“Hello, pretty girl,” I coo, and Fifi doesn’t walk, she prances, her fluffy, feather-duster tail flowing majestically in her self-generated breeze.
Her wet, pink nose bumps my hand, and I let her take a good sniff. Not that she’ll be super impressed once she recognizes me, but she loves my grandmother as much as I do, and that’s saying something.
A dog attack left Fifi forever winking, the slight lift of her lip exposing a snaggletooth and fishy breath. She’s this incredible combination of princess and bulldog—much like my grandma, actually—and despite her rough beginning and scars, has never once questioned her worth.
Maybe she can teach me how, because it seems to be all I do these days. The burn in my thighs pops me back to my feet, and I cut across the living room, eager to see everyone.
Fifi races ahead, rounding the open archway of the kitchen. Once I catch a whiff of roasted peppers, garlic, onion, and cumin, I do some hustling myself—and not just because Mexican food means margaritas, but it’s definitely a factor.
I’m greeted with raucous squeals and slurred shouts, confirming my suspicions about the insobriety. Grandma Helen, Wanda, and all three bubbies surge forward in a wave of floral perfume, menthol, and… I don’t think I’ve smelled this much tequila since that misguided frat party in college.
“Did you hear about the hot tub Gertie and I had installed on the veranda?” Vonetta asks, and I pivot toward the voice, catching tawny curls and blue tortoiseshell glasses that highlight intelligent brown eyes and contrast Vonetta’s umber complexion.
Before I can answer, a phone’s shoved in my face without preamble. Between the pallor of skin, beaded bracelets, and a zoomed-in image of a shaggy sheepdog wearing circular glasses and a tie-dye head scarf, I piece it together easily enough.
“His name’s John Lennon,” Gertie confirms in her lilting rasp, announcing the Harris-Wagners haverescued another dog, and I’m so glad the couple down the street is here, too. “Fifi doesn’t like him—”
“Fifi doesn’t like anyone,” I say at the same time as Grandma Helen, and we all burst into laughter.
It’s funny how I can scent them out one by one if I try, although that makes me sound like a hound dog on the trail, so maybe I shouldn’t brag about that.
Still, my brain catalogs the women, along with snippets of memories.
Patchouli oil’s Wanda, anise is Rita and making bizcochitos for Christmas. Gertie’s coconut lotion and a nostril-stinging whiff of the medical grade dandruff shampoo she insists everyone should use—for real, she’ll throw one of those multi-level-marketing parties and wash everyone’s hair with the goopy blue goo.
But I’d rather buy the gaudy jewelry that tinged your skin green and lipsticks that wouldn’t come off without removing a layer of skin than relive my twenty-first birthday party, when they invited a Passion Party lady.
Face aflame, I asked what they were thinking, only for them to explain they wanted to make it memorable. Given the passing around of dildos and vibrators, they hit the mark and kept on going—and that was even before Bubbie Bette’s query regarding a position she’d heard about. “They call it the Eiffel Tower.”
Awkward, eternal minutes had passed while I gave a heavily censored and euphemized explanation. With the assistance of the Passion Party lady, I even dropped to all fours and veered into dirty charades range.
It wasn’t until I stood that they burst into laughter and confessed they were “just yanking my chain.” A common saying of their generation, evidently, but given the handcuffs and rhinestone nipple clamps on display, my thoughts split off in all the wrong directions.
That night—and many times since—they’ve accused me of being too uptight. I believe the wordrepressedwas even used. As if I were the peculiar one for not being entirely comfortable discussing sex positions with my grandmother and her friends.
Perhaps that’s why I’m still struggling to accept the headlines and articles. Surely it can’t be as rampant as the media outlets claim, can it?
We’re more afraid of gators than crabs here. Nobody’s at risk of getting pregnant, and even if you wind up with an STD, it’s unlikely to be what kills you.
Shoving that direct quote aside, I inhale the amalgamation of rosewater, Downy, and vanilla musk that evokes nights cuddled up on the couch watching movies, tagging along for errands and appointments, and each time my grandmother acted as a harbor during my mother’s storms. My jaw unclenches, my muscles loosen, and my cares drift away—momentarily, of course but, since my OCD screams them through my head on a loop, I appreciate any reprieve.
Much like her fussy cat, my person has always been Grandma Helen.
I open my mouth to ask the questions piling atop my tongue but forget every one of them when I spot an unfamiliar person. Head slightly ducked, hands gripping the speckled tile countertop on either side of her. With sausage roll bangs and a silver and gray braid that lands near the pockets of a denim jumper in style long before my birth. She looks as though she’s stepped out of a cult documentary with all the wives.
“Oh yeah,” Wanda says, right next to my ear and loud enough I would’ve heard her had I still been in my car. “You haven’t met Arlene yet!”
Arlene’s eyes fly wide, leading me to believe she wasn’t ready to be thrown into the spotlight, which happens enough around this group that I recognize the signs.
The fixer within immediately surges forward, extending an arm and returning the attention to myself. Not because I want it, but because she so clearly doesn’t. “I’m Mia. And you should know that whatever they’ve said about me”—I jerk a thumb over my shoulder and Vonetta yelps as though I nearly poked out her eye despite the protection of her glasses—“has probably been greatly exaggerated.”
Grandma Helen pinches my cheek. “Not about the cute, though. Check out this gorgeous bone structure.”
“Yeah, that’s what I tell the men I go out with. If only you could get a look at what’s beneath the skin and see these sexy bones I’m rocking.”
“I’m starting to understand why you never answered my question about having a boyfriend,” Tia Rita says. It stings the tiniest bit, despite knowing she’s only teasing. We all have our ways of deflecting, and for months I’ve assured myself the reason I’ve struggled to connect with my dates came down to my hectic work schedule.
Because otherwise it’s me, hi—and I don’t want the problem to be me.
