Smothered Page 4
Rita began pressing her fingers into her own face.“Yes, go find Wolfgang! He should be near the pool with some friends. Honey, why does my skin feel like leather?”
I left Rita to discover the texture of her own body and headed toward the pool. This involved a ten-minute ride in the backseat of a golf cart next to a man who did not acknowledge my existence once. We just sat next to each other, inappropriately fascinated by our cell phones as the driver blasted a mix of white noise and classical music until we arrived at the West Camp. Wolfie was lounging by the pool with his buddies, a perimeter of discarded beer bottles clearly marking their territory. He was wearing another pair of Chubbies—these were lime green instead of coral—with flip-flops, no shirt, and a white Vineyard Vines sweater tied around his thick neck. As I got closer, I realized that all his friends were wearing a similar uniform; only the color of shorts and flip-flops varied.
It took between three to six minutes for anyone to actually notice me, and when they did, I suddenly became acutely aware of how awkward my hands felt. The boys’ abrupt attention turned me back into a gangly twelve-year-old on her first day of middle school, and my palms got balmy at the memory.* I put on a big smile, shoved my sweaty hands deep in my pockets, and leaned a little too far on one hip. “Hey, Wolfgang!”
Wolfgang squinted a bit at me, like I was somehow out of focus, before lifting his chin up and nodding slightly. “Oh, right. Lou Hansen, yeah?”
The Preppy Boy Band all gave me the “’sup” nod, which I tried emulating, only it ended up looking more like a twitch.
“Your mom said I might find you here!” I kept on, as though this were a cool thing to say. Wolfgang snorted and gave another head nod to the side … I think meaning yes, but I’m not sure. I don’t speak bro.
“She still high as tits?” he asked, his yuppie squad all chuckling at the idea. I nodded and tried chuckling myself. It sounded like a hiccup.
“Yeah, Rita’s still pretty loopy. You know how drugs are!” This statement made it glaringly obvious that no, I do not. I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’m glad she’s making a speedy recovery! She looks great.”
Wolfgang took a swig of his beer, squinting into the sky, as though in deep thought. Doubtful, though.
“Ha. Well. She better look great for all the money it cost.”
My jaw dropped. The money?? How could he think of the money?! What an insensitive, intolerable, dopey-looking, beer-soaked little DOUCHE BAG!!!
“Haha, what do you mean?” I valiantly defied.
Wolfie stretched his arms overhead, accentuating his rack of abs. Damn. If nothing else, he was a phenomenal physical specimen. Well done, Mattfeld genes.
“I just mean if you’re gonna have plastic surgery, and you pay good money for it, then you best be looking pretty dope, ammaright?”
The boys all gave an “AYO!” in support. I looked around the group, utterly confused.
“Wait … so your mom didn’t have breast cancer?” I probably should have asked something subtler, but my instincts told me Wolfie wasn’t great with nuance.
His face scrunched up into a tightly knit ball, air blowing out of his tanned nose. “What? Naw, she just got her implants taken out. Said they made her look too big up top.”
One of his buds grabbed two handfuls of air in front of his pecs, and everyone laughed except for Wolfie, who smacked him across the back of the head.
“Cut it out, man, that’s my mom!”
“Ow, sorry, bro!”
“Asshole!”
I was just about to turn around to drown myself in the pool when Wolfie turned his attention back to me.
“Yo, Lou … you’re Valentina’s sister, right?”
You’ve got to be kidding me. I gave him two thumbs-ups, dropping my convincing “cool” facade. All the yuppies started gushing.
“Whoa, wait, you mean So Cal So Val??” “No way! You’re THAT Hansen?”
“My sister gets all her Instagram ideas from her!”
Within ten minutes, I had summoned Val to the West Camp to take pictures with the Preppy Pals—all of whom flexed their biceps for the camera.
The whole way home, I sulked in the backseat, unable to bear the embarrassment of being my sister’s photographer. Dad was cursing again, only this time Mom joined in the profanity.
“How the hell is she fifty-six years old?? She doesn’t look a day over forty!”
“I mean, seriously, twelve bedrooms?! There are only four people in the family!”
“And she swears she’s never had a facelift. Not even an eyelift!”
“Maybe it’s tax evasion? A Ponzi scheme? Maybe she sells her leftover Vicodin??”
“Charlie, this is serious! Ugh, maybe I should go soak in Botox!”
Month Two
June Gloom
JUNE 1
8:15 A.M.
* * *
Mom burst into my room at 7:15 this morning in curlers and a leopard-print robe.
Muffin and Baguette dutifully filed in behind her, jumping onto the bed and attacking my head before I could half open my eyes.
“Drink this.” Mom thrust a steaming mug under my pug-clobbered face. I pushed the goons off and inhaled what I assumed was coffee, only to snort up a nose full of choke-inducing spices. My nose hairs started singeing.
“Oh god. Should I even ask?”
“It’s hot water with lemon and cayenne. We’re having one in the morning and one before bed.”
“Can I humbly object?”
“Sure. If you want to have wrinkles at thirty.”
Sigh. Mom has an incredible way of disguising demands as options. I halfheartedly pushed myself onto a forearm, fending off Muffin with the other arm while he chewed on my hair. I grabbed the mug and peeked over the edge at its contents—little red specks and lemon seeds floating in what looked like murky nitric acid. The fumes burned my eyes.
“Uh, Mom? Are you sure this is healthy?”
“Of course it is! They say it flushes out toxins.”
“And who is ‘they’ again?”
“Oh, you know—everyone.”
Starting to think the proverbial “they” Mom often refers to is People magazine. Or maybe Satan. Could be either.
I took a sip and almost coughed up a lung. “Ugh, this is worse than the algae.”
“Hush, bubbe, and take your medicine. If Rita Mattfeld can look forty forever, so can I. And besides, it’s a new month! Let’s not waste it!”
As she turned on her heels to leave, the pugs chased after her, biting at the trail of her fluffy leopard robe.
It took a few minutes before I dared to take another sip, but I must admit, once my tongue was numbed by the cayenne concoction, it really wasn’t half bad! I mean, I don’t feel that different, but I’m certainly more awake. Maybe toxins are a real thing after all? Will research later.
I can’t believe how New Age I’m about to sound, BUT Mom does make a good point about June. A new month IS a chance to start over, and since I haven’t been particularly productive in my first three weeks postgrad, why not take the opportunity to grow? This could be a new me! And you know what? New me is going to be motivated. New me is going to make stuff happen. New me is going to be like Martha Stewart meets Steve Jobs, only better.
JUNE 2
7:30 A.M.
* * *
Woke up at 7:10 this morning (!!!), twenty minutes BEFORE my alarm went off, and spent my first five conscious minutes posing like Wonder Woman. (Shonda Rhimes wrote that posing like Wonder Woman in the morning helps empower her throughout the day. Would very much like to be a blonder version of Shonda Rhimes.)
As a sort of psychological rejuvenation, I am revising my list of short-term goals for the month of June. I am also going to switch from drinking coffee to the lemon-cayenne concoction. If I’m trying out this new hippie idealism, I’m committing 100%.
* * *
GRADUATION GOALS (REVISED)
Short Term
• Establi
sh new living-at-home rules/expectations with parents. (Should probably reiterate these.)
• Rid closet of all unnecessary and unprofessional outfits. (Thanks to the Mama Shell Bedroom Purge of 2017.)
• Email professor Richmanson about job opportunity!!
• Buy more ink for label maker. (Can’t find label maker itself, also thanks to the Mama Shell Bedroom Purge of 2017.)
• Start waking up at 7:30 A.M. (Will be tough without coffee, but must stay strong.)
• TELL MOM ABOUT THEO!!!
• Work out thrice twice a week. (Realistic goals are key.)
• Murder Megan Mitchell (Holding grudges is immature and prison is not on my list of long-term goals.)
• Substitute coffee with lemon-cayenne water
* * *
Mama Shell
* * *
Email
To:
Lou Hansen
From:
Shelly Hansen
Subject:
FWRD: BILLS—MAY 2017
* * *
Hi, Shelly,
Attached are the bills/financial records for this past month, May of 2017. At your husband’s request, I broke the information in the first two weeks down so you can see what you’re spending money on. As you will note, I highlighted the most frequent offenders and made a few comments in the margins. If you have any questions regarding the charges or do not recognize any of these charges, feel free to email or call me.
Best,
Alberto Rodriguez
Business Manager, WG&S
ARodriguez@wgs.net
310-205-5163
MAY 2017
* * *
Mama Shell
* * *
Email
To:
Lou Hansen
From:
Shelly Hansen
Subject:
RE: FWD: BILLS—MAY 2017
* * *
Darling Al,
You’re so wonderful to do this for me!! Would be even more wonderful if you kept the Barney’s bill between us. It was for Lulu’s graduation outfit … that is, my outfit for Lulu’s graduation. She was stuck wearing that frumpy cap and gown with no waistline. Blegh.
Anyways, I’m turning over a new leaf this month. Already returned a few of my Bloomie’s purchases, which may only give me credit, but it’s a good start!
You haven’t heard of Doggie Day Spa?? Changed my life. The pugs are so lively when they’ve had a massage! Tell your wife about it.
Xoxo,
Shelly
* * *
10:45 P.M.
* * *
An excellent start to the month! My first two days of positivity are proving successful and encouraging. Posing like Wonder Woman has in fact done wonders … whether those results are psychosomatic is completely irrelevant.
Somehow managed to get lunch with Theo yesterday without raising any questions from Mom. I told her I was buying summer reading books, and she asked if I could pick up the newest edition of People.
Previous “they” suspicions confirmed.
I ran for forty-five minutes on the treadmill today, and only briefly considered amputating my feet at the ankles. In fact, I think I experienced a bit of runner’s high! Or dehydration. Regardless, a gentle tingling was experienced through my appendages, and it was goddamn glorious.
Might just add “run marathon” to list of long-term goals.
Mom was barely home today (presumably hiding from Papa Hansen and the monthly bill), but after my lunch yesterday, I am finally gathering the confidence to tell her about my boyfriend. There’s zero reason she should dislike him. He’s any parent’s dream: he’s kind, he’s brilliant, he makes a killer organic pesto … what’s not to love? Besides, when Mom met Dad, he was wearing a metallic panda shirt and already losing his hair. I’m hardly tarnishing the family bloodline.
I’ll give myself one week. One week of cayenne and inner confidence is all I need to spill the boyfriend beans. Who knows? If all goes well, Theo might even get an invitation to mah-jongg!
… oh god, what is happening to me?
JUNE 3
4:15 P.M.
* * *
Over forty-eight hours without coffee and I’m still feeling great! Have experienced on-and-off headaches, but nothing wretched like most coffee addicts groan on about. In fact, that pain has been pleasant in comparison to the seething post-run lava that was pulsing through my legs this morning.
Instead of another run (unthinkable in current condition), I went with Mom and Susan to their noon yoga class. Turns out, it was Bikram Yoga, which is sort of like normal people yoga, only in 1,001-degree heat. I was immediately tempted to turn around and walk out, but caught a glimpse of an ancient relic in a sports bra doing crow pose and decided to swallow my pride.
The woman at the front desk could not have weighed more than ninety-eight pounds soaking wet—which she was, only with sweat “glimmer.” She had five piercings on each ear and a shirt that said Nama stay in bed, which I regretted not doing. She looked up at me with her perfectly messy topknot and introduced herself as Harvest, because of course.
Though old, less-positive me would have hated tiny Harvest and her tiny, poreless yogi face, new me decided to breathe out all of my black energy or whatever and give the glimmering pixie a chance.
Shocking admission: I actually enjoyed the class. I’m not sure what it is. Something shifted once Harvest lowered the lights and turned on the electronic candles. The room smelled oddly similar to my college dorm (possible connection to living with Tash?), and the stretching made my lava-filled legs hurt so damn good. Mom and Susan hid in the back left corner, where I’d occasionally hear them exchanging giggles at a downward dog gone wrong.
“Set an intention for your practice,” guided Yoga Pixie Harvest. “Forget everything going on outside of these doors. Just be here on your mat, with an intention, in the present, right here, right now.”
And just like that: I did. It took ten minutes of arm quivering and belly twitching, but I completely forgot about my short-term, medium-term, and long-term goals. Suddenly all of the aching went away and was replaced with a sort of odd humming sensation. I sweat like a faucet. Possibly to the point of hallucination. Maybe I’m hallucinating that I like yoga? Can’t be sure.
Work out twice a week: check. Look out, June! I’m on a roll.
* * *
Mama Shell
JUNE 5
10:15 A.M.
* * *
Theo starts his new job today, which would normally send me into a tailspin of self-comparison and anxiety about my own future, but new me is going to focus on being productive! I’m going to unpack all the remaining boxes in my room and get rid of anything superfluous. I told Mom about this endeavor, and she asked if I wanted an Adderall. I told her thanks, but that I’m boycotting the illegal purchasing of drugs from our hairdresser.
She said that I’m no fun.
JUNE 6
Email
To:
Lou Hansen
From:
Dr. Nathaniel E. Richmanson III, PHD.
Subject:
RE: Job Opportunity
* * *
Miss Eloise—
First and foremost, I must congratulate you on the most thrilling accomplishment of graduating summa cum laude last month! Very, very exciting. Few students at Columbia are able to achieve such a high honor, and even fewer are able to make any use of it. After all, undergraduate accomplishments are rarely acknowledged outside the world of academia. In fact, many question whether students’ efforts would be better spent developing practical and social skills rather than relentlessly chasing a high GPA.
That was a joke. Ha-ha.
Of course, I am not concerned about you in the slightest. You were easily one of my finest pupils, and I—unlike millennial parents and the liberal media—am not one to dish out false or undeserved praise. How many students would stay up for seventy-two
consecutive hours and consume sixteen Red Bulls, all to complete their senior thesis a week in advance? That is the mark of a winner. I hope that you’ve been enjoying a well-deserved break from the madness, and that most of your hair has grown back.
That being said, I’m pleased to hear you’re not taking too much time off this summer. After all, you’re trapped in a perpetual summer now.
Ha-ha-ha.
Now, in response to your inquiry. The job opportunity I spoke to you about this past spring is at a start-up in Manhattan. The concept is a monthly subscription to a line of stylish high-end puppy clothing.
Let me elaborate.
Once a month, Manhattan’s elite can expect designer-quality outfits for their precious pooches via the post. Though I myself would never shame an animal in such a manner, I know many Manhattanites who would undoubtedly stoop so low. Forgive me for saying so, but anyone who puts an article of clothing on their dog is the same sort of coddling, bleeding-heart communists who would hand out participation trophies to children and drink bastardized milk made from cashews. However, an old student of mine founded the start-up and has been looking to hire fellow Columbia grads.
I’d be happy to send along a recommendation if you would like.
Sending my warmest regards,
Dr. Nathaniel E. Richmanson III, PhD
* * *
12:10 P.M.
* * *
Excuse me as I set my hard-earned degree on fire.
PUPPY CLOTHING?! This must be some sick, twisted joke. Don’t get me wrong—it’s a cute start-up idea, and I’m sure there are plenty of Oberlin graduates that would absolutely love working there part-time while pursuing a passion in motion-blur photography. That sounds great! Wonderful! Sell those tiny Chanel hats!!