The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir

by Annette Fix

  I started to say something to draw Josh into a conversation about it, but the stony look on his face made me swallow the words. I silently welcomed his simple statement of closure because if I didn't have to talk about it, he wouldn't discover how weak I really felt.

  When Josh left my bedroom, I opened a blank journaling template and began to type. The thoughts poured onto the screen.

  How could I possibly go on without Kevin? The end of my Cinderella story left me holding a handful of frog piss. And what the hell was I thinking when I pulled Josh out of school? I'm a moron. How could I possibly teach him anything of value? Maybe I should just embrace the Orange County stereotype: get a boob job, a lobotomy, and hunt for a rich husband—

  My cell phone rang “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead”—it could be Valerie, Bonita, Heather, Jaimee, or Chelle—one of the gal pals in my witch posse. I took a break from my diary rant and answered the call.

  “So, how are you holding up?” I could hear Valerie's nails tapping a rapid staccato on the keys of her adding machine.

  I looked beside my computer monitor at the empty jar of fudge topping, a sticky spoon handle leaning against the inside rim.

  “Fine, I guess. Just had lunch and I'm writing in my journal about you.”

  “Oh, really? So, what does it say?” she asked.

  I read the page-long entry to her. She laughed through it—right up until the part about the boob job and the lobotomy.

  “Hey, no fair taking shots at me when I'm not around to defend myself.” Valerie pretended to be angry, then her tone quickly changed. “That was some funny shit though. You should make that into a book.”

  “You think so?” Everything I'd tried to write lately sounded like crap.

  “Either that or go get a real job,” Valerie took her jab to counter the boob smack.

  Ever since college, we playfully boxed. Now, in the real world, she was an investment analyst. And as an English major, I was highly qualified to suggest an order of french fries and the opportunity to supersize it.

  “Seriously, do you think it would make a good book?” I asked.

  “I think you are the only person I know who can make misery funny. I'd buy it.”

  “Well, maybe I will…” I leaned back in my chair and chewed the inside of my lower lip.

  “So, what's the deal with the homeschool thing? Are you really planning to do it? Who's going to teach Josh math? You suck at math.”

  The call-waiting function on my phone beeped.

  “Hang on a sec,” I said.

  I switched lines. “Craig! Um…I'm on the other line, can you hold?” I squeaked like a strangled mouse. “I'll be right back.”

  I clicked over.

  “Val, it's the producer for the Disney project, oh shit, oh shit. I'll call you back.”

  My mind raced. I had no new pages to give to him. My muse checked out after Kevin left and I didn't have shit.

  I clicked back on the line, “Hi…” The word came out like I was recovering from a marathon.

  “Annette, I want to go over some script notes with you, do you have a minute?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said.

  While Craig talked about the pacing in Act II, I stared at the patterns on the scraped ceiling.

  I couldn't do it.

  There was no way I could possibly write the happy, fluffy, family comedy he wanted. The thought of it made me want to vomit.

  “Craig…” I broke into his flow of comments. “I am so sorry, I can't finish this project.” I took a breath and continued, trying to get my explanation out before the tears came. “I'm having a hard time dealing with some emotional family stuff, and I know the script will suffer. I can't do this. I'm really sorry.”

  Craig gently pushed for details. In our first few meetings, we had shared stories about our personal lives, so it wasn't hard to continue. Soon, the complete story tumbled out. In my incoherent babbling, I even admitted I worked as a dancer to pay the bills.

  Career suicide. My professional credibility died on the line.

  He listened quietly and waited until I finished before responding, “If there's anything I can do, let me know. Don't worry about the script, I have other things in the pipeline. Call me whenever you're ready to take another run at it.”

  After we hung up, I looked back at the journal page filling my computer screen. The cursor blinked and I stared. Would chronicling all of my break-up misery actually make a good book?

  all hollow eve

  Halloween

  Wednesday, October 31

  I heard the sound of Josh's running feet pounding down the stairs. He jumped into the living room and posed with his most menacing glare. “So, how do I look?” He cradled a plastic machine gun against his chest.

  “You look great. That costume is perfect,” I said.

  His man-sized, pin-stripe suit was far too big, but still a lucky find. The thrift store also had a worn pair of wingtips for three dollars and a black fedora for five. A quick stop at a costume store for the black, mock shirtfront and white necktie finished off the look. Josh's slight Italian features sealed the image.

  One tween gangster—$25. No retarded Butterick costume pattern to sew—priceless.

  Josh grabbed his black plaid pillowcase and headed to the door.

  “Don't eat anything until I check it,” I said.

  “Aw, Mom—”

  “I'm serious.” I grabbed his retreating coattail.

  “Okay, okay, let go. I promise already.” He drew an invisible cross on his chest with his index finger and bolted out the door, slamming it closed in the rush of his wake.

  I wandered through the living room and stepped over the lounging dog bodies. Nina's long legs and lean form stretched out like a supermodel during a Sports Illustrated photo shoot. Her paws twitched, perhaps chasing the electric rabbit around the Greyhound racetrack from her youth.

  Buddy aimed a lick at my ankle and thumped his tail as I passed. He expended most of his puppy energy wrestling with Josh for over an hour. Adopting the abandoned Rottweiler/Shepherd puppy was a good choice. Rough and tumble enough for a growing boy, even if he was originally a Valentine's present for Kevin.

  Kevin. Without him, the house felt hollow.

  I paused in the doorway of the kitchen. The night before, Josh and I had carved two funny-faced jack-o’-lanterns for the front doorstep. Now, on squares of paper towels, the pumpkin seeds spread out, nearly dry. I had rinsed them meticulously and lined them up in careful rows. They were ready to salt and bake.

  I don't even like pumpkin seeds. And neither does Josh. Kevin likes pumpkin seeds.

  With a sweep of my arm, I scattered them into the sink, rinsed them down the drain, and ground them to pieces in the garbage disposal.

  I pulled a large plastic bowl from the cupboard and opened the bags of candy bars into it, ready for the parade of greedy little monsters.

  Is it a good thing or a bad thing to only buy Halloween candy I like? I poked my fingers into the bowl and tossed the different chocolate bars like a garden salad. I always wonder about the cruel intentions of people who buy candy no one likes.

  In the weeks that follow the big night, the ten pounds that Josh collects gets picked over. Then the crappy stuff sits in the bottom of the bowl until Easter when I finally throw it out.

  Who says I haven't established any family holiday traditions?

  I popped in a DVD of The Wizard of Oz and sat cross-legged on the floor between the dogs with the bowl of candy bars in my lap. I turned up the volume on the TV to fill the empty house with voices. The wind began to blow. A tornado was coming. I unwrapped a mini Snickers and popped it into my mouth.

  I wished a tornado would carry me far away.

  The doorbell rang. Halloween munchkins called out, “Trick or Treat” and peeked into the entryway from the partially open door.

  Follow the yellow brick road.

  Buddy's eyes lit up. Someone had delivered giant pet toys right to his doo
rstep. He ran barking and skittering across the entry tiles. Buddy drooled and bumped the children around as I filled their bags with candy. A motherly Bo-Peep scooped up her woolly-headed lamb when Buddy began gnawing on the child's cotton-stuffed tail. Nina kept her distance, watching the chaos from the safety of the living room.

  Up and down like a pogo stick, I answered the calls for candy treats. After each round, I retreated to the mental void offered by the great and powerful Oz and the bowl of chocolates. I stared at the screen. The images danced light and dark in front of my eyes. Kevin's absence was tangible.

  Dorothy promised there was no place like home.

  For her maybe. Mine was a prison of loneliness.

  Josh burst through the door, the bulging sack of treats over his padded shoulder. “Mom, check out how much I got already.” He dumped the pile onto the dining table. “I'm dropping this off, so I can go and get more.” He shook the last of the candy out of the pillowcase.

  “Did you eat all that yourself?” Josh pointed to the cemetery of candy wrappers around me on the carpet.

  I combed the wrappers into my hand, counting as I went. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen empty wrappers.

  Well, it's only like eight regular size candy bars. Which only counts as 3.5 dairy servings according to Jenny Craig. Or maybe it was my Aunt Jenny who said that.

  “Don't eat all my candy while I'm gone,” Josh said on his way out the door.

  I guess that depends on whether there's anything good in the pile or not.

  I sat at the table and began checking the wrappers, separating his candy into categories: Chocolate. Hard candy. Gum. Chocolate. Hard candy. Gum.

  elementary, my dear watson

  Thursday, November 1

  After spending the morning helping Josh diagram sentences in his new grammar workbook, I finally sat down to go through the mail.

  I pulled an envelope from the pile on my desk, slid my finger under the flap, and felt a biting slice. Damn, a paper cut. Sawing off my hand with a dull butter knife would hurt less than a paper cut puckering the skin on my knuckle. I pressed the curve of my finger to my lips and licked the reddening sliver.

  I scanned the cell phone bill. I obviously needed a better minutes plan. The bill for last month's usage was higher than my car payment.

  Note to self: Call to cancel family plan. We aren't a family anymore.

  Kevin's portion of the bill was higher than normal. I'd have to call and let him know how much to send to cover it. My eyes flicked over the numbers: me, his Mom, work, his golfing buddies. One line jumped off the page.

  Ninety-nine minutes.

  He never talked on the phone that long—except to me. Who else would he talk to for ninety-nine minutes?

  In New York?

  Who the hell does he know in New York that he would talk to for ninety-nine minutes? My finger traced across the line to the date.

  The night before he broke up with me.

  Bile roiled in my stomach.

  There was another call to the New York number just minutes before the call to me that morning. That morning when he said he couldn't be with me anymore. I felt flushed and dizzy. The numbers blurred like heat rising from summer asphalt.

  Maybe it's just a coincidence.

  I shuffled through the rest of the pages. There were calls to that number striping every page. I grabbed the phone, stopping with the handset halfway between my ear and the cradle.

  I had to call the number.

  But what if a woman answered?

  That wouldn't prove anything.

  My rational mind argued the case about as successfully as the prosecuting attorney in the OJ trial. I punched autodial number one.

  Kevin answered just one ring short of voicemail. “What's up? I'm really busy. I'm in the middle of giving a lesson,” he said.

  “I just got the cell phone bill. Who lives in New York?”

  “I don't have time to go into this right now,” he half-whispered.

  I stressed each word succinctly. “Who the fuck were you talking to in New York for ninety-nine minutes and again in the morning right before you broke up with me?”

  “Geez, what are you doing? Sherlock Holmesing the phone bill?” he asked.

  “Who is she?”

  “Annette, don't do this. It's just a friend.” He sighed heavily. “I can't believe you're doing this. Did you call the number too?”

  Hmmm…let's see, what would I say? Hi, I'm Kevin's completely devastated, psycho ex-girlfriend. Um, by any chance, did you have something to do with him dumping me, you fucking bitch?

  “No,” I said quietly. “I didn't call the number.”

  I've got far too much pride for that.

  “Annette, do yourself a favor. Do me a favor. Don't make this into something it's not.”

  It really isn't his nature—to be like that. Am I being foolish? Kevin would never cheat. And how could he cheat with a woman who lives three thousand miles away? My thoughts raced around the room mocking my angst.

  “Look, I've got to get back to work, just send me the bill so I can pay it. I'll talk to you later, okay?” He hung up.

  But none of it felt okay.

  doubt cake

  2 lovers, separated

  1 unbleached cellular phone bill, well-sifted

  1 imported woman's phone number

  8 oz. unsweetened excuses

  1/2 cup suspicion

  1/4 cup distrust

  Beat 1 lover with anxiety until stiff, then boil in betrayal until completely softened to tears.

  Blend suspicion and distrust, sprinkle liberally with excuses.

  Pour mixture into pan greased with intuition. Bake until frustration sets.

  Serve cold. Topped with crushed nuts of ex-boyfriend, if regionally available.

  Yield: Overall queasiness.

  Unlimited servings.

  Nutritional Value: None.

  Guaranteed 3 lb. weight loss.

  the chicken dance

  Monday, November 5

  “You'll never guess in a million years where I'm going. It's something I told you I'd never consider doing in this lifetime.” I juggled the cell phone and merged onto the freeway, flicking the blinker signal.

  “Oh my gosh, you're going to a therapist, I'm so proud of you!” Bonita squealed through the phone.

  Maybe now she would stop nagging about it. “You'll be happy to know that the head mechanic I'm going to has a PhD and says she does hypnotherapy, homeopathic healing, Reiki, and all that new age crap. As long as she doesn't get all mumbo-jumboey on me, I'll try it,” I said.

  “You'll be so glad you did. Make sure you call me when it's over and tell me if my diagnosis was right.”

  Bonita, the self-appointed armchair psychiatrist in our group of friends, took the liberty of researching all the various neuroses in the DSM IV that she thought applied to each of us and gave her diagnosis at Valerie's last dinner party. I regularly joked that Freud had been reincarnated as a petite Latina.

  I figured Bonita would appreciate the irony of me going to a therapist. She knew I thought the most irritating and overused Orange Countyism was any sentence that began with: “My therapist says….”

  But with the way things were going, maybe seeing a therapist wouldn't be such a bad idea.

  I ranted non-stop for forty-five minutes, pouring out my feelings about Kevin.

  The therapist's analysis: Kevin and I had a “teepee” relationship, both leaning against each other for support.

  “And that's not healthy,” she informed me, wagging her finger, and sending her plump arm swaying. “If the relationship is to prosper, you both need to stand straight beside each other and pursue your own career goals while maintaining a loving and supportive association.”

  It sounded simple enough. Too bad he dumped me before we got that far.

  “Okay, Doc. What can I do to fix him so we can get back together?” I said.

  “We need to work on you,” she replied.
<
br />   So, she hypnotized me. Or at least, I think she did. Or at least, I think she thinks she did. I'm really not sure.

  She started out by turning on a lilting, flute music CD. I thought it was a little goofy, but I was trying to go with it. She lit a scented candle and dimmed the lights. I reclined in a soft leather chair. An actual couch would've been just way too much to get over.

  Voice low and monotone, she began walking me through a lush garden toward the temple of my mind. “Now, picture your temple,” she said in a soothing tone.

  I had just started to relax, but that comment sent my brain into a tailspin. It was like rummaging in my closet to pick an outfit. I couldn't decide what my temple should look like.

  She had already left the doorstep of my temple and was talking about something else, but I was busy creating and mentally erasing different structures.

  A Spanish mission. That's not it.

  A white church with a steeple. No, definitely not.

  An English country cottage. Nope, don't like roses.

  I finally decided on a palm-frond hut on the beach with a doorstep to the ocean. Then I ran to catch up with her in my mental pineapple garden.

  Maybe I watch too much TV, but I thought a hypnotist could make you do the chicken dance and you wouldn't even know it. I heard everything she said—once I got past the temple thing. I heard her take a drink from her cup, and even shift positions in her chair. Maybe to fart, but I didn't smell anything, except that stupid candle. Which is good. Maybe that's what it was for. Camouflage.

  “You are content, empowered, and motivated,” she said.

  Then she did that count backward thing to wake me up. I felt like popping my eyes open and saying: “Okay, I'm back. You can stop counting now.” But I didn't want to hurt her feelings, so I blinked a few times and stretched.

  I thanked her, we hugged, and I mumbled something about calling her again. It was like the cliché of a bad date.