The Journal of Mortifying Moments Read online

  I enter the cavernous building that was once actually a high school but is now used primarily for AA meetings and television shoots. Paper signs with red arrows drawn on them point me to the set. I walk down the echoing hallway until I become aware of the din of the crew just ahead. Turning the corner, I am affronted by a throng of people milling between massive lights, a number of large cameras, and a craft services table (danger zone). In the midst of it all, I see Gavin chatting amiably with Janet.

  “It’s true, Janet. Kerry is completely replaceable. In fact, I am actually a better account manager but with a lower charge-out rate. If you asked Sonja to fire her and give me her job, you would be saving yourself a lot of time and money.”

  “Hi,” I say, rushing over to them. “Sorry I’m late. I had a couple of things I had to do in the office.”

  “Me, too.” Gavin smiles. “I went in at seven so I could get here early.”

  I ignore him. “How are you, Janet? Do you like the set? Is it how you visualized it?”

  “It’s fine,” Janet says tartly. I used to really like Janet, but given some of our recent run-ins, I am starting to find her annoying. She is really rather serious about her stupid company.

  I glance around and see Dave and Tanya chatting with the director. Dave looks up and waves. I wave back—a little too seductively perhaps, because Tanya’s eyes shoot daggers across the room. I’m not trying to encourage Dave or anything, but I can’t help feeling a little . . . I don’t know . . . special because the creative director has such a huge crush on me.

  I grab Janet and me a plate of snacks from craft services, and we sit back to watch the filming. We have flown a director in from L.A. His name is Andre, and he is built like his governor, with long, flowing blond hair. He calls the actors to the set.

  “Okay! Listen up!” he calls. “I need the extras to find seats in those desks. I want lawyer kid and death-row-murderer kid in these front two! Now, people!”

  A mob of eight-year-olds stampedes onto the set and finds seats in the rows of desks. The two feature actors, a cute little black boy and a freckle-faced redhead, sit in the front-row seats.

  “Okay! Great! Sara! Get the crack-whore girl into makeup! Death-row kid—”

  “Cut!” I yell before I even realize what I’m doing. I know no one but the director is supposed to yell cut; I know the cameras aren’t even rolling, but . . . yet again, I’ve lost control over my mouth.

  “Yes?” Andre turns to me. “You have a problem?”

  I am aware of all eyes on me. The majority of the crew has no idea who I am and think I’m just some disruptive crackpot who wandered in off the street. They are all slightly sneering at me as self-important TV people do.

  “Umm . . .” I clear my throat. I’ve got to say this. “Can we not refer to the children as ‘death-row kid’ and ‘crack-whore-girl’? I can’t help but think this might be scarring to an eight-year-old’s psyche.”

  Andre snorts a laugh. “They are actors,” he says. “They are playing a part! If the part is of a crack-whore, then that is what they will be called, all right?”

  “No, actually. You see, the kids aren’t playing crack whores and death-row inmates—the adults are. The kids are playing students.”

  Andre is getting red-faced, and I’m sure his creative ego has had just about all it can take of me. “What do you want me to call them, Kerry? Student One and Student Two? Student Eight and Student Nine?”

  “How about using their names?”

  There are a few snickers and by the look in Andre’s eyes, I know I have made an enemy for life. “Fine,” he snaps. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Thanks,” Janet whispers. “That was bothering me, too.”

  “No problem,” I whisper back. I am suddenly aware of Dave’s eyes on me from across the set. He is staring at me, an amused smile playing on his lips. Uh-oh. I was being feisty again, wasn’t I? I will never get him to fall out of love with me!

  The rest of the shoot goes smoothly, and things are progressing ahead of schedule. Janet is so pleased that she even calls Sonja to tell her (which may score a few brownie points for me . . . and for Gavin, I guess). Andre is thrilled with the performances of the crack whore and Ms. Trailer Trash. There is only one fly in the ointment—Tanya and Dave are not getting along.

  Tanya doesn’t even show up on the third and final day of shooting. I can’t say that I blame her. Dave has been flirting incessantly with this gorgeous Asian woman who plays crack-whore girl’s—I mean Madison’s—third-grade teacher. I suspect he has been doing this to throw Tanya off the scent of his feelings for me . . . but he’s very convincing. They have even disappeared behind the makeup trailers on several occasions. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was really interested in her.

  When we finally wrap on Friday afternoon, a group of us go to a nearby bar to celebrate a job well done. Dave is there without Tanya or his beautiful faux-girlfriend. I find an opportune moment when most of the other guests are doing tequila shots, and I ask him about it. I’m not sure why, but it seems I can’t help myself.

  “So . . . what happened to Tanya?” There is a hint of amusement in my voice.

  “We broke up. She didn’t feel like coming to the set anymore, so I told her she could work out of the office.”

  “That’s too bad,” I say as sincerely as possible.

  “It’s for the best. I think we both knew it was over.”

  “I hope your working relationship will be all right.”

  “We’ll figure something out.”

  “I know you will . . .,” I say sympathetically. “So . . . I guess all the flirting you did with that Asian girl did the trick, eh?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Come on.” I nudge him. “I saw what you were doing. You were totally flirting with crack-whore girl’s teacher! Tanya must have noticed it, too.”

  “That may have had something to do with it.” He takes a long pull on his beer.

  “I have to say, Dave,” I continue, my lips loosened by a couple of drinks, “that I really appreciate you throwing Tanya off with that actress. I really wouldn’t want her to know that I am the reason you broke up with her.”

  Dave clears his throat. “Actually, Kerry . . . Shannon and I are dating.”

  “Sorry . . . what? Who?”

  “Shannon . . . the actress . . . we’re dating.”

  “Oh.” I can feel my face turning crimson.

  “Yeah, I guess I should have told you. I realized, a while ago, that my attraction to you was really just an excuse to get out of this thing with Tanya. You were just the closest available female, you know? And then when I met Shannon . . . well, I realized that she is what I’m looking for. She made me take the final step to end my relationship with Tanya.”

  “Well . . . that’s great, then.” I down the remains of my beer (the remains being seven eighths of the bottle). “I’m happy for you, Dave. I really am. I’d better go and check on Janet. . . .” I look over to see her licking salt off Andre’s muscular chest. “See ya later.”

  I hate Dave.

  Chapter 20

  Okay . . . so, I hate Dave. He is cold, insensitive, two-faced, and manipulative. He’s not that good looking and I don’t even respect his creative talent. So why is this bothering me so much? I should be happy that he is out of my hair and not alternately trying to kiss me or have me fired. But I can’t help worrying about this. What if, by some crazy twist of fate, Dave was “the one” that Ramona predicted? Is my karma so bad that even the one the universe intended for me can easily be lured away by an attractive commercial actress?

  I feel completely blue . . . not devastated as I did when I ended things with Sam, but blue nonetheless. I really am an idiot. And of course, my therapist picks this week to go on vacation. I wonder where she’s going. Despite me spilling my most humiliating secrets to her biweekly, she tells me virtually nothing. Where would someone like her go on vacation? Probably to some back-to-basics retreat in
the Cascades, where a bunch of women churn their own butter, make homemade jam, and sit around quilting. Although . . . you never know. They say it’s the quiet ones that will surprise you. Maybe she’s at one of those weird medieval fairs dressed as a serving wench and doing the bidding of some muscular guy in chain mail whom she calls m’lord. Or maybe she’s at a nudist colony, where—ewwww.

  Okay, my therapist is on vacation, but I can cope on my own. With the help of deep breathing and You Get What You Give, I can handle this rejection. I’ve also purchased a Zen Kit to help me become one with the universe and spiritually free.

  THE COMPLETE GUIDE TO ZEN IN A BOX, it says on the cover. It is this cute little kit I happened across in Safeway. (Please don’t say I’m not going to find true Zen in Safeway. I’ve already had this conversation with myself.) Inside are some smooth polished stones, a couple of tea lights, some incense, and a small round mirror. There is also a red book with the Japanese symbol for Zen (I’m assuming, as I can’t really read Japanese) on the cover. This is my “practical guide to gaining Zen wisdom.”

  I open the little red book and begin to read. It is really copy heavy (as we say in the ad biz). I think I will skip ahead to the section on finding enlightenment. Hmmm . . . okay . . . here we are:

  Enlightenment or “satori” is the goal of all practitioners of the Zen school. But one must not actively seek enlightenment, but allow it to happen, through meditation, working, and living the “right” life. The harder one seeks to gain enlightenment, the further away from it they will be drawn. The mind and spirit must be occupied and focused simultaneously, neither seeking satori nor creating obstacles to prevent it.

  Simple enough. I will just light these candles and the incense, and hold these smooth stones in my hands while I meditate. I will not actively seek enlightenment, just hope that it happens along and finds me. As I set up my meditation station, I notice the tiny round mirror included in the kit. A quick flip through the book does not provide any indication of the use of this object. I decide to place it in front of me as I sit in the lotus position and breathe deeply.

  Uggh. I glance down at the mirror to a really unflattering view of my face. I look very jowly . . . a bit like a bloodhound, and every nose hair is explicitly visible. I turn the mirror facedown, thankful that no one has ever seen my face from that angle. I mean, how could they? A person would have to be lying down while I sat astride them—Oh, God! No wonder Sam broke up with me. He’s probably seen me looking like a bloodhound at least fifty times!

  Anyway . . . it is irrelevant now. All I can do is learn from my mistakes and never do it in the “girl on top” position again. Okay . . . I am twisted into lotus now . . . breathing deeply . . . Enlightenment, feel free to enter my mind . . . not that I really want you to or care either way . . . release the thoughts as they enter my brain . . . This incense smells nice. . . . I think . . . It might be giving me a headache, though. . . . Or maybe it is the pain from this rigid posture . . . The lotus position has turned my hips and inner thighs numb. . . . It is probably good to focus on the pain, thus allowing enlightenment to reach me while I am occupied with other things . . . like if I’ll be able to walk after this. . . . I’m thirsty. . . . Now I have to pee. . . . Well, the book says enlightenment can come during any activity. . . .

  Thank God! The phone!

  I am so relieved to have a break from this bloody meditating that I don’t even check the caller-ID box. Even a call from a telemarketer selling subscriptions to Fisherman’s Weekly would provide a welcome respite.

  “Hello?” I say cheerfully.

  “Kerry? Hi. It’s me, Sam.”

  “Uh . . . hello,” I stammer, completely shocked to hear his deep, sexy voice.

  “Am I catching you at a bad time?”

  “Not really. I was just . . . cleaning.”

  “Well . . . you said I could call you sometime. Just to see how you’re doing . . .”

  “Of course. Right. I’m great, thanks. And you?”

  “Good. Yeah . . . work’s good . . . busy.”

  “Me, too. I just finished a TV shoot for Prism.”

  “Oh, yeah? How’d it go?”

  “Really well, actually.” I am suddenly so over this stupid Dave thing.

  “And how’s . . . uh . . . I don’t even know his name.” He sort of chuckles. “The guy you’ve been seeing?”

  Long, awkward pause. “Oh, yes! He’s great! Things are great.”

  “Yeah?” He sounds a bit disappointed.

  “We broke up, actually.”

  “Really?” He sounds much more cheerful. “Well . . . how would you like to grab a drink sometime? Talk about old times?”

  “Yeah.” I shrug, trying to sound indifferent. “I suppose we could.”

  “How about now?” he says. “I could steal you away from your housework.”

  I know what I should say. I should say, “No thank you, Sam. The old times we had together aren’t really worth talking about. Good-bye.” Or, “Actually, Sam, I am still hopeful that what’s-his-name and I will work things out so . . . it wouldn’t be a good idea for us to get together.” Or, “I’ve got the flu.” Or, “My mom is here right now.” Or, “I’m on house arrest.” But I don’t.

  “Sure,” I say, in a ridiculously seductive voice. “Where shall we meet?”

  I show up at the bar fifteen minutes late. Sam is seated by a bank of windows with a 180-degree view of Elliott Bay. Okay . . . I tell myself as I approach . . . this is just a friendly catch-up drink. I’m not going to kiss him. I’m not going to sleep with him. And if I do, I definitely won’t be on top. His face lights up when he sees me—like it never did when we were together.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hi.” He beams and stands to pull out my chair. “You look amazing.”

  “Thank you,” I respond formally. “And you.” I’m sure he does look amazing, but the truth is, I haven’t had the courage to really look at him since I arrived. I’m afraid I’ll melt into his arms the moment I lay eyes on him. Now that I don’t have my imaginary boyfriend as an excuse, I’m not sure I have the strength of character to resist him. I preoccupy myself with the amazing view.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask, staring out the rain-splattered glass.

  “It is,” he says huskily, and I can feel his eyes on me. I need him to back off.

  “So . . . tell me what you’ve been up to,” I say, forcing an upbeat tone.

  “Let’s get you a drink first. What are you having?”

  “Glass of red, please. Merlot or Shiraz.”

  “I’ll get it from the bar,” he says, rising. “The waitress is a bit slow.” When he returns, it is with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  “Uh, Sam . . . I just wanted a glass of wine,” I say, annoyed. My therapist’s past warnings on the dangers of mixing alcohol and Sam flit through my consciousness.

  “Oh, come on.” He smiles, his eyes twinkling. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “I’ll have one glass,” I say again. “I’m not about to sit here and drink a bottle of wine at four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  At five thirty, Sam says, “Should we get another bottle?”

  “Well, I have plans tonight,” I lie. “I don’t think I should.”

  “Come on, Kerr.” He puts his hand over mine, and I try not to shiver from the electric current between us. “Don’t go yet. It’s so great to see you.”

  “Well . . .” I begin to decline, but the truth is, I am really enjoying our conversation. “I guess I can stay for a bit longer. But I’d better order some food, or I’ll be passed out in my chair by seven.”

  Sam laughs—really hard—at my little joke, and he summons the waitress to bring us menus and more wine.

  As it grows dark, our waitress lights a candle on our table. We each enjoy a plate of seafood pasta while we sip wine and try not to stare into each other’s eyes . . . at least I am trying not to. This suddenly feels way too much like a date. “W
hat are we doing here, Sam?” I say softly. “We both know it’s over between us.”

  “Is it, Kerry?”

  “It is!” I insist. “We tried—really hard—to make it work. We’re just not right together. There’s too much history between us.”

  “But we are right together,” Sam says, leaning in. “I didn’t realize—until you were gone—how right we were together. I was an idiot to put my career before us. My priorities were out of whack. I made a lot of mistakes, Kerry, but I’ve learned from them. . . . God, I miss you so much.”

  “I miss you, too, but—”

  “And I know you tried really hard before, but I didn’t. Not like I would now . . . if you gave me another chance.”

  Oh, no. This is not good. Where is that stupid waitress? Why isn’t she interrupting us with a dessert menu or something?

  “Sam . . . I . . .”

  “Take some time if you want,” he says gently. “I’ll wait.”

  “Okay.” I tear my eyes away from his. “I’d better go.”

  Sam takes care of the bill and follows me outside. I hail a taxi, and he piles in beside me. I give the driver my address and then look at Sam.

  “Right,” he responds. “And the next stop will be Eastlake.”

  “I had such a great time tonight,” he says, cuddling down beside me in the backseat.

  “Yeah?” I say encouragingly.

  “Since we’ve been apart, I’ve gone out with a couple of girls and . . . there’s just no one who compares to you.”

  “Reeeeeeeeeeally?” I feel myself softening toward him. “That’s so sweet.”

  “It’s true,” he says. “You are one in a million . . . one in ten million.” He kisses my mouth very lightly. I don’t pull away.

  The cab pulls up in front of my building in the nick of time: I was just about to straddle him and suck his lips off.

  “Well,” I say as I fish in my wallet for the fare. “Here we are.”

  “It’s still early,” Sam says. “Maybe I could come up for a coffee or something?”

  I turn and look at him. Our eyes are locked in an intense gaze. He reaches up and softly strokes my cheek. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers.