Read Online The Starter Wife by Gigi Levangie Grazer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gigi Levangie Grazer
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you dance some more?”
“Mommy, I love you, but I’m not a machine,” Jaden said, her eyebrows angling down toward her nose.
“No,” Gracie said, “you’re not a machine, but Mommy’s a machine. Mommy’s like an old washer that you put out on the front lawn hoping someone will pick it up so you don’t have to make a trip to the city dump.”
Her daughter, thankfully, had ceased to listen to her.
Gracie sighed; she felt like there should be yellow tape around her house. Our marriage, our life, the crime scene.
What were her options? Long-term: Find another man, find happiness, find herself. God, how awful, Gracie thought, I sound like a
Woman’s Day
article. Worse, I sound like a letter to Dr. Phil.
Short term, however, Gracie knew what she needed to do: She needed to go to lunch, to go shopping, to show her face, to get dressed in her best “Look at me, I’m fine, I’m more than fine, I’m
great”
outfit. To laugh in the face of divorce proceedings.
All these things she would do, right after Gracie took a nap. After all, it was now nine o’clock in the morning. Nine hours down, thousands to go. Gracie called to Ana, her housekeeper, to keep an eye on Jaden for a few minutes. She wondered who would get custody of Ana. These things, Gracie thought, are so messy for the loved ones.
Gracie realized she had officially skipped breakfast, her first (inadvertently) skipped meal in fifteen years, and she suddenly feltbetter. Gracie just might come out of this divorce looking like Elle Macpherson, only shorter and without all the bothersome male attention.
And then a thought came to Gracie, floating into her head like a mantra.
Eat,
the thought urged.
Eat,
it cajoled.
Enjoy yourself. Stuff your face.You’ve got nothing to lose.
The thought had a voice which sounded an awful lot like Mel Brooks.
But no matter. The pin had been pulled. Gracie smiled, hopped off her stool, and headed for the forbidden room.
The pantry.
T WO SESAME BAGELS (toasted, buttered, and smothered with cream cheese) later, Gracie started to drift off to sleep. And at that moment where reality encounters dream, she thought about the other ways to tell that your husband is cheating on you.
He starts shaving his balls.
And it isn’t even summertime.
And he isn’t even gay.
Gracie’s eyes snapped open. Of course, she thought. Two weeks ago, Ana had told Gracie that Kenny’s shower drain was plugged. When Gracie looked, she saw dozens of tiny pubic hairs stuck in the drain; she checked his razor—curly hairs were clinging to the blades like refugees on a sinking raft.
Ana had widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows and then had left Gracie alone in Kenny’s bathroom to ponder the meaning of the pube glut.
Finally, she’d called her husband at the office.
“Your drain is clogged,” she told him.
“So, call a plumber,” Kenny said. “Are you meeting me tonight or are we driving together to that thing?”
“I called a plumber,” Gracie said. “Can you tell me why you’re shaving your pubic area so I can explain it to Joe-Earle?”
Joe-Earle was the plumber. He wore a gold socket wrench charm around his neck and talked too much about his other clients, which, while fascinating, led Gracie to believe he talked too much about them as well.
This story should be a doozy,
Gracie thought.
“All the kids do it, it’s a kid thing,” Kenny said, “it’s called ‘mowing the lawn,’ ‘culling the herd.’ It’s, you know, cool.”
He said this with a tone which made it clear that Gracie would not know a thing about what’s cool.
“‘A kid thing,’” Gracie repeated. “‘It’s cool.’” The toddler volumes had taught her to repeat back certain sentences to the child, certain sentences that could be upsetting.
“Makes your dick look bigger. Did you call Rupert Murdoch’s wife yet? I’ve got to run. Love ya.” Then he’d hung up.
He said “ya.”
Gracie had shaken her head. Kenny was all about
“Mommy, I love you, but I’m not a machine,” Jaden said, her eyebrows angling down toward her nose.
“No,” Gracie said, “you’re not a machine, but Mommy’s a machine. Mommy’s like an old washer that you put out on the front lawn hoping someone will pick it up so you don’t have to make a trip to the city dump.”
Her daughter, thankfully, had ceased to listen to her.
Gracie sighed; she felt like there should be yellow tape around her house. Our marriage, our life, the crime scene.
What were her options? Long-term: Find another man, find happiness, find herself. God, how awful, Gracie thought, I sound like a
Woman’s Day
article. Worse, I sound like a letter to Dr. Phil.
Short term, however, Gracie knew what she needed to do: She needed to go to lunch, to go shopping, to show her face, to get dressed in her best “Look at me, I’m fine, I’m more than fine, I’m
great”
outfit. To laugh in the face of divorce proceedings.
All these things she would do, right after Gracie took a nap. After all, it was now nine o’clock in the morning. Nine hours down, thousands to go. Gracie called to Ana, her housekeeper, to keep an eye on Jaden for a few minutes. She wondered who would get custody of Ana. These things, Gracie thought, are so messy for the loved ones.
Gracie realized she had officially skipped breakfast, her first (inadvertently) skipped meal in fifteen years, and she suddenly feltbetter. Gracie just might come out of this divorce looking like Elle Macpherson, only shorter and without all the bothersome male attention.
And then a thought came to Gracie, floating into her head like a mantra.
Eat,
the thought urged.
Eat,
it cajoled.
Enjoy yourself. Stuff your face.You’ve got nothing to lose.
The thought had a voice which sounded an awful lot like Mel Brooks.
But no matter. The pin had been pulled. Gracie smiled, hopped off her stool, and headed for the forbidden room.
The pantry.
T WO SESAME BAGELS (toasted, buttered, and smothered with cream cheese) later, Gracie started to drift off to sleep. And at that moment where reality encounters dream, she thought about the other ways to tell that your husband is cheating on you.
He starts shaving his balls.
And it isn’t even summertime.
And he isn’t even gay.
Gracie’s eyes snapped open. Of course, she thought. Two weeks ago, Ana had told Gracie that Kenny’s shower drain was plugged. When Gracie looked, she saw dozens of tiny pubic hairs stuck in the drain; she checked his razor—curly hairs were clinging to the blades like refugees on a sinking raft.
Ana had widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows and then had left Gracie alone in Kenny’s bathroom to ponder the meaning of the pube glut.
Finally, she’d called her husband at the office.
“Your drain is clogged,” she told him.
“So, call a plumber,” Kenny said. “Are you meeting me tonight or are we driving together to that thing?”
“I called a plumber,” Gracie said. “Can you tell me why you’re shaving your pubic area so I can explain it to Joe-Earle?”
Joe-Earle was the plumber. He wore a gold socket wrench charm around his neck and talked too much about his other clients, which, while fascinating, led Gracie to believe he talked too much about them as well.
This story should be a doozy,
Gracie thought.
“All the kids do it, it’s a kid thing,” Kenny said, “it’s called ‘mowing the lawn,’ ‘culling the herd.’ It’s, you know, cool.”
He said this with a tone which made it clear that Gracie would not know a thing about what’s cool.
“‘A kid thing,’” Gracie repeated. “‘It’s cool.’” The toddler volumes had taught her to repeat back certain sentences to the child, certain sentences that could be upsetting.
“Makes your dick look bigger. Did you call Rupert Murdoch’s wife yet? I’ve got to run. Love ya.” Then he’d hung up.
He said “ya.”
Gracie had shaken her head. Kenny was all about
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