You Cannot Mess This Up by Amy Weinland Daughters

Author:Amy Weinland Daughters
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2019-07-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

SMOKED ANKLES

Of all the things I had ever been at 24314 Creekview Drive, hungover wasn’t one of them. But, like any other day, tomorrow finally caught up with me.

Stretching out on the non-Tempur-Pedic mattress, not equipped with a down topper or even a fluffy mattress pad, I turned bleary eyed to the bedside table where a white clock sat. Rubbing my eyes, I zeroed in on the black and white numbers: 7:07. Staring, I heard a low buzz and then watched as the entire unit heaved. The last number suddenly flipped, turning the “seven” magically into an “eight.” 7:08. Cool.

Sitting up slowly, propping myself on the smallish pillows draped in dusty pink, I watched the sun begin to break behind the tall loblolly pines. Yes, loblolly pines. I had read that somewhere, and boy, wasn’t it coming in handy now? The scene would have been even more beautiful, breathtaking really, if my head wasn’t pounding and I wasn’t still pretending I was in 1978. I had to admit, if I had dreamed this up, I had done one hell of a job.

Finally willing myself to get up, I made my way to the bathroom and took a long, hard look in the mirror—it wasn’t pretty. Tear-smeared mascara mixed with blue eye shadow steaked across my face. I had tried the old half-drunk, soap-and-water routine in the wee hours of the night, but that didn’t even get half of what had been slapped on twenty-four hours ago.

Rifling through my cosmetic case, I pulled out the blue tub of Noxzema. Pulling back my massive, wild hair with what looked like a tennis sweatband, I slathered the thick cream on my face. Turning on the faucet, I realized, too late, that apparently the water pressure was weak during time travel. This stuff was going to be in my pores for the next thirty years. It was like trying to scrape peanut butter off a tortilla, only I didn’t have a spatula.

Finally rubbing off the last bit with an abrasive maroon-and-pink textured towel, I jumped in the shower, which had the same feeble water pressure as the sink. I was impressed with my naked self, though. Yes, if I was going to be delusional at least I was going to look freaking amazing in the all-nude. Maybe people ate better in 1978, despite the Crisco, butter, fat and oil. Maybe they dined out less, ate fewer snacks and had less access to access.

Afraid of what the “Supermax” styling device might mean for my already jacked-up hair, I used the provided shower cap and enjoyed a decent shower minus a hit off the bottle of Body on Tap. I began to wonder how in the hell I could create the same look I had arrived with yesterday. The best approach, I calculated, was to double the normal amount of every item in the case. It was a recipe for a potent cocktail: Half a can of Miss Breck, six dollops of Cover Girl Clean

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