“You did, darling,” I reminded him. We’d had this conversation before.

With a satisfied sigh, Ben rolled off my body and collapsed onto the sweat-stained sheets of the king-sized bed.

I glanced at my watch. As usual, we’d exceeded the limits of my two-hour executive lunch. I wondered if my secretary was beginning to see a pattern.

“Sweetheart,” I said, snuggling close while he tweaked my nipple, “I adore you, but I’ve got to get back to the office.”

“I know,” Ben sighed. “I hate when we stop. I think about what it would be like to be married to you, to make love to you every night.”

This part of the conversation always made me nervous. After all, I was a happily married woman—Thursday afternoon notwithstanding.

Benjamin Shapiro and I had been lovers for three months. Ben was a highly successful neurosurgeon married to Eleanor, who was in my bridge club. A very nice woman, Eleanor had a voluptuous figure, considerable domestic talent, and played a mean game of bridge. She also had Ben, two teenage sons, a large black Standard Poodle, and an expensive house in the Valley filled with plastic-covered French Provincial furniture.

I had always liked Eleanor. We had the same manicurist. At first, I felt a little guilty about having a fling with her husband, but I really couldn’t help myself. I was passionately in love.

Being in love with Ben didn’t necessarily mean that I wanted to divorce Stanley. On the contrary, I was quite fond of my husband. We had a history together; twenty years of matrimony, two Mercedes, his and hers charge cards, and a neurotic cat. Such ties are not easily broken. True, Stanley had his faults. He was beginning to bald and turn to fat around the middle, and the speed and efficiency of his lovemaking left something to be desired. Plus, he was, how shall I put it? Thrifty. He was precisely what one would expect from an accountant: neat, orderly, predictable, and exceptionally well organized. I have secretly suspected for years that he alphabetizes his underwear.

Ben, on the other hand, was an absolute dynamo in bed. He was trim, athletic, tan, and capable of making love for hours. And he had such style: the expensive lunches at discrete restaurants, the fifty-dollar bottles of wine, the exquisite little gifts.

“Now, love,” I said to Ben, fondling his nether end, “there’s no point in rehashing what might have been. Let’s enjoy what is.”

Ben looked at his watch.

“I guess it is time,” he said. “I have a craniotomy scheduled in half an hour.”

“Enjoy, darling,” I said brightly, fastening my bra. “Same time next week?”

I was only five minutes late as I pulled into the parking lot at Neiman’s and headed for the elevator. Unfortunately, I was not shopping. I was employed there as the executive assistant to Mrs. Roberta Champion, chief buyer for the Beverly Hills store. Loosely translated, that meant Roberta spent her time running around New York and Europe on buying sprees while I made certain nothing fell apart in her absences.

Reluctantly I tore myself away from the spring sale on Manolo Blahnik shoes and deposited myself in my office.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sokoloff,” said Annie, my secretary.

Annie came with the job. Unfortunately, I had to share her with three other people. On the plus side, I only had to put up with her one-quarter of the time. You can’t imagine how irritating it is to have a secretary I couldn’t fire who chewed gum, spoke with a Brooklyn accent, and couldn’t remember anything for more than thirty seconds, even if she could keyboard at 100 words a minute. The first thing I planned to do when I became the boss was replace her.

There was an air of suppressed excitement in the office. Roberta had just returned from Paris with what she described as “the most divine clothes we’ve had in twenty years.” While she was gone, I’d been setting up an exclusive fashion show for our most valued customers. The invitations had gone out.

“Marsha, how nice to see you.” Roberta came into my office wearing an ultrachic white Parisian suit and a wide-brimmed hat. Hats were in this year.

“Hello, Mrs. Champion,” I said. “Have a nice trip?”

“Spectacular. Wait till you see what I bought.”

Despite her noxious personality, Roberta had terrific taste, and I got a thirty percent discount, a major incentive for continuing my current job.

“Are we all set for the show on the eighteenth?” she asked.

“You mean the eighth,” I said.

“No I don’t mean the eighth, you idiot. Nothing’s arriving till the tenth.”

“Mrs. Champion,” I glowered, “your email distinctly said the eighth. It’s all set. Are you trying to tell me you made a mistake?”

“You moron,” shrieked my boss. “Haven’t you been working here long enough to know that we can’t get clothes from Europe that fast?”

With a furious glare, I headed for my desk and emerged triumphant with Roberta’s email.

“Just wait, bitch,” I thought. “A year from now, I’m going to have your job.”

I was delighted when the weekend arrived. I needed some relaxation after Friday’s fiasco. As usual, I spent Saturday morning in the expert hands of George, my hairdresser, who is of the alternate sexual persuasion. Nothing improves a girl’s disposition like getting her roots touched up while confiding in a sympathetic and supportive ear. No wonder George is the most popular man in Beverly Hills.

After completing my makeover, I met Stanley for lunch at the Cheesecake Factory. I had the green salad. I’m always watching my weight.

“Hello, Sweetpea,” he said, kissing my forehead.

“Hi, Hon,” I said, sinking gratefully into a chair.

“I have a little surprise for you,” he said. “I just made dinner reservations for your birthday.”

“How nice, sweetie, where?”

“At the Mauna Lani,” he said, whisking two plane tickets out of his jacket pocket. “I decided we both needed a long weekend away.”

“You darling man!” My husband didn’t often surprise me, but when he did, the surprises were usually amazing.

The waitress arrived with my salad and his chocolate cheesecake. I only indulged in two or three tiny bites of his dessert. As I said, I’m watching my weight. Stanley ordered a second slice.

We spent the afternoon at home soaking up the sun on our patio. Our house is my pride and joy. I adore its clean lines, pale oak floors, and the huge glass windows with their panoramic view. I’ve decorated it in white lacquer and chrome; everything is clean and understated. The garden is lush and the pool is maintained at a perfect 82 degrees. All in all, a paradise.

Stanley had purchased the latest Michael Connelly mystery novel and consented to let me read it first. I curled up on the chaise lounge with Muffins, our Siamese, purring on my lap. I was in heaven.

Later we caught a James Bond rerun at the local movie house and had a leisurely dinner. When we got home, Stanley gave me a back rub, and we snuggled in bed for a while. I could tell he was feeling amorous, but I fell asleep long before he could do anything. Altogether it had been a perfect day.

The insanity started on Sunday. I did my marketing in the morning while Stanley played a few holes of golf at the club. I had pulled into the garage and was unloading groceries from the trunk when the earth moved. I don’t mean a little tremor; I mean a major seven-plus quake. The car rocked dangerously. Things started falling off the garage shelves. A crack shattered the concrete driveway and extended dangerously close to my feet. There was a loud roaring in my ears, and the air smelled sickly sweet as if something was burning. Things went out of focus for a moment and then seemed to double. My head spun and I hit the ground.

When I regained consciousness, it was quiet. I had a large bruise on my knee, a lump the size of a golf ball on the back of my head, and a lot of grease on my white linen slacks. It felt as if I’d been out for hours. The sky was a peculiar shade of purple, and the scent of flowers was overpowering and strangely wrong. I got up gingerly, retrieved my keys from my purse, and opened the back door.

It looked like a cyclone had hit the kitchen, but the wrong kind of cyclone. My immaculate sink was piled high with unwashed dishes. There was an overpowering smell of rancid bacon and leftover eggs. Two sweat socks and a pair of running shoes were on the floor; dirty glasses and an empty milk carton cluttered the usually immaculate kitchen table. I put my groceries on the counter and reached for the refrigerator door. Even that was wrong—it was left-handed.

A little note was stuck to the door with a magnet.

“Took the boys to the game. Back for supper. Love, Ben.”

Ben! I tore the note into little shreds and threw it in the trash.

I assumed I was still unconscious and dreaming. Pretty soon I would wake up at Cedars with an IV in my arm. My unconscious brain has always been very creative, but I’d never had a dream like this one, involving all my senses. I could feel the grease on my granite countertops. The scent of old sweat from the socks was repulsive.

As an experiment I opened a bag of M&M’s I’d just purchased for Stanley and popped one into my mouth. I could feel the crunch as I bit into it and the seductive taste of the chocolate as it dissolved on my tongue. Perhaps the doctors had put a hallucinogenic drug into my IV drip. Well, if this is a dream, I thought, I might as well see what happens next.

I fumbled inside my purse for my cell and used it to call Stanley at the Brent Air Golf and Country Club.

“Hello,” said Stanley’s reassuring voice.

“Thank God. Are you alright darling?”

“Marsha! For heaven’s sake. I told you never to call me here. It’s too risky.”

“What are you talking about? Didn’t you feel the earthquake?”

“What earthquake? Look, honey, I have to go. Eleanor is waiting at the clubhouse. I’ll call you Tuesday as usual.”

He hung up. I was beginning to feel as if I were losing my mind. Any minute, I expected the Mad Hatter to hop through my front door.

I tiptoed across the floor and peered into the living room. It was worse than I could have imagined. A hideous orange damask French Provincial sofa, covered in plastic, was sitting in front of my white brick fireplace. I wanted to cry.

Instead, I decided to take control of this dream. I put on rubber gloves, washed the dishes, threw the socks in the laundry, defrosted a large frozen pizza, and waited for the next development. It was not long in coming.

“I’m home, baby,” yelled Ben, slamming the front door.

“Hi, Mom,” yelled Rob and Billy, his two kids. “It was a swell game. The L.A. Eagles beat the New York Rams 16-2”— an event so improbable that I knew I had to be in a hospital on drugs.

“That’s nice, dear,” I said. “Ready for dinner?”

Fortunately, I didn’t have to talk much during the meal. The three of them didn’t shut up for more than two seconds at a time. I applauded the decision Stanley and I made, twenty years ago, never to have children. At the end of the meal, they left me with another pile of filthy dishes.

If this dream lasted until dream-morning, I decided I’d serve breakfast on paper plates.

I was bending over the sink again, up to my elbows in soapsuds when I felt something hard rubbing against my rear end. Ben’s hands moved up to cup my breasts, and he nuzzled the back of my neck.

“For heaven’s sake,” I yelled. “Get out of here and let me finish the dishes.”

“Sure, baby,” he said, leering at me. “I’ll be waiting for you in the bedroom.”

As usual, we made love for two solid hours. I was dry and exhausted when he finished and fell asleep immediately. The jarring sound of a beeper awakened me.

I opened my eyes and found myself in my bed. The beeper belonged to Ben, and he was next to me, on his cellphone.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

“Head trauma in the ER,” he said. “I’ll be back soon, honey.”

It was three-thirty a.m..

“Bye,” I said. “Just don’t wake me when you come in.”

I woke at eight-thirty, mercifully alone in bed. From the looks of the kitchen, Ben and the kids had already eaten and left. I finally admitted to myself that this was not your average dream or even your average LSD trip. Something else was happening, and I had no clue what it was.

It reminded me of that peculiar Nova episode I’d watched a few weeks before with Stanley. A bunch of physicists (clearly under the influence of too much beer) decided that matter was made up of tiny strings, vibrating in eleven dimensions, and, as a consequence, there were multiple universes floating in the cosmos like bubbles, each obeying different laws of physics. Maybe two bubbles had collided and I’d become trapped in the wrong one, like the plot of a Star Trek episode.

I took a hot shower, dressed, and headed for my car. The sky was still the wrong color.

I headed toward Wilshire Boulevard and turned East. What if there were no Neiman’s or, God forbid, no Saks?

Fortunately, God had seen fit to retain Neiman’s. I parked in my usual spot and went upstairs.

“Good morning, Mrs. Shapiro,” said the receptionist—who wasn’t Annie but a chic blond with perfect diction and inch-long polished nails.

“Good morning,” I said, shakily.

I walked toward my office. Roberta Champion was seated at the desk that should have been mine.

“Good morning Mrs. Shapiro,” she said, smiling. “Shall I bring you your coffee?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, swallowing hard.

My name was prominently displayed on what used to be Roberta’s door, so I opened it and walked through. Judging by Ben’s smiling photo, I assumed that the desk and the job were now mine. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

Roberta brought my coffee—cream and no sugar—and stood in front of my desk looking anxious.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Mr. Harmon called this morning,” she said with ill-concealed smugness. He is upset about the foul up in the spring show and wants to know what you plan to do about it.”

This was bad news. Harmon was the store president and a first-class bastard. I hadn’t thought at all about mitigating the foul up. After all, it had been Roberta’s problem.

“We’d better reschedule,” I said. “Send a revised email invitation to our client list and contact all the models with the date change. Make sure that everyone gets at least two announcements. Send them today.”

“It’s under control,” I assured Mr. Harmon over the phone. “We are rescheduling.”

“Very careless of you, Marsha,” he said. “If anything like this happens again, I’m reconsidering your promotion.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir,” I said, feeling furious and humiliated.

The receptionist brought in some documents for my signature. She looked terrific; the papers looked terrible.

“Roberta,” I screamed, “fire that woman and get me someone who knows how to use Word.”

“But Mrs. Shapiro, Lisa is the fourth receptionist you’ve fired in six weeks.”

“Just do it,” I yelled.

By the end of the day, I was a wreck. Fortunately, Ben suggested dinner out. Unfortunately, the boys insisted on McDonald’s. I ate two Big Macs and a chocolate shake and threw it all up afterward. Ben pawed at me for hours in bed, but I was too tired to care. I was asleep long before he came.

I awoke the next morning with a splitting headache, dark rings under my eyes, and a foul taste in my mouth. Only the prospect of a three o’clock appointment with my analyst, Dr. Ickelheimer, kept me going. I had to figure out what was happening. Was I having a nervous breakdown from too much stress, or was this all horribly real?

At noon I left the office and headed to my beauty salon, where I’d made an appointment for a trim and a manicure.

“I have a 12:30 with George,” I told the receptionist.

“I’ll be right with you, darling,” said a handsome dark-haired man who was not George. In fact, he looked suspiciously like my gynecologist. All he was missing were the white latex gloves.

“Now just scoot down and relax, honey,” he said. “You know I can’t do this if you’re all tense.”

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes. I could feel his fingers massaging away the tightness in my temples. I dozed to the reassuring snip of scissors. When I opened my eyes, my hair was very chic and three inches too short.

“God damn it, George, I said a trim!”

“That’s what you always say, sweetheart. Now, you know it looks divine.”

“It does not look divine,” I said, storming out in a huff.

I reached Laskey Drive barely in time for my three o’clock with Dr. Ickelheimer, breathing heavily as I sat in the waiting room.

“Please come in now, Mrs. Shapiro,” said a familiar accented voice. George was smiling at me from behind a pair of bifocal glasses.

“George!” I yelled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor.

“Oh, never mind.” I settled on the familiar black leather sofa.

“Everything’s wrong,” I sobbed. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Before the earthquake, I was happily married to Stanley. I had a lovely home and no children. Now I’m stuck with Ben who won’t leave me alone for a minute, two noisy kids, a goddamn dog that shits on our white carpet, and a French Provincial sofa. And not only that,” I shrieked, on the verge of total hysteria, “my gynecologist just cut my hair three inches too short! Help me, doctor. I feel like I’m on another planet. Am I going crazy?”

“Do you think you’re going crazy?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know? You’re the one with the analytic degrees.”

“I’m afraid our time is up,” he said.

When I reached my car, my cell phone rang.

“Marsha, darling. It’s Stanley.”

“Stanley,” I cried. “I’m so relieved. Where are you?”

“I’m at work, love. I’m just calling to confirm our regular lunch tomorrow. How about noon at La Brochette?”

“Sure,” I said.

Why not? Things couldn’t get any crazier.

By Wednesday I was beginning to resign myself to the inevitable. I didn’t know where this nightmare had come from, but it seemed to be here to stay.

At noon I met Stanley at La Brochette, a not-too-fashionable bistro with discreet corners for couples who would rather not be seen. He kissed me on the cheek and held my hand under the table. We had the quiche of the day and a bottle of the house Chablis. By that time, I was feeling pretty mellow. I wasn’t at all surprised afterward when he drove us to the hotel and ushered me into a familiar room with a king-sized bed.

We undressed each other slowly, folding our clothing neatly into two little piles at the foot of the bed. Then we removed the covers.

Stanley tucked me in and gently rubbed the tension from my back and shoulders. I stretched out and sighed deliciously. He lay down beside me, the soft, plump pillow of his midriff comfortable and inviting. I found a niche in the hollow of his shoulder and snuggled closer, knowing that in a few minutes, I would be peacefully asleep.

“Oh God, Stanley,” I sighed, “you are fantastic! Why didn’t I meet you twenty years ago?”

I Finally Have the Smoking Hot Body I Have Always Wanted (having been cremated)

by Barb Drummond

    Writer, Barb Drummond, grew up in a home filled with crazy antics, love, laughter, and an exceptionally unique and zany mother. Who else had a mom who baked cream pies just so she’d have one on hand to throw at people she loved? Barb’s mother Sybil, however, drew the short straw by getting Alzheimer’s in her 60s. The disease stole her vibrant personality and voice. When Sybil died, an ordinary obituary just wouldn’t do. She was a glamorous Renaissance woman filled with creativity; a former ER nurse who saved lives; she was what movies are made of. Her sense of humour and charm made friends far and wide. Barb wrote the quirky obituary with her mom’s voice. No one could’ve predicted the obit would go viral within 24 hours—worldwide! Hundreds of thousands of people internationally read about Sybil Marie Hicks and her smoking hot body—and they wanted more! Barb’s memoir takes you into her mother’s life and the media whirlwind when her mom became an instant worldwide celebrity after she died. Within hours of its release, I Finally Have the Smoking Hot Body hit #1 best-seller status on Amazon. It continues to reach readers around the world and has been featured on CBC Radio and other media. Barb's book is more than just a story, it’s a book that keeps on giving. A percentage of sales is donated to the Alzheimer’s Society, helping to support families impacted by this devastating disease. In this hilarious, quirky, and poignant memoir, you’ll fall in love with Sybil and wish you’d known her in real life. (Even if she’d smoosh a cream pie in your face!) Meet Barb and her mom on Barb’s website. Available from Amazon.

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