complete and utter relief as his words sank in. “Yes, sir,” I said. “More than happy to, sir. At once.”

And I left his office, went back to mine, and packed my things.

“And?” asks George.

“And then I left. And never went back. That was it.”

“Wow, Harry’s mom,” says George. “Now that was hard core.”

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com

Monkey Baby Mama

“What’s going on in here? You planning on building a bomb with all that brown sugar?”

Neighbor Kate stands in my kitchen, surveying the chaos. I’m cleaning with purpose this Saturday morning, and since before dawn, I’ve been attacking the kitchen cupboards. In the clean out, I’ve found and stacked about eight two-pound bags of brown sugar.

“Hell, I would if it would blast me through this fuckin’ wall,” I say.

“Hmmmmm,” says Kate, her usual calm self. “It’s a process. You’re going to make it through this.”

Kate knows that of late I’ve been locked in a struggle of the psyche. My newfound freedom as an empty nester has a flip side: I don’t know what comes next. And after years of dressing up in nicely starched and pressed identities – mom, authority, advisor, breadwinner – suddenly, I’m not sure who I am and what I should be doing.

This weekend, though, I’m determined to break the impasse, employing the tools of meditation and housecleaning. The extra impetus to find some answers has come from a recent conversation at work with my friend Lance. After catching him up on news of Harrison, including her decision to stay in Boston over the summer, I’d admitted I’m finding it challenging to adjust to my new state.

“Yeah,” said Lance, not unsympathetically. “I was just watching a show about something like that. There was this woman, who, same as yourself, was having a hard time with the empty nest.”

“Yes? And?” I said, hoping to glean insight and inspiration from another’s experience.

“Well, she decided to adopt a monkey,” Lance said.

“What?”

“Yeah. It filled the void for her. She raised this little monkey as if it were her child – dressed it up, carried it around, took it with her wherever she went. It was wild.”

Adopted a fuckin’ monkey? WHAT THE HELL? I found myself thinking. Is this what I’ll be reduced to, at this stage of my life? In my prime and more than ready for my next meaningful endeavor (even if I don’t know yet what it is), I’ll end up parenting a primate? And one that won’t even grow up able to support me in my dotage? I had a hot flash on the spot.

Lance must have noticed; he asked, “You okay?”

“Wow, Lance,” I said. “Wow. I just didn’t see that coming. And I had thought it would be terrible if I ended up old and alone and the Cat Lady. Thanks for that.”

Although, rationally, I know this cannot possibly be my fate, the thought persists – I’m going to end up old and alone and some monkey baby mama. I try to shake it off, but in my mind’s eye I see me carrying a hairy baby ape, dressed in matching mother-daughter outfits as we sit in a mall food court somewhere in the Midwest and people walk by, gawking, “Look, ma, pa! Carny folk!” It’s torture. (Self torture, but still.)

So I’m determined to move beyond this. After Kate leaves, I take myself to the meditation cushion. I’m heeding the advice of one of my early Buddhist teachers: “If you can’t find your balance, take your seat.” I WILL sit here and penetrate to the heart of this monkey baby mama crap.

I am working with four questions offered by meditation teacher Byron Katie:

1. Is it true?

2. Can you absolutely know it’s true?

3. How do you react when you believe that thought?

4. Who would you be without that thought?

I start with the first question: Is it true that I’m going to end up old and alone and some monkey baby mama?

And my mind responds with (in my mother’s voice, surprisingly!): Oh for God’s sakes! Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s not true. I own only those pets that can manage some self care – like cats; cats are perfect pets. I don’t want to own a dog pet and I especially don’t want monkey pets. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous – and unfair to them – to own non-domesticated animals as pets. First monkeys, and then what? Ferrets? Llamas? Tigers? Black mambas? Sheesh. Nope. Not doing that. Plus, even if I did own a monkey, because, let’s say, someone gave it to me, or my sister herself was a monkey baby mama and willed it to me, I would NOT dress it up in a matching outfit and I certainly wouldn’t treat it as my baby. I’d donate it to a good zoo.

Hmmmmm. Or would I? I mean, if it was my sister’s beloved baby monkey, then I might feel obligated to open my home to it, and yes, if it was accustomed to wearing an outfit and seemed to be pining to wear one, I might even have to dress it up. On occasion. Sheesh. This is harder than I thought. But then, my sister doesn’t show any signs of adopting a monkey baby. Well, not yet. But I’m just saying, if she did. Could I end up a monkey baby mama after all?

Ending the answer with that question prompts me to ask and answer question two: Can I absolutely know that it’s true that I’m going to end up old and alone and a monkey baby mama?

I sigh and reply: No, thankfully, I cannot absolutely know that it’s true. In fact, chances are pretty good that I’m not going to end up a monkey baby mama (see paragraphs 1 and 2 above). Chances are also good that I’m not going to end up alone, although chances are pretty good that I am going to end up old. I mean, I don’t know, for sure-for sure, but who can know?

Who can know? This question leads me to question number three. How do you react when you believe the thought that you’re going to end up old and alone and some monkey baby mama?

Well, first of all, I have a hot flash. Then I get cranky. And then I just want to curl up in a ball, in a fetal position, and cry my heart out. Why? Why do I feel that way? I ask myself. Because I should have the answer, damn it; I’m supposed to have the answer about what comes next. I’ve been in this transition for a while and it’s about time now. I should know. I’m equipped and able-bodied, the beneficiary of so many wonderful opportunities, and there’s work to be done in the world. I should be ready to undertake the next important relationship, the next important creative endeavor, the next important contribution to the betterment of humankind’s or the world’s problems.

And then I realize that my restless mind is telling me – no, threatening me: You are destined to become old and alone and monkey baby mama if you DON’T figure out soon what it is that comes next. And it’s this story that is creating anxiety for me as well as aversion to the one who became the focus of it all – some woman, unknown to me, somewhere in the world, who came to love a baby monkey.

So, I find myself at the fourth and final question: Who would you be without that thought? And the answer cuts through the chatter of my monkey mind: I’d be a person in transition who just doesn’t know what comes next – and who may not know for a while.

Ahhhhhhhhhh. Bingo! Game rumbled. I exhale deeply and gently ask myself: So, can you take your seat? Can you try sitting with this uncertainty?

I re-settle myself on the cushion and turn my attention to my breath. Inhaling, exhaling, with awareness, I feel the breath entering and leaving my body, and feel my belly and chest swell and release. I feel myself on the cushion and feel my bones pressing down on the cushion’s firm surface. I hear the hum of the fan on the mantelpiece and feel the movement of the air on my face and hair. I hear the birdsong in the backyard and the sound of a lone fly buzzing in the room with me. I hear the wind moving through the leaves of the old elm, and I see the sunlight on the walls as it comes through the window. I observe as my mind continues to throw thoughts around, and rather than taking them up, I try to let them arise and pass away. Gently, gently, I move beyond the busy-busy thinking in the foreground and into the spaciousness of a much broader awareness.

I sit for a long while, observing my thoughts coming and going. I breathe and follow my breath in and out. I try to rest in awareness. I do not know what comes next. I am sitting with it. And in this moment, this is what sitting with not knowing feels like: I am not suffering; I am at peace. And I am not monkey baby mama.

Much later, I rise and I write:

Monkey baby mama

Object of mocking laughter

Cleared eyes see

Love in a funky wrapper.

And then I get back to the cleaning.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com

The Wench Whisperer

It’s a crappy day at the office. Layoffs loom, my manager gives notice, and I’m passed over as her replacement, a position which goes instead to a friend and colleague. Despite years of Buddhist practice, I don’t transcend easily, so I opt for a practice I have mastered.

“I need a stiff one. Bad day,” I say when Horst picks up the phone. “Want to go for drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Let me put the groceries away and I’ll meet you somewhere.”

We both live in Paly, and we agree to meet at a place on Main Street – an easy bike ride for me and a two-minute walk for Horst. I get there first and find a table near floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto the sidewalk, so we can drink and people-watch. Horst strides up shortly after, and folds his athletic 6’3” frame into the rattan café chair.

“First things first,” he says, and gestures to the waiter. I order a cosmopolitan and he orders his usual, an extra dry martini with three olives. “So, what’s up?”

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” I say, and disclose my true reason for calling: “I need a good laugh.”

More than talking about it or drinking about it, I need to laugh. Laugh about the day, yes, but really, a good laugh or two about anything will help me shake the mood. And Horst can make me laugh; he has since my first week on the job three years ago. Although I’m not sure he believes it, I’ve told Horst that had it not been for his regular check-ins and the fact that I could look forward to a good ROFL (roll on the floor, laughing) at approximately 4 p.m. daily, I would have left within the first four months of joining the company.

Our drinks come and Horst proffers the plastic stir stick with the three vermouth-soaked olives. As is customary, I pluck the one off the end.

“So you need a good laugh. Great,” he says. “Let’s talk about your love life.”

“Shut up,” I say. “Let’s talk about yours.” Horst is in relationship limbo while his girlfriend Linnea travels the globe for a year.

Horst teases me, but I know he’s fishing to see if this is where the day’s trouble lies. He knows about Doc, and before Doc, Aaron. He knows it’s been a hard few months, and after both breakups, he checked in many an evening and got me laughing when, I suspect, he suspected my fingers might be itching to do some drunk dialing or emailing. I return the favor when I know he’s missing Linnea.

“Anyway, I’m not really dating right now,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “I was having a hard time keeping the names of all your men straight: Male Dom, the S&M gentleman who offered to dominate you; Playah Dom, Writer Dom, Geek Dom – oh, and let’s not forget . . . Nostril Dom-us, your guy with the third nostril . . . “

I crack a smile. “Fuck off. And it wasn’t quite a third nostril anyway. More like a large flap of excess skin.”

“Nostril. Flap of skin. Whatever. Enjoy your freedom, Wench. You’ll find true love someday – someday when you’re least expecting it. It’ll happen, hmmm, in the produce section at Safeway, right here in town. Yeah. That’s it. You’ll both be standing there, feeling up the avocados, squeezing those soft green orbs ever so gently – mmmm, ooooo, mmmm – and your eyes will meet, and then. . . “

He gets a giggle out of me. “Goofball.”

We order another round of drinks and add some appetizers. Over a shared calzone, Horst moseys the talk around to work.

“So it’s ‘strategery’ season,” he says.

“Boy howdy.” I nod. As is annual tradition, our management are circulating the business strategies for the new fiscal year. Email volume has increased threefold. Always a treat.

“I’ve been giving our company’s business strategy a lot of thought,” says Horst. “It’s been keeping me awake nights. And you know what? I think I have one that might work.”

“Oh?”

“I’m serious. And it’s so simple that I can boil it down to a three-letter acronym.” I roll my eyes; companies here in Silicon Valley are replete with TLAs; ours is infamous for them. “It’s short, sweet, catchy. Easily communicated.”

“So, what is it?”

“SFP.”

“SFP?”

“Yeah. SFP. ‘Sell Fucking Product.’” I snort my drink through my nose as a belly laugh catches me.

Horst lifts an eyebrow and purses his lips. “That’s really attractive,” he says. “And now you need more booze. You just blew half of it. Literally.”

We order another cosmo and martini, and eventually I tell Horst everything about the day and my conversation with my boss, including the part of the story where I might have come across as, shall we say, less than diplomatic. “Hmmm,” he says, “You fucked yourself for sure on that one. Here’s a consolation prize,” he adds and extends another olive.

“I know,” I say. “I just wish I knew how to shut up. Sometimes I’m a little too direct, and I know that’s uncomfortable for the nonconfrontational.”

“Nah,” he says, “I like your honesty. I admire that about you. I’m sure you had thoughtful, valid points, and I can’t imagine you were mean about it. Direct perhaps, but not mean. And don’t forget,” he says, trying to keep a straight face, “‘Courage’ is one of our prized corporate attributes.”

Another eye roll from me. “Yeah. Right.”

Horst pauses. But I’m ready to hear it; the drinks and the olives and the laughter have lowered my defenses, and I know he won’t be unkind. “Seriously, here’s the thing, though,” Horst says. “I’ve been in your friend’s shoes, stepping in as acting when a manager leaves. Look, Wenchie, I know you’re feeling a little unhappy about all the change in the situation; you’ve been dealing with a lot recently. And I think you did the best you could on the spot with the news today.”

I take a big gulp of my cosmo. “But . . . “

He nods. “That’s right; screw your courage to the sticking point . . . but . . . now it’s time to wish your manager well and get behind your friend and make things work.” He pauses. “And I know you will. I’m just saying.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“I know you know I know.”

I sigh. Horst nods and makes a silly frowny googly-eyed face at me. Childish, yes. But I laugh anyway. It feels good.

It’s late when we finish our drinks. I’m missing the headlight on my bike and Horst is too inebriated to drive, so we swing by his house and he outfits me with a jacket and a flashlight. I bike home, cheerful, crappy day mitigated, thanks to better living through laughter.

Horst emails me the next day at work: Getting back on your game? I hope so. And by the way, Wench, I might have been a tad tipsy, but not tipsy enough to forget that you’ve taken my only tennis jacket AND my flashlight. Cough it up.

I reply: Will do. (Cough. Cough.) And yes, I’m better. Much better. Thank you.

He emails back: All in a day’s work. And signs it: The Wench Whisperer, at your service.

***

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com

Goodwill Hunting

Saturday, 6:30 a.m.: I awaken, shower, dress, and brew and pack a thermos of strong coffee before heading across the Bay to Berkeley to visit my friend Joanne.

“You need to talk to my mother. I’m worried about her.” In the message she left for me two nights ago, Jan sounded distressed. “She’s a woman obsessed. Call her and ask her to tell you what she’s been up to.”

I dialed Joanne, who picked up on the second ring. “Heh-loooooo. Where have you been, you bitch?” Her characteristic greeting for me gave no indication anything was amiss.

“Around. Busy. Work. You know. But we need to catch up,” I said casually. “Can I come for a visit?”

“Sure. Saturday. But dress low-key. Nothing flashy. We’ve got work to do. You’ll ride along with me.”

Saturday, 8:00: a.m.: I swing the car into the driveway of Joanne and Nathan’s Spanish-style house, within walking distance of the campus where Nathan teaches. I cross the garden to the front door, and Joanne greets me with a hug and a kiss. Jan calls a sleepy hello from upstairs.

Joanne brews me a perfect cappuccino (strong, hot, light foam) and plies me with fresh-baked muffins and jam. I catch her up on news of Harrison, work, and my love life and then gently guide the conversation around to the purpose of my visit.

“Look,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I think Jan’s worried about you. Really worried.”

“Why? There’s nothing to worry about. I know what I’m doing. You’ll see.” Joanne looks at her watch. “Shit! C’mon, get your things. It’s time to roll.”

Saturday, 8:50 a.m.: We are in Joanne’s car. She drives like a maniac, pulling into the huge parking lot of a Goodwill store downtown. “Stay put a moment,” she says, scanning the line of people filing into the store.

“Joanne?” I ask. “What are we doing here?”

“We are Goodwill hunting,” says Joanne.

Saturday, 9:01 a.m.: We enter the front door of the Goodwill store. There’s a lot of stuff. Rounders of clothing, grouped by color, populate the main floor. To the right are wall-to-wall shelves of dishware, crockware, cookware, and glass as well as racks of electronics and small kitchen appliances. To the left, more shelves of books, records, and CDs; stands of shoes and handbags and bins of toys and even bicycles. I am overwhelmed.

Joanne steers us purposefully to the far left side of the store, back toward two swinging double doors. “Stand near the bookshelves,” she hisses at me, and then flattens herself against the wall near the doors. I pretend to browse the titles (Berkeley fare: The Physics of God, A Gradual Awakening, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance) and watch out of the corner of my eye as Joanne sidles over to the doors and pushes one open about four inches, peering inside. She’s back at my side in a flash.

“They’re almost ready to bring out the first cart,” she whispers.

Saturday, 9:27 a.m.: We’re on stakeout near the doors through which the goods will come. We’re still pretending to peruse the book and video titles when we hear the rumbling of the cart. Joanne is on it as it comes through the swinging doors, and almost before the Goodwill employee has set the brake on the cart, she’s picked off a pair of shoes and a retro-looking lemon squeezer.

She hands me the lemon squeezer. “Here. This will look great in your kitchen.”

She’s right. “How do you do that?” I ask.

“What do you mean? I told you – I’ve been doing this for years. I know what your place looks like, and Ruthie’s place and Susan’s place. I know what the kids need. I keep all of this in mind, so when I see things that might work, I get them,” she says. It’s true, I think, recalling the ergonomic sofa (obtained from a closing chiropractor’s office) she’d given me a year ago saying, “This will look great in your little living room and should work for your back too.”

“Ah. Is that why you’re getting the shoes? Shopping for someone?” I ask, looking at her diminutive size 6 feet. “Those are at least an 8.”

“Do you know what these are?” she asks. “These are good shoes. Do you understand? Cole-Haans.”

“But. . . “

“No. They’re not for anybody specifically,” she says. “You’ll see. Come.”

I follow Joanne over to the handbag section and then over to the main counter, where there are more leather goods. She takes a quick inventory.

“Nothing more here,” she says. “We’ll be back later.”

Saturday, 10: 15 a.m.: Joanne drives us to two more Goodwill locations in town and nearby. When we enter the third store, I spot a woman who seems familiar. I place the face.

“Didn’t we see her at the first store?” I ask.

Joanne looks pleased. “You’re catching on,” she nods. “She’s one of the regulars. And that bitch is good. She has the hand when it comes to glassware.”

“ ‘The hand’? Do you mean ‘the eye’?” I ask.

“The hand. The eye. Whatever,” says Joanne. “The point is, she knows her glass. From piles of crap, she will always reach in and pull out the one beautiful thing there.

“That’s how it is,” she continues. “The regulars, most of us, have specialties. For her it’s glass and ceramics. Others go for bicycles. Others electronics.”

“And you?” I ask.

“I’m into leather.”

Saturday, 11:00 a.m.: We’ve returned to the first Goodwill location. Joanne is back at her station, hovering near the double doors. She peeks her head in, and engages in a brief conversation with an employee.

“The next cart will be out soon,” she says. “Follow me. I want to show you something else.”

She leads me to a rack of sleeping bags, on hangers, and feels the bottom of first a mustard yellow one, and then a green and brown plaid model, clucking to herself.

“Ahhhh. Here we are!” She reaches into the sleeping bag, up to her shoulder. “Here’s my stash,” she says, pulling out a chartreuse sweater and a pair of shoes. “Do you see what I’m showing you?” she asks. I raise an eyebrow, afraid to commit either way. “I find things and then I tuck them away,” she explains.

“But why?”

“That should be obvious! For the sale days.”

“Ohhhhh.” I say.

“Other people try the same thing, but they’re not so smart. One time I hid two pairs of shoes here, and when I came back to pick them up, one pair was missing. I felt around, and two sleeping bags over, I found the other pair of shoes. Pitiful!”

I realize it can be dog-eat-dog on these floors. In this environment, weaker minds such as my own might become corrupted with avariciousness and grasping – and the thrill of beating out others in the race for the goods.

Saturday, 11:30 a.m.: I’m hungry, and I can’t pretend to scan the same book, movie, and (vinyl!) record titles over and over again. I pull out the Stephen Levine book on meditation and try to center myself while standing near the swinging double doors. It’s busier than it was earlier, and in addition to the woman with the “hand for glass,” I see three or four faces I recognize from other Goodwill locations. One has a shopping cart full of small appliances and electronics. The other is eying a bicycle propped along a wall. The third, a macho biker type, slouches nearby, waiting, a huge pile of used designer jeans slung over his shoulder.

Suddenly the cart is pushed through the doors. The crowd surges around it, engulfing Joanne, and within minutes, glass, ceramics, three handbags and four pairs of shoes have been claimed, as has a large industrial-strength blender and three lamps missing shades and with various busted parts. I raise a quizzical eyebrow at Joanne when she emerges, unscathed, clutching a handbag.

“Yes, there’s a lighting person too,” she nods.

Saturday, 12 noon: I am starving now, and I don’t think I can continue with the Goodwill stakeout. I start whining like a baby, and Joanne capitulates; we go to lunch. Over dim sum, I ask her how often she visits the Goodwill stores.

“Often. A few times,” she says.

“A few times a month? A week?”

She shrugs. “A few times a day.”

“A day? Every day?”

“Every day.”

“Joanne -” I start to say.

“Oh for God’s sake,” she cuts me off. “I’m not crazy. You still don’t understand, do you? I’m building a business!”

“A business?”

“Yes. I’m building a nearly-new handbag and shoe retail business on eBay. I go Goodwill hunting – and hunting in other places too – for leather goods in decent condition. Then I clean them, repair them, and resell them on eBay. And I donate some of those profits back to places like Goodwill.”

Wow – and whew! My dear friend is not stricken with OCD. At least it’s not hoarding on the pathological end of the spectrum; there’s a method to her madness. My fear for her sanity somewhat allayed, I’m now curious about her entrepreneurial chutzpah.

“And . . ?”

“I’m doing great,” she says. “The biggest problem is I can’t get the merch up fast enough. Last week I sold 12 items, which cost me only $38 plus my time, and I made $647 in profit.”

A look of satisfaction crosses Joanne’s face when my jaw drops.

Saturday, 1:30 p.m.: As we’re leaving the restaurant, a call comes through on Joanne’s cell. It is her son, Ari. “There’s a problem with eBay,” she says to me tersely, cupping her hand over the phone.

A vigorous conversation ensues. Joanne encapsulates when she hangs up. “Someone accused us of fraud. Said we were selling fake goods. Ari researched the bags online and found a site that features this particular Louis Vuitton epi leather bag. He figured out that the problem was how we described the color of the bag. We had labeled it ‘yellow’ – but it turns out that all ‘yellow’ epi leather bags come with a fuschia suede lining. He found another bag described as ‘vanilla.’ That’s the correct name for it. He’s trying to resolve the issue with eBay now.”

I had no idea that selling required such precision.

“Hell yes,” she nods emphatically. “Our reputation is at stake.”

Ari calls back a little later to tell us that everything’s cool and the merch is back on the block.

Saturday, 4:00 p.m.: After repeating the Goodwill circuit – twice – we are back at Joanne’s house, and she’s showing me the goods.

It’s not what I expected.

In the stores, these things are dusty, sometimes dirty; banged up, used. They are the things people have outgrown, tired of, or cast off because of upsizing, downsizing, tastes, trends, death. But here, in Joanne’s “stockroom,” as she calls it, they are a collection of objets d’art, restored to their original, formerly prized condition. They are, in a word, beautiful. I survey the handbags: Rich brown, deep blacks, unusual combinations of green and blue leathers. There is a smooth, burnished red leather purse with classic lines. And there are shoes. Pair upon pair of elegant, clever shoes.

“I had no idea, Joanne,” I say. “These things are absolutely stunning!”

“There may be a scratch or two, here or there,” she says, modestly. “But I’ve figured out ways to restore these pieces.”

We speak of “these pieces” as if they were part of a museum collection. I handle each one carefully as Joanne points out details on the purses, details that indicate that the item is the real deal. “See, this is stitched on, not glued on,” she says, showing me the Dooney & Bourke logo on a caramel leather bag. She holds up the vanilla epi leather Louis Vuitton purse, which surprises me with its delicate folds of thin leather. It is a work of art.

“Wow,” I say. “Wow.”

“Now you understand,” says Joanne.

Saturday, 5:00 p.m.: Jan calls me as I’m on the highway back to Paly.

“So? What do you think?”

“Well,” I say. “Your mother has the hand. The eye, I mean. The hand and the eye. She knows how to find the treasure.”

“That’s not what I mean,” says Jan. “Do you think she needs help? Therapy or something?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “She’s passionate about what she’s doing, she’s learning about her passion, and she’s channeling that passion in a productive way. I mean, as long as she’s not doing harm to herself or to others . . . or selling your personal handbag and shoes on eBay without your permission . . . “

“Not so far,” says Jan.

“Good,” I say. “But you call if she should ever try to, okay? Now, put your mom on the phone.”

Joanne picks up. “Yeeeees?”

“Um,” I say. “About that red leather handbag . . . “

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

Harrison Comes. And Harrison Goes.

Harry’s Mom! George texts me. When does Harry get in?

Word travels – by phone, by email, by text, by Facebook.

Too slow at texting, I dial George and leave her a voicemail. “George! Can’t wait to see you guys! Harry gets in this Friday. She’s here for two weeks. Dinner at the house the week after we get back from vacay. Everybody’s invited. Spread the word.”

* * * *

Harrison (like most of her friends) has just finished her sophomore year in college back east. It’s a long way away, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her. She’s coming home, but only for two weeks. This summer, she’s staying in Boston.

A day after she arrives, I’m taking Harrison to Mexico. It’s been four years since we’ve had a real vacation. And it’s been five months since I’ve seen my baby. I need time to know her again.

* * * *

My intention is to let Harrison go. My hope is that if I do so, she’ll choose to come back. Just because she wants to.

“I am like a beautiful butterfly that’s just burst its chrysalis,” she told me as a junior in high school. “And you are like an eight-year-old boy who wants to trap it. You have your little cup, and you’re trapping the butterfly with it, and then you’re sticking it in the refrigerator to slow it down, and then you’re making a little leash of dental floss and tying it around its neck. Why? Why would you do that?”

I don’t want to leash the butterfly. So my intention is to let Harrison go.

* * * *

Over dinner before her return for second semester last January, I acknowledged Harrison’s emancipation. I toasted her decision-making, her initiative, her resilience, and the myriad ways in which she was stepping up into her independence. Sentimental perhaps, but we both teared up. Maybe it was the benediction we needed to begin moving into the “adult stage” of our relationship. Sometimes corny speechifying is just the thing.

Back in Boston, Harrison started calling more often. Not to ask for advice or money. Just to talk over classes. Issues with her roommate. Her boyfriend. Politics. She called to tell me she was staying back east for spring break. A few weeks later she called to tell me she as staying back east for summer.

“Fuck!” I said as I got off the phone after that conversation. “FUH-UCK!”

* * * *

In Mexico, once settled in at our hotel, the first thing we do is have a beer together. Harrison takes a picture of us both and our cervezas and limes, holding the digital camera out and away from our smiling faces.

* * * *

In Mexico, we do four things: We play, we rest, we eat, and we talk. We seem to share the space easily. We are mostly companionable, and Harrison lets me know when I’m backsliding into mama mode. I remind her that it takes time to make big transitions, and as she’s evolving, I am too.

“You’re uptight,” says Harrison in exasperation one night, as I try to find us a taxi back from a rather deserted downtown, nervous as stray dogs begin gathering around us, sniffing at our boxed leftovers.

“I’m cautious in new surroundings,” I say. “And don’t forget: That character trait contributed to you successfully reaching adulthood.”

* * * *

Talk is all well and good, but the time spent together reveals all; shared experience either makes (or doesn’t) a relationship.

In Mexico, Harrison and I take the taxi to a small village with a good swimming beach and spend the morning and early afternoon in the warm, azure water. I suggest that we get a little more exercise by hiking the shoreline back to our hotel. When the sandy beach disappears into rocky cliff, we decide not to turn back. We share the tense adventure of picking a path across cliff tops about a half mile over to the next beach.

It takes us a while and we get badly sunburned and very cranky at the prospect of tumbling down the jagged rock, but we make it. We are rewarded with beer and tacos at an open air restaurant we happen upon, right on the beach. We sip from our bottles and gaze out over the blue into the bright cloudless sky that stretches as far as the eye can see. We hail a taxi to take us the rest of the way back to the hotel.

It becomes a running joke: Too cheap to take a taxi, I almost get us killed falling to our deaths in Mexico.

Now that’s a shared experience.

* * * *

“Best advice you’ve received?” I ask Harrison, sitting on the beach watching the sunset as the waves crash at our feet.

“ ‘Don’t listen to my advice.’ ”

“Worst advice?”

“’ Trust your gut.’ I say: NEVER trust your gut. Why would you trust important decisions to something that takes stuff and turns it into shit?”

I howl with laughter. Did I mention that Harrison’s an ENTP on the Myers Briggs, while I’m an INFP?

* * * *

We play, we rest, we eat, and we talk. By the end of the week, our sunburns are deep cinnamon tans, and we are relaxed and reconnected. We take a taxi back to the beachside restaurant and eat tacos and ceviche as the sun sets. We laugh (surreptitiously) at the gringo who plays a guitar and sings oldies from the 60s and 70s, with a cheap synthesizer providing the backbeat. We sing along to help when he forgets the words to John Denver’s “Country Roads.”

We are companionable as we pack and travel home.

* * * *

Back in Cali, our first stop home from the airport is Scout’s place. As we have done for years, since the two first started hanging out together in 7th grade, we swing by to pick her up at her house in the Paly hills and bring her back down to spend the night with us.

As we pull up, Scout dashes out from behind a parked car, waving and shouting. I slam on the brakes, and Harrison and I hop out. Big group hug – and then the girls whip out gifts for each other, part of their ritual greeting. Harrison hands Scout the bracelet she haggled for in the marketplace in Mexico, and Scout hands Harrison a carved wooden penis – a souvenir from her week’s travel in Bhutan.

“For prosperity and abundance,” she says.

“You win,” says Harrison.

* * * *

It is Reunion Week, week two of Harrison’s visit.

Out of school now, all of Harrison’s friends are back in town and stopping by. They exchange gifts and gossip. They are a roving flock, moving en masse about Paly, from house to house, to shopping mall, to frozen yogurt shop. I am glad I’ve had my week with Harrison. Now she spends time with her father and the gang, and so there’s only the occasional sighting until our group dinner.

Thursday evening before Harrison’s weekend departure, the kids start showing up at the house around 5:30. We’re celebrating George’s birthday two weeks in advance, since Harrison will be back in Boston before the official “quincinera” as George has dubbed it – and we’re celebrating summer and everyone being together again. Harrison, George, Lucy, Parker, Roxanne, Ginger, and Rina are all here, and we are doing our usual: grilled flank steak, grilled vegetables, potatoes, chocolate cake.

All in dresses, the girls are, I realize, stunning young women. All (except George, who will be soon) are 20 or 20+. They photograph each other incessantly – most of them are amateur photographers, and all of them are hams, so the shots are arty and cool – but I suspect they just want the mementos.

* * * *

Harrison leaves tomorrow. Word travels by text message and by phone. If they can’t reach her, they call me. Where is Harrison? We all lie in wait as she runs around town doing last-minute errands with her father.

Lucy and I go to dinner while we’re waiting. We brainstorm places where she might shop for a dress for a friend’s upcoming wedding, and Lucy catches me up on school and news of some of the kids I haven’t seen in a while. A month ago, the first of their high school classmates got married. It stuns me to realize that they are of age and only two years younger than I was when I married.

“Want to go to the movies next week?” asks Lucy.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” I say. I tell her that Kate and Jake and I have already agreed to continue last summer’s Summer Sundays, the weekly backyard barbeque tradition we started with Harrison and the girls. Even if Harry can’t be with us and attendance varies, we think it’s a good idea to keep up the practice so whoever is around can meet up. “If we plan it, they will come,” we agree.

Lucy likes the idea. “Great. Let me know.”

“So, I guess you guys don’t think it’s weird to, umm, hang out . . . even without Harry . . . ?” I ask.

“Kinda,” says Lucy. “But we’re getting used to it. So you could probably try calling us once in a while. Just don’t be a stalker.”

Unbeknownst to me, Lucy has made arrangements in advance to pay for dinner. The check comes with her credit card, and she signs the receipt. I am touched and impressed. “Thank you so much! What a sweet and generous thing to do. You’re such a planner!” I say.

“You’re so surprised because you still don’t get that we’re grown up now, do you?” she retorts.

* * * *

It’s the night before Harrison flies back. The crowd congregates once more at our house.

They are loud, ever in motion. Three are there – Lucy, Scout, and George – with George handling incoming calls from Parker and others. “No, Harry’s still packing. No, we’re at Harry’s mom’s house. Harry’s mom says come over. No, don’t come over. Harry’s leaving soon. We’re stopping by Rex’s house. No. We’re not partying, just saying hi. ‘K. I’ll call you when I know what’s happening.”

* * * *

While the rest are in the other room, I go to help Harrison find things in hers.

“Do you have everything?” I ask.

She’s leaving again. It hits me as I stand in her room, which she will leave, as always, a wreck. And I realize that, with practice, I am getting better at letting my daughter go. But mostly, it’s easier because I know that Harrison is happy and excited about the life she is creating for herself.

Harrison reads me though. (Always has.) She walks over and hugs me. I hug her back and this time, I don’t let go. I realize we are both crying.

* * * *

In the other room, George noodles with the guitar. Lucy lounges in the armchair. Scout keeps up a running commentary. “Hey, Harrison, don’t forget to pack your Bhutanese dick. You ARE taking the Bhutanese dick, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“What? You’re not? I carried that dick – on my back, on MY BACK, for God’s sakes! – all the way from Bhutan!”

“I’m taking the dick. I was just being coy.”

“And where did THAT get you? Now you’re dickless. I’m so viciously offended.”

“Shut up and give me back my dick, dammit.”

And so it goes.

* * * *

Finally, Harrison is ready to go. Everything is packed. Well, almost everything.

Lucy picks up the Bhutanese souvenir. “Wait. Why is there a wood carving of a penis?”

It’s a long story, Lucy. We’ll tell you later.

Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

Dumped. (In which I discover the curative properties of agave.)

After weeks of the ambiva-dance, Doc dumps me. By email. Ouch. Owie. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.

His message pops up in my inbox one quiet Tuesday evening. It is a well-crafted note, and as a writer, I can appreciate the thought he must have given the words he uses to tell me he’s met someone, feels awkward now about things between us, and hopes we can be friends . . . although (I find myself thinking) . . . a truly skilled writer would have more carefully considered his audience and not attempted the light-hearted tone with a grown woman and lover (given the circumstances), realizing it could too easily be misinterpreted as flippancy and thus offend. . . (and then I think) . . . Had he cared, he would have more carefully considered me . . .

The realization broadsides: But he did not. And then my stomach twists, my heart breaks, and I begin hyperventilating.

Still, I have enough control of my faculties to know I need to reach someone to stop myself from calling him or writing back. The Doc can’t – won’t – help me now. But if I don’t get some help, and fast, it’s going to be bad. Real bad.

I start dialing the phone. Libby. No answer. Cyn. No answer. Horst.

“Yep?”

“Horst! I just got a Dear Jill note from Doc,” I choke out the words.

“What? Are you STILL talking about that guy?” Horst says. “Why? I thought we were done with him.”

“Aggghhhh,” I wail. “Agggghhhh. I’ll call you back.”

I can’t stop to explain to Horst, coherently, right at this moment, what it is I need, right at this moment. This is relationship amputation, and I need to handle the pain that is starting to take me over from head to toe. I need an ambulance. The emergency room. Triage. STAT! Above all, I need to avoid dialing Doc and causing further injury to myself and to another.

And I cannot be left alone to bleed out.

I go to my next-door neighbors,’ knock, and let myself in when Kate and Jake call out, “Come in.” They are sitting at the dining room table, eating burritos. They raise their eyebrows – simultaneously – in question when I half speak, half sob, “I have bad news!”

“What? Did White Cat die?”

“Agggghhhhh! No! White Cat did not die. White Cat will never die,” I wail. “No! I got a Dear Jill email from Doc. Agggghhhh.”

“Is she STILL talking about that guy?” Jake asks Kate.

“Shhhh, shhhh, yes.”

“Agggghhh,” I howl.

“Come. Sit down,” says Kate, in her always-calm voice. “We’re just eating dinner, but you can sit here with us.”

I do. I sit down and I put my head on the table. I take a deep breath, try to gather myself, and then I begin to weep, unabashedly, nakedly, openly, while they chew their burritos and bear witness. Tissues are placed near my hand, and I reach for them, one after another, in a short time amassing a pile of tears and snot.

When I can’t cry anymore, they offer me sugar. I nibble the band-aids of cookies and chocolate, but feel my stomach heave when I think of the email again, trivializing and dismissive in a one-two punch. And so, having already exposed myself in my state of emergency, I dispense with all remaining propriety and ask Kate and Jake if they will read and delete the message for me. “It will fester,” I say simply.

“Okay.” Kate leads us into their office, lets me log in to Web mail, and puts on her reading glasses. She is quiet as she reads, and then she says, “No. You don’t need to read this again.”

Jake, standing and peering over her shoulder, agrees. “Delete. Done. You deserve better. In fact, come here.”

We follow Jake back to the dining room, where he reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a cloth-wrapped bottle.

“Patron tequila. The best of the best. For you. Here,” he says, pouring some of the light gold liquid into a cut crystal tumbler. “Try this. It should help.”

This tequila is smooth and silky on my tongue. It slightly burns the back of my throat as I swallow, but it does not make me snort and cough through my nose and, heaven forbid, make a fool of myself. In a very short time, the medicine takes effect, and I feel different – thankfully different. Thankfully dulled. And, detached now from the pain, like a clinician I can diagnose what I’m experiencing: the shock of Doc’s rejection and my grief about losing a connection in which I’ve delighted and for which I’ve held such hope.

“I like this,” I say, downing a second pouring. “Very much. May I have some more?”

Kate and Jake and I drink. We talk. We drink still more. As the night deepens, we talk about relationships and breakups and the ways in which we all blew it at one time or another. We acknowledge that it’s difficult either way – to be left or to leave. We toast to how hard it is to do either bravely, with honesty and with kindness, let alone with any modicum of grace, when there is no way to do either without some measure of pain for everyone involved.

“Do you think you’ll respond?” asks Kate, some time later.

“Ironically, words fail me,” I say. In a glimmer of drunken clarity, I realize that nothing I could say could be any better than the peace of silence and the natural resolution of time.

“It’s done,” I say, finally. “It’s better now to just let it go.” I lift my glass to them both. “Thank you for helping.”

Eventually, I am so drunk that I am incoherent and conversation abruptly ends. I rise and stagger into a wall, which feels, unexpectedly, like soft rubber. But I am okay and I know I have done the right thing, although it’s been messy. Hurt, I sought immediate help. We have cleaned the wound, bandaged it, and applied the agave anesthetic, however topical and time-limited the effect. Healing can begin.

Kate and Jake walk me home and help me into bed. “Sleep now,” says Kate. “No more thinking.” No worries there, I try to tell her as I succumb.

I awake the next morning, early, no pain in my brain. I am hangover-free, thanks to the purity of the spirits. It is my heart that is tender and sore, and I know I will move slowly – very slowly – for a good while.

But in time, I will mend.

Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

La Vie en Paly

It’s late Sunday afternoon and I’m watching Meryl Streep as Karen Blixen in Out of Africa. She’s doing that thing. You know that thing I mean: That thing where she tilts back her head and lifts up her shoulders, her face lit with that remarkable smile. It is a signature gesture of Streep’s, this full-body experience of delight – surrendered yet exultant in life’s lusciousness.

I pause Meryl mid-laugh when the doorbell rings. It is Roxanne.

“Hey!” “Hey!” Big hugs. “Can I put some ice in this bitch before we get going?” She holds up her water bottle.

“Yes,” I nod, switching off the TV and tucking my wallet in my backpack. We leave the house and wheel our bikes out to the street. “I’m starving. Where shall we eat?”

When Roxanne calls out of the blue, like today, I join her if I can. She delights. She is a sharp observer of human nature, unconventional in her conclusions; a brilliant conversationalist with a dry sense of humor. Roxanne runs clever circles around me intellectually, and I know it. It pleases me. And all the more so because I have known young Roxanne since she and my daughter Harrison raised hell on the kindergarten playground together 15 years ago.

We agree on pizza as we cycle the tree-lined streets to downtown. It is a perfect summer evening in early June, warm air and slight breezes carrying the mingled scent of roses and star jasmine. As we ride, we catch each other up on the various and sundry: those pizza spots with the best crusts (Spot! Pizza for bready, thick; Pizza Antica for thin, crispy artisanal); ex-boyfriend sightings (both of us, today! – we must stop dating locals); movies recently viewed (Dan in Real Life (on video) – two thumbs up). We compare notes on Harrison’s doings since last we each spoke with her (school’s over; she’s moved house; she’s interning at PBS). We decide to set up a dinner with our much-adored friends and my neighbors Kate and Jake when Harrison is back in town in a couple of weeks.

Over after-dinner coffee at a small café on our town’s main avenue, Roxanne asks me what I’ve been up to. Shopping, I confess with some embarassment – because, suddenly, a woman in ripe midlife, I find myself feeling quite, well, girly.

“I want to buy clothes. And not just practical wear-with-everything black clothes – colorful clothes. Clothes that show cleave. And I want to wear perfume. And get my nails done. And do my hair. And then just sit at a sidewalk café, sipping coffee and watching people. Much as we are now,” I say. “Such frivolity.”

“Daaaaahling!” says Roxanne. “You’re a grownup, you’re single, you’re free, you’re not depressed! You’re enjoying your life.” She takes a deep slurp of her latte and comes up with a foam mustache. Dropping her voice to a manly growl, she says, in impeccable french, “Mon cherie, tu decourvres le romantisme de la vie!”

And she is right.

I am discovering the romance of life – the romance of my life. There is time for this now, what with the serious business of the last 20 years discharged. I have composed a life of family, of work, of community, of some meaning. I’ve been tested and tempered and have a sense of the depth of my capacities. I have raised a daughter to womanhood and independence. A period of hard work is done.

There is time now for this romance, and perhaps more true, there is appreciation. These recent days, I am life’s unhurried lover, courting and being courted slowly, deliberately, with the newly gained luxury of time and an appreciation born of experiencing all that comes with the passage of time, easy and hard. Now I can perceive and delight in the unfolding of this romance, with its sometimes subtle, sometimes bold flirtation.

Challenges will come. Bien sur! They are there, perhaps in just the next moment, hour, day, or week or year. I will either meet them – or not. But I know how important it is to let myself savor the sweet and tender details of this time now. Everything will change, again, and again still. And if my own memory is not enough, Roxanne, sitting before me now, young woman where once was little girl, reminds me of that inevitability.

I lift my cup and toast my young friend. “To you, my dear. And to the romance of life. Thank you.”

Roxanne inclines her head. “De rien.”

The evening turns gold and rosy, bathed in sunset’s light. We linger over our coffee, companionable. We watch the passersby. Life is good.

I smile. And I do that thing. You know that thing I mean.

Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

“I’ll Call You.”

“So?” I ask Zoe, as we sit down to lunch in the campus café.

“Mmmmmm. Yeah. No. He said he’d call.”

“Oh.” I observe a moment of silence and then offer condolences. “I’m sorry.”

Zoe and I got smart a while ago. We know there’s no point in analyzing a date’s potential if a tryst has ended with those three words.

“They must know we know, right?” asks Zoe. “I mean, the moment they say ‘I’ll call you,’ we KNOW they’re never going to call. In fact, they’re going to stay as far away as possible from the damn phone until they need booty, a pizza, or their mother.”

“I wonder what they think they’re saying?” I muse. ““Let’s poll a few of our pals here at the office.”

We do.

“So, guys, when a guy says, ‘I’ll call you,’ is he going to call?”

“Maybe,” says Hank. “But he’s definitely not sure he wants to get together again, and he doesn’t want to make that call – yet. He’s going to think about it. Yeah. Definitely maybe.”

Lance says, “Geez, it’s been so long since I’ve dated, being married for 17 years and all and not really dating, but if I said I was going to call, I’d call.”

“If I tell a lady I’m going to call her,” says Takeo. “I do. Unless I forget.”

Otto ponders. “Hmmmm. Depends on whether she offers her number or he asks for it. If she offers it, and he says ‘I’ll call you,’ that means he might or might not call. But if he asks for her number and says ‘I’ll call you,’ that means – and here’s where there’s a very subtle distinction – he might or might not call.”

“Call?” says Adam. “I’m gonna call HR if you keep this up.”

Zoe and I step into my office and close the door to discuss the findings. We agree they’re inconclusive. By which we mean useless.

I know the use of this phrase isn’t the worst of the dating offenses, believe me. But the little things do count. And this one just rankles, like a pimple chafed at the panty line.

I sigh. “Anyone who’s ever interviewed for a job – man or woman – knows what’s up when The Man says ‘We’ll call you.’ Same on a date. The phrase is dismissive – and implies that the other person is a candidate for a position as your biatch.”

“Exactly,” says Zoe. “But this is not a job interview. It’s not all about you and your needs! This is about PEOPLE, people! – and that sweet and tender emotion – love – you know, where every so often you stop and consider someone else’s well-being above or at least on par with your own.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “What if those of us swimming – or floundering – in the dating pool asked ourselves how we might use dating to get in practice for that big juicy love? What if we were less self-centered and more gracious? You know, he or she may not be the one for me or you, but that person IS going to be the one for somebody. Think of the good karma we’d be creating if we left them feeling appreciated.”

“Yeah. That would be pretty damn enlightened,” says Zoe.

“HR!” Adam taps the wafer-thin wall between our offices. “Hey, you two. Go start a club. Preferably outside the workplace. And P.S. It’s not a crime to tell someone you’ll call them. Everyone says it!”

The point is, Adam, and all of us boys and girls: We can do this thing better. We can be kind, real GROWNUPS out there on the dating scene.

So, before our next date – with a man or woman who would love to be loved but in the meantime would love not being dissed (umm, hello! that would be ALL of us) – let’s stand in front of the mirror and repeat this until we can say it comfortably and genuinely at the right time and in the appropriate language:

“Thank you. I had a nice time. I’ll ca-”

STOP! . . . Try one of these handy phrases instead:

- “I really enjoyed our dinner. Thank you!”
- “This evening was a lot of fun. Thank you for spending the time with me. I really enjoyed it!”
- “You’ve got some sweet conversational skills! I had a good time. Thank you.”

“Yeah! And special note if you’ve slept with someone,” adds Zoe. “Never, ever, ever say ‘I’ll call you,’ unless you’re trying to make that person feel like they’re a complete and total ho – who didn’t even get paid. I mean – dude! – if you’ve been dating for a few weeks or months and you finally do the deed and then you disappear and then she calls and then you say ‘I’ll call you’ and then especially if you in fact do not call her, well then damn straight you deserve whatever happens to you the next time you’re in a dark alley.”

Ahem.

Yes. Well. Remember: Bitterness is not attractive. Let’s each do our part to avoid creating any more of it.

“So, give me an example of a ‘thanks-but-no-thanks’ ending that worked for you,” I ask Zoe.

“I met a gentleman on match.com last year,” she says, after some thought. “We liked each other’s photos and really enjoyed emailing and talking on the phone. And the moment, the very first moment we met in person, you could see all our hopes crash and burn. There was absolutely NO physical attraction. None whatsoever. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

“We’d driven miles to meet, and we decided to spend the afternoon together anyway. It was enjoyable – friendly, but no spark. But that was okay, because, at the end, he took my hand and said, ‘I enjoyed meeting you very much; I am struck by the similarities of our life stories. You are kind, and smart, and funny, and I find you beautiful too. I’m very sad that I don’t feel the chemistry that would have made us a great match. I hope you find a good man who will love you as you deserve to be loved. I was lucky to experience some part of you for a period of time. Thank you.”

“Wow,” I say. “That is a-MAY-ZING.”

“Totally amazing,” agrees Zoe. “It really would be. If it was TRUE!”

Note: The Word Wench Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

Tenacious C

It is morning at mi casa, heralded as it is most days by the howling of the stray cat who loiters around the grounds. He howls as he wends his way slowly through my backyard, around the side of the house, and under my bedroom window to the cat bed on the front porch where he will sleep. All day long. “Waaaaah. Waaaaaah. Waaaaaah,” he intones, dropping his voice in resignation at the end of each howl. If he were human, he’d be an old New York Jew, like my grandfather (rest his soul), kvetching about his arthritis. “Waaaah. Waaaah. Waaaaah.” Translation: “Oy. My hips. The pain. The aching. Oy! So hurry up already, get me some of those tasty little Tender Vittles. And, ach, can you move my bed into the sun – and maybe clean it out too?! Oy!” You can almost see him lift his shoulders to the heavens, shrug, and roll his eyes.

I call him a “stray cat,” but do so out of habit. Like an obnoxious garden gnome cemented into the landscape, “White Cat,” as my daughter Harrison dubbed him, was already on the scene when we moved into this house 13 years ago. On move-in day, he watched us intently, perched on the sloping roof of our bungalow, right over the front door. I worried he might jump us, encroaching as we were on what clearly he considered his territory.

Relatively mellow now in his advancing years, White Cat was a terror as a younger tom. Where today he is skinny scrawny, all tough old sinew and bone, he was once rippling muscle and claw, a huge white pure-bred Siamese who stalked the neighborhood unchallenged, bullying any creature – feathered, furred, or human – who crossed his path. And he marred the look of the picture-perfect little house where I planned to continue my picture-perfect little life. From the curb, you’d see the sweet white picket fence, the wisteria vine twining across the porch, the simple roofline of this quaint bungalow – and oh! – What was that?! Vulture cat staring back at you from above.

Within a short time of our taking up residence, White Cat was nailing our considerably more docile cat, Princess, on the head so often that I had to keep a running tab at the vet’s for abcess surgery. After a couple of trips to the veterinarian, I decided to seek retribution from the beast’s owners, whom first I had to find.

“Do you know whose Siamese cat that is?” I asked, stopping next door and introducing myself to Kate and Jake.

“We know him,” said Kate. “But he doesn’t seem to belong to anyone. He’s been around for a while. Hmmm. A pretty long while. We met him when he fell through the skylight of our house – gosh, must be 10 or so years ago.”

I tried a few more neighbors. No one claimed ownership of White Cat. And frankly, I wasn’t surprised.

Of course I tried to get rid of him. I tried shooing him away. (I actually saw him curl his lip in derision.) I tried banging pots and pans when he came by. (He didn’t bother to cast a glance my way.) I tried keeping all pet food indoors. (He found his way into the garage and ate Princess’s lunch whenever he wanted.) Summer came. He came. Fall came. He came. Winter descended. He grew a thicker coat. And still he came. Every day. Year after year.

And I finally got it. This cat had no plans to leave. Ever. In time, the husband left. Then the baby grew up and left. But this cat, this cat: He is here to stay.

I befriended my nemesis eventually. At a certain point, there was no point in fighting it; we were sharing a residence, like it or not. Maybe we just developed tolerance. Maybe we both mellowed with age. Maybe we recognized a kindred spirit in one another. But whatever the reason, there was a thaw in our relationship. And bit by little tuna bit, one day White Cat was eating from my hand, then accepting a pat on the head, and finally, coming to sit and cuddle with me.

The truth is, we’re not so different. We both started out in lives that could have gone one way. White Cat should have been having his exotic coat brushed by royalty, as he rested, ensconced on a silken tuffet. Instead, he’s a hardcore wild thang, living his vida loco, on his turf and on his terms and still going strong at something between 20 and 25 human years (about 100-125 cat years.) And I, 13 years ago little Suzie Homemaker, contented goddess of domestica, have likewise gone feral, unable to remember the last time I made a home-cooked meal. We are both a bit bohemian, wandering where our whim takes us (although, granted, within a rather tight radius of this house we both seem to love). And, at the end of the day, White Cat and I, we answer to no one.

Except each other.

It’s evening, and that mangy muffball comes and stands in front of me. And howls. Loudly. Very loudly. “Waaaaah. Waaaaah. Waaaaah.” Translation: “Pick me up and give me some love. Maybe some scratches and one of those tasty little cans of tuna too.”

“Sheesh,” I say to him, as I lift his emaciated carcass and scratch behind his ears. “Look at us! You’re a crazy old fleabag, and here I am talking to you, like a crazy old cat lady.”

“Waaaaah. Waaaaaah.” White Cat hacks. Translation: “Cat lady, schmat lady. What are we? Chopped liver? It could be worse. So stop with the kvetching already. Put me in the soft bed. (But clean it first.) I want to sleep.”

Alright, alright already.

Oy.

Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

Friends

So, I’ve co-opted my friend Colleen’s “Big Three.” They’re all about patience, she says, and the subtext is: You just have to wait.

These days I refer to Colleen’s Big Three early and often. You may find them useful too:

The Big Three
1. Something good always comes of something bad.
2. Everything becomes clear over time.
3. It takes a long time to get to know someone.

Without the wisdom (and patience) of Colleen and other friends, I’d be a blind (wo)man wandering the desert, without seeing eye dog, water, trail mix, or sunblock – let alone sunblock with any decent degree of SPF protection. Without my friends, I’d be bouncing off the walls of my skull, overthinking the impending implosion of our solar system, global warming and my personal culpability, my finances, the appearance of a new mole, job (in)stability, or the inscrutable behavior of a current love interest. Without my friends, I’d take a hell of a lot more rash action, losing friends and trashing influence and posting who-knows-what-kind-of-crazy-shit on the Web. My friends protect me from the ravages of the emotional elements, tempering the (sometimes rapidly alternating) heat and chill with wit, insight, coolheadedness or warmth, and the occasional swift kick in the ass.

Friends. I adore mine, treasuring them all the more because I once had very few. I dove off the deep end and surfaced out of my marriage nine years ago to discover how very unconnected I was. No friendly life lines on those waters. There was work and there was my daughter, and on the days my daughter was with her father, there was work. I can’t lie, it took time to build friendships with the peeps in my life today; actually, time and a great chocolate chip cookie recipe. (Choco chip cookies – excellent friend bait; I highly recommend serving the cookies still somewhat warm from the oven if you’re going for “friend for life.” But I digress.)

Eventually I found my tribe.

Over time, I’ve learned to let my friends come as they are. However often, whatever mode. The occasional friend, the weekly friend, the daily friend. The new friend. The old friend. The in-the-flesh friend. The text message friend. The IM friend. The phone friend. The email-humor-forwarding friend. (Okay. Stop with that already!) The girlfriends. The guy friends. The couple friends. The single friends. The under-25-year-old friends. The over-75-year-old friends. And the friends of all ages in between. Each knows me, or some part of me. And I know each of them, or some part of them. And over time, conversation by HDR (as in heavy, deep and real) conversation, experience by shared experience, we have created a strong web of community in which I rest, supported.

So thank you. You know who you are. Vibing out big love to all of you who make the world so dear and good.

Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.