The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) (3 page)

I turned my back to him and yanked off my robe, sliding under the covers, hoping he’d get the message the conversation was over.

“I need a shirt for tomorrow,” he said.

“They’re hanging in your closet,” I snapped over my shoulder. For once I was one step ahead of this crazy game called homemaking. Give me a hotel crisis any day.

“My blue striped one isn’t.”

“Well, wear another one then.”

“No. I want my blue striped one,” he insisted, like Warren did when he wanted something unreasonable.

“Then you know where the iron and ironing board are,” I bit back. “I have to get up in five hours.”

With a huff, he stalked off into the bathroom and ran himself a bath.

“Can’t even iron me one damn shirt... too busy with her own life,” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear.

I shouted after him, “My
life
is to take care of my children any way I can!”

“
Our
children,” he corrected coolly as he slammed the bathroom door behind him.

“You could’ve fooled me!” I roared back. “I’m the one that plays with them! I help with the homework, give Maddy a bath! Have you talked to your son lately? He’s growing up, you know! But what male role model does he have at home? Huh?”

“Your gay buddy who’s always slithering around here for free meals! Why doesn’t he go back to his supposed
villa
in Italy and leave us alone?” he spat back through the closed door.

“At least Paul is loving! He doesn’t push them away and say,
Yes, that’s nice, now let me watch TV
! You wouldn’t even notice them if they painted their faces green! So don’t try to make me feel like a bad parent, because if there is one here, it’s you!”

Are you getting a sense of
déjà vu
? Then welcome to my life.

“When was the last time you ever left this house without an ironed shirt?” I demanded as I flung the door open. He was already lying in the tub in a mountain of bubbles.

“Tell me!”

He crossed his arms. “Quite a few times, actually. How embarrassing for you.”

I could’ve killed him on the spot. Charged right into the bathroom and smashed his head against the pristine ceramic tiles, a red glob against white. Teach the insolent bastard a lesson.

“For
me?
You’re the one that should be embarrassed! You don’t even take the trash out!”

“I work like an animal, twenty-four seven, and now you
decide
you want to go to Tuscany! When are you going to wake up from your stupid dreams?”

Stupid dreams? I pulled out the hairdryer from under the vanity unit and shoved it into the socket and began to straighten my hair. For no reason at all. At every yank, it was like I was trying to straighten out the kinks in my life. Besides, the lovely noise drowned out his voice that went on and on.

I looked down at him and saw a bitter old man who cared only about himself. I saw a bitter old woman who was done trying and fighting. I saw the bitter old woman heave a deep sigh and measure the length of the chord of the hairdryer and gauge the distance to the bathtub. It was enough.

I saw my reflection lift the hairdryer high above his useless body and let go. I saw him jolt, the shock in his eyes as he sizzled, jerked once, twice, thrice, like in a magic formula, and finally slide below the surface of the water, like a sea monster that had finally met its match. It felt fantastic to finally be free.

“Are you listening to me?” he yelled, pulling me back to the here and now.

“I’m done listening,” I replied as I unplugged the hairdryer and wound the cord around it as if it was Ira’s neck. “I take care of you—
and
our children
and
this house
and
everything that comes our way—and I do all this on top of my
own
job. What the hell do
you
do? Where are
you
when your children need you, at parents’ night, track-and-field day, Madeleine’s ballet, at Warren’s big games—
at bedtime
! Where are
you?
”

He stared at me and I stared back, my breath sawing in and out of my shaking body. Boy, I could
feel
it, feel the anger oozing out of every pore, like a dark, thick liquid that had been pent-up inside a barrel for years, fermenting to its most acidic, unbearable point. That was a frustrated, exhausted and murderous working housewife for you. And, boy, did I need to de-stress.

“I come home from work and clean up the mess you’ve left the night before! Then I cook dinner!
And
do the laundry! And you can’t even iron yourself a lousy
shirt
?”

He stared at me as it slowly sank in, and I realized I had never given him one of my masterpieces that I had strictly reserved for my poor staff at The Farthington. Maybe I
should
be my usual belligerent, confrontational self—the self I’d hidden over the years so as not to scare perspective suitors (ha!) away. It sure made me feel better, more in charge; because if I couldn’t be in charge, then I was nothing, nobody.

Ira wasn’t used to this side of me. If only he knew my real thoughts, how many times in my fantasy I’d left him bludgeoned and bleeding to death. I think he was in shock, actually. But, then again, so was I. I had never expected to react like that to what was a normal routine between us lately. But, hell, was I
proud
of myself.

All these years I had managed to harness my aggressiveness and channel it only into my work, and never onto my family. Truth was, the daily domestic grind was wearing me out, and more often than not I imagined my husband hanging from power lines, his electrocuted body swinging in the wind like forgotten laundry.

The scary thing was that I still found it hilarious. Was my murderous potential finally about to surface? Would I soon pick up an axe and wipe him out, and then laugh about it? Why was I having these delicious fantasies all this time? Was I
that
unhappy? I was beginning to worry. And then I would go into the kitchen and begin to chop onions, blaming the fumes for my tears.

But then, all the kids had to do was show me their appreciation for something I had done for them or draw me a picture and I was instantly rewarded for all my efforts, and thoughts of bludgeoning Ira to death ebbed, disappearing back into the fringes of my unconscious. Not that I’d ever do something like that, mind you. (Isn’t that what murderers say before they kill someone?) But it’s nice to fantasize.

I left the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, and buried my head under the pillows, the beautiful image of his dead body keeping me company.

“You have to do something about that grinding,” he said as he climbed into bed next to me. “It’s annoying. Go see your dentist. Maybe he can fix you. And while you’re at it, go see a shrink so you can stop talking in your sleep.”

“Anything else?” I asked, crossing my arms in front of my chest.

“Yeah. Do it tomorrow.”

And that, to me, sounded like an ultimatum.

* * *

The next morning as I was getting dressed, he came into the bathroom wearing the damned blue striped shirt. Rumpled and creased.

I sighed. “Don’t be silly. Take that off.”

He obeyed immediately and left it hanging on the doorknob. I brushed my hair into my usual tight bun, so tight it acted as a natural facelift, and applied a thin veil of make-up. I scooped up my coat, only to find Ira sitting on the bed in his trousers and undershirt.

He blinked at me. “Where’s my shirt?”

I blinked back.

“I thought you’d ironed it,” he exclaimed, shooting to his feet, his eyes checking the bathroom doorknob. Boy, was he worried now.

“What, while I was in the bathroom getting dressed, you mean?”

“You told me to take it off so you could iron it!” he squeaked, in a panic. Now he really was going to be late.

“No,” I said slowly, like you talk to foreigners or stupid people. Not to children, though, who usually understand on the first “No.”

“I told you to take it off because you looked silly in a crumpled shirt—not because I was going to drop everything else because you don’t like your other nineteen shirts. I have to go to work. See you tonight.”

I didn’t even stay to hear Ira’s linguistic masterpiece of a rant, hustling the kids out in front of me, but it was pretty loud. On the way out, I gently closed the door behind me, but not as gently as usual, and smiled.

Chapter 2:

Operation Seduction?

A
mong
The Ten
(at least)
Things Ira Hates About Erica
, the easiest to solve had to be the teeth-grinding. Right? If this marriage was worth it, then why not just put up with the discomfort of a bite for a bit, especially if the reward was possibly a good solid session of marital benefits? If I could get Ira back to how it used to be in the good old days, surely all the other sources of tension in our marriage would slowly melt away? If there was any chance that deep down he still had love for me, I had to do my best to exhume—and resuscitate, eventually—that feeling.

So there I was, in Stage One of Operation Seduction. And if it meant swallowing the bitter pill, so be it. But the horrendous contraption in Dr. Jacobs’ hands was not exactly the size of a pill. It was the size of a Happy Meal hamburger.

“Here, put this into your mouth,” he said as I backed off in horror.

“No thanks, I’m not hungry.” My dentist Dr. Jacobs, who never looked down at me unless I was in his chair, let out a laugh, turning the bite in his hands. “Oh, come on, Erica, it’s not so bad. It’s very flexible and soft.”

“So’s a rubber duckie. Would you sleep with a rubber duckie in your mouth?” I asked, looking at the gob in disgust. I might as well have gone to bed with rollers in my hair and slathered brown cream all over my face.

“Just for a couple of nights, Erica. Try it. What have you got to lose?” he insisted.

What did I have to lose? My will to live? It was a revolting piece of work
and
it gave me gag reflex, only succeeding in making my mouth hurt along with the rest of my teeth. Can you imagine me with one of these things in my mouth and having one of my nocturnal apnea attacks? Images of me with my eyes bulging out of my head while the air that couldn’t get past my nostrils detoured in a panic to my mouth, only to find that tunnel blocked by a big fat piece of rubber? I was faced with two choices: either dying of suffocation or never having sex again.

“All right, already. Give me the damn duckie,” I said with a sigh.

“That’s a girl,” he smiled. Operation Recuperation Husband had begun.

* * *

Three whole frustrated and horny weeks later, I bravely ditched my favorite cow pajamas and my new bite for one evening and pulled on a pretty nightgown with a lacy bodice. It was do or die, meaning that if he didn’t do me tonight I’d kill him. He
had
to make a damn effort—it couldn’t always be me. I needed some cooperation. And so came Phase Two of my strategy: Seduction.

I crawled over to his side, pressed up against his back and whispered, “Hello…” like we used to in the days of old.

Nothing. I caressed his shoulders, just the way he liked it. Still nothing from the other side. “Ira…?”

He sighed, more like a groan, and turned over to face me and involuntarily, I stiffened. Not because the torpedo (him) and the rabbit (me) would make yet another baby (I was on the pill), but because we’d lost our intimacy, and were now practically strangers.

But there we were, Ira’s hand going south and me suddenly changing my mind, silently willing him to stop. I heard him pant, huff in frustration, and finally roll away.

I lay there, stunned, and then turned on the light. He groaned in annoyance.

“What? What’s wrong?” I didn’t smell, did I? I’d showered, and B.O. was one of the few problems that I didn’t suffer from.

“It’s so awkward.”

He felt it, too, then. Maybe now he’d agree to see a marriage counselor. Long moments of equally awkward silence followed, and I waited with bated breath.

“I can’t do it,” he finally said. “I’ve tried, but you’re way too big, and I’m too tired to make the effort.”

“Come again?” I said, no pun intended, my eyes searching for him in the low light. I could see the silhouette of his head, and I was happy I couldn’t see his face.

He sighed and was silent before he answered me. “All these years I’ve been on your case about losing weight. And you never listened, never cared. And now you’ve blown to a size twenty... and it’s just too much.”

I sat in stunned silence.

“Look,” he said apologetically, “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings but you have to face the facts here. A normal woman is a size ten.”

Had he done a study project on it? What did he consider
normal
? And was this what he’d been thinking all these years during which I gave birth to and nurtured his children and him—that I wasn’t the size of a
normal
woman? And that loving the woman who had been by his side all these years required
an effort
?

I stared at him, my heart falling, flailing, to the deepest part of me somewhere inside. “You won’t have sex with me because I’m
big
?” I said, unable to believe it. “Don’t you think that’s being a little superficial?”

He shrugged, his eyes downcast. “Maybe. But I can’t keep lying to you. Your body’s putting me off. I’ve begged you to lose weight. I’ve tried giving you all sorts of signs to make you understand.”

I snorted, too hurt to show it. “You mean being an asshole was a
sign
?”

“There’s no reason to be offensive now, Erica.”

“Oh, because you are paying me a
compliment
? You think living with you and all your hang-ups is easy?”

He shrugged, unable, or unwilling, to elaborate.

“Do you think it’s normal to act like this?” I demanded. “Do you think every man in the world whose wife is a bit big acts like you do? I’ve seen other men
adore
their big wives.”

He sighed. “Contrary to what big women think, men don’t like all that flab.”

I blinked back the tears and his face softened. “Look, I’m sorry, but for years your mother and I have been asking you to do something about your weight.”

Which wasn’t true. They’d been
bashing
me about it, pushing all sorts of surgery at me. Stomach bypasses. Restrictive rings—the works. At home I had a whole library of brochures and printouts courtesy of the two of them.

“I don’t want to undergo surgery, if that’s what you’re so subtly hinting at yet again,” I snapped.

He groaned. “You know what, it’s late; I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“You can’t just drop this bomb on me and then turn over and go to sleep. What kind of a monster are you?”

“A tired, exhausted and fed up one,” he sentenced, scooping up his pillows (all four of them) and leaving our bedroom with a slam of the door.

I sat in bed with my hands over my mouth, staring at my flannel pajamas swinging from the hook on the door. They seemed to say,
See, stupid? You should have stuck with us and saved yourself the embarrassment.

I’d tried to skirt around the various issues of my teeth-grinding, talking in my sleep, hoping it was just a phase—but nothing. That was it. He’d spelled it out to me, loud and clear. Lose weight. This was his ultimate ultimatum.

When a man’s no longer interested in what’s under your dress, there is no amount of cooking, ironing or candlelit dinners that will save the day. Once he’s off you (literally, too), he’s off you for good. Never mind all the efforts
you’ve
made to try to see him as George Clooney. Never mind all the sacrifices you’ve made period. So it boiled down to lose weight—or lose him? I honestly hadn’t seen it coming and now I wasn’t quite sure how traumatizing the latter result would be, to be honest.

Outside, the iris bulbs I’d planted were somewhere deep in the ground, under three inches of the first snow, enveloped in the dark, cold earth, practically dead until the first warmth caressed them back to life. In spring they’d sprout and bloom, as beautiful as ever, right on cue. But it was going to be a long winter.

My husband doesn’t want to make love to me anymore.

I leaned out the window, taking in the white, silent world that was my dormant garden, and remembered one night on a Sicilian beach where, as a child, I’d had to pick my way through campfires and couples making out. Even my cousins who’d brought me along had disappeared. That sense of loneliness had overwhelmed me then and now, instead of snow-filled clouds, I saw starry Sicilian skies and smelled the smoke from the campfires from so many years ago.

How had Ira and I changed so much? There were so many hidden feelings between us, and the good ones were rapidly fading, like stars at dawn.

Maybe being thinner would make a difference between us? I had tried everything else and nothing had worked. If I lost weight it would improve my life on all levels and it would bring me back to life. But would it bring the old Ira back into my bed? Just how badly did I want him back there? Surely I’d forget him if I had to? Just like my mattress that didn’t have foam-memory technology, meaning it was as if Ira had never been in my bed at all, could I, too, erase him from my memory, as if he’d never existed? Could I do it if necessary?