The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (14 page)

The party sounded interesting in an
Eyes Wide Shut
sort of way. But there was no way I'd wear a dog collar and be anyone's submissive anything. Not in this lifetime.

“Val, what are you doing Saturday night?”

Maybe it was my tone that made her hesitate. “I don't know…” she said. “Why?”

“I was just wondering if you want to go to a bondage and discipline, sadomasochistic, dominant/submissive party with me.”

“Are you fucking nuts?” she whispered. “Did that freak invite you to a party?” Her voice spiked. “I'm not going! And you're not going either!”

When I didn't respond right away, she lowered her voice. “Are you?”

“C'mon, go with me,” I said. “We never do anything fun.” When she didn't say anything, I tried another angle. “We can go shopping first to buy something cute to wear. A corset, vinyl pants, you know, do the whole Barbie thing and go dressed to blend.”

“I gotta go,” Valerie whispered. “One of the partners just walked in. Call me later so I can talk you out of this.”

I hung up with her just as another IM popped up.

Curious, I clicked through the links he sent embedded in the message box. One link led to The Deviants’ Dictionary. It was like a Webster's Unabridged, pervert edition. I followed another hyperlink to a “Negotiation List” for “The Rules of Play.”

It was totally fascinating. This bizarre subculture. This strange and exotic lifestyle that I knew nothing about. It would make absolutely great story material. I could do an undercover exposé, sort of a behind-the-scenes look at female spankstresses. I was positively giddy at the thought of finding just the right words to describe the atmosphere, the people, the gray matter of why and how the lifestyle exists.

I clicked on the last link; it led to a series of pictures. Graphic pictures: a gallery of men and women—naked. Leather masks and ball-gags binding their faces, cages and body harnesses restricting their movement. Strange medieval looking machines probing into private areas, blindfolds and shackles, and soft pink skin with puckered red welts.

A tremor ran through my body. That clearly wasn't a world I wanted to explore—not even for $400 an hour and material for a really great story.

When it comes to sexual flavors, I'm as vanilla as it gets. Okay, so maybe that makes me boring. But I've decided to celebrate my flannel pajama boringness and leave the butt plugs and butterfly boards to more adventurous girls.

murphy's law of the universe

Thursday, March 28

I always end up with the retarded shopping cart. I think there's some sort of cosmic message in there somewhere.

“Mom, can I go look at the watches?” Josh had already turned toward the glass cases filled with cheap jewelry.

“I suppose. Catch up with me when you're done.”

I pushed the wobbly cart along the wide aisle, fighting the crooked wheel dragging it to the left. I checked the detergent section and decided a man must've designed the layout of Super Kmart. Otherwise, the Simple Green would be over in the aisle with the cleaning supplies, not in the automotive department.

So, I traveled through the sporting goods section, feeling like Sacagawea leading a trek into the unknown.

Hmmm…look what I found. A guy—in his natural habitat.

Blonde spiky hair. Our eyes connected. I smiled. He smiled. Nice smile. I looked away.

What was I looking for again? Oh yeah, Simple Green.

I picked a bottle off the bottom shelf and put it in the cart. Spiky Hair walked past me. I stood for a few minutes breathing in the smell of his cologne.

Safari
. Kevin's cologne.

Why does it always seem like when I'm finally trying to move on, some little thing like a reminder of the way Kevin smelled sucks me right back in?

I turned the cart around and followed Spiky Hair through the store, just to smell the cologne. I followed him down several aisles, inhaling deeply. He stole a few curious glances over his shoulder.

With my eyes half closed, I sniffed again. A few short intakes and then a long draw, maybe a little too loudly. His head turned with a jerk. The look on his face clearly asked, “Did I step in dog shit?” I smiled awkwardly and turned to feign extreme interest in the bunion pads on the shelf near my cart.

I continued to follow him, but kept a reasonable distance until he reached the cashier. Then I pulled my cart up behind him and closed my eyes. I breathed in slowly and quietly, trying to completely absorb the scent.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

My eyes popped open to find Josh peering closely into my face. He looked at me like I was a candidate for a weekend retreat to a rubber room resort.

“Why are you being weird?” he whispered.

I shrugged and turned to the magazines and booklets in the rack dividing the checkout lanes.

“I'll be at the arcade by the exit.” Josh walked away, shaking his head.

I looked over the tabloid titles. Ridiculous. Do people really believe those headlines? I glanced at the top shelf.
Cooking with Casseroles. No Bad Dogs. Zodiac Dating. How to Survive a Break Up
.

Hmmm….

I pulled the last one off the shelf and flipped through it. The pocket-sized therapy guide was crammed with common sense solutions to salve sadness. I continued scanning to see if there was anything I hadn't already figured out on my own.

I felt Josh's presence beside me. “Back already?” I asked without looking up.

“The
Area 51
game was broken. What are you reading?” He tilted his head to see the cover.

I angled it parallel with the floor to conceal the title. “Just a book.”

Josh turned to review the rack of possible options. The booklets each had a distinct size, so he instantly knew which one I held.

He yanked it from my hand and turned it over to confirm the title. “You don't need this stupid crap!” He chucked it through the air and over the top of two checkout stands.

“Josh! What do you think you're doing?” I couldn't believe he threw the book. I was afraid to check to see if it hit anyone.

“You shouldn't be reading that. You don't need it. You're fine.” He sounded angry and somehow a little hopeful. “I'm going to wait by the car.” Josh turned and stormed toward the exit.

My heart hurt and my head was full of Kevin, again. But at least I found the Simple Green.

deviled egg powwow

Easter
Sunday, March 31

I laid it out to Valerie while we sat on her patio under a canopy of stars. It was one of our typical nights in her grassy backyard, despite the day-long celebration with the kids. Bonita already left with her boys and the evening was winding down.

Too lazy to go to the store for more fire logs, Valerie and I took turns burning newspaper inserts and paper plates in her potbellied stove.

“Here's the deal. I met a guy at work and he wants to play the sugar daddy game, but I don't think I can do it,” I said.

I've come to the conclusion that every heartbroken creative needs a left-brained realist as a best friend.

Without knowing the details, “You'll grow to love him,” she said. Valerie swirled her Merlot while she built her case. “When women are with guys who take care of them and treat them well, we can't help but fall in love. It's the way we're wired.” She shrugged and took another sip of wine.

“What about your marriage?”

“I was never
in
-love with Jack, but I grew to love him. And if he hadn't turned into such a prick, I wouldn't have divorced him.”

“I don't understand how you could spend that many years with someone you aren't in-love with. I'd die inside.”

“Your problem is that you think everything has to be a fairytale.” Valerie folded a paper plate into the shape of a pie slice and pushed it into the fire. “You have to be realistic. A relationship is really about the benefits that each person can get from being with the other.”

I picked up another deviled egg and looked at the jiggly white part spotted a faint pink from the Easter egg dye; I wondered if the dye was carcinogenic. I stuffed the egg into my mouth, my lips bulging around it. Too big a bite, but I hated when the yellow stuff slimed my front teeth. It always made me feel like I had to go floss.

She could be right. Maybe relationships only work when neither person has to deal with being in-love. It's got to be easier that way.

fly fishing in cyberspace

Sunday, April 7

Don't ask me what propelled me to do it. Because it's always a suggestion from that well-meaning friend—the one who already has a boyfriend.

“What about signing up for that Internet dating service you hear about everywhere? I bet there are a ton of great guys on there,” Heather suggested gently.

I laughed it off, but she persisted. “C'mon what've you got to lose? Just do it. While we're on the phone, log on, and go to that website.”

Okay, twist my mouse finger.

We both went online and window-shopped via telephone. It was like browsing a home-shopping network for slightly used penises.

“What about the one that says, ‘Great Catch’? Don't you think that he's kinda cute?”

I tried not to choke. “Heather, that guy is playing on team recession. His forehead is migrating to the back of his neck. You are kidding me, right?”

“Okay, so he's not as gorgeous as Kevin was.”

“Is,” I corrected.

I heard Derek yelling in the background. “Hey Heather, what're you doing?”

“Nothing. Nothing,” she said.

I could picture her frantically clicking the computer window closed. It would be easier than explaining to her boyfriend why she was trolling
Match.com
.

“Annette, Derek wants to watch a movie, so I have to go, but you should keep looking. Who knows, maybe you'll find a really great guy.”

She finally hung up to go enjoy her relational bliss, leaving me in relative peace to continue with my ex-boyfriend replacement therapy.

I scanned the sign-up requirements. To contact any of the potential life partners, I had to register and make up a profile.

Blink…blink…blink…the cursor mocked me. What do you say about yourself to attract a cybermate?

Single, white, female, thirty-four, cute, petite…um…neurotic woman is desperately obsessed with ex-boyfriend, needs new distraction to use for rebound relationship. No sexual relation opportunities included. I can't go there yet. We only broke up seven months ago.

You can't write the truth in a profile. It's like an ad for a used car. Nobody will want it when you reveal there are too many miles on it and it breaks down all the time.

I'm a used car. God, this sucks.

play that funky music white boy

Saturday, April 20

It was a balmy night, unseasonably warm. Just the way I like it.

The club was packed. Disco Saturday night—retro trendy, and more fun than the '70s were the first time around. But that was when I was dancing to the Bee Gees in hopscotch squares on the playground. So, what do I really know?

“Hey, let's hit the patio for some fresh air,” Valerie yelled, flailing her arms to the “Y.M.C.A.” song.

It was stuffy and the press of bodies marinated in beer made the idea of fresh air seem like nirvana. On the patio, I fanned a puff of cigarette smoke out of my face and wondered what was so fresh about inhaling the secondhand ass gas of someone's stale, unfiltered butt.

Valerie's immediate goal was to bum a smoke from a cute guy. Standard bar technique: right up there with not having to stand in line to get in, and never paying for her own drink.

When she turned up her laser-white smile, and sucked in a lung-busting amount of air to elevate her implants—Valerie was unstoppable.

“Got a light?” she purred at a Tobey Maguire clone and flipped her hair over her shoulder.

The poor guy didn't stand a chance.

“Uh, yeah…” he fumbled in his pocket.

“Oh, and a ciggie too?” she baby-girled.

Never failed. If I tried to puff up my chest like that, I'd chip a guy's front tooth with my sternum.

“Nine out of ten doctors say that silicon turns brown when exposed to nicotine.” I picked a new jab for our ongoing boob wars.