Dear Doreen

by Kate Schulman

Dear Doreen,

     I think my boyfriend may be cheating on me. How should I go about asking him? I don’t want to just spring it on him.

From,

Worried and Confused

Dear Worried and Confused,

     Ah, goodness. This reminds me of the time I caught my boyfriend and the sea captain sleeping together on my old yacht. It was the eighties. I remember the salty sea breeze, a glass of white zinfandel in one hand, a glass of gris in the other. I was so enraged I ripped off my kaftan like the Incredible Hulk and jumped into the cool ocean water, befriending a group of mackerel that took me under their wing for six months. But I acted the lady I am, and I suggest you do too. C’est La Vie.

Good vibrations,

Doreen

Dear Doreen,

     I hooked up with a random guy a couple of weeks ago, and I am starting to think I have herpes. I’m really worried. I don’t even have his number. What should I do?

From,

Sore in Love

Dear Sore in Love,

     You must look inside yourself. Breathe in the air of life, and don’t spit it back out until you are sure you have herpes or not. You do not want to infect other people. I remember it clear as day. 1984. Brunei had just become a fully independent state. I was Hervé Di Rosa’s muse, and we were drinking champagne in between brush strokes and bush strokes. He leaned in to whisper in my ear––oh how I loved when he did that––and he said, j’ai l’herpés. Later that day I drank fourteen glasses of zin. I suggest a bubble bath, a single square of rich dark chocolate, and the soothing sounds of Edith Piaf.

Keep calm and carry on,

Doreen

Dear Doreen,

     I seem to be unlucky in love. Every guy I date leaves me for someone better.  How can I make guys notice me?

From,

Cursed

Dear Cursed,

     In 1992 I was involved with a man called Julien Duluc. He was absolutely debonair, I tell you. One evening we were sitting by the pool. It was absolutely marvelous, tiled green and blue with a fountain of baby Jesus in the middle. Anyway, Julien was not the best swimmer. Being the rash, impulsive man he was, he jumped into the pool, his speedo clinging to his body in all the right ways. He starting flailing his arms about, almost as if we were seven years old again and playing crazy arms. He was screaming “help, help!” but I just stood there. He looked beautiful bathed in the warm glow of a summer’s eve. I untied my sarong and glided into the pool, walking towards him as if I were on air. “Help me!” Julien cried, the water slowly enrobing him. Later that evening I drove to the market and knocked over a tower of tinned sardines.

Life is too short to drink bad wine,

Doreen