Smothered Read online

  * * *

  The one positive effect of jet lag: it helped kick-start my 7:30 wake-up goal! I was out of bed by 6:45, made coffee in the kitchen, and then let the pugs out back for a walk. I’ve lived in this house for over twenty years, and I’m still overwhelmed by the excess of color every time I step outside. There must be over thirty different beds of flowers of the brightest variety painting the perimeter of our property, which I imagine is single-handedly causing the California drought. As both an environmentalist and a minimalist, I find this completely maddening, but Mom maintains that the flowers are uplifting for our pets (despite the fact that dogs are color-blind). So I watched as Muffin and Baguette ran around the yard, sniffed some of the “uplifting” bushes, then walked inside and peed right on the carpet. So much for “positive potty training.”

  Dad was in the living room by the time I came back in, drinking coffee and watching the news. It’s crazy how much my dad watches the news. Equally impressive is how little my mom retains of it. My parents sit in bed and watch the news every single night, and yet Mom recently asked if the Arab Spring was a salon in Burbank. Clearly, I inherit my intellectual curiosity from his side of the family.

  Speaking of genetics: Dad also made a list of rules/expectations in anticipation of my move-in, once again proving that we share the same brain. Astonishingly, he had zero objections or concerns during our big flight conversation, and promised to relay all my requests to Mom … though he’s not entirely confident in her ability to meet the criteria.

  Dad’s Rules/Expectations are as follows:

  1.  There will be no technical curfew, but if I come home after midnight, the pugs will bark like crazy, so my unofficial curfew is midnight.

  2.  The first person awake makes the coffee.

  3.  If I ever tell Mom about his late-night snacking, he’s cutting me off.

  The conversation only became nerve-racking after I mentioned my nine-month move-out goal. I rambled on for what felt like an hour before he finally stopped me:

  “Lou, I’m not worried. You’re my kid. When I was your age, I had two small businesses working out of my garage and a day job at Bobby’s Mechanics, where I had to scrub car grease out of the bumpers of old beaten-up Chevy Camaros.”

  “Wait—I thought at my age you were already working in real estate?”

  “Doesn’t matter. The point is, you’re a Hansen. Hard work runs in your blood. You’re clearly not afraid of it, and I’m so proud of you for pursuing a high level of education. You’ll figure it out just like I did—only you won’t have to break any car windshields to get there.”*

  I realize he was trying to be supportive, but somehow his self-owned businesses and potential mafia engagement only added more unexpected pressure. Maybe this was a backwards, Inception-esque mind trick that was disguised as reassurance, but was really meant to scare me into motivation and productivity? Huh. Interesting thought.

  With this bizarre idea, I snapped myself back to the reality of my kitchen, poured myself another cup of coffee, and joined Dad in the living room for his morning news marathon.

  “Where’s Mom?” I asked, noticing the unusual lack of chitchat as I plopped myself down on the couch. Dad took a swig of his coffee, eyes fixed on the TV at what appeared to be some sort of coup d’état.

  “At a new juice bar across the street. She’s bringing home algae shots.”

  I spit out a bit of my coffee.

  “Algae, like … from the sea?”

  He gave a single solemn nod, still focused on the foreign rebels overthrowing their ruthless dictator. What country was this? Were they also being forced to take algae shots?

  “According to your mother, it rejuvenates the skin. We have them once a week. Welcome home.”

  Ugh. Can’t stop imagining the taste of vile blue-green sea moss that was probably scraped off the bottom of a rock somewhere in the West Indies and bottled at an overpriced smoothie shack for fifteen dollars a shot. Considering a family coup.

  I should probably start unpacking my boxes today (especially since I’m not busy working at Bobby’s Mechanics or for the mob), but I really, really do not want to. Partly because I no longer know where anything belongs (thanks to Mother’s unsolicited bedroom purge), but also because … well … because I just don’t want to. Despite my usual desperation to feel productive, I’m making today a rest-and-relaxation day—a time to reboot before I run headfirst into the metaphorical fire. For once in my life, I’m going to unwind. I just graduated from college! I deserve to read a book, take a bath … maybe even a nap?? The possibilities are thrilling and endless!

  * * *

  The Han Fam

  10:20 P.M.

  * * *

  So my day of “rest and relaxation” turned into a day of “sweat and aggravation.”

  Dad opted out of cycling on the grounds of “I paid for this class and also for everything else,” so Mom decided to bring her BFF Stacey from the Red Hot Ladies instead.* The class itself was pretty alarming. It mostly felt like my lungs were being poked from the inside with a hot spike, which can’t be a good sign for my overall health. Stacey Hoffman—the sepia-toned version of my mother, with her spray tan and dark hair extensions—was on the bike next to me. She and Mom kept perfect time with the instructor, bouncing in their saddles like two petite middle-aged fitness cheerleaders in their matching cycle sweaters.** At one point, Mom took her sweater off and started twirling it over her head, eliciting cheers from the other cyclers. Ugh again.

  Val had made plans with friends for noon, so she was able to escape immediately after class. I, on the other hand, was stuck with Mom and Stacey, who insisted on stopping by a little boutique across the street where, of course, they knew the general manager.

  “Daaaaarlings!!! It has been much much MUCH too looonnggg!! I haven’t seen you ladies in a month. You simply have have HAVE to see our newest summer collection!! Soooooo stunning.”

  Naturally, their newest summer collection was “LA-life inspired,” which in reality has nothing to do with LA life. Most people in Los Angeles wear actual clothing, not beaded strips of fabric and flip-flops. I imagine if you live anywhere other than Los Angeles, you think we’ve all descended from some blue-eyed, fat-lipped Native American tribe and worship the gods of cold-brew coffee and froyo.

  But clearly my shitty performance in spin class is reflected in my midsection, since I’ve gone up a full size since last year. As I hopelessly searched for the head hole in a fringe-covered lace-up contraption that was supposedly a dress, Stacey poked her little bronze face through the curtains, her voice three pitches higher than her usual soprano.

  “Oh my goodness, Lulu, I almost forgot! Guess who’s coming to town in August?”

  I froze, arms stuck above my head, tangled up in the bullshit lace labyrinth that couldn’t possibly be meant for a human body. Please no, I thought. Please, God, don’t let it be …

  “MEGAN!!!” she squealed, slipping past the curtain and into the dressing room, gingerly adjusting the fringe folds that were consuming me whole.

  “She’s graduating from Vandy next week! I can’t believe it. Where did the time go? It feels like just yesterday you two were running around naked in Neiman’s.”

  I tried not to cringe at the memory. Even then, Megan was obsessed with her prepubescent thigh gap. Clearly not sensing my overwhelming dread at the mention of her precious niece, Stacey barreled on:

  “First she’s going on a Euro trip with some of her Kappa friends, but then, get this … she’s finally MOVING TO LA! How amazing is that?!”

  She gave a gentle tug and the dress magically slid over my head and down to my hips, where it stopped, unable to stretch further. I stared in horror at the glorified Pocahontas costume and grunted.

  “Wait. She’s … moving here?” I asked, panic rising. I turned back and forth in front of the mirror, still trying to comprehend the physics of the tiny hippie outfit. I cleared my throat and tried sounding as casual as po
ssible: “You don’t mean, like, indefinitely, right? I mean that would be great, of course, it’s just … I thought she was moving back to the Bay Area? With her parents??”

  My voice broke a little toward the end. Stacey laughed, tossing her head back, her bun still perfect, even post–spin class. “Why would she move back to the Bay Area when she’s dying to break into fashion? I’m so proud of her, really—right out of college, and she’s already working for a stylist as iconic as Elyse Wok. Not that it’s too surprising, since Meg’s always had such great taste … Anyway, she just can’t wait to see you! She’s been talking about it for weeks. Expect a call from her soon.”

  “Hold on—did I hear that Megan is moving to LA?!” Now Mom’s head appeared through the dressing room curtains, her eyes quickly scanning my suffocating body.

  “Lulu, isn’t that fantastic?! Megan is such a great friend for you. And she’s going to be working for Elyse Wok! That’s so exciting! You have to take Meg to lunch.”

  Before I could even feign excitement, Mom waved over the manager and pulled the curtain back, exposing my reverse muffin top to the entire store.

  “This is so cute, but do you have it in one size up? Lulu, baby, I’m going back across the street to buy us a cycling package. I’m so proud of you for taking the semester to focus on your thesis … but now it’s time to put that same focus into toning up your thighs!”

  * * *

  … Adding, “work out thrice a week” to my list of short-term goals, as well as “Murder Megan Mitchell.”*

  MAY 16

  Theo

  * * *

  11:35 A.M.

  * * *

  Theo moves to LA in just two days, and I still haven’t told my family he exists. I think this qualifies me as the world’s worst girlfriend. Or at least in the bottom five.

  Theo has been working part-time at Farmhouse Catering since his sophomore year in college, so when he told me that he was transferring to the West Coast branch after graduation, I burst into tears. Mostly because it meant we could stay together, but also because I was terrified of telling my parents I had a serious boyfriend—especially one whose jean size is smaller than mine.* I had only two notable romantic encounters in high school: the first was Carl Rosen, whom Mom referred to as Cardboard Carl for the whole five months we were dating. And then there was Jeremy Lockman, with whom I went to my senior prom. Mom Photoshopped every one of our pictures to cover his acne and stretched his image to make him six inches taller, which he found incredibly insulting, and consequently he dumped me the next day.

  When I told Mom what had transpired, she waved a hand at me. “I was doing him a favor! If he can’t see that, he’s not smart enough for you.”

  Sigh. Mom has somehow managed to sabotage every single one of my relationships—even the imaginary ones with celebrities. (“Eddie Redmayne? Really? Why not Ryan Gosling or Zac Efron??”) So when I started dating Theo, with his lanky limbs and strong nose … well, let’s just say I was protecting the innocent. I know I shouldn’t care so much, but Mom is relentless in her opinions, with all her judgey comments and passive-aggressive asides. And with the uncertainty of graduation upon us, I didn’t think telling her would be worth all the meshuggaas. Theo is my slightly awkward but endlessly charming prince, and I didn’t want Mom twisting him into some weirdo hipster pauper.

  Oh, come on, Lou! This has gone much too far! You’re officially staying together postgrad, he’s moving fifteen minutes away … it’s time to break the ice. Anyway, she might LOVE him! So what if he’s a bit geeky? For the first time in your life, you’re with someone who really gets you—he’s smart, he’s funny, he’s inquisitive, he’s driven, he doesn’t mind watching endless Buffy reruns … and dammit, he makes you happy! Doesn’t that count for something??

  You know what? It’s time. I’m going to do it!

  * * *

  * * *

  Travis Winston Yates Jr. Poked You! Poke him back?

  * * *

  * * *

  11:37 A.M.

  * * *

  No. I can’t do it. At least not yet. I’m not ready to risk ruining a fulfilling relationship over Mother’s approval … not when her approval is guaranteed to the kinds of guys who probably beat Theo up in grade school.

  UGHHHH, WHYYY couldn’t I have a normal mother?? Any other mom on earth would see that Theo is an absolute gem! Sure, he’s questionably thin for a chef, but he’s kind and talented and knows what he wants to do. Hell, that’s more than I can say! He’s been on a career path since age four, when he made his first PB and J with cinnamon and sliced banana (for texture).* The guy’s a total prodigy. It’s only a matter of time before he’s a proper, honest-to-goodness head chef with his own farm-to-table restaurant … and at this rate, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to be the hostess wearing a recycled apron and name tag. Ugh.

  It’s not that I don’t have interests. I have plenty of interests! It just so happens that most of these interests don’t translate into a stable career … or at least not one that I’m in love with. And why shouldn’t I be in love with my job? I don’t want to wake up years from now, full of regret that I never pursued my dreams! Oh god, what if I end up a fifty-year-old divorcée stuck at a dead-end job, typing numbers into a computer that’s smarter than I am, staring out of the corporate window at the gray-tinted world outside, contemplating how I can get my hands on more of my mother’s leftover Xanax?!

  I refuse to resign myself to that fate. All I want is a career that I am passionate about and will never get tired of, which provides a stable income for me and my future family, is important to the human race, and will one day get me an NPR segment or 60 Minutes special. Is that too much to ask??

  I should probably go on a run. Or take a long walk. Or at the very least get out of bed.

  MAY 18

  Theo

  * * *

  Mama Shell

  10:30 P.M.

  * * *

  The Red Hot Ladies came over tonight, and though I have an extreme moral objection to the Bachelor series (I’m convinced that it is negatively influencing the way young people view and participate in love/dating culture), it was hilarious watching the ladies in action. Stacey and Susan cried when one of the men snapped his rose in half … apparently that was a huge deal. Like Twitter-trending huge.

  Mom’s friend Lisa cooked a gluten-free, dairy-free kale dip that was completely inedible, though the pugs seemed to think it was great. Dad was forced to watch for a bit before mumbling something about “too much estrogen” and escaping to his home office. Val regaled the ladies with drama about her high school friends before somehow taking an incredible picture of the taste-free asshole kale dip and picking up another three hundred followers on Instagram in the process.* It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the whole gang together, and for a minute I was rather emotional.

  But then Susan asked about my love life and Mom went into her whole fantasy about me finding a six-foot-five real man with a Harvard degree in frat life and steak grilling. Needless to say, I did not mention scrawny, earnest, Scrabble-loving Theo, who was probably in the middle of color-coordinating his graphic T-shirts.

  Until Theo’s proficient in a sport that isn’t badminton, he’ll stay undercover as Natasha.

  Not that this excuse is much better … Mom is hardly Natasha’s number one fan. Admittedly, she does wear a lot of black, but she’s easily one of the most brilliant people I have ever met. Coincidently, she’s also one of the least stable. She once went camping with her ex-boyfriend, during which she claimed to have an intense spiritual connection with a bunny, which promptly convinced her to go vegan. Now she has one of the most followed vegan lifestyle blogs on the Internet and a potential book deal on the way. Typical Tash. She graduated second in our class only to this guy Richard Chung, who literally no one knew existed until he was announced as our valedictorian. I came in third.

  I should probably ask the real Natasha not to post any Instagram pictures for the n
ext week or so—at least until I sort this situation out. But it might take some convincing. Real Tash is currently on her way to India to write a journalistic profile about its cultural violence against women … all things considered, “visiting cousins in Silver Lake” might not be the most realistic cover.

  Going to bed early tonight. If I wake up at 7:30 tomorrow, I’ll at least feel accomplished enough to continue checking goals off of my list. Remember: productivity breeds more productivity!

  MAY 19

  9:25 P.M.

  * * *

  I’m going to qualify today as the least productive day of my life.

  I pressed my snooze button a record-breaking twelve times this morning, which completely destroyed my motivation for the day as well as my ego. Instead of working out, emailing Dr. Richmanson, or even leaving my house, I moped back and forth from my room to the pantry, where I’d occasionally sneak handfuls of chocolate-covered almonds and skinny popcorn. The only remotely constructive thing I’ve done today was to change my profile picture on Facebook. It has only ten likes so far.

  Theo is furiously unpacking with his roommate/coworker, Jett, which has kept him totally swamped. Not that it’ll be easy to visit, anyway. When I told Mom I was hanging out with Natasha, she rolled her eyes and said, “Fine. Just don’t come back with a nose ring.”

  Considering changing my move-out deadline from nine months to six.

  MAY 21

  Email

  To:

  Alberto Rodriguez (HELP)

  From:

  Lou Hansen

  Subject:

  I’m Back!

  * * *

  Hi Alberto,

  Good news: I’m officially a college graduate! Less-good news: I’m still unemployed! Even-less-good news: I’ve moved back in with my parents to save money on rent that I don’t have the income to afford!! Hahahaha!!!!!