The Kitchen Shrink (7 page)

Add allergy attacks and other peoples’ bad moods and you got yourself a Santa Ana—a way too pleasant-sounding name for the insidious positive ions that are getting blown around. They should call it Santa Diablo or maybe Viento Chucha: bitch wind. Good things don’t happen in southern California during a Santa Ana. It’s just a bad scene, which people use as their excuse for acting up. So, while it was almost December, the temperature was going to be in the 70s today, thanks to a no good Santa Ana. I guess I can complain about anything.

I got an electric shock from my microwave (the one in my bathroom). My hair looked like 50 different directions of ugly. My eyes had bags so puffy it looked like I hot glue gunned pot-stickers to my face. I knew I was doomed to a terrible day. I headed downstairs hoping Trish the makeup lady would be there to do me.

“Hey, Elgin,” I said walking into my so-called kitchen. He beamed at me. Oh, no. Now what?

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said.

“Very funny.”

He actually looked puzzled. “What?”

“I look like something the cat dragged in and then tried to clean the kitchen with. I look like I’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. I look like…”

“Yeah, yeah, you look fine,” he waved my declarations off and jerked his head to an area over my left shoulder.

I turned to look. Oh, hey, I was going to have walls again. Cool. They started to do the drywall. Wait a minute. I went and stood next to Elgin for a better view. Oh, my. Elgin reached over and pushed my chin up to close my gaping mouth.

“I’m just say-ing,” he said.

I nodded. I finally turned my head to look at Elgin and we both burst out laughing.

“Feel, or no feel?” He whispered in my ear.

I cupped my hand against his ear. “Feel. Big time.”

“Come on, I’ll introduce you.” After I got my microphone on, my new best friend took my hand and led me over to such a good-looking construction guy he should have been on a Pepsi commercial. OK, Dr. Pepper commercial.

“Phil-O, meet Lisby. Lisby,” Elgin did what appeared to be a three musketeer swashbuckling arm extending bow with a wanky circular hand motion, “Phil-O.” To me, he explained, “He’s doing the drywall.”

“Yes, he is,” I said stupidly, feeling like a sixth grade girl meeting an eighth grade hottie. Although trust me, I’m sure I was old enough to be Phil-O’s...older sister. “Nice,” I added. “The drywall, I mean. Good job.”

I rubbed my left hand across the panel he had just nailed onto the framework. Phil-O turned and slung his hammer through a loop on his tool belt, lucky hammer, wiped his hand on his blue jeans and then held his hand out to shake mine. Oh God, my palm was wet. I tried to wipe it surreptitiously by patting Elgin’s back before I reached for Phil-O’s hand. “Hi.”

“Pleased to meet you,” came a deep anchorman baritone greeting as he clasped my hand. I’m not proud of myself but I giggled like that sixth grade girl.

“Nice to meet you,” I finally managed to say. “Where are you from?” I added. And why haven’t I met anyone like you before? I wondered. This man was gorgeous. Eyelashes that could practically double as awnings, shielding big brown eyes that looked like at least 76% cacao, the dark chocolate that is now good for our hearts.

“Hang on a second,” he said, turning to finish nailing a section of drywall. I’m sure mine and Elgin’s heads swiveled at the same time, giving a once over of Phil-O’s low slung jeans with two inches of boxers riding just below the dimpled concave curve of his muscled back. Our eyes swooped down. Baby got back. Elgin must have read my thoughts as he mimed squeezing two red playground four-square balls.

Phil-O interrupted my lascivious thoughts by asking if I wanted to help him tape the seams. “I’d tape his seams,” stupid Elgin whispered really loudly while he blatantly elbowed me in my ribs. Elgin was the biggest ham I knew and nothing was out of bounds for him to say or do on camera. “Now don’t outtalk the poor guy seven to one, ‘cause this show better be a success…I’m not taking the fall if you fail, but baby, if this show is a hit, I’m going places.”

Why did all of that sound kind of familiar? What was Elgin talking about? Why would he think I’d outtalk Phil-O seven to one? What an odd thing for Elgin to say. It sounded really familiar. In fact, I had just said something like that not so long ago. Who was I talking to? Just then, I saw Sam focusing his camera on me and Phil-O. And I knew. Because that’s what I had jokingly said to Sam after we first met. Right after I thought my big interview was over. He must have just kept the camera rolling.

“Sam, are you kidding me?” I asked, clawing at my chest to muffle the sound over my microphone.

He tilted his head over the side of the camera’s viewfinder. “What’s up, Lisby?”

“I can’t believe you were taping our talk last week. I thought you were just, oh, stupid me, being friendly.”

A look of understanding crossed his face. “Lisby, I was being friendly. You didn’t say anything bad when we were talking. You were just more relaxed and more yourself, which is what the producers want. In fact, they were really pleased with it. I wasn’t trying to hide anything; I was just trying to help you out. You were great.”

I had really liked Sam and always looked forward to seeing him, thinking he had my back. I stared at him, wishing I could take a time out to go draft a really good response, polish it up, and deliver it with aplomb. “Well, if you were trying to help, why didn’t you let me know the camera was still rolling?”

“Lisby, it just helped make the whole thing more natural. If you knew the camera was on, you’d still be uptight. It’s hard letting down your guard with this thing,” he shrugged the camera on his shoulder,“barreling down your face. I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t not tell you, either.”

“What if I would have said really embarrassing stuff?”

“Lisby, give yourself some credit. Why would you have said something embarrassing? I liked talking to you and that’s what the producers want to convey to the viewers, they want them to like getting to know you, too.”

What the hell did I say? I tried to think back to what in the world I had been rambling on about when I thought I was just talking to Sam. I just remember being so relieved MaryBeth and Elgin were done interrogating me, looking for answers I didn’t seem to have, I thought I was finished with the hard stuff and could relax.

I liked talking to Sam and he’s right, it would have been a different conversation if I knew he was taping me. Still, I was furious. I was angry at myself for trusting someone who was just doing their job. And I felt really let down because I guess I thought Sam and I understood each other, or at least were on the same side. Rat fink. Note to self; be on guard at all times. Keep thinking, ‘pretty kitchen, pretty kitchen, pretty kitchen.’ I plucked my hand from the microphone clipped to my shirt and waved it in a classic Nicole maneuver. “Whatever.” There went my polished rebuttal.

“Hey Lisby,” Phil-O with the kick ass ass called to me. “Want me to show you how to spackle?”

“Sure,” I batted my eyelashes, and turned my back on Sam. Phil-O showed me how to tape the seams and then mud over the nails.

“We’ll put a texture over the drywall to even out the finish when all the drywall is hung, so when you paint you have a nice, smooth surface.” I nodded, but then again, I couldn’t imagine disagreeing with anything he told me. I took a quick bathroom break and called Daria and told her to get over here and ogle my new boyfriend.

“I could spackle all day,” I told Phil-O, my hands all nice and putty colored muddy, smoothing out the indents and heads of nails. I loved swiping the goo, the consistency of toothpaste over the nail and then using my scraper to go back and forth until it was perfectly smooth. Talk about satisfying. A small thing, with hundreds of nails to cover, but still, I put my mind on autopilot and spackled away. There really was something to be said for being productive with concrete proof of accomplishment.

“So where did you say you were from again, Phil-O?” I asked him, realizing I probably never gave him a chance to answer when we first met due to my disgraceful display of, OK, well lust. Maybe he didn’t notice. I was fine now. I lifted my eyebrows in what I hoped was my intelligent listening face.

“My mom was from Trinidad…” he started. Ah, that explained his creamy mocha latte lickable skin. I really needed to get over myself. I hurried up and spackled another spot.

“Oh, so is Phil-O an island name?” Where exactly was Trinidad?

        Phil-O laughed. I could have swooned. Not really. Well, maybe a little. “No, Lisby,” he continued, with a hint of an accent. Lissbee. He made it rhyme with kiss me. “My dad is Irish, O’Brien. Phillip O’Brien, at your service.”

“Oh.” Did I just simper? “So, uh, did you ever live in Trinidad?”

“I grew up there until I was about 10.”

“So, you’re a,” I had nothing to say, but I forged ahead, “a Trinidadian? Trinidadi?”

Again with that laugh. I’m sure I was ten shades of red. Sam was over my shoulder filming and Elgin walked up. “Who’s your Trinidaddy?” he sneered.

The entire crew cracked up. I laughed along. Where was Daria? Somehow I got through the day, spackling away as Phil-O worked on the drywall. My kitchen was starting to take shape, but I still had a hard time envisioning the finished product. I tried to badger Elgin with questions but all he would say was, “it’ll be new, it’ll be gorgeous. That’s all you need to know.”

You know, he was right. I decided to throw caution to the wind and let the Santa Ana blow my worries away as I reached for the spackle knife and got an electric poke from Phil-O.

Oh woe is me. Why didn’t someone smack me? Boo hoo, my house is topsy turvy. Funny how one more crisis can take the heat off what you only thought was a dire situation. “Brrrring.” No phone call at 3:30 am is going to be good news. “Hello,” I finally croaked out after wrenching my neck straining for the receiver as I coughed down the lump in my throat and banged my shin on the nightstand.

“This is Officer Rob Johnson. San Diego Police Department.”

I could hardly catch my breath. “Ryan?” I pleaded.

“He’s fine, ma’am, just drunk. We apprehended him in a vehicle with three females; the driver has been arrested for driving under the influence.”

I gasped. ThankGodThankGodThankGod he’s OK, I thought. It will make killing him all the easier. “What?” I needed more details, more reassurance.

“We need you to come down and pick him up.”

“I’ll be right there,” I said, getting directions to the downtown headquarters as I shoved my feet into my fuggs and grabbed a sweatshirt.

It took about 20 minutes to make my way downtown through the cool darkness that did little to calm my roiling thoughts. Stupid me! Brett and I thought Ryan was smart enough to never drink and drive. We thought that included never getting in a car with someone who was drinking. We weren’t naïve in thinking that these kids weren’t drinking; we just tried to set up guidelines for being responsible. Ha. Stupid teenagers. “Yeah, well what were we doing when we were that age?” Brett used to remind me. It doesn’t matter; parenthood supersedes any idiot’s history, even Brett’s. We want our kids to be good. Healthy. Safe. Is that too much to ask?

I finally found the dark, nearly empty parking lot on North Broadway. I went into the police station, talked to an officer, signed for the delinquent, and then got a whiff of the little darling myself. B.O. and alcohol. Gag. I hugged his stiff body and then blurted out the line I had rehearsed the whole way down. “You don’t know how glad I am you’re not dead,” I said, my voice cracking as I tried not to cry.

I thanked the officer and hustled my smelly boy into the car. “Spill,” I told him.

“I didn’t know she was drunk.”

“Who are these girls?”

He named names, girls I had never even heard of. He was living this total secret life. I was so pissed off as I delivered my lecture, mile after mile, I ended up my closing argument so hoarse my normally high-pitched tone sounded like it had a testosterone patch slapped against its vocal cords. “I know you know not to drink and drive. That includes knowing not to get into a car with someone who is drunk or stoned. What if she had crashed and killed someone, or killed the people in the car? Or killed you? His head kind of lolled as he shrugged his shoulders. Whoa. Very disconcerting to see your baby intoxicated. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. I concluded my lecture just as we pulled up to the house. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Ryan came around to me and we walked to the front door together. The next thing I knew, he put his arm around me and dropped his head onto my shoulder. “Sorry, Mommy. I love you.”

I patted him back. “I love you, too.”

He stumbled inside and up the stairs and I was glad the cameras weren’t rolling to see this. I had a hard time falling asleep but took some solace from the fact that maybe, just maybe my words sunk in. He had been pretty mortified. I know he’s a good kid. They’re all good kids, who just make really, really bad choices. I tossed and turned and tried to stop biting my lips, hoping my boy was going to turn out OK. I think he learned his lesson.

The next morning, Nicole’s cell phone was on an end table in the living room. OK, yes. I’m not above just taking a quick peek at my kids’ text messages from time to time. It’s not like I plan on it, or snoop around for their phones, or expect to find something. But, if the opportunity for research presents itself, via a shiny object with digital display—if a phone beeps in the forest and no one is around—well, not a jury in the world would convict me. A jury made up of moms with teenagers. I flipped open her phone. Hm, she just received a message a few minutes ago. What in the world? I read it. Ryan had just text-messaged her. “Why am I home and am I in trouble?”

My heart sank. I quickly typed back. ‘YES U R in BIG trouble.’ What an ass. I didn’t know if I meant him or myself.