44 Chapters About 4 Men (35 page)

My father has blue eyes, and evidently, so has every man I’ve ever loved since him.

(And here I thought I was the one woman on the planet without daddy issues.
Damn.
)

But Ken’s…I could pick Ken’s eyeballs out from a barrelful of blue-and-white orbs. Not stormy or stonewashed or piercing or cold, they’re a
sparkling cerulean that feels somehow bright and tranquil at the same time
—
like those glossy magazine photos of tropical vacation spots where the ocean is that vivid blue-green color and you can see every fish rollicking beneath the waves, every grain of sand at the bottom, and you think,
Pssh. That shit is fake. Nothing in nature is that blue
. Because if something that beautiful really existed and you were missing it, it would be a fucking tragedy.

Well, I’m happy to report that that color does exist. And I don’t need a plane ticket and a quart-sized Ziploc baggie full of tiny toiletries to experience it. Whenever I look into Ken’s eyes, I can’t help but feel as though somebody just thrust a hollowed out coconut into my hand, filled with rum and love and curly straws and little paper umbrellas. I relax. My cortisol levels go down. My serotonin levels go up. And suddenly, I’m on vacation, content to bury my toes in our sandy-colored frieze carpet and stay a while.

After eleven months of soul-searching and behavior-modification experiments and sleepless wine-soaked nights, I feel like I’ve finally arrived at my destination, and all that’s left to do is exhale, sip something fruity, and enjoy the view. Although my gorgeous Irish-Spring scented sandy-haired husband might still prefer to hang out over on Ken Island, nursing a Gatorade and checking his phone for Braves scores and stock market updates, I now have an open invitation to climb ashore and storm his beaches whenever I want, if you know what I mean (eyebrow waggle, self-high five).

Listen, Journal, you already know from my breakup history that I’m pretty bad with good-byes, so let’s just get this over with. You’re the best thing that ever happened to my marriage, okay? And as much as I know that I should just delete you and never look back, I owe you more than that. You deserve to live on, to spend your retirement rubbing elbows with all the other smut I’ve been stashing in the Cute Stuff I Found on Pinterest
folder.

(You’re welcome for all the Stephen James photos, by the way.)

Besides, I’m probably going to need to use you as a reference tool in the future because I’m pretty sure lack of sleep has destroyed my ability to form new memories.

So, until then, namaste, Little Guy. Your work here is done.

Me:
Sara motherfucking Snow

Me:
Pack your bags bitch!

Me:
You’ve got a date with Matt Lauer!

Sara:
Married, middle-aged, and white

Sara:
Hmm…

Sara:
He does sound like my type

Me:
Subliminal spousal bibliotherapy is a wrap.

Sara:
You’re done??

Me:
Stick a fork in me.

Me:
Ken called my ass OUT last night.

Sara:
Oh shit

Sara:
He hit you, didn’t he?

Me:
Oh, he hit it all right. ;)

Sara:
Nice!

Sara:
Hey, speaking of

Sara:
Has Ken ever choked you?

Sara:
Because if he hasn’t, he needs to tonight.

Me:
Ha! You’re still sleeping with Alex, aren’t you?

Sara:
Yes

Sara:
Didn’t one of your exes used to do it?

Me:
Not on purpose.

Sara:
You need to be choked.

Me:
Was it that good??

Sara:
No

Sara:
At first I thought
I’m going to die getting fucked by a guy I met on the Sunset strip on New Year’s Eve and then I almost fainted then I came and it was amazing!!!!

Me:
He pulled it off without a hitch??

Sara:
Without

Sara:
A

Sara:
Hitch

Me:
And then you fell in love with him

Sara:
He was so sweet afterward

Me:
I'm so fucking impressed. That's quite a skill.

Sara:
It was

Sara:
Sigh

Sara:
And that is how Dr. Sara Snow almost got herself a baby daddy with a GED

Sara:
I'm slowly getting over it

Sara:
I’ll eventually forget

Sara:
Maybe I should call him

Sara:
We could get married

Sara:
Then he can choke me for the next 7-10 years

Sara:
You realize eventually I'll be intellectually disabled from lack of oxygen

Me:
I love that autoerotic asphyxiation is what it takes to finally get Sara Snow to settle down.

Sara:
Lol

Me:
I’m calling matron of honor. Dibs on that shit.

Sara:
If you think there will be a wedding you’re brain injured

Me:
Alex wants a wedding!

Sara:
That sounds exhausting

Me:
Just a little one.

Sara:
He may have already had one

Sara:
I didn’t ask

Me:
No he hasn’t!

Me:
He’s been saving himself for you!

Me:
Alex wants to write his own vows!

Me:
Why do I feel like I know him so well?

Me:
Oh, shit

Me:
Is it because he’s me?

Sara:
A clinger who wants to choke his partner?

Sara:
He IS you

Me:
You guys should make a baby.

Me:
That baby would be my favorite person ever.

Sara:
Good. Bc you’ll be raising it.

Me:
I really need to start writing this shit down.

Sara:
You’re gonna need something new to write about now that subliminal spousal bibliotherapy has been compromised :(

Me:
Speaking of

Me:
On a scale of 1 to 10

Sara:
Oh shit

Me:
How badly do you think I’ll get sued if I write a romance series based on each one of my exes?

Sara:
Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Sara:
Do it! You have to do it! This is your fucking purpose in life!!!

Me:
Like, are we talking lose my house kind of sued?

Me:
Or just lose my kids’ college funds kind of sued?

Sara:
OMG I got it.

Sara:
Just say that they’re fictional!

Sara:
BOOM! Problem solved.

Me:
Goddamn, you’re brilliant woman.

Sara:
The term is meanius, thankyouverymuch

Me:
Are you sure that will that work though?

Sara:
Totally. Why wouldn’t it?

FIGHT FOR ME (KNIGHT)

WIN FOR ME (HARLEY)

PLAY FOR ME (HANS)

BEG FOR ME (KEN)

I suppose I should probably start by thanking my parents for resisting the urge to ship me off to a convent or have me fitted with a chastity belt when I was sixteen. The men I brought home—well, you know, they were pretty spectacular. I don’t think Confucius himself could have watched with my parents’ level of Zen-like stoicism while his only daughter gave it up to not only the village skinhead, but also a grown-ass man with no car, education, future, or hair covering his tattooed cranium, all before she even got her braces off.

Then again, maybe
they
should be thanking
me
for all the sainthood they’ve got coming when they die. I mean, by the time I graduated high school, my mom was already guaranteed an eternity spent smoking Bob Marley’s ganja and having three-ways with John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix.

So, you’re welcome, Mom and Dad.

I’d also like to thank my editor,
Jovana Shirley
, for making it all the way through this mess without ripping up my contract even once.

And to my beta readers,
Sara
,
April
, Stefani, and
Lezlie
—The fact that you ladies took my project seriously, devoted your time and brilliance to helping make it better, and mustered up enough enthusiasm to make me believe you weren’t just bullshitting me means more than you will ever know. I feel like I owe you all baby showers or something.

To
George Elias
, a copyright attorney Sara met at a party once, who gave me, like, two phone calls and three emails worth of free legal advice—You, sir, are a class act. Thank you.

And finally, I want to thank the women who have inspired me. These bitches go forth day after day in a blaze of brilliantly funny, flawed, fierce glory, giving zero fucks about the haters and leaving nothing but stereotypes and expectations in their wake. It is because of them that I found my own voice.

Oprah—For obvious reasons. Your face appears on my vision board at least three times.

Kelly Ripa—You are my spirit animal. Every time you dye your hair pink or flash a new tattoo or drop an F-bomb on daytime TV, you embolden me to fly my freak flag a little higher. Every time you waltz on stage, looking confident and radiant and sexy as hell, without a dollop of silicone or drop of saline, you remind me that my femininity, my
worth
, is not determined by my cup size. And every time you gush about your beautiful family, you give me hope that maybe we really can have it all.

Lena Dunham—You brilliant, honest, humble, hilarious writer/producer/actor/director/artist/feminist/activist, you. Way to make the rest of us feel like slobbering slack-jawed underachievers. I would say I want to be you when I grow up, but you’re fucking younger than me, too. Bitch.

Amy Schumer—Thanks a lot. I
was
going to write an entire book about Sara Snow, call it
Trainwreck
, and get Judd Apatow to turn it into a movie, but you went and beat me to it. It’s okay. I forgive you. Let’s be best friends.

Which brings me to you, Judd Apatow—Sorry to out you, but you, sir, are a big, fat feminist. You’re like a modern-day Gloria Steinem, only hairier and with a Y chromosome. And you’re much, much subtler. Every time someone cracks up over Maya Rudolph shitting in the street in a wedding dress or cringes at the sight of Katherine Heigl soberly trying to figure out how sex with Seth Rogen is supposed to work with her massive pregnant belly, they are being taught to see women as
human beings
rather than archetypes. Through your rom-coms and sitcoms, America is subconsciously learning that women can be sexy
and
gross and intelligent and maternal and successful and hilarious and flawed all at the same time. Don’t worry. Your secret agenda is safe with me.

To Jenny Lawson and Allie Brosh—Thank you for baring your souls and sharing your comedic genius with the world. Your books and blogs are the funniest things ever published. Jenny, I don’t even know how many of your jokes I referenced in this book because my brain just vomits up your punch lines whenever I’m searching for something clever to say. Just send me a bill. I’m sure I owe you something beyond just my undying admiration.