“I only have three minutes left in my show and you said it’s okay if it’s less than five minutes!” he yelled.
Oh, for God’s sake, couldn’t a woman steam her vagina in peace anymore?Jess scrunched her eyes tight. “Where’s your father?”
“I don’t know,” Winnie said. “What’s that terrible smell?”
Crap. “I’m not feeling well. Please go find your dad.”
“You’re always sick!” Winnie yelled before stomping off.
Jess muttered, “Yeah, sick of your shit.”
Her mom burst out laughing and Jess joined in, happy to have an ally.
“Teenagers are hard, but the good thing is they won’t live with you forever.”
“One can hope.”
“I’ll let you go. Hang in there, sweetie.”
“Thanks.”
Jess hung up, then walked back over to the bowl, only to discover there was no steam left in her steam bath. She sighed and picked it up, then dumped its contents into the toilet and flushed, watching her latest effort at finding the old her get sucked down toward the sewer. She was sure there was some brilliant metaphor about life here, but she was too worn out to think of it. Besides, she needed to shower and dispose of any evidence of the kit. Except the bowl. She’d keep that.
* * *
Secret Journal Entry
September 25th
Today’s fantasy: A long-lost aunt I didn’t know about has died and left me millions. I’m on a plane to Barcelona. Alone. Somehow, I have the entire row of seats to myself, so I’m sitting with my back to the window and my legs stretched out in front of me, sipping coffee and flipping through the Lonely Planet’s Guide to Spain. I use pink Post-it arrows to mark off the places I’ll see when I’m there—the Parque del Retiro, the Plaza de España, that basilica that took over two-hundred years to finish.
I’ve rented an oceanfront villa, where I will eat only tapas and drink wine while I stare out at the water. I’ll wander along the beach wearing a big, floppy hat. I’ll go window shopping without anyone hurrying me along or complaining about how bored they are. I’ll stop and listen to a guitar duo play an entire song without feeling even a bit self-conscious about all the eye-contact. I’ll sway my hips to the beat, twirl, and smile, and everywhere I go, people will say, “Who is that sophisticated, free-spirited woman?”
I may never come back.
2
"You know you've reached middle age when you're cautioned to slow down by your doctor, instead of by the police."
—Joan Rivers
Email from: Blaire Pritchard, PTA President
To: Jessica Halloway
Subject: Desperate Situation
Hi Jess,
I wanted to check in with you about the dog wash fundraiser for the grad class. I know you’re not too keen on the idea, but it’s going to be a HUGE money-maker for the kiddos. I need three parents to run it—one at the payment desk, one at the washing station, and one to oversee the blow-drying/brushing. So far, the only person to step up is Patricia.
I really am running out of people to ask, and if I can’t get more help, we’ll have to cancel and come up with a whole new concept, which will require an emergency meeting. (And I don’t know about you, but I definitely don’t have time for that.)
I was thinking about your concerns—that the kids won’t be able to safely manage strange dogs, and that there could be potential for injuries, and I’ve decided we should make it a small dog dog wash to mitigate the risks. The parent at the payment table can also assess the dog’s level of aggression and turn away the ones who seem like they might be biters.
Given all that, can we count on you?
Regards,
