C'est La Vie

Hi Friends.

I was flipping through old documents last night, silently panicking about what to put on my blog this morning when I came across this short story that I wrote in high school. It is ... very silly. But well-written silliness and I got a chuckle from re-reading it. I'm not sure about the rest of you but as this pandemic rages on and many of us are still confined to our homes (or at least to the neighborhoods immediately surrounding them) I think a dose of silliness is exactly what we need right now.

If you enjoy this short story, consider buying my book (link at the top of the page)! Your support helps me continue to create more free content just like this. Can't buy the book? No problem! Subscribing by email is another good way to support this blog and it's free!

Thanks for reading and I'm sending lots of love in these uncertain times.

xxKathleen

Wendy Waters shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair which, to her mortification, groaned in protest under the burden of her weight. Her eyes darted quickly around the room to see if anyone had noticed, and found herself face to face with the crimson smirks of two dozen women who were all much thinner than she was. She was not, and had never considered herself to be, a large woman, but three babies, one shitty marriage, and a lifetime of pastry consumption had left their mark on her waistline. Not to mention that at thirty-eight years of age, she had at least ten years on every woman in the room. 

Everywhere Wendy looked, the lobby was lined with attractive, designer-clad blondes with frosty blue eyes. Some of them clutched resumes or portfolios in gold-lacquered hands. Others readjusted barely-there bra straps so that they disappeared beneath the sleeves of their oh-so-sheer silk blouses. Each one was a sexbot on six-inch stilettos. Even the secretary, pursing her lips at Wendy over stylish black frames, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old and a veritable waife in her coral pantsuit and matching lipstick. Wendy was beginning to feel supremely incompetent next to all of them. She had thought that the black pencil skirt and yellow top combination that she had lucked upon in a thrift store made her look younger, slimmer, and more fun. In comparison to this lineup of Silicon Valley’s finest Barbie tryhards, however, she felt faded, frumpy, and offensively chubby. What insanity was it that had convinced her this was a good idea?

The sound of a door opening finally broke the uncomfortable silence in the lobby. Behind the front desk, a bored-looking man in his mid-fifties was escorting out one of the barbies, a brunette in a little black dress, out of his office, nodding as she chattered incessantly; “I think I’d really be, like, a good fit for this job. I’d totally bring a lot of good karma to your team.”

“Mmm.” The recruiter looked incredibly underwhelmed by the statement. “Well ... thanks for coming in. We’ll definitely call you if anything comes up.” The moment her back was turned, he shook his head in exasperation and turned to the room at large. “Waters? Wendy Waters?”

Wendy was so surprised, she leaped to her feet with a startled cry of; “Yesthat'sme!” and managed to knock over a rack of magazines in the process. The women in the room tittered derisively and Wendy flushed with embarrassment. Part of her was tempted to just walk out then and there, but then she looked at the recruiter, sighing impatiently, and a tiny part of her brain that had lain dormant for almost forty years, snapped into consciousness. All her life she had been a quiet, clumsy housewife, and she had promised herself the night that the divorce went through that she wasn’t going to let the world, or anyone on it, run her over anymore. She certainly wasn’t going to leave now without a fight.

“Alright, alright,” she heard herself saying to the assembled women in a surprisingly saucy tone. “Let’s not get too excited. At least I have a personality to match.”

It was almost magical, the way her retort stunned those ice queens into silence. The recruiter behind her snorted with laughter and held the door open for her. That was a good sign, right? She felt emboldened as she walked into a completely uninteresting, luxury office and took a seat across from the desk wedged into the corner. The recruiter, his desk plate said he was Samuel Jones, took her resume from her and collapsed heavily into his office chair.

“Ms. Waters, nice to meet you,” he said in a monotonous voice, flipping through her folder. “I have to admit, you’re not really the sort of person we expect for this kind of job. You are aware of the position you’re applying for?”

And there were the feelings of incompetence again. “Um, it’s the stylist job. The one in Paris,” she told him nervously. “Right?”

He raised an eyebrow at that and she felt unbelievably stupid. “That’s correct. You didn’t go to fashion school.” It wasn’t a question.

“N-no.” In fact, she had gone to community college and dropped out in her last year on account of being pregnant with her oldest daughter.

“Have you ever had a job in the fashion industry?”

“I-I haven’t really worked anywhere. I got married young and had my hands full with kids. I’ve always wanted to work in fashion though. I used to watch those makeover shows on TLC and make up my own outfits in my head. I think I’d be good at it. I always used to dress my kids up.” She was babbling, and sounding rather ridiculous. Time to shut up, Wendy. Before you embarrass yourself any more.

“So let me see if I’m getting this right. No credentials, no experience, no references, and you … what? Woke up one morning and decided to apply at one of the most famous magazines in the world for a position in Paris, the fashion capital of the world?” He laughed. “You are a piece of work.”

Wendy was sweating. He made it sound incredibly foolish, which to be fair, it probably was. “It’s never too late to start over,” she offered him feebly. “If someone like me can get a glamorous job like this, it just proves that anyone, anywhere, can do anything they want.”

He snorted again, looking her up and down. “I guess you’re the one who picked that outfit then?”

She burned with shame at his scrutiny. In a past life, she would have gotten out of there as fast as she could, but once again the flame that had been lit the day she told her husband to leave flared up inside her and she found herself coming back with a biting; “Yeah, and who dressed you? The Undertaker?”

He looked down at his drab grey suit and then back up at her with an unreadable expression. She realized that she’d just shot herself in the foot and struggled to recover. “I included some photos in that file,” she said quietly. “Just some outfits that I’ve put together for friends and family. I helped one of my friends with her wedding look. I’m quite proud of it. You can just take a look at those and if you like any of it, you’ve got my number. Thank-you for your time.” She knew full well that the phone would never ring.

Wendy let herself out of the office, making a point to stride confidently past the other girls, and waited until she was in the safety of her car before she started to cry. Well, she had done it - that spontaneous thing that scared the living daylights out of her, but also kind of made her squirm inside with excitement. And she had blown it. But then, she had expected that, hadn’t she? Fixing her mascara in the rearview mirror, she consoled herself. She had tried, and that was all she had set out to do. So she had made a fool of herself, but at least nobody knew about it. She would drive home in time for the after-school pickup and her kids, her mother, her PTA social circles … they would never know about today. Feeling just a tiny bit better, she started her car and pulled away from the curb, homebound at last.

***

Many, many years before the botched stylist interview, Wendy Waters sat on her bed and flipped through a magazine. The magazine. Vogue. It was 1989 and anyone who was anyone was reading it. Wendy had just turned thirteen and literally, like, all she wanted from life was her very own subscription to the holy grail of fashion. Her parents had surprised her that morning and she had been enraptured with the glossy photos and shiny dresses since. She and her best friend, Susan, had spent the better part of the day going through their closets and putting on different outfits, sashaying around the room just like the vogue models.

Now they were flipping through the spreads, admiring the latest trends. “I hope animal print comes back this year,” Wendy said.

“Omygod, I know, right?” Susan replied. “It’s like, totally rad.”

“I’m going to be just like them one day,” Wendy told Susan confidently, pointing at the thin models. “I’m going to have all the clothes I want. I’m going to live in Paris, and have a super hot french boyfriend. I’ll walk down the street and everybody’s going to wonder why they can’t be me. And …” she brushed the page gently, her blue nail polish bright against the bold text. “I’m going to work for Vogue.”

Susan snorted. “Vogue? Yeah right. You have to go to fashion school for that, dummy!”

“Then I’ll go to fashion school!” Wendy insisted. “You think I can’t do it? Just you wait Susan Porter! I’m going to have it all!”

They elapsed into fits of delighted giggles, too young and naive to worry about the real world. When you’re thirteen, everything’s a romance novel, and all of your wildest dreams are pretty much guaranteed to happen. If you want it badly enough.

But those dreams seemed very far away nine years later when, at the tender age twenty-two, Wendy found out she was pregnant. Her boyfriend, an English major named Clay, was appalled when he found out. He wanted her to “get it sorted out” but she refused and so, at the urging of conservative, right-wing parents, they were married at city hall and moved into a rundown trailer park.

Her life became very small, revolving almost entirely around her husband and newborn daughter, Ellie. The moment the nurses put that eight pound bundle of snot and wrinkly flesh into her arms, Wendy was in love. Ellie was her whole world, and for a long time, she pretended to be okay with that; with breastfeeding and cooking, with a house that leaked when it rained, with a husband that worked all day and drank all night. It wasn’t so bad. Some people had it worse.

The obsession with makeover shows began when she found out she was pregnant for the second time. Ellie was three. She spent most of her days at playschool, leaving Wendy at home with only the child in her fast-growing belly for company. One day, she turned on the t.v. and a horribly clueless girl was being interviewed by two unbelievably beautiful people.

“Your clothes are the first thing people see when they look at you,” the woman said to the poor soul in sweatpants. “A new look will ensure people take you seriously. And that’s where we come in. We can transform you!” By the end of the episode, that clueless, untucked disaster had been transformed into a sexual goddess in a red dress, waving coyly at the camera. Wendy was transfixed. In the back of her mind, she envisioned herself like those stylists, always so cool and put together, smiling for the camera. “This week, the master takes on her toughest challenge yet! This is Style, with Wendy Waters!”

She never left the house in sweatpants again. She spent hours at thrift stores, scouring the shelves for clothes that didn’t look like they had come from a bargain bin. She turned her kids into dress up dolls until they were old enough to protest. Clothes became her armour; the silky shield that she used to conceal her growing discontent with her life. It became the thing she was known for - Wendy Waters was the mom who was always put together! Didn’t know what to wear to that school fundraiser? Wendy did! Your kid looks like a paisley nightmare every day? Wendy could help! Through the years, the birth of baby number three, and even when things were falling apart at home, Wendy put her high heels on and held her head high. Through all the court battles, through tears and nights she thought would never end, even as people whispered behind her back - fashion sustained her. It was silly, but it was hers, and she wore it like a badge of honour.

She was Wendy Waters and she spent the first fifteen years of her adult life married to an alcoholic. She cared too much what people said or thought about her. She had been putting her kids wants and needs before her own for so long that she just needed to take a crazy, stupid chance. And, yes, she was totally clueless and had just made an ass of herself in front of a representative of the most famous fashion magazine in the world, but damn! She looked good while she did it. 

***

The days following the interview settled back into the routine of a single mom raising three kids. Ellie was almost sixteen and totally unimpressed by everything Wendy did, whereas Mason spent most of his days playing video games and communicating in monosyllables like; “Hey,” and “Sup?” Seven-year-old Maisy was a social butterfly and spent most of the time she wasn’t at school, at her friends' houses. When asked if she’d like to spend a day with her mother, she replied; “I just don’t think I can fit you into my schedule.”

Ah, children. She loved each of them to pieces, and her determination to provide for them without a father was what kept her mind off the embarrassment of the interview. She had been ridiculously naive to think that she had a hope in hell of landing a job in Paris. And even if she had, then what? Was she just going to uproot her entire family and move to a foreign country? People who could afford not to worry about food, and mortgages, and cellphone bills did things like that, but not her. She was better off this way. She began to search for work closer to home.

And yet, there was that tiny spark of yearning that burned in the back of her mind. What if? she whispered to herself late at night. What if I could just do it?

It had been close to two weeks when she woke up one morning to discover that she had slept through her alarm. On the day of a job interview. She swore violently and leapt out of bed, racing down the hall with a battle cry of; “EVERYBODY WAKE UP! WE’RE LAAAAATE!”

Ellie appeared in the kitchen ten minutes later with messy hair and an incredibly unimpressed expression. “What the Hell, mom?” she complained.

“Watch the mouth,” Wendy said sharply, which was hilarious given that she knew exactly where her daughter’s potty-mouth came from. “Where are your siblings? You have to be at school in twenty minutes!”

“Unnnnngh!” Ellie rolled her eyes and sat down. “Maisy’s at a friend’s, remember? And Mason’s probably still asleep.”

“Well go get him!” Wendy all but shrieked. “I have a job interview in forty-five minutes!” She slammed the fridge door as Ellie reluctantly shuffled off to do as she was told. A few minutes later, both teenagers reappeared in the kitchen, waiting to be fed. In an incredible feat of sheer brute force, Wendy had them dressed and in the car in under ten minutes, pushing the speed limit all the way to school and pausing only to scream; “BYE, I LOVE YOU!” at their retreating backs before executing a spectacular u-turn, and hoofing it to the insurance office at which she hoped to soon be employed. Her mood sank considerably when the manager pointed out that she was five minutes late.

“Teenagers,” she said with a breathy laugh in the way of an explanation. “Gotta love them, am I right?”

The manager sniffed judgmentally. This was shaping up to be an incredibly bad day. But she tried not to despair, sailing her way through the interview questions with as much grace as she could muster. She thought she was doing alright, actually, despite no past work experience. She was charismatic, hard-working, and those were the traits that would see her through anything. But then he shook his head and said; “I just don’t think it will work out,” and her heart sank to the bottom of her knees. Two interviews blown in as many weeks. She had thought things were changing for the better. Would she ever get her act together? 

She didn’t go home right away. The thought of being alone in that stupid, leaky travel home was almost more than she could bear. Instead she took a walk around the park and cried while sitting on a park bench, attracting the attention of a very nosy duck. It was moments like these when she felt the worst, when she dropped all of the balls she was trying to juggle and had to bend over and pick up the pieces, again. When she’d finally worked up the courage to end things with Clay, she’d known things wouldn’t be easy. She’d just never imagined that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t up to the task of being on her own. Anything had to better than when she was with him. Maybe she’d been wrong.

There was a message waiting on the machine when Wendy got back that afternoon. Probably the school about Ellie cutting classes again. Her mood sank even further. As if she didn’t feel like enough of a failure, why not add “messed up her children” to her growing list of faults? No use putting off the inevitable. She poured herself a stiff drink and flicked on the machine.

It wasn’t the school.

When Ellie, Mason, and Maisy got off the bus and walked through the front door a few hours later, they found their mother sitting at the kitchen table, a drink sitting untouched before her, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Never in their lives had they seen her so affected, not even on that night almost a year ago that they all tried to forget when she had told their dad to leave. They looked at each other, waiting for her to notice them, but she continued to stare without seeing. Nobody had ever so fully embodied the definition of shock.

“Mom?” Ellie finally asked, startling Wendy out of her trance. She turned to look at them slowly, her mouth hanging slightly ajar. She seemed surprised to find them standing there.

“Kids,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Sit down. I have something to ask you.”

Feeling quite concerned now, the three kids took seats around the table, exchanging nervous looks. “What’s wrong?” Ellie asked, her voice tiny with fear. In her head, she was already imagining the worst. Had her dad somehow come back to haunt them? But the next words out of her mom’s mouth were totally unexpected.

“How would you like to move to Paris?”

Nobody moved, nobody breathed, nobody even blinked. All anyone could do was stare at Wendy, waiting for her to get to the punchline. Finally, Ellie laughed uneasily. “Good one, mom.”

But Wendy stared at her with such intensity, her laughter died in her throat. One by one, their mouths dropped open as they realized she was being entirely, frighteningly, serious. And as they began to process the implications of her words, Wendy looked at all three of her children with tears in her eyes and did something she hadn’t done in a long time. She smiled.

And that was when the shit really hit the fan.

To be continued ...