of instant reconstructor and detangler
to enhance strength and manageability,
and even though
I work it through to the ends,
leaving it on for three minutes
and then rinse thoroughly before adding
the revolutionary polymerized
electrolytic moisture potion
that actually repairs split ends
while providing flexible styling control
by infusing the roots with twenty-three
essential provitamins,
and even though I massage it in
to make my hair feel instantly fuller,
with added shaping power,
and then rinse again
with lukewarm water,
towel dry and apply the desired amount
of styling gel to the palm of my hand,
and then comb it through
and blow it dry,
it still looks pathetic.
AT SPUMONI’S
Dining together
at a table for two.
Just me.
Just you.
All around us,
young husbands and wives
appear to be having
the time of their lives.
But you’ve heard all my stories.
And I’ve heard all yours.
So we sit here in silence—
a couple of bores.
THE NEXT MORNING
Wendy’s mom calls to tell me
that Laura’s parents are getting a divorce.
Apparently, neither one of them
caught the other one cheating,
but the day after Laura left for college
they realized that the only thing
they’d had in common
all these years
was
Laura.
I hang up the phone,
and notice
that I’m finding it strangely hard
to breathe.
HOW DOES IT HAPPEN?
How does a wife
reach the point
when she knows
that she wants a divorce?
Does she simply drift
from being happily married
to being a little
less happily married
to waking up one day
feeling as if her marriage
is a pillow pressing down
over her face?
God. I don’t know
what’s the matter with me.
I feel so dizzy
all of a sudden.
I HEAD TO THE BEDROOM TO LIE DOWN
But,
on the way there,
I trip over Michael’s slippers—
the ones I’m always tripping over
because he forgets to put them in the closet
where they belong.
My big toe crashes into the nightstand.
And—Jesus!
I’m bleeding!
I limp
to the bathroom
to search for the Neosporin.
And I’m still searching for it
a few minutes later,
when Michael walks in, whistling.
“Hey,” he says, “you’re bleeding!”
“Brilliant observation,” I grumble.
“What’s your problem?” he asks.
“You’re my problem,” I growl.
“Why don’t you ever put anything back
where it goes after you use it?”
“I do,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.
I go back to rifling through the cabinet,
and manage to locate a box of Band-Aids.
But,
naturally,
it’s empty.
I gnash my teeth.
“When you use the last Band-Aid,” I hiss,
“you’re supposed to throw out the box.”
“I do,” he says again, clearing his throat.
“No. You don’t,” I snap. “Which is why
I didn’t know we’d run out of them.”
“Maybe you used the last Band-Aid,” he says.
“I did not use the last Band-Aid!” I shout.
“Well, neither did I!” he shouts back.
Michael stomps out of the bathroom,
muttering under his breath.
I slam the door shut behind him.
Then I wash off my toe,
wrap a tissue around it,
crawl into bed,
and pull
the covers up
over my head.
A MINUTE LATER
I suddenly become aware
of the music that’s pouring in
through the open window—
Jane’s trumpet blasting out the melody
to “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling,”
Duncan’s drums keeping the bluesy beat.
I press my hands over my ears,
trying to block out their doleful duet,
and let the tears fall.
I’M STILL IN MID-WEEP WHEN ALICE CALLS
“How are things going
in that cozy little empty nest of yours?”
she wants to know.
“They’re going…great!” I say,
hoping my stuffed up nose
won’t give me away.
But Alice just heaves a dreamy sigh
and tells me how lucky Michael and I are
that we love each other so much.
“Can you imagine how hard it is,” she says,
“for couples who don’t have the amazing bond
that the two of you have?”
Yes,
I think to myself,
I can.
THE PHONE RINGS AGAIN
This time it’s Samantha.
Ah! The sweet lilt of her voice.
How I’ve been missing it…
And there’s
so much
I want to know!
I ask her how she likes
her sociology class,
but she’s only gotten two words out
when Michael gets on the extension and says,
“Oh, wait a minute! This is important—”
Then he starts talking about her student loan…
I’m just about to ask her
how she likes the food
in the dining hall,
but Michael starts telling her
about some health insurance forms
he needs her to fill out…
I’m just about to ask her
how she likes
her new roommates,
but Michael swoops in again,
asking her how much money she needs him
to deposit in her checking account…
And when they finally finish,
and I’m just about to ask her if the leaves
have begun to change color yet,
Samantha says, “Yikes!
My history class starts in five minutes!
I’ve gotta run! I love you! Bye!”
And then—she’s gone.
STOPPING TO ADMIRE A BABY AT THE CLEANERS
I compliment the mother
on her daughter’s flame of orange hair,
her dazzling eyes—
two soulful sapphire skies.
The woman listens to me
as though to a symphony,
beaming at her baby so brightly—
as if she’s the child’s own personal sun.
I run my fingers over the divine fuzz
on the baby’s head,
letting the flood of sense memories
wash through me like a transfusion.
I play a game of peek-a-boo with the baby.
I tickle her cheeks.
I coochy-coochy-coo her.
But none of this elicits a smile.
Then I get an idea—
“Achoo!” I say.
“Ah…c
hoo! Ahh…choooo!
Ahhh…CHOOOOO!”
And when the baby rewards my efforts
with a magnificently gummy grin,
I have to turn away as if I’ve been slapped,
so shocked am I by the sting of my longing.
The only good thing
about missing Samantha so much
is that it helps to distract me
from worrying about how sick my mother is.
AND SPEAKING OF MY MOTHER…
By now,
I’ve been neglecting her.
Because it’s been
almost twenty pages
since I’ve even mentioned her.
But I’ve decided
to take a vacation
from writing about my mother.
I’m on sabbatical from Misery U—
and from writing about Hack
and his chuckle, too.
Besides,
I’m running out of ways
to describe how truly awful it sounds.
For a while,
I just want to write about
missing my daughter.
No.
I don’t even want to write about that.
I don’t want to write about anything.
And I don’t
want to talk to Roxie
about why.
I just want to lie in bed,
with Secret curled up next to me,
watching reality TV.
Because
anyone’s reality
is better than my own right now.
I just want to lie here,
eating bowl after bowl
of heavily buttered popcorn.
I’M REALLY NOT IN THE MOOD TO GO OUT
And Michael isn’t either.
In fact, he’s been so depressed
about Sam being gone
that he’s started seeing a therapist.
This therapist of his seems to think
that both of us would benefit
from less wallowing—so Michael
drags me off to an art opening.
But on the way there,
he tells me
that I should have signaled
when I made that left turn.
I tell Michael
that I didn’t need to signal
because there weren’t any other cars
on the road for as far as the eye could see.
Michael does that throat-clearing thing
and tells me that not signaling
is a moving violation and that if a cop
had seen me I would’ve gotten a ticket.
I tell Michael
there weren’t any cops around
and he tells me I had no way
of knowing that for sure.
I tell Michael I checked very carefully
and there definitely weren’t
any squad cars around
and will you please just drop it?
But Michael won’t drop it.
He says a rule is a rule
and that rules are made
for a reason
and that if I start making turns
without signaling,
then pretty soon I’ll be running red lights,
and maybe I’ll even hurt someone.
I pull over,
leap out of the car,
and slam the door so hard
that I’m amazed it doesn’t shatter
into a thousand self-righteous pieces.
ON A BAD DAY
Being married makes me feel
like a miner trapped in a shaft,
crouched
in unfathomable darkness,
sucking carbon monoxide
into my dust-filled aching lungs,
waiting
for the rescue workers,
who will
not be able
to make it
in time.
IT’S STRANGE…
A few months back, when I thought
I’d lost Michael to Brandy,
it felt like my heart was being carved
right out of my chest.
But now,
even though I haven’t lost Michael,
I still sometimes feel that same
jagged-edged knife slicing into me.
And,
try as I might,
I can’t remember
what it was about my husband
that I was so afraid
A MATCH.COM MADE IN HEAVEN
Alice calls to tell me
that she finally met Mr. Right.
“Omigod,” she says. “I’m sorry I haven’t
spoken to you for a few days, but I met
this fantastic guy on Match.com and we’ve
been spending every waking minute together
and he’s got the greenest eyes you’ve ever
seen and the softest red curls and this Irish
accent that positively makes me swoon and
he’s so smart and thoughtful and kind and
funny and wise and we’ve only known each
other for a little while but he’s already told
me he loves me and I know it sounds crazy,
but I love him too and his name is Noah and
I’ve decided that if he asks me to go for a
ride on his ark with him I will definitely say
yes because I’ve never felt like this about
anyone before and it feels so completely
amazing to adore absolutely every single
thing about a person, but I know I don’t
have to tell you that because that’s exactly
how you feel about Michael and oh, Holly,
I am so happy and the sex is so totally earth-
shaking and we can’t keep our hands off of
each other and he makes me feel like I’m a
teenager again and we did it four times last
night and being in love makes you feel so
alive, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I croak,
“it does.”
DOUBLE DATE
All Alice has to do is smile at him
and Noah forgets what he’s saying
right in the middle of his sentence.
And when he can complete a thought,
Alice acts as if he’s just said
the wittiest thing ever.
Not that Noah isn’t witty.
He is witty. And he’s smart.
And sweet.
And his Irish accent
even makes me swoon
a little.
But why does he have to keep on
nuzzling her like that
and kissing her neck?
And they haven’t stopped
holding hands for a second
since we’ve been here,
which seems like hours,
though it’s probably
only been a few minutes.
I don’t know how
they’re going to manage it
when the food comes.
Michael and I are just sitting here
across from them in the booth,
trying to make small talk.
Our thighs
aren’t even touching
on the seat.
WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOUR HUSBAND GOES INTO THERAPY
Things will get worse
before they get better.
You’ll just have to hang on and ride them out
like the aftershocks of an earthquake.
You’ll find that your mate
will no longer be playing on your team.
He’ll be on a new team—
one comprised of him and his therapist.
He will begin most of his sentences
with the phrase “my therapist says.”
And the ends of these sentenc
es
will not be pretty—
“My therapist says
you push me around.”
“My therapist says you aren’t fair.”
“My therapist says you are controlling.”
Your self-esteem
will reach such an all-time low
that you’ll send yourself emails
and report them as spam.
Your husband will make
a shocking shift away from
being willing to put up with your flaws,
to wanting you to be perfect—
as perfect
as he is becoming,
with the help
of his therapist.
I WANT A NEW HUSBAND
Someone
who doesn’t have a line on me yet.
Someone
who doesn’t always think I’m doing
that incredibly annoying thing again,