The Dating Bender Page 3

  They honored “our” decision to temporarily separate for work, while my parents chose the tact of deny, deny, and then disown—their favorite childrearing weapon. Ever since I graduated from diapers, my family had threatened to disown me. One of their earlier attempts surfaced when I picked theater class over tennis in middle school. My father voiced his concern: “All drama people are nuts.” They temporarily disowned me again when Sheldon and I moved in together, only to lift the sentence and pop a champagne cork when we got engaged. Then they learned he wasn’t Catholic. At times I wished they would end the flip-flopping and make good on their threat to fire me out of the family. I wrote to Oprah for insight into why I tolerated their behavior. She never answered.

  I obliged everybody by listening to their concerns over lunches, coffee meetings, and in my father’s case, alcohol-bender rap sessions. At times he offered sound financial advice, usually in the morning before the cocktail slinging began. He could be helpful as long as he laid off the sauce, which was next to never.

  But I knew I was doing the right thing, regardless of what everyone else thought. What sane woman would sit back and mind a frickin’ fort while their husband jetted off to hobnob with some of the best football players (and cheerleaders) in the country? I would not be left behind to sift through crap jewelry, sweating my ass off and praying some lonely old fart would find my buying selections for the Home Shopping Network impressive enough to help me meet my sales numbers.

  No siree. Call me pig-headed or call me independent, but I was no longer okay with being the sole breadwinner. The gravy train is over, Mr. Sheldon Milton! Oh please, are you really this naive?

  ***

  I woke up groggy, having not slept that well. Or maybe it was all the wine. Bumbling out the door, I stopped off at the mailbox on my way to the beach. My mother had express-mailed another one of her silly articles. Today’s installment: Divorce Is Not the Answer! penned by none other than the pope. She’d sent me these supposedly inspirational clippings for as long as I could remember. In my youth, they were less subtle. One of my favorites: Celebrity Virgins—They’re Not DOING IT, Why Should You?

  I glanced at the article briefly, crumpled it up, and continued down to the waterway, finally reaching Beach Drive. The waves whipped up over the bulkhead and the smell of salt sullied the air. Was I crushing my marriage, or was all of this a natural step toward rescuing it?

  My Taylor Swift ringtone broke the reverie.

  “Oh. Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

  “What the hell do you think is up?” he slurred. “I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to torch your life any further than you already have. If you’re really set on making this move, at least let me come out there and help you drive across the goddamn country.”

  It gave me hope when he showed signs of a softer side.

  “Sure, Dad, that would be great. Babs wants me to start working in two weeks, so I plan to head out next Friday. Does that work for you?”

  “You mean to tell me you’re destroying your life and marriage to follow that lou-lou Babs? Are you nuts?”

  I thought I answered him on that one already.

  “No, Dad. I’m not crazy. You knew she’s who I’ll be working for, didn’t you?”

  “Shut up and hear me. I will not support your lunacy, not this time. Babs grew up with those crazy Charlie Manson kids. She’s missing a right and wrong meter in that drugged-up head of hers.”

  The idea of traveling cross-country trapped in a car with a man notorious for lecturing me about poor life choices no longer sounded appealing. Plus, the sight of his craggy sun-starched face and barely-there gray hair would cause repeated bouts of carsickness. It was nice that he cared enough to offer, but no thanks.

  “Dad, you’re right. I think I need to go this one alone. If you don’t mind, I need to get back to packing. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “I love you, Samantha, just not when you are doing ridiculous things.”

  At least I hung up before I started to bawl. Crying jags had become my thing lately.

  The phone rang again.

  “Honey, I just called to wish you well,” my mother said. “I know you probably need some space from Sheldon. God knows I would have loved to temporarily ditch your father. I think Redbook even said it can be healthy for couples to live apart periodically. You can just fly to Atlanta whenever you’re ovulating, and then the rest of the time you can be at peace not having to have ‘relations.’ Just remember, marriage is a forever deal.”

  I hung up and walked the long curvy road back home. The ocean waves settled into a peaceful calm. If only my brain could do the same.

  Yes, I was doing the right thing. My father just knew I could be impulsive, so he wanted to help me avoid another disaster. He cared, just in his own way.

  When I got back home, the place looked deserted. Sheldon had already gone, leaving only a brief goodbye Post-it note which he stuck to our fridge with the “forgive me, I have zinned” magnet, a remnant from our wine-soaked honeymoon. No I love you, just a reminder to take the trash out before I left, and a P.S. that read:

  Keep a good watch over our fort.

  Romantic.

  A week later I packed up some of my belongings and jammed them into my VW Beetle. By the time I finished, it looked like an overstuffed clown car.

  I walked back up to the house to lock down our “fort” and stood at the doorstep—the same spot that had been the threshold to our new life only fourteen months ago. My tropical dollhouse-of-a-home that was supposed to be a haven stood vacant of love. I prayed that Sheldon knew what the hell he was doing. Then I wept just like my mother without shedding a single tear, just some awkward dry heaves.

  Chapter Four

  “You look horrid. You need sex and sun,” Babs said.

  “Ha.” I snorted. “It’s great to know you haven’t changed. The drive was brutal, but I made it. Sex is probably not the answer, but some cool mountain air might be.”

  Babs was exactly as I remembered her: sexually explicit and super-charged. A man-whore wrapped inside a woman’s body. She had the figure of an overstuffed hourglass. Admittedly I was a tad jealous, having inherited my mother’s surfboard-of-a-chest physique. But her va-va-voom bod was just the beginning. Her business savvy was as sharp as her outfits were seductive, which explained why she left HSN. She was entirely too avant-garde for that place.

  “Come on, honey, let’s grab lunch at the Broadmoor. They have an amazing view, and then we’ll swing by the office and meet the team,” she said.

  The posse of hotties camped out around the outdoor fireplace could explain why Babs considered the view to be amazing. For me it was more about the Rocky Mountains that dwarfed a pristine lake that showcased a stream of snow-kissed swans. The sharp, brisk air smelled like home.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. We’re going to have so much fun together now that you’re single.”

  “Except I’m not single. Sheldon and I are just hyper-focused on our careers right now,” I said as I gnawed at my knuckle.

  “I know, I know, you’re not single. Whatever you need to tell yourself,” she said.

  “No, I’m serious. I need you to support me on this, okay?”

  “Whatever, honey, don’t be such a drag. You’re brilliant and I’ve missed you so I’ll take you hitched or stag.”

  Babs hugged me and slithered across the patio toward the pack of boys. She was unflappable. The fact that she always smelled like ganja never stopped men from soliciting her for sexual relations, or maybe they seduced her because of it.

  Within five minutes, she had each of them eating out of her hands. She fed a Channing Tatum lookalike a fried artichoke nibble. Then she moved on to hand-feeding a Ryan Gosling type celery stalks with one hand as she not-so-subtly smoked something resembling a joint with the other. Could my dad have been right about her? Maybe all those times she invited people to “join the army” was nothing more than code-speak for smoking a doobie. />
  The serenity of the surroundings enveloped me, and I soon forgot about Babs and her antics. There was something about the snowcapped tip of Pike’s Peak and the crisp air that agreed with me. I wondered if Sheldon was enjoying the sticky heat of Atlanta. Or better yet, was he missing me?

  When I broke out of my haze, I noticed that Babs wasn’t with the studs anymore. Maybe I’d freshen up. Anybody who had just driven across the country would look haggard.

  I moved inside and walked through the marble-laced hallway of the hotel foyer down to the ladies’ powder room, which reeked of fresh-picked posies. I heard some loud grunting noises that sounded like a rhino being pinned into a corner at the zoo. It got louder as I neared the restroom.

  “Ahh, ahh, ahh” the rhino went. As I got closer, I realized it was a throaty woman’s voice. Was somebody having a stroke in there? I dashed toward the bathroom at super-high speed and kicked the door open. Despite my eagerness to assist, I was not prepared to handle what I saw on the other side: Babs in a spread-eagle position over the granite counter, while Tatum-boy’s firm naked butt wagged at me. There was close, and then there was too close for a Catholic girl’s comfort. Catching your boss naked in a public bathroom having non-loving intercourse with a twenty-two-year-old stallion was the latter. Thankfully, they were the only ones in there.

  “Hey, Sammy, how are you doing?” she huffed over his shoulder in between heated thrusts.

  “Mmm, I’m okay, just a little tired. Can we leave for the office soon?”

  “Sure thing, Sammy. I’m almost done here. Ah, ah, ah, ooh, Channing!”

  ***

  The Broadmoor incident caused me to have more than a moment of buyer’s remorse about my decision to relocate to Colorado. You are just now having second thoughts? Had my father actually been right? Babs was not always the best influence, especially on a weakening marriage. Hopefully her ability to negotiate a contract would counter her negative traits.

  As we stepped into the office of NetSocial, I felt the hum of greatness. The all-glass building sat nestled between the dip of the city and mountains. The view reminded me of a Swiss village.

  First stop on the tour was Candy, whose demeanor screamed overachiever, but in the best possible way. She had rosy apple cheeks and a personality to match. She looked like a mid-twenty-something too—let the girl bonding begin!

  “Sam, it’s so great to finally meet you. We’ve heard so much about you,” she said.

  I wasn’t totally sure what she meant. God knows what Babs had told her.

  “Nice to meet you too. I hear you’re a critical cog in the production,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just excited to be here.”

  Next stop was Superstar’s palatial office. Apparently, he nicknamed himself that because at age twenty he was deemed to be the tech industry’s equivalent to Ironman.

  “Hey” was all he could mutter in my general direction as he glanced up from his gargantuan Mac monitor. Superstar’s corner office was filled with black-lacquered art deco furniture that showcased a spectacular view through floor-to-ceiling windows. His office smelled liked cheap sex.

  “He’s busy developing a new social networking app that will revolutionize the industry. He plans to rival Facebook. His intensity is as strong as an orgasm, but hopefully more sustainable,” Babs said as she felt up her own shape. “Excuse his personal skills. He has none, but he makes up for it in technical brilliance.”

  Wow, I’d never heard her gush so much about a man she wasn’t sleeping with. Remember, Samantha, Babs is trashy. She would gush about sewage. I hoped she wasn’t sleeping with him. Superstar was twenty years her junior, and the success of the company rested on his shoulders. Not even she would be that reckless.

  No workplace would be complete without an eccentric head honcho—ours was Nate. He had the communication skills of Napoleon, but I sensed he was the perfect skipper to navigate the ship.

  “Hey, Sammy, Babs swears by you. Welcome to Hell! You’re in for an ass-kicking ride,” he said as he punched my forearm. His crass, rude nature was sure to cement our place at the top of the tech industry heap.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Babs said. “He never sleeps, so don’t be surprised if he falls asleep on you in the middle of a meeting. Everyone has accepted his narcolepsy except him.”

  She led me down a buzzing corridor. Cubicles were nowhere to be found, replaced with beanbag towers. Walls were strewn with whiteboards, and tubs of free junk food dominated the see-through break rooms. This certainly was the most social work environment I had ever seen. Desks were scarce but laptops littered the floor. Ceiling murals depicted people talking and typing on their smartphones while making out with each other. Intriguing. The next generation of social networking was a world I looked forward to becoming a part of.

  I was anxious to see where I would be sitting. While the beanbags looked cool in concept, they probably left people one click away from a permanent backache. We rounded the corner and stopped.

  “Here’s your office. It’s great to have you here,” Babs said, leaving me to get acquainted with my space.

  My office came equipped with a perfect peek of the snow-lit streets of Colorado Springs. Sitting in my puffy pink chair—Babs knew me too well—I soaked in my surroundings. As the minutes of the day melted into hours, so did the memories of Florida and Sheldon. They drifted into the distance right along with the sun. Even though I had just arrived, I felt at peace in this building and among these people. I was home.

  Chapter Five

  I walked off the scorching hot runway and was immediately assaulted by the heat. All those people who blathered on about the benefits of humidity had obviously never done a day-for-day comparison of the dry, supple heat of Colorado to the stifling, sticky heat of Atlanta. The latter stunk.

  But I wasn’t in town for the weather, nor to see a new Super Bowl stadium in the making. My mission was to reconnect with my hubby, or, according to Babs, to get laid.

  Once I cleared the sweat from my forehead and wiped down my arms and pits with a cocktail napkin, I made my way toward baggage claim. Even though I was blazing new ground at work and loving my life in Colorado, I’d been missing my man.

  There was so much to fill him in on. We weren’t able to talk every night on the phone like we’d planned because he was in the throes of one of his workaholic benders. This particular rendition had lasted exactly two months and still counting.

  The first week we were apart we talked every night. And shockingly, we had phone sex. Babs schooled me in the art of seduction along with some tips I picked up from Maxim, but as the weeks wore on, so did the gaps between our conversations. It became increasingly more difficult to get him to commit to a weekend visit, but I’d done it. I surprised myself with how excited I was to see him. I was certain the distance had made our marriage stronger.

  Babs sexed up my wardrobe for the occasion. I caught my own look in the mirror running through the airport, and had to admit I looked saucier than normal in my skimpy hot-pink sundress. My hair was cropped into a Posh Beckham-style bob with some extra blonde accents. Glamour magazine said that blonde highlights were a surefire way to keep your man from straying.

  I planned to jump Sheldon at the baggage belt. Cosmo said these types of gestures were essential in fostering a thriving sexual relationship.

  It took me over half an hour to find my bags and when I had fetched the last of them, I looked around and noticed Sheldon by the exit standing with his arms crossed while two kids played leap frog in front of him. He did not look amused, nor did he run to me and scoop me into his arms as I had envisioned.

  Be bold, Babs had said, so I darted toward him while trying to do the sexy strut I’d read about. When we met, I engulfed him with a seductive bear hug, which was tricky given his ever-expanding girth.

  “Hi, sex-kitten!” I said.

  “Hey. We’re late.”

  His lukewarm reception was not
what I planned for after being apart for over eight weeks. How could someone be this crabby before ten a.m.?

  “Aren’t you excited to see me, babe? Do you like my hair and new dress?” I asked.

  “Sorry, baby, stadium triage starts in two weeks and I’m swamped. I told you this was the worst possible time to come.”

  “I know, but we said we were going to visit each other every other weekend and we haven’t seen each other once since you left,” I said as I tried to blot the sweat off my face with a hankie. “I missed you. I thought you’d feel the same way.”

  “Of course I’m glad you’re here. I’m just late for a meeting.”

  “Well that’s too bad, bugaboo. I’m tickled to see you even if it’s only for a few minutes. Maybe we can go back to the hotel and get some breakfast in bed before you have to head to work.”

  “Sam, you’re not getting it. I can’t hang out with you today. I’ve arranged for Ivan to meet us here so he can take you to the hotel and I can get back to my team. Remember, all of this is for us.”

  “Who the hell is Ivan?” I asked. Don’t swear, Samantha. You’ll go to hell if you make a habit of it.

  “My intern.”

  “You mean you’re pawning me off on some kid that’s barely out of diapers when we haven’t seen each other for weeks?”

  “He’s the Super Bowl committee chair’s son who’s not doing anything either, so I thought you could entertain each other.”

  It was hard not to read into the “not doing anything” remark as a dig for me being in the way of his security kingdom.

  I smiled in an attempt to conjure a sugar-sweet voice. “Babe, if you’d like me to spend my first day with Ivan so you can tend to business, that’s fine by me. You go and do whatever you need to get done, and I’ll be at the hotel waiting to ravish you when you get back.”