NOVEL
The Goddess Lounge
A goddess consultation at the notorious Goddess Lounge unravels self-sacrificing Penne Armour’s existence when it reveals that her inner goddess is Venus, the Roman goddess of love and beauty.When the LA mom is sent searching for her soon to be ex-husband, however, Venus might be just what Penne needs to face down a one-eyed Amazon, a boar-taming olive-oil rancher, an ocean of traffic, and a husband better left lost.
A modern riff on Homer’s Odyssey, “The Goddess Lounge” is a story of motherhood, love, and the tension between self-sacrifice and the pursuit of pleasure. If Carl Hiaasen decided to rewrite the Odyssey from a modern Penelope’s point of view, the result might be this funny, sexy romp that asks: why be a hero when you can be a goddess?
Excerpt from Chapter One
“The World is Your Oyster.” So proclaimed the imposing billboard overlooking the Hollywood Freeway’s Vermont Avenue exit. A tanned model with slick black hair tied tightly in a chignon, long, ethereal limbs wrapped in semi-transparent, flowing chiffon, and heavily mascara-ed eyes stared downward, bestowing on the haggard morning drivers below a look of vacuous boredom. It was a surprisingly nihilistic expression considering that the model also had a spherical belly as big as a basketball, and, for all Penne Armour suspected, really was a basketball.
Penne Armour knew pregnant. She’d undergone three invitro attempts before becoming pregnant with Grace Claire, at which point she threw up twice a day, everyday, for ten weeks. Her breasts grew one cup size, her feet grew one shoe size, her ankles become as thick as her calves, she waddled like a duck, she gained forty-two pounds, and Owen started to call her the Michelin Mama. Never once did her stomach look as dainty as a basketball.
That model was anything but pregnant, thought Penne. In fact, that model was so waiflike she probably hadn’t started menstruating. But that was advertising. It pretended to celebrate motherhood but actually disdained it. If advertisers honestly wanted to celebrate motherhood, they would honor the bodies of childbearing women. They would hire models with hips and girth, women who knew what it was like to lug around a forty-two pound suitcase in their torsos, or who’d developed sway backs after carrying toddlers for four or five years. At the very least, they would banish chignons. No mother had that much time to spend on her hair.
What really bothered Penne about the ad was the tagline: “The World is Your Oyster.” Bullshit. The world was no mother’s oyster. No mother could have it all. It would be nice if you could. But you can’t. Basic law of physics: For every action there is an opposite and proportional reaction. If you make career your priority, you miss out at home. If you make family your priority, you miss out at work. There’s only one guarantee: you’re pretty much screwed either way.
The fact that Penne Armour – devoted mother and preschool teacher – could harbor such cynicism would surprise the people who knew her; Penne knew that. She knew that most people thought of her as a nice person, a positive person, a giver. They did not think of her as a judger. Live and let live. That was Penne’s motto, and she worked very hard to let people know it. But even the very good have very bad mornings, and the wretchedness of Penne’s brought out her inner bitch. Everything had gone wrong. That crazy mom’s message. Stupid Owen being a jerk. Even work! Right before Penne left the house Nancy called asking where Penne was, even though Penne had asked for the morning off weeks ago. It was a good thing Nancy was retiring soon because, really, the woman had already checked out. And now here Penne was stuck in fricking rush hour traffic, in the pouring rain, going to the god-awful Goddess Lounge in god-awful Hollywood.
She inched forward for what seemed like forever until she reached Hollywood Boulevard, where she exited onto an even slower moving traffic nightmare. Flooding had closed a lane in each direction, further inconveniencing drivers who were already panicked and confused by the sheer presence of water under their tires. Penne spied her destination a block past the Pantage’s Theatre and pulled into an empty parking lot where she paid eight bucks to a shivering parking attendant who didn’t even have a coat, just a soaking maroon nylon sweater. Umbrella in hand, she crossed the street at the crosswalk and walked towards what she knew would be a moronic waste of time.
Penne’s mother had been right about one thing. The Goddess Lounge, with it oversized brass double doors carved with ornate reliefs and its deep purple velvet curtains covering the large plate glass window, was hard to miss. Then, of course, there were the picketers. Three women in clear-plastic rain ponchos who marched in a tight circle in front of the entrance.
“Sorry,” said Penne, her eyes cast downward. “My Mom made me come.”
The picketers merely snarled. “It’s your eternal damnation,” hissed one.
With that auspicious invitation, Penne opened the heavy doors and entered the Goddess Lounge.