Here’s a little something I was playing with today. It’s the start of a chick-lit/romance story that I’ll eventually get to after I complete the other two books I’m writing. I love having a million things going at once, it really calms my ADD…NOT.
Anyway…here it is…for now, it’s called Halfway to Happiness. But, that will change…
“What in the hell…” I stared at my chin in horror as I noticed the tips of black hairs poking through my skin. My efforts were completely futile, they were fruitful and multiplying as I worked to end their existence. I was finally able to yank out one when about thirty would show up. Not to mention, I had just pulled out an extra long, extra ingrown hair that was the length of my ring finger, still sitting on my counter, mocking me.
Throwing my tweezers into the sink, I picked up the bottle of foundation I bought from a drag queen at the Mac counter who promised ‘miracles in the bottle’. Her name was Kiki and she breathed her words in a gruff falsetto as she caked the shit on my face, swearing that I looked ten years younger.
I decided I wasn’t applying it correctly because all I was doing was enhancing the valleys forming on my face and I definitely wasn’t looking any younger, just more made up. I wasn’t used to wearing foundation, I had this false sense of young-ness only to be disillusioned by the hussy drag queen who was upselling me. I had only gone to the Mac counter to buy my favorite lipstick, which I had completely forgotten to get. Instead, I came home with $200 worth of ‘magic’ that seemed to only work in the store.
“Fuck it. Who the fuck cares? It’s just another fucking first date destined for failure.” I whined to myself as I applied purple eyeshadow, taking pains to create the perfect smoky eye. Another lesson taught to me by Queen Kiki, who was more gorgeous than any natural woman, anyway. I decided if I could like half as good as her then I was good to go.
Or not.
How the hell did I get here, I wondered. It seemed like I just had just gone to bed a happy twenty-five year old bride next to my handsome groom, both of us excitedly looking forward to our future. And then, I was jolted awake as a forty-five year old divorcee with two obnoxious teenagers and an ex-husband who was dealing with a mid-life crisis and guilt issues.
Steven Franklin, my ex-beloved, swore it wasn’t me. It was him. Based on the fact he stopped having sex with his wife of twenty years because he didn’t want to cheat on his lover of two years, I’d reckon to believe he was right. It wasn’t me, I was under the impression I was as happy as could be, aside from the sex thing which I stupidly thought was a phase that just needed to be treated with a little purple pill.
Penelope. Her name was fucking Penelope. Every night, for two years, I’d get all ready for bed, hoping my husband had refound his sex drive and all I got was claims of headaches or stomachaches. She got the sex-crazed husband I used to have. And I was left with a vibrator. They got engaged, I bought another vibrator. They bought a condo on the lake, I redecorated our kitchen. And bought anal beads. My bedside drawer was getting crowded.
Padding naked into my closet, I rummaged through my clothing to find an outfit that still fit and didn’t scream ‘Desperate looking for Mr. Serious’. I settled on a low-cut, black blouse that showed off my ample, and not too crepey cleavage and I paired it with black slacks that I had just bought, due to the fact that all my other clothes had gotten too big.
One positive thing about divorce…the weight loss. Not only did I lose 210 pounds, I lost my own extra twenty that I hadn’t been able to rid myself of in years. I stared at my naked form in my full length mirror, bra in one hand and underwear in the other. Gravity sucked, thank god for Spanx and push-up bra’s.
When I was dressed, I wandered into my daughter, Madison’s, room. She was sitting on her bed texting and watching television, “Hey sweetie, I need your honest opinion.”
She looked up at me, her face a picture of sneering disgust, “Where are you going, Mom?”
“A date. How do I look?” I swung around for her, to give her the whole effect.
“Another one? Who with this time?” She looked me up and down, still sneering. I had the sudden urge to slap her upside her head.
“Sheila fixed me up with this guy. No clue who he is aside from his name, he wanted to save everything else for dinner conversation.” I shrugged, “So, how do I look?”
“How do you know it’s safe, Ma? I mean, you always tell me and Kelly never to go out with guys we know nothing about, why should that be any different for you?” She hadn’t even looked up, she was texting away, her thumbs moving faster than the speed of light.
“Sheila swore he was awesome. So, I’m going with that.” I walked over to my 16 year old daughter and, using both hands, I adjusted her face so she was looking at me, “How.Do.I.Look?”
“Fine. You look fine. Don’t you think you have too much make up on though?” She went back to her very important gossip-texting.
“Gee, thanks for your time, my darling daughter. I’ll be home in a couple hours. Kelly will be home from work in a bit, I’ll leave money on the kitchen table so you guys can get some dinner.” I wheeled around and left her to make silly faces into her camera.
“Kay, thanks Momma.” She called out after me.
I stopped in my bathroom to take one last look at my make up, just in case I had to re-apply concealer over those chiskars that were more stubborn than my teenagers. For now, they were still hidden and I prayed silently they wouldn’t pop out in the middle of my date. Even though, chances were, the guy I was going out with wouldn’t get close enough to see them.
It had been so long since I had sex with anyone except my wild rabbit, I had forgotten what intimacy of any sort was like. I wasn’t sure I could allow another man the horror of seeing my naked self, I didn’t have the body I had twenty years and two kids ago. The only man who had seen me naked had been the one that contributed to the stretchmarks and c-section scar so he couldn’t say a word.
Jumping into my Honda Accord, I headed toward the agreed upon destination, a new, highly rated Sushi bar. The half hour drive would give me plenty of time to warm up my cold feet. Blind dates generally didn’t make me nervous and it annoyed the piss out of me that this one was causing my nerves to jump into high gear.
I turned on the radio to my favorite top 40 radio station. My latest favorite song by One Republic was on so I raised the volume and opened my windows. Then, I decided to call Sheila so I lowered the volume, besides the bass was giving me heart palpitations.
“Hey Julia.” Sheila Bienstock, one of my closest friends, answered breathlessly.
“I’m headed over to meet Griffin no-last-name-just-trust-me-you-will-love-him, I just wanted you to know in case you never hear from me again.” I laughed nervously. One rule I had set for myself, for this whole dating this was I had to have phone conversations with the guy before meeting them on a date. Well, one of my many rules.
When Griffin called me, he hadn’t wanted to chat, he only wanted to set up the date and save the conversation for our meeting. So, I had no idea who this guy was, what he did or what he looked like. It was also the first date I had that wasn’t from an online dating site. This was an actual fix up from a mutual source. I still believe there was some sort of death wish involved, on my part.
“Have fun, love. Call me tomorrow. I’m getting ready to head out, myself.” She was definitely distracted, I should have known she wouldn’t be sitting home on a Friday night. I loved Sheila, she was one of my oldest friends. We had been college roommates and stayed close since. I had never met a woman who had been married as many times as Elizabeth Taylor. Sheila made marriage into a business but she was the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful friend a girl could ever ask for.
“Okay hun. We’ll fill each other in tomorrow.” I hung up and turned back on the radio.
I was nervous. Like, super nervous. I had nothing to go on except faith that Sheila wouldn’t steer me into the arms of a serial killer. She wouldn’t tell me shit about this Griffin except for the fact that he was hot, successful and had a killer bod. That’s it, that’s all I knew. But, that was good enough for me. When he called and asked me for this date, I accepted.
And here was, pulling into the parking lot hoping I wouldn’t make an ass of myself by wandering aimlessly around the restaurant, looking for a hot guy sitting by himself. My luck, I’d sit down next to someone whose wife was in the bathroom. That would be awkward.
I pulled the rearview mirror down so I could put more lipstick on. Then, I gathered my purse and my nerves, took a deep breath and headed into the restaurant.
Walking into the crowded restaurant, that was clearly the in place to be, I noticed a table that was surrounded by exceptionally excited women that were emitting that high-pitched squeal that only exceptionally excited women can emit. There was a tiny break in the sea of bodies and I strained to see what the commotion was about while I looked around to see if there were any single men sitting alone, waiting for me to show up.
I almost threw up when I recognized what all the fuss was about which was then followed by an a-ha moment. Griffin Thomas, my favorite aging rock star, was the only single man in the house. And he was the Griffin who was waiting for me. And somehow, Sheila must have met him during one of her glamorous life events and told him about me. Oh my god, what did she tell him about me? Swallowing hard, I panicked and fought the urge to call Sheila.
Heart jumping from my throat to my stomach, I inched my way over to the table feeling like I was about to either faint or join the hoards with the ugly scream, whip out my boob and beg for a signature. I looked around and saw many annoyed husbands sitting and sipping their drinks while their wives basically threw their bras at Griffin Thomas, heartthrob extraordinaire, whose posters crowded the walls of many bedrooms. Including my own. Memories of the girlie equivalent to wet dreams came washing over me, threatening to pour into my panties.
All I could think about, as I nudged my way through the women was, Holy fucking shit, if I don’t die from a heart attack, I am going to kill Sheila.
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It’s terrific! Write more!