The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir

by Annette Fix

  After a lingering kiss, I looked into his eyes. “I love you too.” A smile pulled at my lips. “I was planning to tell you at midnight tonight, but you beat me to it.”

  “At midnight on New Year's Eve?” he asked with a smile.

  “Well, it's better than doing it at a fast-food burger place. How cheesy is that?” I said.

  love me s'mores

  1 loving man

  1 loving woman

  16 oz. soft-focus ideals

  2 exchanges of the ultimate endearment

  Take one man and one woman. Warm soft-focus ideals of life together, spread evenly.

  Insert mutual exchanges of the ultimate endearment.

  Press lips of man and woman together firmly until sweetness overflows the edges.

  Consume with frothy cup of every heart's desire.

  Yield: Ecstatic happiness.

  Unlimited servings.

  Nutritional Value: None.

  No guaranteed weight loss.

  But you feel light as a cloud.

  hindsight is 20/20

  New Year's

  Day Wednesday, January 1

  “Oh m'god! You'll never guess who's on TV right now!” Valerie emitted a ten-decibel squeal.

  I pulled my cell phone away from my ear and thumbed the volume button all the way down.

  “Turn on Channel 13. I'm watching EX-treme Dating and you're never going to guess—oh shit, you don't have regular TV do you?” Valerie snorted into the phone, an incredulous laugh gone wrong.

  “Remember that guy, Tyler, the musician-singer guy? He's on TeeeeVeeee! And he's on a date with this total slut.”

  I set down the umpteenth box I had moved from one side of the garage to the other. Brushing my hair out of my face, I cradled the phone on my shoulder and surveyed the mess.

  Josh tried to help, but succeeded in making more of a mess by opening all the boxes to see what was inside. I finally sent him off to dig through the treasures hidden in the back of his closet.

  It always gets messier before it gets cleaner. I repeated it a few times in my head, trying to keep from getting too overwhelmed by the project.

  “Didn't you hear me?” Valerie practically screamed. “That guy you dated last summer is on this dating show I'm watching right now. You've got to come over and check this out. It's hilarious. He's making an ass out of himself.”

  “He is an ass,” I said.

  I took a break from my New Year's cleaning frenzy and parked myself on an old, tottering kitchen stool in the middle of the garage. “So, what does she look like?”

  “You wouldn't believe it. First, they were in a hot tub and she wore a thong. And I didn't know Tyler had a tattoo on his back.”

  “It's amazing what you can learn from Reality TV,” I said.

  “No way! Now she's wearing a little schoolgirl skirt with her ass hanging out. You've got to get over here. Oh m'god! You're not going to believe what he said.” Valerie choked on her laughter and coughed in my ear for nearly a full minute.

  When she finally recovered, Valerie told me that at the end of the show, the girl said Tyler was boring and he quipped that her wrapper was better than her candy.

  Okay, so maybe he was witty, but he had toenails that looked like peeling tree bark, he stood me up on my birthday, and I'm really glad he never saw me naked.

  scooby snacks

  Saturday, January 11

  Hors d'oeuvre (or durv’: French.) n., American translation: I have no idea what's smeared on this cracker.

  High Tea at the Ritz?

  When Bonita organized the event to celebrate her friend Susan's birthday, I thought she was kidding.

  “Are you sure they'll let us in without a pocket Chihuahua, pearls, and a stuck-up attitude?”

  “It's not like that. It'll be fun,” Bonita said.

  When we met in the hotel lobby, we shared hugs all around. Susan tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder and whispered, “I've never been here before, it's beautiful.”

  Valerie, Bonita, Susan, and I sat down at our table to a panoramic view of the ocean. Set up on craggy cliffs, the Ritz Carlton Laguna Niguel occupied some prime real estate. There weren't any pampered, blue-haired crones like I expected, so I relaxed into my brocade chair.

  The server set delicate teacups and saucers for each of us. I ordered the cinnamon spice tea.

  Bonita sipped her tea. “You should try the black currant, it's delicious.”

  We played musical teacups as we taste tested each other's selections. Nothing like a little backwash among friends.

  When the server brought the silver tray tower of finger sandwiches with smoked salmon, caviar, cream cheese, cucumber and completely unidentifiable lumps of mushy stuff, we descended on it like attorneys at a car wreck.

  Within minutes, the silver reflected our hungry faces.

  “If this is all we get, I'm going to starve to death.” Valerie licked her finger and dabbed at a stray crumb.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just add some flies around your mouth and I'll call Sally Struthers to set up a telethon.”

  Bonita slid back her chair and tiptoed to the waiter's station. “You don't mind if we just borrow this…” She smiled at a barely post-pubescent busboy and trailed her hand down the length of his arm as she reached for another tray. She returned to the table with the tower of munchies and a satisfied smirk.

  After the feeding frenzy subsided, a waiter approached the table. He placed a small dessert plate in front of Susan, tucking a card under the edge.

  Four forks dove into the gooey chocolate and caramel torte.

  Susan pulled the card from the envelope, read it, and looked across the table at me. She held up the card. “Steven picked up the tab for our High Tea.” She turned the card to read the script aloud, “It says, ‘Happy Birthday, Susan. I hope you ladies have a wonderful lunch. The check has been taken care of. Enjoy your day together.’”

  Valerie snorted. “Can you believe him? I'm sorry Annette, but Steven is just not normal. He's too nice.” She leaned forward on the table with her elbows. “There's got to be something wrong with him that he's trying to hide.”

  “Why can't it be that he's just a thoughtful and sincere guy?” I said.

  “Nobody is that perfect,” Bonita said, shaking her head.

  Susan sipped her tea. “If there are guys like that out there, I've never met one.”

  “He's the type of guy that the neighbors say to the reporters, ‘He seemed so nice, I never would've expected he had forty-three dismembered bodies buried under his house.’” Valerie's look dared me to disagree.

  “That's ridiculous. You just can't handle the fact that I found a true prince,” I said. “You don't want to admit that the possibility even exists.”

  “I'm a realist. I'm just saying that there's probably something major about him that you don't know. For all you know, he could be a Danish spy,” Valerie said.

  My laugh came out as half cough, half choke. “Give me a break. There's nothing wrong with him. He's just a great guy.”

  “If he's so great, then why would he want to go out with you?” Valerie ticked the tip of each finger. “You don't own anything. You don't have a career. You already have a kid. And you have a ton of issues.” She let her hand drop. “If he's so great, he could have anyone. Why choose you?”

  Valerie stated all the points I was sure the others were thinking. Hell, I'd wondered the same thing myself.

  “It must be for the blowjobs,” I said.

  Bonita and Susan laughed.

  “It couldn't be anything else,” Valerie said.

  my pumpkin turns into a carriage

  Saturday, January 18

  The marine layer swirled a soft mist around us as we walked. Buddy and Nina ran ahead with Josh. They dodged the incoming tide and stirred the damp sand in the wake of their race. Soon we were alone on the empty stretch of beach.

  Steven reached for me and gently squeezed my cold fingers between the warm cushi
ons of his hand. He pulled me into an embrace and looked up into the sky.

  “Too bad we can't see the stars tonight,” he said.

  I closed my eyes, rested my cheek against his chest, and listened to the rhythm of the churning waves.

  “That's okay, I love the beach at night. And I love you. On the beach. At night.” I stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

  “I've been thinking.” Steven pulled back to look into my eyes. “Remember when I asked you if you'd ever quit the club to write fulltime?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Well, if you're serious about becoming a writer, I think you should quit.”

  A heavy sigh pressed from my chest. “That's a nice idea, but I thought we already went over all that.” I squirmed in his embrace.

  He just didn't get it. It wasn't as easy as he made it sound. I couldn't just quit. The magazine guy had folded when he couldn't attract any advertising. And freelance writing was so muse-killing, I'd only half-heartedly pursued new contracts. The club was my main source of income.

  I pulled away and took his hand. The tide crept farther up the beach and we moved to avoid soaking our shoes.

  The momentary distraction didn't stray his course. Steven stopped and turned to face me. “I think you should have a chance to do what you really want to do. I want to be able to see you living your dream.”

  Tears of frustration welled in my eyes. I wanted it too and I was doing the best I could. Why did he keep pressing me about it? I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face in the front of his sweatshirt. I just wanted to listen to the waves and not have to think about how slowly things were going with my book. I still didn't even have an ending.

  Steven leaned down to whisper in my ear, “I love you. I want to take care of you and Josh, so you can write fulltime.”

  “Are you sure?” I looked up into his eyes and tears spilled down my cheeks. I couldn't believe Steven had offered me the chance to focus on pursuing my dream. “You've never even read anything I've written. What if it sucks?”

  “I believe in you,” he said.

  fat and happy remix

  Wednesday, January 29

  I heard him coughing in the bedroom. The sound traveled all the way into the kitchen. I stared down at the whole chicken carcass lying naked on the cutting board. The skin was covered with little bumps and it just looked miserably cold and pale. Lifting it gingerly by one knobby ankle or elbow or whatever it was, I let it sink into the pot of boiling water seasoned with bouillon.

  My Danish prince was sick, so he definitely needed some chicken noodle soup. I hadn't cooked meat in over a decade, but how hard could it be?

  I turned to see Josh watching me from the kitchen table. “I can't believe you're actually touching a dead chicken. You must be in-love with him.”

  After that odd comment, I paused to study Josh's expression. “I am,” I said. “But what do you think about Steven?”

  He pushed his homework aside and rested his elbows on the table. “I think he's nice. He's like a make-things-get-done guy. And you always look happy when you're with him.” He shrugged. “So, I like him.”

  I turned and poked a fork into the lump of yard bird, pushing it around inside the pot. While the chicken enjoyed its spa bath, I moved to the cutting board to chop the celery, carrots, parsnips, and leeks. Then I backtracked to set a teapot of water on to boil.

  “What do you think about me trying to be in a serious relationship again?” I said.

  Josh considered my question for a minute before speaking. “I just hope he stays.”

  There it was. Hills like white elephants. The unspoken thought, finally brought up for scrutiny. I certainly couldn't blame Josh for his concerns. Every man who should have been important in his life had left him. And me. His father disappeared. My father died. And the few guys I tried to build a serious relationship with over the last fourteen years never made it past year number two. It would take a leap of faith for us both to believe Steven would be different.

  I dumped the chopped vegetables into the pot, followed by a bag of egg noodles and put the lid on the pot.

  I pulled up a chair next to Josh at the table. “I hope he stays too.” I covered one of his hands with both of mine. “You know, not everyone leaves…”

  When the teapot began a soft whistle, I rose and lifted it from the stovetop, pouring the steaming water into a thick ceramic mug. The bag of green tea floated and then slowly sank to the bottom, releasing the first golden swirl.

  “Be back in a minute.” I paused a second to rest my hand on his shoulder as I passed. “Finish up that essay and we'll watch a movie.”

  I carried the cup into the bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed. Steven's eyelids flickered and opened. A slow smile spread across his face.

  “I'm a mess, huh?” His voice sounded raspy and parched. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  “You're welcome.” I lifted the damp washcloth from the bowl on the nightstand and patted it across his forehead.

  “I must have a high fever. I'm transpiring all over.”

  A small giggle squeaked from between my lips. “Perspiring,” I corrected gently.

  “What did I say?”

  “Transpiring.”

  “Oh. That isn't quite right.”

  “That's okay, I'll just give you the Danish discount.” I loved his occasional language slips; they always made me laugh. “I'll just add ‘transpiring’ to my notebook of Stevonics.”

  I kissed the top of his head and Steven closed his eyes. “Rest for now and when you wake up later you can have something to eat,” I said.

  On the way out of the room, I walked past the mirrored closet door and did a double-take. My torso looked a bit thick. I swiveled and looked at my ass.

  Plump.

  Not the best word to describe a woman's butt—unless the butt belonged to someone else.

  I unhooked the clasps on the straps of my jean overalls. They fell to the floor, pausing just slightly as they passed my hips. Maybe it's just the mirror.

  I waddled into the bathroom with the overalls in a jumble around my ankles. Maybe that mirror would be better. A skinny mirror.

  The skylight filled the bathroom with bright, natural light. I turned and presented my bottom to the mirror. Somehow my ass had morphed into a giant Georgia peach rolled in cottage cheese. I spun away from the sight and scrambled for the scale, nearly tripping as I stumbled out of my overalls.

  I stripped off the rest of my clothes and stepped onto the scale. Eight pounds? When did I gain eight pounds? How did I gain eight pounds?

  Okay, so it's winter. Steven's an amazing cook. We go out to dinner a lot. And maybe I have been wearing mostly overalls and sweats, but eight pounds?

  I redressed and shuffled back to the kitchen, contemplating my girth. Happy fat. That had to be it. The antithesis of the break-up diet. I'm officially fat and happy. I think I'd prefer skinny and happy. Is that even possible? I wondered if Steven had noticed he's dating a tree trunk with legs. The waist-less wonder.

  A heavy rattling sound drew my attention to the stove. I turned to Josh. “Why didn't you tell me it was boiling?”

  “You didn't tell me I had to watch it,” he said.

  Boys. A short sigh pushed through my nose. I lifted the lid and looked into the soup pot. A cloud of steam fogged my lashes. The package of large egg noodles I had added formed a thick bubbling paste.

  Oops. The beige colored mush didn't even look edible much less resemble soup. The water had almost completely absorbed.

  Josh peered over my shoulder into the pot. “It looks like something the dogs barfed up.”

  “Should I throw it away?” I wondered briefly if take-out Chinese was good for a cold.

  “No, I think it smells okay.” Josh picked up the wooden spoon and poked at the bubbling mass.

  “Will you taste it for me to see if it tastes all right?” I asked.

  “Do I have to?” Josh looked from my face to the fork I hel
d out to him. “If he's sick, then he won't really be able to taste it anyway.”

  I plied him with an exasperated look.

  “Okaaaay. I'll try it,” he said.

  Josh took a small bite, tentatively scraping the food off the fork with his front teeth. His face contorted in a disgusted grimace, then he smiled. “I'm just kidding. It tastes fine, but it feels like mush.”

  I took a swat at his butt and he jumped away from my hand. “Hey, at least I'm being honest.”

  Well, it might not look very good, but it seemed to be edible. And I had already warned Steven that I wasn't exactly Betty Crocker. I could pretend it was supposed to be a big, gloppy mess.

  Goulash—there's an idea. That's what I'd tell Steven I made for him: Chicken Noodle Goulash. Good, hardy sustenance. I could say I heard that it's better than soup for a cold.

  once upon a time there was a princess…

  Sunday, February 2

  Select All. Copy. Paste. I harvested another diary entry from my journal and began massaging the record of my daily life into the next descriptive narrative for my book. I was lucky if I completed a single page in an hour. Sometimes several hours would pass as I mentally relived the moments of every account.

  Steven stepped behind me and leaned down to kiss the top of my head. “How's the writing coming?” he asked.

  I tilted my head back and we shared an upside-down French kiss. “Much better, now that you're here.” I lifted my arms above me to stretch out the tight muscles in my shoulders and receive a hug.

  “Actually, I've been here for a while. I was out mowing your lawn.” He sat on the edge of the bed beside my desk.

  “I thought that was Josh.” Then I realized the absurdity of my statement. Josh hated mowing and wouldn't do it unless I offered money or threatened great bodily harm.

  “I've got him out there now,” he said, “doing the edging.”