Let's Pretend This Never Happened (27 page)

He rubbed my hand patronizingly and told me I’d be fine, and I assumed he was hitting on me, so I said, “I’m married.” Then he looked at me strangely and said, “Congratulations?” He probably wasn’t hitting on me at all. More likely he just wanted me to shut up. Then the stewardess came on the speaker, and instead of saying, “At this time we ask you to turn off any portable equipment,” she said, “If you’re on a cell phone, tell them good-bye.” And I’m all,
“Why did she say ‘Good-bye’ with such an air of finality?”
The guy sitting next to me didn’t respond. Probably because he knew we weren’t going to make it out alive.

Amazingly enough, we landed. I was supposed to meet a fellow blogger at baggage claim so we could share a ride, but I’m terrible with faces, and
I suddenly realized that unless she was wearing the trench coat from her blog picture I was in huge trouble. Instead I called her and told her to come find me. “You’ll know me by my black hat,” I said.

“
I know what you look like, Jenny.”
She laughed good-naturedly. “You don’t need a hat for me to recognize you.”

Fuck.
Now I’m wondering whether we’ve met before. Which stories have I told her? Have I offended her in the past? Panic. Plus, she said it in a way like “Duh.
Of course
we’ll know each other,” and so I began just staring at every single girl in the airport with a smile and a fake look of familiarity until they looked away awkwardly. That’s how you know they aren’t looking for a stranger in a hat. Turned out, though, that Susan actually
was
wearing the trench coat from her bio picture, but I’d walked right past her because it seemed too obvious. Then she yelled out, “JENNY!
Where are you going?
” I’d failed the first test and it wasn’t even a trick question.

The hotel was
small, quaint, and simple, and when we first walked in we were greeted by the owner’s dog from the hotel ad, who had gotten the hotel Frisbee in his mouth. The logo was perfectly lined up and everyone was all, “OMG, he’s so cute!” but all I could think was, “They totally stapled that Frisbee to his tongue so it would stay like that.” Because that’s where my mind goes. I considered putting one of my blog stickers on the Frisbee when the owners weren’t looking, but those things don’t come off easily, and the owners would probably be all, “FUCK. Now we have to staple a new Frisbee to the dog’s mouth.” That’s not even worth the publicity. Mostly because it was a tiny hotel and not many people would see it. And also because stapling advertisements to dogs’ mouths is wrong.

I was wearing
the jeans Karen had persuaded me to buy, and a 1930s-style black hat that I’d hoped screamed, “I’m a bohemian vintage shopper.”
Then I realized that there was an orange Target price tag stuck to the back that said “Now $7.48.” Awesome. Plus I was very aware how fat my kneecaps looked in these jeans. I needed to lie down.

I spent the next hour meeting girls who seemed very warm and friendly, and I immediately forgot all of their names and personal stories because I was too busy reminding myself to not say something offensive. Then I saw Evany Thomas, and I was fan-girly and gushy because I love her writing, and I heard myself admitting that I have a tiny paper figurine of her that I’d cut out to put on my desk. I suddenly realized that I’d just stepped into “I want to wear your skin for a jacket” territory, but she was totally gracious about it, because she’s just as weird as I am. That’s the good thing about hanging out with bloggers. Most of them are kind of fucked up in the same way you are.

For dinner we ate
out of a taco truck. It was delicious, and I turned to the girl next to me to introduce myself. She said her name, but it didn’t sound familiar, because all I had memorized were people’s blog names.

ME
: Oh! I know you! You have that great design blog!

HER
: No, that’s the other Asian woman here. I write a fashion blog.

ME
: Holy crap. I can’t believe I just did that. I am an enormous racist.

HER
: No worries. So what do you do?

ME
: I write a blog about all the ways I mortify myself in public. This’ll go in there.

HER
: I imagine so.

ME
: I’d probably put this whole episode on Facebook right now, but I can’t get reception out here. Also, almost all of my clothes are from Target, and I’m aware my knees look fat in these jeans. I feel like I need to just admit that right now. I’m sorry; I can’t tell. Are you judging me?

HER
: Well, not on your clothes.

ME
: I like you. You’re honest. We will be best friends.

She looked doubtful. I considered telling her I have lots of Asian friends, but I was pretty sure that would make it worse. The sad truth is I couldn’t tell any of the white women apart either. In fact, at that point I’d had way too much to drink and I wasn’t even sure who I was. I dimly hoped I was Evany Thomas. I love that girl.

Pajama-party time.
Except it was fucking cold, and I don’t own pajamas. Everyone was in adorable matching sets with robes. Our hostess, Maggie, was wearing a red silky robe over what looked to be a wedding dress, and she had fluffy slippers on. She looked like she’d just come from Wardrobe. I was wearing a muumuu with sweatpants on underneath, a giant men’s hoodie, and my red confidence wig. I’d started wearing a wig in social situations for several reasons: (1) It makes me feel like someone who isn’t terrified of people, and (2) if I really fuck something up I can excuse myself, pull off the wig, and say, “Who was that weird redhead and why was she talking about dildos? They
really
need to be more cautious about who they let in here.” The wig is a form of protection, a sort of talisman, allowing me to pretend that I’m anyone else who isn’t me. Except that I can’t afford an expensive wig, so mostly I just look like I’m pretending to be a cancer patient.

I looked at my outfit unhappily in the mirror, but Laura assured me I just looked like a mysterious spy. I stared at her suspiciously. “Or like a homeless woman who just wandered into a fancy cocktail party?”

She looked at me objectively for a few seconds. “Maybe a little,” she admitted. “But
way
more like a spy.”

I have good friends.

All twenty of us
sat around an open fire pit in our pj’s and no one was tweeting, or texting, or on the phone. We were all forced to make conversation out of desperation, because cell coverage was so sporadic there. Surprisingly, it came naturally, and no one looked panicked but me. The booze helped. I whispered to Laura that this was the closest I’d ever been to sleepaway camp, and that this was exactly when the serial killer would be deciding whom to pick off. We decided that the girl on our left would be the first one to be murdered, because she was frail and adorable and the audience would love her. I would miss her. The girl in the cabin next door would be next, because she’s a buxom hot blonde, but she’d probably ask her roomie to help her shower up first, because you have to be naked for the second murder, and that one’s always the most violent. Probably because you don’t have any clothes on to soak up the blood. I felt sorry for her roommate. We decided that everyone else would be murdered during the night, except for the quiet girl on our right who wasn’t drinking, and who would eventually avenge us all, and would be the perfect person to strike down the murderer, because she was pregnant and Mormon and full of brunettey wholesomeness. Then we’d find out that the murderer was Maggie, because turns out being a serial killer was on her life list. And it was sponsored. But the audience would probably forgive her because she’s adorable, and you have to admire someone who follows their dreams like that.

Three a.m.
I couldn’t sleep. Luckily I was sharing a bed with Laura, who sleeps like the dead, but I still felt bad for tossing, so I bundled up in ten layers of clothes and a hoodie so I could sit by the pool and watch cartoons on my phone without disturbing anyone. Except the woods reminded me of
Twilight
and I found myself worried about vampires.

Four a.m. I decided it was late enough in Texas to call Victor. He was getting Hailey ready for school, but about ten minutes into the call I got attacked by a giant bear. Except not really, but it felt like it. Basically I was on the phone and this big animal walked into the pool area from the forest, and I whispered,
“Holy SHIT. What the fuck is that?!”
and Victor was all, “Where’s Hailey’s brush?
Why don’t you put things back where they belong?
” and I yelled, “THERE IS A FUCKING WILD ANIMAL SLUNKING UP TO ME,” and Victor said, “Huh?” but I could still hear him rummaging around for a brush.

Then I yelled, “I’M GOING TO BE EATEN BY A COUGAR. Wait, are there cougars in California?” And Victor was all, “Yeah. I think so. Oh! So I never got to tell you my idea for an iPhone app I’m going to make.” Then I considered calling him an asshole, but the animal was edging closer, and although it was dark I could see it didn’t have a tail, so I whispered, “Bobcat! I’m going to be attacked by a bobcat. Or a cougar that lost its tail. Probably because it got gnawed off by a vampire. And now it’s a vampire cougar. I am totally fucked.” But I said all that in my mind, because I was being quiet so that I wouldn’t attract its attention. It looked up, saw me, and then slunk off.

Victor was yelling, “
Hello? Dumb-ass by the pool at four a.m.?
Are you still alive?! TALK TO ME!” and I shakily said, “I’m fine. It ran away,” but before I could start talking about my traumatic experience he started talking about iPhone apps again, and I screamed, “WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT COMPUTERS WHEN I COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED?”

VICTOR
:
You’re fine.
So do you want to hear about my iPhone app idea I had?

ME
: No.

VICTOR
: Too bad. I made an iPhone app that tells you when cougars are near you. It doesn’t work when you’re on the phone, though.

ME
: I hate you so much right now.

Six a.m.:

ME
:
OH MY GOD, LAURA, WAKE UP.
I totally just got attacked by a cougar!

LAURA
: [still groggy]
What?

ME
: It might have been a bobcat.

LAURA
: YOU SAW A BOBCAT?

ME
: It was small, though, so probably a baby bobcat.

LAURA
: [silence]

ME
: It might have been a house cat. BUT IT WAS ENORMOUS. And it totally looked at me in a threatening way.

LAURA
: Did it growl?

ME
: No.
But I could totally tell it wanted to.

LAURA
: How big was it?

ME
: Big enough that I could put it in a cardboard box and carry it around, but it’d probably be heavy. Like, I could fit it in my suitcase
but just barely
. We could put it in your enormous suitcase, though, and it could probably live comfortably for weeks.

LAURA
: I’m going to throw cougars in the room if you don’t stop making fun of my suitcase.

ME
: [to the ten people eating an early breakfast the next morning] Did Laura tell you I got attacked by a bear last night?

EVERYONE
:
WHAT?

LAURA
: She did
not
get attacked by a bear.

ME
: Bear . . . cougar.
Same difference.

LAURA
: There was no attack.
She’s fine.

ME
: I think someone should ask the owners how many cougars they keep on the property.

LAURA
: I already asked the owners what it could have been, and they said there are some feral cats around.

ME
: I’m pretty sure “feral cats” is code for “vampire cougars.”

ME
: [to everyone else who came to breakfast one hour later] So last night I was attacked by Sasquatch. It was like a smaller version of the Loch Ness monster. But on land. So, yeah. It was
pretty
fucking terrifying.

No one really responded, but it didn’t surprise me, because it’s hard to know what to say in those situations. It’s like when someone tells you they got stabbed. There’s not an easy response in that situation. Unless it
just
happened. Then I suggest, “Lie down and tell us who the murderer is,” because that way it’ll save the homicide detectives a lot of time later.

The morning I found out
that we were all going to wine education class I felt like I was in some kind of finishing school and I’d missed all the prerequisites. Our teacher was an author who’d apparently been on the
Today
show a lot. There were five full glasses of wine in front of me, but the wine teacher told us that we were not allowed to drink any of them until after we finished the lesson. I imagine this is how dogs feel when you put a biscuit on their nose and tell them not to eat it. Except I totally stole sips of the wine when the teacher wasn’t looking, because I’m really shitty at being an obedient dog.