The Dating Bender Page 11

  I couldn’t be certain if we did it anymore, since I passed out for the remainder of our special night. In the morning, I realized that Frankie had carried me off of the smelly floor and onto a butter-soft down comforter—the consummate gentleman.

  I lounged in bed like a queen bee until I realized that instead of spooning Frankie, I was wrapped around an oblong, suede throw pillow. He must have slipped out of bed to get us breakfast, instinctively knowing that our lovemaking in the night sucked away my sickness and replaced it with cravings for complex carbohydrates.

  Stark winter sunlight beamed through the picturesque bay window, reminding me of our passionate night. Frankie broke up my daydream when he entered and hovered over me anxiously like a hound dog, signaling it was time to leave. Not necessarily the wake-up call I’d hoped for after fornicating all over the place last night.

  I prayed that his urgent need to vacate the hotel room had something to do with hunting down his wife to finalize the divorce papers. He thrust my overnight bag into my hand with the same force he had pushed his penis into me. In the light of day, it did not feel nearly as romantic.

  He hurried me through the packing process, and without a drop of coffee or a single good morning kiss, we checked out and were on our way. We barely spoke and didn’t even hold hands. He dropped me off at home and could not have sped out of my driveway fast enough.

  The rest of the day passed into night without a single call from Frankie. I fantasized about him breaking into my kitchen window, ripping off my Strawberry Shortcake underwear, and mounting me on my new butcher-block countertop. I convinced myself it didn’t matter that he never came over, because my va-ja-jay needed to recoup from all the action it had on Valentine’s Day.

  ***

  I awoke the next day thankful that my weekend bout of nausea had disappeared almost as quickly as Frankie had the day before. I was exhausted though. Dirty sex could do that to a girl. My early a.m. shower did little to jumpstart my day. But the voicemail that arrived while I bathed woke me right up.

  “Samantha, I’m on my way over with a proposal that needs an overhaul. You’ll need to work on it from home for the next couple of weeks. And by the way, Sherry and I are back together.”

  I replayed it over and over until I vomited all over the bathroom floor. I thought about cleaning it up but couldn’t.

  To think the last personal words Frankie uttered to me were, Do me, do me, baby, I am so rock-hard looking at you. If you don’t do me now, I will explode my love all over this hotel room.

  Not so charming when he arrived at my doorstep ringing the bell from hell, sopping wet with soggy papers in hand. He walked inside and thrust the mess at me.

  “I’ve marked up the document with all the changes that need to be made. Basically, rework the entire thing. I expect better from you.” He started for the door without as much as a look in my direction. I repositioned myself in front of it.

  He’d busted into my home before my coffee even had the chance to percolate—bad form in the eyes of Good Housekeeping, as was his notable lack of eye contact. My mother would have loved him. Aside from his marital status.

  I waited for a proper greeting as he spat out random contract points.

  Not a peep about our torrid weekend. Not even a simple good morning. He just fumbled and grinded on his pant pleats with a vengeance I’d never seen before, while pacing around my home in a silent stupor. He wrestled with the pleats with the anger of a jilted Real Housewife of Orange County.

  “Frankie, look at me. Don’t you have anything else to say beyond the comments on this ridiculous proposal?”

  He looked away. Then I started pacing, followed by a vigorous eyebrow rub with one hand as I collected outdated women’s magazines off the floor with the other. I paused and waited for him to answer me.

  “Why in God’s name did you pursue me if you never had any intention of divorcing your wife? Candy told me she never even signed the papers. WTF?”

  He clicked away on his dumbass Droid, not bothering to look up.

  “I was doing perfectly fine on my own—in fact, I was doing better than fine, I was fantabulous—and now I’m just fucked!”

  I scraped my nose with one of the pink heart-painted fingernails I’d manicured for Valentine’s Day. The sight of them sickened me, or maybe it was Frankie.

  Like a skilled surgeon with absolutely no bedside manner, Frankie stared at me blankly and did a two-sided pleated pant-pick—as if his dick was so large that it required a double shake. I’d seen the package and it definitely wasn’t that big. Did you ever stop and think maybe you shouldn’t know what a married man’s package looks like in the first place?

  “I’m sorry you feel this way, Samantha. I know you had certain expectations, and I did not live up to them. It’s time for you to accept that I am no longer available to you. The sooner you’re able to move on with your life, the better off you’ll be.”

  Thank you, Dr. Kevorkian, just rip my heart out and sell it on the black market.

  “For the love of God, would you stop grabbing at your pants?” I shrieked. “It’s gross. Do you have crabs or something? Oh Christ, you probably do. That would be some kind of Valentine’s gift. But with the way you’re acting, maybe all of the dirty sex we had on the stinky hotel floor was a dream.”

  My rants fell on deaf ears. The good doctor clinically handed over the remains of the paperwork and walked out my front door. The rain fell in epic, global warming, proportions. I prayed that the combo of the huge drops and pig manure I had used to fertilize my lawn would cause Frankie and his dorky pants to slip. No such luck.

  I opened the door and screamed at his receding form as I stripped off my clothes, desperate to get his attention.

  “Don’t you miss me? Don’t you miss my body, and my heart, and my flat boobs?”

  He stood in the pouring rain, his face registering only pity. A silent rage stirred inside me; my body quivered. I spotted the Valentine’s card and box of chocolates he had presented me just hours before. Running around my lawn—stark raving mad and scantily clad—I hurled chocolates at him one at a time, finally gaining a small sense of satisfaction by knocking him in the eye with a dark chocolate sea salt caramel. Unable to stop myself, I flung the hideous heart-shaped box at him.

  “You dirty, cheating, pleated pants, sweater-vest-wearing bastard!”

  Because the candy box was such an obnoxiously oversized monstrosity, it split open the skin just above his eye. Success! I chanted under my breath.

  As I stood on my landing step naked with tears streaming, Frankie stood across from me, chocolate splattered all over his face as blood oozed from his left eyebrow.

  It was hard to know who I hated more: him or me, but it was no longer relevant. I was done.

  ***

  In the months that followed, right in line with the demise of my fleeting affair with Frankie, our company tanked too.

  We did not go public as planned. Nate made the ill-fated decision, during a no-sleep bender, to delay our initial public offering for what was to be one week, but morphed suddenly into never.

  In the world of social media, much like in the land of love, one day could change everything. In NetSocial’s case, the delay was just long enough for our competitor to pull a Slick Willy and beat us to the IPO punch. Our rival went public and poached most of our staff. Soon enough the rest of us were downsized right out of a job. The day Nate walked into the office eating yogurt instead of munching on Cheetos, wearing a suit instead of his typical uniform of jeans and a backward-turned baseball cap, he didn’t need to say a word. His put-together look and abrupt switch to health food said it all.

  The wave of destruction flashed before me. I had succeeded in messing up every aspect of my life. Maybe it was time to get out of town and on with my life…or maybe just die in the process of trying.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It’s been said, that Catholic people at times—okay, always—engage in masochistic behaviors of t
he non-sexual variety. This, however, was not one of those times. Moving back in with my parents was temporary. My lack of a job dictated it. At college graduation, I had vowed to never become a needy sponger, yet here I was, on the verge.

  I drove into the neighborhood of my childhood. It looked exactly as I left it so many years ago, aside from the maple trees, which had continued to sprout long after I stopped. To the outside world, our street and home might appear innocent and unassuming. It was anything but.

  The peewee U-haul that carried the remains of my so-called married and then divorced life dragged behind my car, an ugly reminder of my sinful past. It was a wonder the thing could make it out of Colorado with the physical and mental load it carried. Perhaps that was why it broke down twice before getting out of the state. Or maybe U-haul just sucked.

  I looped around the block twice before turning the truck into my parents’ driveway, where I felt tempted to run over my father when I spotted him. He had lawn-mowed his way through my teenage years, yet the yard still always looked unkempt. Mowing under the influence could do that to a lawn—and a person. Amid the yo-yo levels of grass were signs of a lighter hand, like the geraniums that formed a perimeter around the house—my mother’s touch.

  “You still can’t drive,” my father bellowed from the side of the driveway. “Don’t step under our roof unless you’re prepared to go to church often. Every god damn day.”

  I rolled up the window and peeled down the rest of the long, potholed driveway. I almost flipped him the bird and u-turned right out of there, but knowing my limited options, I parked and walked into their home. In my mind, I held my head up high. In reality, I sulked into the musty foyer.

  The outside of the house showed such promise with its A-frame structure and natural wood finish, but the inside carried an air of staleness along with the slight stink of booze. We used to be a happy young family before all the drinking—or at least I thought we were. There were happy times like when my dad took us to Kings Dominion and rode the roller coasters with us incessantly. No matter how many times we asked, he obliged.

  “Sweetheart, get the hell up here. There is a bagel waiting for you,” my mother said.

  Her version of hello. This woman served bagels regardless of what time of day it was. Afternoon felt too late for breakfast carbs in my cookbook, but it was one of her kinder gestures. Martha Stewart, however, would call my mother’s homecoming menu a flop.

  I climbed up the stairs and entered my parents’ seventies-style wood-paneled kitchen to enjoy my burnt bagel in peace. After fifty-five years, my mother still hadn’t mastered the art of toasting. The paneling indicated she hadn’t learned to decorate yet either. The taste of charred bread conjured images of what it might be like to burn in hell for your sins—not the least bit savory. Reconnecting with my faith, after a landslide of indiscretions, might not be a bad idea.

  My mother tumbled into the room, interrupting my redemption fantasy. I couldn’t be certain if she was drunk already or just clumsy.

  “Samantha, here’s a copy of the Pennysaver. I highlighted some jobs for you to consider. As long as you’re living under our roof, your father wants to make it clear that you will be responsible for paying for your keep.”

  “Of course, Mommy.”

  “It’s insulting we even had to ask. You should have offered. We will not support you until you get a church annulment. Then you’ll be allowed to stay here with free food and board, but until then, you can drop your daily fees here.”

  Oprah always said it was good to set boundaries.

  “Seriously, Mom, a coffee can? Is this really necessary?”

  Her look indicated that it was. “I promise, as soon as I get my first unemployment check, I’ll pay you.”

  She glared, picked up the rock hard remnants of my bagel, and pushed the can in front of me. For this food and treatment, I had to pay?

  “We’re leaving for church in ten minutes. You might consider changing. I left out your prairie skirt and ruffled blouse. I’m not sure why you left it here when you moved out.”

  “Sure, Mommy, I’ll get changed.”

  My father shuffled around outside, still in his ratty bathrobe and slippers, presumably drunk before sunset as always. His getup didn’t seem like an appropriate church frock or physical state, yet my mother failed to notice. It always annoyed me that even though my father professed to be an upstanding Catholic, he never managed to actually make it to church himself.

  I changed into my outdated ensemble and bumped into my father by the stinky downstairs bathroom. That man pooped more than any person I knew. Buckets of beer did that to a man. He toted a burnt bagel in one hand and his loyal pooch, Penelope, in the other. A mangy pair. Maybe he slipped her booze regularly, which would explain why she always looked so homely. Or perhaps living under “his roof” caused even a dog to deteriorate. I tried to remember the positive affirmation technique that Self magazine had taught me. I love my father. He loves me. We are a loving family.

  After five minutes of attempting this mental meditation, I gave up and asked him about his presence at church while he was eating so he couldn’t easily respond.

  “Just because you never see me inside doesn’t mean I’m not always there,” he said, exposing the half-chewed bit he gnawed on with aplomb. “And mind your own business.”

  He pushed me upstairs and dropped his plate in my hand, signaling his work with me was done. Then he burped. That was the real sin. His breath smelled rank.

  As I walked his dish to the kitchen, I could feel my food threatening to repeat itself. The last time I’d gone to their church was at my wedding. Maybe if I had attended services more frequently, I wouldn’t have ended up back home.

  “Dear, why don’t you wait for me in the car? You’ve upset your father again.”

  Sitting behind the wheel in the same Ford Fairmont station wagon that my father had taught me to drive in, I felt like I was sixteen all over again. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I sported the same outfit my mother made me wear to my teenage confirmation ceremony. She was more nostalgic than I gave her credit for—or maybe it was a passive-aggressive form of torture.

  She eventually appeared, donning her signature look that consisted of a red floral top and black slacks that weren’t quite capris and not long enough to be full-length pants. She completed her fashion statement with a knock-off Gucci purse and scuffed penny loafers.

  Mom gestured for me to scoot over into the passenger seat so she could drive. Then she told me to pray for forgiveness on our way to church, and said that she would do the same. For me. I placated her by bowing my head and murmuring gibberish for the entire length of the trip. Thankfully, it was a short one.

  When we arrived, she ushered me out of the car with an imaginary broomstick and pointed me down the path to her view of salvation. Despite the fact that it felt arctic outside, I sweated just like I had right before I bumbled down the aisle with Sheldon.

  I used a stress management breathing technique from Yoga magazine to stop the flood of tears from busting through my dam of self-control. The tears broke through anyway. Just as I suspected, yoga was pointless.

  “What? Stop staring at me,” I said.

  “Now you listen to me. You will show me respect in the parking lot of the Lord or I swear to God I’ll bop you straight on the head,” she said. “No need to cry yet. We’re not actually going to church. I made an appointment with Father Sigfried to discuss your annulment.”

  I should have known it was a strange hour to go to church. And by the way, who in the hell would keep the name Sigfried once they entered the monastery? It sounded like a bad joke. Nobody wanted to put their religious fate in the hands of a man who looked like George Costanza and was named after a lion tamer.

  “I’m not ready for that,” I said. “I’m not even sure I want one. The whole thing doesn’t make sense. I can’t in good conscience denounce a marriage that four hundred people witnessed.”

  �
��You have a lot of nerve bringing up good conscience. You lost yours when you got divorced,” she ranted as her arms flailed like a freefalling bird.

  “Well, it’s stupid. But if it’ll make you feel better, we can go in and listen. I’m just telling you I’m not going through with anything,” I said.

  Father Sigfried appeared before my mother had a chance to spew an expletive at me.

  “We’re so ecstatic to be here, aren’t we, Samantha?” she said to Mr. Holy.

  “Well, actually Father…”

  She interrupted me by shooting a look that felt as if it came straight from Satan’s eyes.

  Father Sigfried took this as his cue to lead us inside the rectory—into the same room where Sheldon and I did our Pre-Canna course study. It was just like the Catholics to set up a training course for marriage. I must not have been listening hard enough during the Thou shalt not commit adultery section.

  I did pay attention to some of the stupider stuff like sex for procreation being the only reason for intercourse. And that the only acceptable form of birth control was abstinence. And the rhythm method, my favorite. The classes might have been more effective if the instructor was a relationship expert, instead of a priest who hadn’t had sex, possibly for decades. Listening to Sigfried talk about how the “woman” in the relationship is supposed to monitor her menstrual cycle to ensure that no “relations” happened during “non-childbearing” days was beyond uncomfortable.

  Revisiting the scene of our marriage boot camp course reminded me of a point of promise in my life—or at least it felt like it at the time. Until Sheldon almost popped one of his temple veins when Sigfried explained that by choosing to marry a Catholic, he was bound by church law to raise his kids Catholic—I had conveniently failed to mention to him I had already agreed to that as a tactic to get my parents to attend our nuptials.