Tag: fiction

The Babysitter (CW: explicit)

It was a Friday night. Kayla and her kids were sitting on the couch watching SpongeBob SquarePants, Kayla cradling her prominent bump. She was about to approach her due date pretty soon. She was going to have another girl. These nine months have felt like nine weeks.

Dave came out from the kitchen, holding a plate piled high with nachos. Steaming chips dripping with gooey melted Velveeta cheese, piles of greasy ground beef, topped with sour cream, guacamole and salsa. Was he going to share some with his wife and kids? I wondered as I folded Mike and Laurie’s laundry, making sure Mike’s Power Ranger pajamas were creased and folded perfectly, the way Kayla wants me to fold them. I have been working as a babysitter for the McRobbins family for four years now. I needed a job to pay for my college tuition, and so far it has provided a good way to pay my bills and also, the kids are too darn cute for me to leave them.

Dave crams nachos in his mouth, and finally he offers the remaining half of the nachos to his wife and kids. Kayla rescues a chip from the cheese pile, scoops up some ground beef and guacamole, and crams it in her mouth. The kids are busy eating Goldfish with their eyes glued to the television. I hear a ping, and walk over to my phone. My girlfriend, Katherine, has just texted me.

Kat: U ok?

Me: Yeah. Love you.

Two minutes pass, then my phone pings again.

Kat: Love u more.

I put my phone back in my pocket, and continue to fold the laundry.

“Hey, Jenny! Can you get me that pint of Blue Bell from the freezer?”

The soon-to-be-born baby was craving chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream. I walk over to the freezer, and am about to open the door and take in the cold air, when I hear a loud groan.

My blood freezes.

I hear the plate clatter on the hardwood floor. I walk in and I see the nachos piled on the floor. Bret, the family’s cute Border Terrier, is licking off cheese and meat from the floor with a delighted expression on his face. I’m going to have to clean up his vomit later because he surely can’t be eating that.

But that’s the least of my worries. Dave is grabbing the hospital bag from the kitchen table, and he rushes over to his wife, who is red in the face and panting, clutching her stomach in pain, gritting her teeth as another intense wave of contractions courses through her body.

“Jenny, call the doctor.”

I nod, and scroll through my contacts. Kayla had me to keep Dr. Gross’s phone number in my contacts for when the due date came. I quickly enter the ok button, and wait as the dial tone rings.

“Welcome to Medical City. If you are in labor or have an emergency, press 1…”

Without waiting for the other options, I press 1.

“Please hold.”

Some elevator music plays on the other line. A sweet voice answers the phone.

“Dr. Gross’s office. This is Linda. How may I help you?”

“I have a patient named Kayla McRobbins. She is in labor.”

“Wonderful. I will let Dr. Gross know.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. See you at the hospital.”

I hang up.

Kayla is a puddle of sweat and tears as she bends over in pain.

“Dave, they’re ready.”

“Thanks, Jenny. We’ll see you and the kids when we get back from the hospital.”

I help Kayla walk to the door. She clings to my arm.

“Breathe.”

She remembers what she learned during the birth class, and takes quick breaths in and out.

I help her into the car, and watch as they drive off. I go back inside the house.

“Mom’s gonna be ok.” I reassure the kids. They are no longer watching SpongeBob SquarePants. Bret is looking up at me with a pained expression. I should have told him to not eat those nachos.

Then I hear a ping. I check my phone but haven’t gotten any messages. I hear another. It’s coming from the kitchen. Dave left his phone by accident on the kitchen counter. I pick it up. The messages are from a woman I don’t know named Carla.

Carla: Hey babe. U free to talk?

Carla: We had such a good time last night on the phone.

I freeze. Wait, it can’t be. Is Dave…cheating?

I know I shouldn’t be nosy. But seriously, it’s Dave’s fault. I wouldn’t have gone through his phone if he was a little smarter and listened when his wife told him to create a PIN for security reasons.

I scroll through the text thread, and my blood runs cold.

Dave: Hey baby.

Carla: Hey.

Dave: Send me some sexy vibes.

Carla: I am wet. My fingers are touching myself. When I think of you on top of me…

Dave: I’m getting wet too.

Carla: I am moaning. My finger is rubbing that spot. I want you to feel my body all over.

Dave: My hands feel their way through your tits. I want to cream all over you. I want to grab your juicy ass and—

I put the phone down. I am nauseous. I literally cannot read anything more from this jackass. How long has he been with this girl? Is this his ex from college he thought he left behind? I know he once dated a woman named Carla Richards during the Stone Age, but there are so many Carlas out there…

My head spins. I nervously look at Mike and Laurie as they gently rub Bret’s upset stomach and coo to him baby words to make him feel better. I would rather die than ruin these sweet little souls’ lives by telling them their dad is a liar, a cheater, a jerk. I can’t do anything right now. Dave and Kayla are at the hospital. What am I going to do? Drive up there to the emergency room and tell Kayla during her strenuous labor that her husband is cheating on her with his ex? Gosh, that would really ruin everything.

I quietly chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo to calm down. So glad my friend told me about Buddhism because I don’t know if I can handle all the thoughts and anxieties running through my head right now.

It turns out I didn’t have to really do anything. A couple of months later, Kayla found her husband’s phone and saw he was texting Carla, and she kicked his ass out of the house for good.

“But baby, please, what about the kids? What about us?”

“DAVE! LISTEN TO YOURSELF RIGHT THIS FUCKING MINUTE. I SPENT NINE FUCKING MONTHS CONCEIVING YOUR THIRD KID AND I TOOK CARE OF THE KIDS WHILE YOU SHOVED NACHOS DOWN YOUR BEERGUT STOMACH AND HAD PHONE SEX WITH SOME CHICK FROM COLLEGE! DO YOU THINK I GIVE A FUCK WHAT HAPPENS TO YOU AND ME TEN YEARS—NO, FUCK THAT, TEN SECONDS FROM NOW?”

I heard the door slam and a loud “FUCK YOU” that definitely didn’t come from Kayla this time. I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast for the kids and Baby No.3, Greta. As greasy rashes of bacon danced in the frying pan with sunny side up eggs, my blood ran cold. I wish I had told her sooner but what was I to do? She was in the hospital, about to give birth. I didn’t have time to tell her Dave was cheating on her. I turn the stove off and dish out the breakfast for the kids.

Kayla walks quickly into the kitchen, wearing a black suit and sleek Louboutin heels. Her mascara is smudged and her perfect cherry-red hair is a mess. She sees me and then breaks down in tears. Just stands there and cries. I don’t know what to do.

She then comes over to me and gives me a hug. Her tears and mascara smudge on my cheek, but I don’t even care. We quietly stay like this for a good five minutes and I don’t let go once.

She pulls apart from me and sniffles.

“Do you think you need a day off?”

She nods, then her lips tremble and she cries even harder.

I grab my phone to dial her boss, Miranda, but she puts a hand on my arm.

She shakes her head and whispers, “It’s ok. I’ll email her later.”

We make our way quietly to the couch and watch some TV, the kids’ cacophonous cries echoing behind us from the kitchen.

On Trichotillomania (content warning: mental illness)

Pluck, pluck, pluck. My fingers dry as can be, cracked shriveled skin. They move towards my eyes. My eyelashes, rough and short because I plucked so many of them out and they are not growing back the way I want them to. Damn it, I think, they are so short. I can’t pluck them. When I pluck, I feel tension, like someone is tugging at my eyelashes and then when the hair separates from the follicle in one fell swoop, I fell a weird release of tension, the same kind of tension one night release when they take a breath of fresh air. It is painful and my eyelashes are so short but I can’t stop no matter how hard I try. I pluck when I do anything: sitting, watching, television, eating Fritos, writing a blog post, catching zzzzs and failing. I wish there was some magic trich fairy that could make trichotillomania disappear.

My mom knocks on my door.

“Come in,” I yell as P!nk blasts through my stereos.

She walks in.

“Are you coming for dinner?”

I stare at the computer. The red beanie cap covers my newly plucked scalp. I mutter a laconic “mmmm-hmmm” and keep staring at the computer. Please don’t ask me about this dumb trich, I plead to God, Buddha, the Universe, or whoever is listening up there.

“Why are you wearing a hat?” she asks.

I quickly shake my head.

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing, Miranda.”

She walks closer. Then she removes my cap and gasps when she sees the plethora of hairs I have pulled from my scalp over the past couple of months.

“Dr. Steinberg told you to not pull for at least a few months!”

“I know, I know…” I mutter. “But…”

“But what?”

“I can’t stop, Mom, okay? It’s just something that I have, ok? I cannot get rid of it, I have done everything.”

“So the Zoloft didn’t work wonders for you, eh?”

“No, the Zoloft was fine, Mom, I’m not saying that. It’s just…it will take me a while to recover from this habit, that’s all.”

She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling.

“Dear God, we have been through this so many times,” she mutters, her eyes closed.

She is clearly exasperated with me and I am starting to become exasperated with her. Unconsciously, my index finger and thumb make their way to my eyelashes…

My mom slaps my hand away from my eyes.

“Mom!”

She pauses.

“I’m sorry, but this has been going on for too long.” She sighs and shakes her head. Before she leaves my room, she calls, “Wash your hands for dinner.”

I pause, then take a shaky breath. It’s ok, don’t take it personally. You will overcome this, I think. I know I will. Just get me through these dumb stressful teenage years and it will just go away.

Tears form in my eyes and my bottom lip trembles. I cover my tear-stained face with my right hand and lower my head to my desk my body heaving each time I break down. I gasp for breath and choke out sobs. I feel like a total failure. Mom and Dad sent me to a therapist and the therapist gave me medication, and it worked, so why the hell am I still plucking?

The next day I go to school wearing the same beanie. A skinny young woman wearing a red flannel long-sleeved shirt, a black skirt and clunky Doc Martens walks down the hall, only something catches my eye. She is wearing a beanie, too, except it’s a navy blue one. And it looks like her eyelashes and eyebrows might have bald spots, too… I realize then: I’m not the only one with this problem.

The girl pauses to take a drink at the fountain. Madison Hart and her friends turn and look at the girl wearing the blue beanie and start giggling.

“Why is she wearing a hat inside?”

“Maybe she has lice.”

“Maybe she is bald.”

They all gasp and giggle at each other’s jokes. I am really sad that this girl is being teased. She continues to walk down the hall, quicker this time, and out of the corner of her eye I see a tear fall. I hope I get to see this girl at some point during the day. I wonder if she has friends.

Lunchtime comes, and I stand in the cafeteria line. The hot piping smell of fresh calzones and steamed broccoli wafts up to my nostrils. I hear the sizzling of canola oil as the greasy smell of French fries tantalizes my taste buds. I feel a tingle, then a twitch, then that impulse to pull gnaws at me as I anxiously look at the fifteen other students in line. I am too embarrassed and shy to speak to anyone. I close my eyes against the cacophony of high school freshmen chattering and someone at the table nearest the lunch line blasting Fetty Wap’s “Trap Queen” from their iPhone. I take a deep breath. Please don’t pull, please don’t pull….

Unfortunately it doesn’t work. Within milliseconds my fingers are fondling my eyelashes. Ugh, they are so ugly, I just need to pull them out so that when I look in the mirror I don’t have to look at how ugly these short eyelashes are. I don’t want to do this now, not with people watching. People are going to laugh at me if I do this.

My stomach lets out an impatient growl. Hurry up already, it screams. But the urge to get rid of this super-short eyelash is screaming even louder, drowning out the cries of my hunger. I make my way out of the lunch line, losing my place within 5 minutes of approaching the mecca of food. The cacophony glides behind me and then falls from a crescendo into a muddled whisper as I am now in the quiet of the girls’ bathroom stall. I dig out my compact mirror from my purse and wipe off the smudges on the surface. I take a good hard look at my eyes, putting the mirror closer to my eyelids so I could know which hairs needed to go. I found my right hand fumble towards my chin. Ugh, there is hair on that, too. There are bald spots where I pulled the hairs out from last week. They look dry, scaly and frankly unattractive. Long rivers of tears fall down my cheek and kiss each of these bald spots. I don’t want to pull that curly one, I know it will hurt, but it’s so damned crooked and it stands out. I sigh. I am losing this painful battle and it hurts to admit that I have done everything I could and am still doing this to myself. Don’t I want to be pretty? Don’t I want to have beautiful long curling eyelashes softer than the softest pillow? I give in to temptation, and tug at the lonely short crooked hair that belonged on my chin. It doesn’t give at first but I keep tugging it. Fuck it, I just want some release, just want to release the tension in my fingers, in my body, in my life.

The hair comes loose and I rub it around with my fingers and let it rest on my tongue. Then I don’t feel good about swallowing hair so I just flick it off my fingers and let it fall to the linoleum floor and land somewhere it can find peace.

I unlock the bathroom stall, feeling relieved, anxious, ashamed and alone. But my breath catches when I see no one other than the blue-beanie girl peering in the big long mirror plucking away at her eyebrows using nothing other than her long fingers. I stop dead in my tracks. She continues to pull, a lonely expression on her face.

“Hey…” I shyly say.

She doesn’t reply. She just continues to look in the mirror silently and with a pained expression on her face. She gathers her brown leather messenger bag and before leaving, give me a blank indifferent look and leaves the restroom, the cold metal red door slamming behind her. The dim lights flicker and a cockroach crawls from under the sink. It darts towards a crack in the wall and disappears. I stand all alone.

Book Review: Shopaholic Takes Manhattan by Sophie Kinsella

Yesterday I finished this sequel to the bestselling novel Confessions of a Shopaholic. I definitely needed to read something funny during this time. If you haven’t read the first book yet, it’s about a 20 something year old woman named Becky who, as you guessed by the title, loves shopping a lot. Her love of shopping gets her in a lot of financial debt and on top of that she isn’t making enough money at her job to keep up her lifestyle. Honestly it’s been a year since I read the first one, so I forgot some key plot points, but I was able to remember a few key characters, like Becky’s boyfriend Luke. This time, Luke moves to New York and she goes with him, hoping to land her own TV show. But she still hasn’t paid her overdraft fees and is still in a lot of credit card debt, and the many stores around NYC don’t do much to curb her shopping addiction.

I’m the complete opposite of Becky. I don’t really shop unless I absolutely need something and wasn’t really into shopping for hours and hours growing up. (Except for that one time I had to find an outfit for a wedding I went to. That was definitely an adventure). I thought personal finance just meant saving money for your retirement. But after educating myself on finance by way of the personal finance blog The Financial Diet (TFD) I gained a different perspective on things like credit, investing, negotiating salaries, etc. While I appreciate the financial advice that experts like Suze Orman and Jean Chatzky have given, and while I still save my money, reading The Financial Diet and learning about those things showed me that having credit isn’t always a bad thing and that you can save money but also you can allow yourself some nice things once in a while as long as you take the responsibility to manage it. And nice things doesn’t just mean material things, it can be donating to your favorite charity (or the two go hand in hand, you can buy from companies where the money goes to a good cause). I like donating to social causes, that is one way I’ve been treating myself.

Also, several of the people who speak on the TFD blog remind us that people who work in personal finance are human beings who have dealt with things like credit card debt and living paycheck to paycheck in their own lives, so it’s not like they’re just shelling out advice just for kicks. They actually went through those issues with their own money and are totally fine talking about it without feeling ashamed. At one point in the book, Becky gets publicly shamed when people find out she is in credit card debt. They assume she has her finances totally together just because she talks on a show about personal finance and managing money. But let’s face it, if she had all her finances together, there probably wouldn’t be a Confessions of a Shopaholic book series at all. There is a very loving and supportive atmosphere whenever I visit The Financial Diet blog and channel because Chelsea and the other people who speak on the channel remind us that personal finance isn’t just about saving every penny, it’s deeply tied to class, privilege, access, and other factors such as race, gender, sexuality, and dis/ability. There is a wider stigma attached to talking about money in our society, and I think Millennials and Gen-Zers in particular have challenged that stigma by having these honest conversations about personal finance without making someone feel embarrassed or like a failure just because they haven’t paid their bills in time, etc. Also a lot of people in these two generations have graduated in school debt or graduated during economic recessions (the 2008 one in particular was pretty bad). Also, we’ve had to deal with rising home prices, stagnant wages and a general increase in the overall cost of living in a lot of places, so shaming someone for money problems is counterproductive and does nothing to address these wider issues. Even though it’s of course important to take responsibility for your finances, there’s some things you can’t control, like the COVID-19 pandemic this year. A lot of people have lost their jobs and with that, their means of making a living, so the stigma around discussing finances is useless at this point because everyone’s finances had been affected in some way, for better or worse. As hard as it is to talk about money, reading Shopaholic Takes Manhattan and the TFD blog have taught me that you really do have to push past those feelings of shame in order to have honest discussions about money. Those conversations are emotionally difficult of course because you end up going back to your past and thinking about mistakes and failures, but the more people feel comfortable talking about money, the less they will feel ashamed to discuss it. Becky is at fist ashamed to talk about her debt, but she learns that through being honest, she is able to regain people’s trust and also trust herself more.

This honesty with herself enables her to win in the end and she pays off her debt by selling all the clothes she bought. Even when the people she works with on Morning Coffee want to feel pity for her and want her to still feel sad and bogged down by her past debt issues, she doesn’t let them tell her how to feel and is able to move on with her life. That’s part of personal finance, too, is not letting past money troubles permanently define who you are. Luke sees this change in her, too, and he changes his attitude towards her as well.

I can’t wait to read the 3rd book in the series, Shopaholic Ties the Knot!