The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir

by Annette Fix

As I was driving down the freeway, I thought about the experience. It was the weirdest thing. I don't think I was hypnotized, but I can't explain the sense of peace I felt inside. I decided to test it out to see if it worked, so I called Kevin.

  “Hi,” I said after a long pause.

  “Uh, hi,” Kevin said, clearly not sure where the conversation was going.

  “What's up?”

  “Um…not much.” He sounded intentionally vague. “How are you doing?”

  “I'm fine. What about you?”

  He hesitated a minute. “I'm good.”

  “Good. Well, I'll talk to you later,” I said.

  “Okaay.” Kevin still sounded baffled.

  I hung up and let out a deep breath. The hypnotism worked. I was okay talking to him.

  It was the first time since we broke up that I could talk to him and not burst into tears. It felt like progress. It felt good. I wondered how many times I would have to go back to therapy to keep that feeling.

  fear, the other white meat

  Friday, November 9

  The roller coaster car rocketed past us. Every seat held screaming riders. I followed it up the tracks with my eyes and shook my head. No way. Magic Mountain's “The Riddler” didn't look like anything I wanted to entrust with my life. With my luck, the seatbelt would break and I'd be shot head first into a hotdog stand.

  “C'mon, Mom, don't chicken out now.”

  “Where's the Dumbo ride?” I looked around. “That's more my speed.”

  Josh made a sound like a leaky car tire. “That's Disneyland.” He waved his arms. “This is more fun.”

  Yeah, getting the piss scared out of me and throwing up my nine dollar and seventy-five cent veggie burger sounds like a blast.

  Josh wanted an amusement park day for our mother/son date. It was his choice this time around. Obviously, this was my punishment for the trip to the natural history museum.

  We mugged for pictures in a photo booth. I planted a kiss on his cheek in one shot. In the rest of the photo strip, Josh either had his eyes crossed or his tongue sticking out. Typical.

  He pulled on my arm, “Hurry Mom, we have to get to the next ride before the line gets longer.”

  Somehow I made it through the day and didn't die.

  Within a half hour of returning home, Josh fell asleep on the living room floor watching a Jackie Chan DVD. Buddy and Nina lay stretched out beside him. I stepped through the obstacle course of bodies to retrieve the remote and click off the TV.

  The silent house made me feel restless and the room held a damp chill. I reached for a throw blanket to cover Josh, but it only covered to the back of his knees, so I flipped the switch on the fireplace.

  Instant flames. No logs. No newspaper. No matches. No fuss. No ambiance either, but at least I wasn't crouched over a pile of wood shavings clicking two rocks together.

  I wandered into the kitchen and stared into the gaping ‘fridge. I bypassed the real food and pulled a jar of hot fudge topping off the door rack, popped the safety top, and dug in. A thick wad of fudge clung to the spoon. Each lick smeared my tongue with smooth, sweet chocolate. I held a strip of cool fudge in my mouth until it melted—creamy and satisfying. I sat on the carpet in front of the fire and ate the entire contents of the jar while staring into the flames.

  Kevin always said eating the fudge straight out of the jar was disgusting. God, I miss him so much.

  My cell phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. The Addams Family theme ringtone signaled that it was either my mother, my sister, or my cousin.

  “Hey, what're ya doin’?” Cousin Melissa exhaled a breath that sounded like it held a plume of cigarette smoke. “Let's go hang at the Yard House in Irvine Spectrum.”

  “Nah, I think I want to stay home tonight.”

  “It's Friday night,” she informed me like it mattered. “Get off your ass and let's go out.”

  “No, really, I'm planning to take a bubble bath and read.”

  “Bullshit. You're gonna sit in a tub of water until it gets cold and cry about Kevin. You better get ready, I'm coming over.”

  “I'm not going,” I said.

  She ignored me and kept talking. “You can drive us there, so I can get drunk. Oh, and I'm spending the night, so change the sheets. I don't want to sleep in your old, dried-up tears.”

  Family. You can't stand them, but you can't kill them.

  Black suede boots. Black skinny jeans. Black V-neck top. Mascara. Lipstick. Done.

  I shook Josh's shoulder. “Hey, Wonderboy, wake up. Let's get you upstairs to bed.”

  “Huh?” Josh wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth. He blinked and rubbed his eyes open. “Why are you all dressed up?”

  I hooked a thumb in the direction of Melissa who leaned against the doorway. She fiddled with the belt of the black leather jacket cinched around her narrow waist.

  Buddy nudged Melissa's leg, looking for someone to rub his head.

  “Go away, dog. You're getting hair on me.” She pushed against him with her knee.

  “Hey Cousin Mel.” Josh lifted a droopy hand in her direction. “Have fun, Mom.” He plowed a kiss along my cheek and staggered up the stairs, dragging the blanket behind him.

  Buddy left Melissa and galloped up the stairs ahead of Josh. Nina quietly followed.

  “Goodnight baby, I'll be home in a few hours. Call me on the cell if you need anything.”

  “G'nite,” I heard Josh call out just before the flop of his body hit the mattress.

  Melissa smoothed her platinum blonde hair and rubbed her pink, glossy lips together. “Aren't you glad I'm getting you out of this zoo?” She stepped out the front door into the glow of the porch light.

  I locked the door behind us. “Yeah, I'm sure it'll be fun,” I lied.

  turkey fest

  Wednesday, November 21

  “I called-in to ditch work. Let's go bar-hop.” Jaimee's tone sounded like she was preparing for a ten-day vacation instead of one night out.

  “I don't know…” I paused with the phone cradled on my shoulder.

  I'd have to call off work too. And dealing with drunk guys at a nightclub was too much like being at work—minus the tips as an incentive. And going places with Jaimee made me feel invisible.

  Tall, and darkly exotic, she immediately attracted attention. Jaimee could make a burlap sack look like haute couture, but her six-pack abs were always displayed between the standard clubbing gear of low-rise jeans and a body-hugging, cropped top. I knew exactly what people thought when they saw us together: the carousel horse and the wooden pony.

  “We have to go out tonight,” Jaimee whined. “The night before Thanksgiving always goes off the hook.”

  I switched the phone to my other ear and made an audible groaning noise in my throat.

  “C'mon, go with me. I don't want to go alone,” she said.

  “Okay, fine. I'll go.”

  We hung up and I dialed the number for the club. I had to yell to be heard over the music. “Sunshine, transfer me to Nate.”

  He picked up on the first ring. “Yeah?” His voice rumbled from his chest like it emerged from the depths of a canyon.

  “Nate, this is Beth. Take me off the schedule for tonight. I'm having some trouble with my eyes.”

  “What's wrong with your eyes?” I could hear his smile tugging at the end of the question.

  “I can't see coming in to work tonight,” I said.

  It was a joke we shared over the last five years. Nate was the most laid-back manager I'd ever worked for. Corporate middle management could've taken employee relations lessons from him.

  “Haven't seen you in a couple weeks. You back in writing mode again?” he asked

  “I wish. I just need to get out tonight. I'm on the schedule for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. From nine until two. I promise I'll make it in.”

  Nate had plenty of girls who wanted to make money, so he never made a big deal over call-ins. A part-time job working as a dancer was an unfort
unate necessity, but until I became rich and famous from my writing, it would help pay the bills. And best of all, it was flexible.

  I waited in the parking lot of Del Taco. It was a halfway point between our houses, just off Interstate 5 at Alicia Parkway.

  Jaimee pulled up in her slick, black BMW and I slid into the smooth leather seat.

  “I brought that belt you wanted to borrow,” she said, motioning to the glove box.

  I pulled out the belt and worked it through the loops of my jeans. The rhinestone buckle glittered in the passing streetlights.

  Jaimee merged at the Y to the 405 Freeway North toward the Newport Beach 55. Destination: Josh Slocum's, Dennis Rodman's nightclub.

  “I wonder if Kevin is coming down to his Mom's tomorrow.” With my forehead resting against the window, I watched the ribbon of asphalt slide under the car.

  Maybe I should pop by to visit. Or maybe I should just poke a fork in my eye. That would be equally painful.

  “I think you should stop wondering what he's doing and get on with your life,” Jaimee said as she pulled off the exit. “You need to get over it.”

  “Like you're over your ex?”

  “Well at least I'm trying. Why do you think I wanted to go out tonight?” she said.

  At the club entrance, we flashed our pink VIP cards to the gatekeeper. Rodman's freaky face was nowhere to be seen, but it was only 11:30—still early. We weaved our way toward the bar. The music pumped and a melding of bodies bumped together rhythmically on the tiny dance floor.

  Jaimee squeezed between the mass of people waiting at the bar to flag the bartender. Several guys turned to check her out.

  I watched a parade of twenty-something hoochies pass. The mandatory attire for the evening seemed to be thong underwear pulled high enough to pass for a back brace and breast implants the size of geography globes.

  I'm old and grossly overdressed. Now I remember why I never go north of the Y.

  A gorgeous nightclub panther appeared from behind my right shoulder. “What're you doing here all by yourself?” he asked. His dark hair stood up, perfectly gelled into dangerous-looking spikes.

  I couldn't help but notice the size of his arms. The curve of his biceps strained against the armholes of his black knit shirt. A tribal band tattoo ringed one arm. My eyes followed the shirt stretched smooth across the square muscles of his chest and down to the outlined bars of his abs.

  Maybe twenty-five years old—max.

  When I dragged my eyes back up to meet his, he smiled. It was a smile that said he knew exactly how good he looked.

  With our gaze locked, he flicked the tip of his tongue out just enough to show off the silver toggle pierced through it. He caught the toggle between his front teeth and jiggled it slightly before letting it retreat back inside.

  Did he just make a blatant offer of oral sex?

  A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. His eyes slowly roved over my frame, coming to rest solidly on my lips.

  I felt my body flush and tingle.

  “Finally!” Jaimee stepped beside me, a glass of cranberry juice in her outstretched hand. “I swear that was the slowest bartender.”

  “I'll be right back.” I motioned toward the bathroom and launched into the crowd.

  I stepped into the dim shoebox and took a deep breath to shake off the encounter with Junior the Tongue Stud; I definitely wasn't ready to go down that path. I leaned toward the mirror to touch up my lipstick and see how the Botox had settled in.

  My Achilles Heel: I don't want to be old. In South Orange County, visible aging is considered a serious affliction. Inside the Newport Beach city lines, I'm pretty sure it's against the law.

  Jaimee heard Botox called a miracle cure for wrinkles and she twisted my arm to get me to go with her to the dermatologist a week ago to try it.

  Okay, so maybe she didn't have to twist too hard.

  There is definitely something to be said about a woman who will actually pay hundreds of dollars to have a doctor inject a deadly bacterium into her face just to avoid having wrinkles.

  I'm not a needle person, so it took a rubber stress ball squeezed in one hand, and Jaimee's hand in my other, to keep me from taking a knee-jerk kick at the doctor's nuts. The needle pricks didn't really hurt, but every time he pierced the skin, my forehead squeaked like a sautéed onion. I could hear it inside my head and the sound made me shudder.

  When the Botox started to kick in, my left eyebrow sat a quarter of an inch higher than the right. I had an involuntary perplexed look on my face for two days. During which time, I contemplated sneaking into the dermatologist's house and killing him in his sleep. Then it evened out.

  I finished applying lipgloss to my peach-colored masterpiece and leaned closer to the mirror to touch up my lashes. I lifted my eyebrows and went slack-jawed in the typical trout-mouthed application of mascara. Then my forehead seized up.

  What the hell?

  Both eyebrows were stuck in the upright and locked position like an airline tray table. I looked like someone had just surprised the shit out of me.

  “No! No! No! No!” I smacked my forehead with my palms trying to get it to let go.

  I can't go out there looking like this.

  An image flashed in my head of the dermatologist standing blindfolded in his office, a bottle of vodka in one hand, and a Botox needle in the other, playing a game of Pin-The-Eyebrow-On-The-Old-Lady.

  Fucker.

  Now what am I going to do?

  A few minutes later, Jaimee pushed open the door. “Annette, are you—” She stalled when she saw my face. “What happened? You look…scared.”

  “My forehead is stuck.” The complete absurdity of my situation balanced my emotions precariously; my eyes filled with tears.

  “Holy shit.” Jaimee stifled a giggle. “That sucks.”

  We burst out laughing together.

  “Here, let me help.” Jaimee paddled my forehead with her fingertips while holding the back of my head with her other hand.

  It looked like a Benny Hinn spiritual revival. The only thing missing was some zealot yelling: “You're saved.”

  I pulled away from Jaimee when two girls entered the bathroom. “How are we going to get me out of here?” I whispered.

  “Just walk behind me and keep your head down,” Jaimee said.

  We pushed through the crowd toward the front door. Junior the Tongue Stud didn't notice when we passed. He was too busy chatting up one of the contestants for Miss Rocky Mountains in her thong suspenders.

  Outside, Jaimee rushed the valet to get the car. I could feel my forehead beginning to release. Within seconds, the cramp, or whatever it was, completely disappeared.

  “It's gone.” I reached to smooth my hand from one temple to the other. “I'm sorry to ruin the night, did you want to go back inside?”

  Jaimee surveyed the parking lot. “Nah, it looks like everyone is leaving anyway. Let's just go back to Del Taco and go through the drive-thru. I'm starving.”

  The valet pulled up and opened Jaimee's door. Before she could get in, a staggering Colin Farrell wannabe invaded her personal space. “Hey, you're fiiine. Where ya goin’?”

  “Excuse me.” Jaimee plucked his hand from the frame of her car, climbed in, and closed the door.

  “Yeah, you think you're hot shit, well that's only a 3 Series BMW, so try to get over yourself,” he spit-sprayed the side window with his slurring.

  Who says there are no princes in Newport Beach?

  norman rockwell slept here

  Thanksgiving

  Thursday, November 22

  Josh sprinted from the car to the front door. As I climbed out of the seat, I juggled the keys and my purse. “Don't just barge in. Knock first,” I called out to him, bumping the car door closed with my hip.

  “Mom, I practically lived here. Sandi won't care if…” The sound of his voice faded as he ran inside.

  I entered the living room just in time to catch the reunion.

/>   “Look at you, you're so big.” Sandi hugged Josh tightly against her apron. “Tom, come look at Josh, he has little hairs on his face.”

  “How's it going, big guy?” Tom pulled Josh into a hug and clapped his back. “Don't you have an important birthday coming up?” Tom pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and settled himself back on the couch.

  “Only twenty-one more days ‘til I'm a teenager.”

  Visiting the Loomis family was like time travel back to the 1950s.

  It was the kind of family I always wanted, but never had. Meals together, the entire family gathering to watch the classic movie channel in the evenings. On the weekends, Mom baking, the kids making crafts, and Dad puttering in the garage. It was all so perfect.

  Perfectly enviable.

  Norman Rockwell would've blown his load all over the canvas sketching a Loomis family scene.

  Josh and I were invited into their world when Sandi answered an angst-filled ad from a struggling single mother seeking reliable childcare for a six-month-old baby boy.

  “I'll only watch him for a few weeks until you find a permanent sitter,” Sandi said.

  How can twelve years pass so quickly?

  After all the greetings were exchanged, I sat and swiveled on a wooden stool, breathing in the smells of Sandi's cooking. It had always been like this. She moved around the small kitchen like she moved in her own skin. The gray hair dusting her temples was the only marker of passing time.

  I watched Sandi sprinkle flour into the bubbling gravy and stir it with a large spoon.

  She turned to face me. “I'm glad you came, we're all glad you came. It's important to be with family for Thanksgiving.”

  “I should drive out to visit more often…” My half-promise sounded weak as soon as the words crossed my lips.

  Josh and I had only moved sixty miles away, but somehow the time just flew by. Sandi's house was a safe haven, my surrogate family. I almost forgot how much I'd missed them.

  Her smile told me she understood.

  In the early years, I knew I served as a walking cautionary tale for her daughters. They had the chance to observe the trials of a young woman who was living outside of their Mormon lifestyle. Way outside. But it didn't bother me because Sandi treated Josh with the same love that she showed for her own children. After time, the distinct lines of our differences faded. Sandi became a mentor, a mother, and a friend.