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For some
reason—well, okay, I guess because I’m depressed—this invitation almost made me cry. I mean, Tina is just so sweet.
Also, it sounded like something I could handle, emotionally. As opposed to going out with the guy I’d recently been accused of being in love with by the media. When the truth is, I’ve only ever loved one guy, and he is currently in Japan, sending me random e-mails about how hard it is to find egg sandwiches there.
Yeah. Nice.
FTLOUIE: I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.
Except lie in my own bed and watch TV.
But my TV got taken away. So I can’t even do that.
ILUVROMANCE: Yay! I was thinking we should re-examine the Drew Barrymore oeuvre. Her less recent works, like Ever After and The Wedding Singer.
FTLOUIE: That sounds PERFECT. I’ll bring the popcorn.
I really don’t feel guilty about not telling Tina about Michael’s e-mail…or about the fact that I’m in therapy. Because I’m just not ready to talk about those things with anybody yet.
Maybe someday I will be.
But first? I’m going to take a really long nap.
Because I’m exhausted.
Saturday, September 18, 10 a.m., Henri Bendel luxury department store
What am I doing here?
I don’t belong in a store like this. Stores like this are for FANCY people.
And okay, I’m a princess. Which is admittedly pretty fancy.
But I am currently wearing a pair of my MOM’s jeans, because none of my own fit me.
People who are wearing MOM jeans do not belong in stores like these, which are all golden and sparkly and filled with attractive model types carrying bottles of perfume who come up to you and go, “Trish McEvoy?”
And when you go, “No, my name is Mia—” they spritz you with something that smells like Febreze, only fruitier.
I’m not kidding. This is not the Gap. It’s more of the kind of store Grandmère hangs out in. Only more crowded. Because usually when Grandmère shops, she calls ahead and has the store opened up for her after hours so she can shop without having to rub elbows with any commoners.
Mom about had a coronary when I told her where I was going this morning—and why I needed to borrow her jeans.
“You’re going shopping with WHOM????”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “It’s something I have to do. For therapy.”
“Your therapist is making you go shopping with Lana Weinberger?” Mom exchanged glances with Mr. G, who was refilling Rocky’s cereal bowl with Cheerios, and who had gotten so distracted by our conversation that he’d accidentally caused Cheerios to overflow from the bowl and all the way down the sides of Rocky’s booster chair. Which delighted Rocky no end. “This is supposed to help ALLEVIATE your depression?”
“It’s a long story,” I said to her. “I’m supposed to do something every day that scares me.”
“Well,” Mom said, handing over her Levi’s. “Shopping with Lana Weinberger would scare me.”
Mom’s right. What am I doing here? Why did I listen to Dr. K, anyway? What does HE know about the long, torrid history between Lana and me? Nothing! He’s never even seen the movies of my life! He doesn’t know all the heinous things she’s done to me and my friends in the past! He has no way of knowing that this whole shopping thing is probably a trick! That Carrot Top is the only one who is going to show up! That making me come here and stand among the perfume spritzers waiting for Carrot Top is Lana’s idea of a grand, final joke—
Oh. Here she comes.
More later.
