Wild fantasies of middle aged moms
Also: Announcing Evil Witche$ (<--I am not really calling it that)
Exciting news: For me, anyway
Evil Witches is now launching paid subscriptions!
For all you Witches out there (and you know who you are), I hope that the content I’ve provided thus far has provided laughs, comfort and maybe a little bit of useful information to mothers, parents, women and people looking for a different type of conversation. I will continue to do so for free but at a reduced schedule.
The subscription model will help me recoup some of the money and time I put into the project thus far — you may not be able to tell but I am actually a professional writer sometimes and want Witches to be more of a project, less of a hobby. Plus, I hope at one point to provide compensation to witchy contributors.
If you don’t subscribe, don’t worry, Witches is not going away—but it’ll just be a little lighter and less frequent (insert period joke here.) When you subscribe you get content more frequently (once a week instead of twice a month) and access to the more reported, more personal, more real-talk pieces about topics serious and stupid that Witches need to talk about from time to time.
Hope you join us!
~ Claire
Health: Honestly helpful, if creepy
Smut: Wild fantasies of middle aged moms
By Liz Harvatine and Alissa Rowinsky Wright
That cute guy who works at Trader Joe’s and always wears one of those accordion headbands to keep his hair out of his face asks me if the lemon-artichoke-basil spread I’m buying is any good. I know asking questions like that is part of his job but I can tell that this time is different. This time, he really wants to know what I think. I tell him, with hooded lids and in the most sultry voice I can manage, “I don’t know…I’ve never tried it before.” He looks deep into my eyes as he scans a pack of toilet paper and says “I haven’t either…it’s new.” I give him a shy but sexy (very sexy) smile. He doesn’t charge me for my bags (I forgot the reusable ones in the car).
***
Harry Styles shows up at my house. I haven’t worked out why exactly, but he’s most likely missing his family and yearns for just one evening of normalcy, away from the pressures of life as an international megastar. He wrestles with my children while I cook dinner. I probably make some sort of fish. After the kids go to bed (they’ve all piled on top of Harry for a bedtime story) he plays Settlers of Catan with my husband and me. It’s a close game (Harry is very competitive) but I win.
***
I’m at the annual fundraising event for my kids’ elementary school. This year’s theme is Friends, like the tv show, “Friends.” The entire cafeteria is decked out to look like Central Perk with plush, velvet couches and oversized armchairs as far as the eye can see. The new principal comes up behind me and taps me on the shoulder, her hand lingering a moment too long. Her Ann Taylor suit is the perfect shade of blue, not quite navy but dark, giving her an air of mystery and authority. “Let me guess,” she says, eyeing me up and down. “You’re a Monica…NO! A Rachel.” I blush and say, “Thanks, I get that a lot. It’s the haircut.” She asks if I’d like a drink and guides me to the refreshment table, her hand on the small of my back. She fills an oversized cappuccino cup with some sort of Kahlúa-based punch and says “I noticed you bidding on some big ticket items in the silent auction.” “Well,” I say in a smoky voice, gazing at her over the lip of my giant mug “this school is very important to me.” She says, “Oh…I can tell.” Just then, my first grader runs up to us and asks me to accompany her to the restroom. “Duty calls!” I quip, shrugging my shoulders in the most nonchalant way. I can feel her eyes on my back as she calls after me, “Remember, I’ll be there for you!”
***
I’m riding in the elevator at work with that guy from human resources who’s not especially good looking but his clothes are always extremely neat and he seemed kind of funny that one time I stood near him during a fire drill. The elevator comes to a screeching halt between floors and in the hours it takes for us to be rescued we succumb to temptation and make out like a couple of teenagers. There is a lot of over-the-clothes groping. In this scenario my husband is dead but I’m not super sad about it because he cheated on me before he died and I was leaving him anyway.
***
There’s this food truck that sometimes parks in the empty lot next to Costco, you know, where Arby’s used to be. They serve Brasilian barbecue, but in a taco. The man who always takes my order is kind of a hipster but not in a bad way. He wears t-shirts that I don’t understand but I can tell they are cool. His hand brushes against mine as he takes my credit card. He glances at my card and his expression changes. Sheepishly he says “I’m so sorry…we don’t accept American Express.” He hands it back to me but I can tell he’s impressed that it’s a gold card. “Oops! Ha ha,” I titter. “Can you break a fifty?” He can. As he hands me my change ($46.25) he asks “Are you free right now? I’m about to go on break and I’d love to just talk.” I ask “About what?” He says “Oh, nothing in particular...you just seem fascinating. I want to know your story.” We watch the sunset from atop a table on the old Arby’s patio as we talk into the night. He can’t get enough of my thoughts on the upcoming school board election or my Scandal synopses. (He’s never seen it!)
***
I’m sitting in the dentist’s chair waiting for my cleaning when a strong hand reaches across my chest to clip that blue bib on a chain around my neck. I glance up. It’s not my regular dentist. It’s the other dentist. The hot dentist. He takes a quick look in my mouth and asks me if I’ve been flossing daily. I’m about to respond when he says with a wink, “Don’t answer that, I can tell. You make dental hygiene a top priority.” I tell him “I’m really focused on self-care right now.” He kisses me right there in the chair then then asks if I want an extra toothbrush but we both know what he means. We hook up in the X-ray lab under that heavy blanket. Also, he smells really good.
Liz Harvatine and Alissa Wright have a podcast called Liz and Alissa Make Stuff. Follow them everywhere @lizandalissa
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This issue is brought to you by the art of angrily shutting yourself in your room thereby obtaining the win/win situation of freaking out your kids and being by yourself.
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