Sway of West E-Book

DeAnne Perfect

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 474

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The shoulders of Rachael West slump with exhaustion. As a full-time, working mother, the daily weight of parenting, marriage, and corporate America has pinned her spirit under a colossal laundry pile resembling despair. With an overly charismatic and demanding toddler, a husband who’s having an affair with the living room couch, and exactly 32 minutes a day to call her own, the days are long and the nights longer. Desperately craving stimulation and the feeling of being alive, Rachael is determined to restore what has long since been forgotten.  Well equipped with attitude and sarcasm, she is fueled by an imagination that has no limitations, driven to reclaim what is rightfully hers. While engaging in a fantasy game of automobile Cat & Mouse, she unexpectedly lures in a Great White shark, making Rae the hunted rather than the hunter. And suddenly, all bets are off.

Leseprobe

A Rachael West Novel

_____

Sway

of

West

_____

by

DeAnne Perfect

To my BMF

Dear Reader,

All mothers experience some degree of identity loss, sexual despair, and frustration with a bouncy-house lifestyle, and they’re likely fighting to make the best of it with brainwaves that resemble room-temperature oatmeal.  While no magic potion exists to erase the doldrums of motherhood and make the paralyzing baby brain disappear, there is a prescribed remedy to help alleviate the suffering, and her name is Rachael West. 

Rachael’s story is my first novel, part one of a planned three-part series. I can’t say I was ever drawn to writing. In fact, the only experience I had prior to completing a novel was ghost writing emails and drafting employee-wide communications while working for a Fortune 100 company. Not the most colorful work, unless you include writing strongly worded snotgrams from executives who couldn’t be bothered to create it themselves. I was tapped for this kind of writing often, mainly because I assume no one else wanted to do it. And I accepted, because that’s what you do in corporate America. Hundreds of pages later, I’m still not sure I even like writing. However, the feeling it provides while reading is contagious.

Before this story starts, there is something you should be aware of. My writing has not been professionally edited and, assuming spell-check had it’s fucking act together, the pages that follow are likely chock full of formatting, punctuation, and grammatical errors. I’m truly sorry for that. The bottom line is, I’m tired. Not like, “I think I’ll go to bed early” tired, I’m referring to the tiredness that radiates in your bones. The kind of zombie-inspired lethargy that has you wishing Black Beauties were still legal. Parents know this feeling well. It’s been three and a half years of writing and trying to get my story published, and this bat-shit crazy mother just doesn’t have anything left to punt my story any farther.

Full disclaimer.... This unpolished, literary turd of mine has been physically rejected by 82 literary agents, and completely ignored by another 157. And the agents that were interested did not feel the story was one they could get behind. I admit, my target audience has absolutely zero time for reading. It also could have been that I overuse the F-bomb. I can’t help it, I love that fucking word. Limiting its use wouldn’t quite carry the jaded, and beyond defeated nature of Rachael’s personality. Or maybe my style of writing and the storyline just simply sucked. Whatever it was, it ended any spark of hope that this novel might one day be prominently displayed on some highly polished Barnes & Noble shelf, or fawned over by staunch followers of Oprah’s Book Club.

But in the end, it’s okay. You see, it’s taken me 249 total rejections for my own oatmeal-like brainwaves to absorb, process, and finally come to the conclusion that Sway of West is really not a spotlight whore kind of book, anyway. And that is unreservedly fine by me.

-DNP

Chapter One

“Fuck meeeeeee.” I grumble through the down feathers, the pillow muffling my aggravation. The noise is relentless and loud, and the snooze button taunts me just out of arm’s reach. It’s always just out of reach.

It’s 5:15am on Thursday morning, and I’m seconds away from getting physical with the alarm clock. It’s only doing its job, but I don’t care, rudely waking me up out of a dead sleep is cause for retaliation in my book. It’s a shame, too. Because it’s the kind of sleep I live for, where the temperature underneath the blankets is perfectly balanced with my tried-and-true ensemble of an antiquated tee shirt, stolen from the hubs and complete with armpit stains, and sweatpants dating back to freshman year of college. As if this smoking hot, between the sheets look wasn’t sexy enough, I add another layer of undeniable attractiveness by tucking the bottoms of those ancient sweatpants right into my socks. I’m not exactly dressed as the seductive housewife of every man’s dream, I know, but the hubby keeps the air conditioning at a temperature suitable for a polar bear and I freeze otherwise.

My head swaddled inside the pillow feels so heavenly that I wind up, blindly throw out a left hook, and punch the snooze button with uncalled for aggression. But, I don’t care. My patience and general ability to tolerate life is running on fumes. My fist connects with Rocky Balboa-like finesse, scoring me another eight minutes to chase after that serene intoxication of sleep. And I try hard to bring it back, willing my mind to fade away and absorb these last fleeting minutes of peace. Only it won’t come easily. I know for a fact that it’s not going to come at all. Unfortunately, it never does. Work-related intestinal distress mixed in with the dog needing to evacuate her bowels will make sure of that, and it’s the same, goddamn maddening routine every single morning.

Just kiss it goodbye already and get on with it.

My subconscious is wide awake, beaming with righteousness and well aware of how this morning will play out. And as usual, it’s right on the money.

I can kiss goodbye to an already fading dream world, a twilight landscape of sorts where I’m pressed against a wall and about to be kissed by some tan and scruffy, sandy-blond hottie. My hands have yet to receive the wake up message and clench tighter around the pillow, foolishly thinking they’re gripping perfectly sculpted biceps. But squeezing the flabby, feather down instead of the anticipated 100% pure muscle only magnifies my level of dissatisfaction with both the alarm clock and the earth’s daily rotation within the solar system.

It physically pains me to transition out of the dream world to reality, I’m infatuated with experiencing a life that is not my own and it’s my escape. And for the last few years, my only escape. Vivid and random cinematic experiences that entertain and satiate my needs overnight, recharging my ability to situate myself vertically and get through the day.

Sometimes I can extract a meaning or a purpose, although that’s not the reason I look forward to the getaway from reality. Come to think of it, most of my dreams don’t have an obvious meaning, and that’s just fine by me. It’s the escape that I look for, a breakaway from the consuming, every day doldrums of parenting. Maybe I borderline on depression, I don’t know. I do know that I’ve been blessed with a wildly colorful imagination and I use it to self-medicate every fucking chance I get.

I hear floorboards creaking ever so slightly as four paws cautiously make their way around the bed. Phoebe’s hungry, and she wants her food. Stat. She’s mastered the art of getting me to do what she wants before I’m even fully awake. Silently cursing her, I don’t open my eyes because I know she’s right there staring at me, eyes fixated while simultaneously channeling her Jedi powers to make me rise out of bed and feed her chubby butt.

“Phoebs. Go lie down.” I mumble into the pillow.

“Gooooo.”

It’s the same exact conversation every morning, almost word-for-freaking word. Sometimes expletives are necessary, it all depends on my anticipated amount of incoming daily work-related bullshit, level of hangover, and where I’m at during my menstrual cycle. I tell myself that she’ll go away if I don’t make direct eye contact with her. But no luck. She never goes back to her bed. Ever. And yet for reasons unknown, I still cling to hope that today will be different and I’ll actually get to enjoy the eight minutes of snooze time. But it won’t, and the alarm clock sporting a shiner is proof-positive that I’m desperate for today to be different.

For three whole minutes I tolerate vile dog breath in my face, only I know what’s coming next, it's her physical attempt to wake me up. Sure enough, she swings her paw wildly onto the bed, and it lands four inches away from my nose.

I just barely crack an eyelid, careful not to give away that I’m awake. Even in the darkness, I can tell she’s giving me a canine version of the you’re-an-asshole stink eye, clearly not fooled by my sub-par acting skills. I can feel my favorite state of mind slipping out of my hands for what feels like forever, but is really only another thirteen short hours away, and internally agree to one more moment of silence before starting the get out of bed process.

“Fffzzzzzzsssst.”

Apparently I’m not moving fast enough. My moment of silence triggers Phoebe to release a rancid cloud of shit-steam, an indication that her backside is moments away from an explosion.

Good fucking grief!

Slightly suffocating and feeling defeated, I look over at Myles whose head is completely buried under his pillow. I don’t know whether to be mad that he’s ignoring Phoebe, her nuclear stink bomb, and our battle of wits, or praise him for his bullet-proof defensive strategy. I can’t stand the stench of on-deck dog feces any longer so I kiss the remaining five minutes of precious snooze time goodbye and get my lazy ass out of bed, just like the dog wanted me to.

“Don’t worry, honeypot, I’ll feed her.” I say with sarcasm thicker than molasses, lifting his pillow to make sure he gets a whiff of what is emanating across the room and knows that I’m taking one for the team. The added sarcasm deemed necessary because lately I seem to take this one for the team almost every day.

I’ve never been a morning person. I’ve also never been an afternoon, evening, or late night person either. If I had to choose, I prefer mornings, but that doesn’t mean I wake up with rays of glittering sunshine dazzling out of every orifice, raring to go out and chase life. That’s just not me, and it never has been, even in my younger years.

I’m five days shy of turning 42, married to a handsome and still-loyal (I think) husband named Myles, and have a three year old daughter named Jessica. We are extremely blessed with a slightly more than modest home, and I’m the one who keeps every square inch of it dust-free, neat, and tidy. I also work full-time in the bowels of pharmaceutical, corporate America and have a shitty, 60 minute commute each way. Add all of this together and I get between 32 and 40 liberating minutes to myself every Monday thru Friday, pending Jess’s need for company in the bathroom. The number of minutes rises during the weekends, but not by much.

I turn off the alarm clock and head to the bathroom, Phoebe is right on my heels, staring at me while I do my business. I can just about read her thoughts at moments like these, it’s written all over her face.

It’s about time you’re up. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Let’s gooooooo, asshole hoo-man, before I go off and whiz behind the potted Parlor Palm you never water.

She’s just as annoyed with me as I am with her, but until she grows opposable thumbs and can learn how to negotiate a door handle, she’s stuck waiting for me to take her outside. Like white on rice, she follows me downstairs towards her feeding bowl, her wiggling butt throws around a Louisville Slugger of a tail, loudly smacking doors and spindles and whatever else it can possibly connect with. She can’t contain her excitement, the three bottom steps are miscalculated entirely and she ends up completing a spastic forward roll into the kitchen and knocks over a counter stool.

“What the fuck, Phoebe? Are you kidding me?” I whisper, still trying to keep the house quiet for reasons unknown.

I’ve been awake and upright for all of four minutes and already the twitchy feeling to run and hide under the covers for the rest of the day is begging to take over.

The vacuum fully engages, the pieces of kibble are snarfed up with laser-like accuracy, and 30 seconds later we’re out the side door, plastic poop bag in hand. I wait patiently for her to complete the compulsory and frantic circles, setting a target on the most perfect, pee-worthy blade of grass, and watch her soak it. With her squat complete, she starts to head back inside. I tug on her leash to keep her on the lawn and receive the asshole stink eye once again in return.

“No. No. No. You need to poop out here because otherwise you’ll poop on the laundry room rug and I’m the only asshole in the house that can tolerate cleaning up shit.”

And this is true. Myles’s gag reflex is among the best in his class and it gets him out of cleaning up every single biological disaster that strikes this family. The lucky bastard.

My self-deprecating humor seems to do the trick, her butt retracts under her hind quarters a bit and the bowels unleash a steaming pile of loose sphincter salad. Even mid-squat, she continues to deliver the stink eye, only now it’s paired with a hint of a smile on her pinkish lips.

Have fun trying to pick that up with your little baggie!

And she’s right. The pick up fails miserably and the greenish-brown smear on my hand confirms that I’ve officially lost this morning’s battle of wits with the dog.

Back inside she wants nothing to do with me, and that’s just fine. I know I have a much bigger battle with 35 pounds of commanding toddler coming my way. I wash my hands, flip the On switch to the coffee maker, and head back upstairs.

Before waking Jess, I’m quick to take a shower but slow to get dressed, soaking in the comfort of my closet helps prepare me mentally for the day. I can’t help myself, I love my closet. It’s a walk-in, and fairly small in size. My tiny makeup table, clothes, and shoes fit snugly within the walls and being inside feels like my adult security blanket, shielding me from the exhausting demands of life that never seem to end.

With the door shut, I can’t hear the everyday chaos taking place inside the house, the clothes provide recording studio-like soundproofing. I’ve often thought about ditching the table for a comfy chair so I could lock myself inside with a bottle of wine, shut out the world, and just stare at the fun dresses, shoes and handbags that I never get to wear anymore. I don’t get rid of them because I know this stage in my life is only temporary. It has to be. There will be a time in the future, who the hell knows when, that Myles and I can reconnect like real adults who love each other, and actually leave the house to thoroughly enjoy a date whenever the mood hits us. The date would take place in a restaurant that uses table linens and has an incredible wine list, and the night would end with simultaneous orgasms.

Who am I kidding?

At this point, I’d settle for no table linens, stale beer, and non-simultaneous orgasms if there’s a delicious bacon cheeseburger on the menu.

Reality quickly sinks back in, snuffing out the date night vision and with it my hopes of reconnecting with my husband. I scramble to figure out what to wear. What was once a truly enjoyable task has transitioned into being quite painful, and now I’m hungry for breakfast, which makes the task even less fun.

Women over 40 tend to go in two separate directions when it comes to their wardrobe, to stretch or not to stretch. I’ve chosen to stretch. There is not one article of clothing in my closet that doesn’t stretch or have an elastic waistband. Unless you’re built like Olive Oil, a woman’s body demands forgiving material. I can’t waste time feeling painfully constricted in my own clothes, this is why my heart has always belonged to Lycra. I mentally give the double middle finger to silks and linens, and select a pair of basic black stretchy work pants. Wiggling them over my hips takes more effort than normal.

“Fuuuuuuuck meeeeeeee.”

I didn’t think it was possible to fat-bomb myself Funfetti-style out of the patented ‘Bliss Comfort’ waistband found within this specific pair of pants, but apparently it is.

The familiar sign of weight gain is surprisingly only mildly depressing, in fact, it barely seems to register at all. The reality is I don’t have time to do anything about it, so why bother. I throw on a dress instead, add some tinted moisturizer and a swipe of mascara with hopes that it will overcompensate for the baggy eyes, and run my fingers through my hair. As a last ditch effort, I add a pair of silver chandelier earrings to work double-time, not only as an accessory but also a distraction from my lack of effort to beautify, and head down the hall to wake up Hurricane Jess.

What’s it going to be today?

Half of the time she wakes up in the most loving mood humanly possible for a three year old, and she’s full of compliments and sugary sweetness, saying things like “I love you, mommy.” or “Those earrings are beautiful, mommy.” The other half of the time she wakes up a possessed toddler demon who will stop at nothing to remove and shatter your insanity. Today, she’s not feeling any love whatsoever. In fact, if I look close enough, I can find a pair of pint-sized horns protruding beneath that beautiful, curly dark blond hair. For starters, she’s hiding herself completely under the bed sheet. Not a good sign. This maneuver essentially means one of two things: A) that she does not want to get out of bed and/or B) does not want to go to school.

“Do I go to school today?” she asks in a surprisingly angelic voice while pulling back the covers.

But, I’m not fooled. I know it’s a classic toddler bait and switch tactic. I tread lightly, silently praying I’ve misread the demonic signs up until this point.

“Yes, babycakes. You have school today, and I think you may even have water play! Yay!”

I’m grossly enthusiastic in my delivery, and it seems to buy me time before the evil side emerges. But there’s another hurdle directly behind the school exchange. You see, every single waking hour of every single day Jess wants to wear her black dress with the pretty flowers on it. It’s clearly her favorite, it’s two sizes too small, and unlucky for me, it’s also in the dirty clothes pile. I relay this information as delicately as I can, but it’s no use. The lower lip takes its familiar protruding position, and the pouting starts. Moving to the floor, she gets into the downward-facing toddler demon pose with her forehead pressed against the carpet and her butt in the air. And I know what’s coming next, it’s what I affectionately call the ‘death scream’. I’ll present her with some clothing options, and she’ll present me with defiant blood curdling shrieks in return.

Her level of skill is impressive, the Screen Actors’ Guild would unanimously agree she’s an Outstanding Performance by a Toddler in a Leading Role nominee. I imagine all the jealous, young actresses in Hollywood trying to perfect their scream for some role in a low budget horror film and smile to myself. This kid nails it every day, sometimes twice a day, and in the most quietest of public places if I’m lucky.

I give an ultimatum that I’m going to pick the outfit out for her, a fate worse than death, and we compromise on a white floral jumper. With the flick of a switch, she goes from maniacal belligerent toddler to 35 pounds of pure love, complete with compliments and kisses.

We progress downstairs to tackle the final stretch of morning preparations, breakfast, and potty time. I used to savor potty time, netting myself about eight minutes of quality one-on-one time with my cup of French Roast coffee while Jess does her business. I’d be serenaded with random and seemingly never-ending songs about fabulous days, pancakes, and orange sparkle socks, all while sipping on hot, luxurious coffee. But, lately that’s all changed. Being the anxious and always rushed mom that I am, I made the abhorrent and utterly inexcusable mistake of handing her the toilet paper before she was ready.

Once.

One time, this happened.

One time!

And she’s not going to let me forget it anytime soon.

“Mommy. Give me your hands.” she says matter-of-factly, perched on her throne complete with a pink seat and matching stool.

“Darling. Mommy wants to go drink her coffee.” I reply with matching sweetness and a forced smile, already well-aware that I’m going to lose this battle, too. I’m painfully still serving my sentence for the premature toilet paper delivery that happened weeks ago.

“You need to give me your hands until I’m done, Mommy. Let me take my time.” she states adamantly.

Being the control freak that I am, it becomes undeniably obvious during moments like these (eight moments, give or take) that I birthed a control freak, just like myself.

Does anyone else’s kid do this kind of thing? Is it only my kid?

All I want to do is sip my coffee while it is still somewhat hot, but I won’t mentally survive back to back rounds of death screams. Feeling defeated yet again, I let out an overly dramatic sigh, give her my hands, and stand there listening to her sing her songs. My smile shifts from forced to genuine, and I shake my head watching this perfect little angel, who I love so much, take her perfect little shit. I would move heaven and earth for this child.

Jess gives me the all clear and I wipe her clean, wash our hands, and we head for the kitchen. The singing hasn’t stopped, it’s now progressed into an arrangement that includes her school friends Becca, Bonnie, and Jillian, and is taking on volume. My daughter loves potty time solely for the opportunity to focus on her song creativity and to sing in a room that has adequate acoustics. Meal time provides an entirely different experience for her audience. The singing now carries emotion and vibrato because, to put it simply, she loves to eat.

I place her in the high chair and prepare the oatmeal. Her latest melody has evolved, incorporating lyrics about diaper wipes and water play, and is now including dance moves. The top half of her body is a whirlwind of activity, arms and fingers fully extended, which I imagine she’s doing intentionally to help open her diaphragm to sing even louder, if that was possible. Only I know that once I hand over her oatmeal, the uncontrollable Celine Dion arm moves are going to ensure that I have lukewarm peaches and cream all over my walls. Not that it matters much. It would likely complement the existing pale droplets of apple sauce and maple syrup stains from last week.

Jess finishes up and naturally there are several globs of oatmeal on her jumper. I wipe off what I can, the concept of an outfit change is rarely considered in this household. Exceptions include spilling her juice all over herself or not making it to the toilet on time. She’s just going to get dirty anyway, and I can’t be bothered with trying to have a perfectly coiffed child at all times. No mother has time for that, it’s not realistic. And let’s face it, I’m a pretty far cry from being perfectly coiffed myself, so why even bother.

We both call out our goodbyes to Myles and Jess skips off to the garage. I trudge slowly glancing around erratically trying to make sure I remembered to take every possible item needed to get through a day that is dedicated to everyone but me. Hot pink backpack complete with chicken nuggets, yogurt, snacks, and sippy cup? Check. Overly stuffed laptop bag that’s determined to give me early-onset arthritis? Check. Black leather Marc Jacobs bag that I’ve faithfully cherished for the last 7 years, and holds everything (Excedrin, tampons, lip gloss, earbuds to block out annoying coworkers, and emergency Skittles) that may be needed to deal with today? Check. Futuristic travel coffee mug that is marketed to keep hot liquids hot until the end of time? Check.

Only the coffee won’t be hot by the time I get to it. The marketing scheme is total bullshit. I love hot coffee, and I love iced coffee, but I can’t stand the taste of room temperature coffee. It sucks, just like trying to eat cold McDonald’s french fries. You know it’s going to suck but you eat them anyway because you need french fries. And I need caffeine, so I’ll drink the goddamn coffee.

How the fuck else am I supposed to get through today, and every other day that follows?

Jess requests “Let It Go” for the car ride, and we manage to listen to it twice before arriving at daycare. Her singing is still going strong, only it’s no longer a Jess original, but the lyrics of an excited and refreshed Elsa saying sayonara to all of her troubles. I can’t remember the last time I felt excited or refreshed about something, it's been years. Three and a half years to be exact. But, it doesn’t matter. Elsa is excited, which makes Jess happy, and that’s what matters. If that means I need to listen to “Let It Go'' 47 times in a row to make her drop-off go smoothly, then you can bet your ass that this mom-of-the-year will do it.

We settle inside without a hiccup. She’s quick to smother my face with kisses, squeezing it between two slightly sticky hands, and then runs to hit the door release button. It feels a bit rushed, the only thing missing is her size 7 foot punting me straight in the ass, right out of the door, and into the parking lot. But it’s better to part ways quickly and on her terms than to risk another round of the death screams.

I always have a hard time leaving her knowing I’m going to be away for the next ten hours. It’s a long day for a three year old, and with a little luck, she won’t smack any of her friends, pee on the floor, or scream out any choice curse words that she may have picked up from a certain mom-of-the-year. I try hard not to say “Jesus fucking Christ” every time something is more difficult to do than it should be, because it seems like that’s all the time, but occasionally my favorite phrase maaaaay accidentally slip out and land on toddler ears.

Outside of the door, I try to sneak past and avoid the watchful eyes of the Manicure Moms gossiping in the parking lot. It’s no use. I can feel the burning laser beams radiating from their seemingly well-rested retinas and hear voices hush to levels indicating top secret information is being exchanged. They instantly annoy me. Forget about their judgmental tendencies and the unmatched ability to gossip, that isn’t what blows my mind, it’s their flawless image. I can’t fathom for the life of me how one has the time to blow dry their hair, curl it, have perfectly polished nails, and be a photoshoot-ready, 5-star type of mom who bakes scones and has time to iron bed sheets. It would take me at least 20 minutes to blow dry my hair, and I just don’t have that kind of luxury time, nor the tricep muscles to hold a hair dryer up over my head for that long. I would skip the shower entirely if I could rely on dry shampoo, but my Italian descent and dark, oily hair would never, ever let that happen.

Maybe deep down I’m jealous that I’ve never been a Manicure Mom. I’ve always been more of a realist, and that goes for every aspect within my life. Those Mani Moms, in their non-stretchy, pressed silk Talbot blouses, aren’t fooling anyone. I have to believe that every mom at drop off this morning had to have gone through a similar shit-storm like the one I just went through. No mom in this universe could possibly have their all-encompassing, collective shit together.

Little kids are essentially young wild animals, and no perfect-parent facade is going to make me think otherwise. Wishing for a dose of reality, I say a small prayer to the God of Obnoxiously Polished Manicure Moms asking for their faux-casual, hairspray drenched up-does to snag a yellow jacket while driving their mom mobiles with crumb-less interiors, causing them to take out a string of mailboxes. And just the thought of it puts a smile back on my face.

The engine rolls over, the clock comes alive indicating it's now 7:15am. I’ve been awake for two hours and not one single minute has been dedicated to me. It’s been more than three years now, and everyday I still mourn the concept of Me Time. Gone are the days when I could enjoy things like reading, binge watching Jersey Shore and BH90210 reruns, completing Sudoku puzzles while soaking up dangerous levels of sun exposure at the beach, and quite possibly the most rewarding, sleeping in past 6am.

Maintenance and operational type tasks don’t count as Me Time. Things like commuting, showering and getting ready, making dinner, and cleaning are excluded, they’re too much like work. Some women say that they love to clean their house, and the statement is absolute nonsense. They’re confused, likely a result of being sleep-deprived and grossly under-caffeinated. To be clear, a woman likes her house to be clean, but she doesn’t want to have to be the one cleaning it. Give any woman a choice to scrub skidmark stains out of a toilet or hit TJ Maxx, and you can be sure she’ll choose TJ’s every single day of the week.

The urgency to get to work builds, the squishiness in my lower intestine prompts me to reluctantly put the car into gear. I don’t check my phone for any work-related urgent requests. I’m sure they are there, but I can’t be bothered calling anyone back while I’m driving. I don’t have enough brain power to drive safely down the road while having a productive conversation with someone. Even with bluetooth, it’s a lose-lose situation. I’ll drive hazardously, miss out on 75% of the conversation, and need to repeat the same conversation over once I sit down at my desk, anyway, so there’s no use.

I attempt to nose my truck into traffic but it’s a sea of frenzied, puckered assholes driving bumper-to-bumper on the road this morning. Important assholes in Porsche Panameras, planet-saving assholes in electric cars, and assholes who are likely hung like field mice driving obnoxiously lifted trucks with monster truck-sized tires. I wait until some kind soul waves me on, taking pity on the mom trying to leave the daycare parking lot. I’m grateful for these people, I truly am. Living in New Jersey, the percentage of decent, courteous drivers on the road is about 10%. I’m 100% pulling this estimate from my own asshole, but after driving these roads for all of my adult life, I’m absolutely a credible resource.

The asshole on the radio mentions an accident on my route and I know the drill, I’ll be delayed by at least 30 minutes, which now makes my ride an awesome hour and a half. Already, I can see that Assholes will be the perpetuating theme of today.

“Fuck meeeeeee.” I grumble.

Chapter Two

I’ve never been diagnosed as bipolar, and can generally get through the day in a somewhat stabilized state of bleh, but my love-hate relationship with my commute to work might have medical professionals suggesting otherwise. The love part of the relationship is basically me accepting that driving alone to and from work is as close to Me Time as I’ll get, and I’m sure as hell going to take it. The hate part comes into play when I have to share the road with idiot drivers, and those fuckers are everywhere.

Then there’s that wishy-washy part in between the love and hate, the gray area where the numbness is overwhelming and I long to be in a flimsy but semi-debilitating car accident. One where I could enjoy a week off nursing minor internal injuries in the comfort of a hospital and free from the burdens of life.

Wishing for an accident? Really, Rae?

The rest and relaxation combined with waitress service, unlimited TV, and strong medication delights just about every sense I have, except the sexy one. And with the way I’m feeling anymore, it’s a trade-off I’m willing to make.

Rush hour traffic in New Jersey rates among the worst in the country and Route 202 can be quite maddening for your daily commuter, ranking way above average in its ability to give someone asphalt-induced chest palpitations.

But it can also be lovely even, dare I say, breathtaking at times. The road straddles picturesque farm country within the central portion of the state and is loaded with historical red barns, tidy rows of corn, rolling hills for as far as the eye can see, and the pungent, eye-watering stink of cow shit. Misty morning drives can be soothing and serene, even for those with nerves like mine, so beyond fried they resemble the inside of a charred oven after a self-clean cycle.

Today is one of those gorgeous misty morning drives. It takes a total of six minutes to shift from Hyper-Mom Mode to cool, calm, and collected mom in Drive Mode. The first five of those six minutes are spent on mental and physical re-adjustments. Myles drove the car last night to pick up dinner so every ergonomic seat function needs to be reset back to my liking.

Seriously? I have to reset this dumbass seat again?

How someone could have such a delicate skeletal structure and need to make such minute and specific adjustments when driving a roundtrip total of 14 minutes to pick up Chinese food is a concept that’s beyond my ability to grasp. As an admitted car junkie, he can’t help himself. It’s not physically possible for him to get in a car and just drive, he needs to experience every feature, like a 48 year old sugar junkie in a candy shop.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for superior comfort and getting the most of a driving experience, assuming the drive takes longer than 20 minutes. And since my car doesn’t come equipped with memory seat settings, I find myself re-adjusting this goddamn seat entirely way too often. I just don’t need the incremental menial tasks, there’s not enough gas in my own tank for that kind of nonsense.

Fully adjusted physically, I transfer my focus to the radio. I cruise through the XM channels, stopping at the 80s on 8 station. The synthesized music from this time period is my lifeline and has carried me over countless road miles.

I catch Madonna’s “Express Yourself” near the beginning, throw the volume knob over hard right, and soak in all the fond memories that come with it.

“Don’t go for second best, baby. Put your love to the test.”

Fuck yeah.

It’s a song that immediately rockets me back 30 years to a childhood summer. Back when being a dedicated pool rat was my number one care in the world. My second most important tween-age objective that summer was a massive, go-big-or-go-home friendship bracelet. It used every single embroidery thread I owned, was about 24 knots wide, and easily the biggest bracelet I’d completed in all of my almost 12 years on the planet. I intended on giving it to Johnny Carroll on the first day of school to remind all of the 6th grade girls to back off and that we were still going steady. Life was good. My biggest dilemma was over-chlorinated skin and eyes, and finding the time to put on moisturizing lotion. Other than constantly looking like a sky high alligator with killer greenish-blond, pool water-induced highlights, life was better than I ever imagined it could be.

My inner songstress wakes up from a diva-like slumber and I take the opportunity to roll down the windows and sing way too loud for someone with only an average singing voice, and I don’t give a Garden State flippity fuck who hears me. Traffic is stop and go, and once the song is over my mood deflates a bit. My thoughts drift back to Myles and I instantly get that free-falling feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Ugh. Here comes the familiar feeling of guilt for not being a happier wife and mother. No, wait a sec. This feels a touch angrier. Or maybe it is guilt, guilt sprinkled with aggravation that’s ready to detonate. Yeah, that feels about right. Continue on...

Admittedly, I’m so consumed with doing everything for everyone else that I’ve pretty much stopped putting effort into my marriage. I only have so much energy, patience, love, and flippity fucks to give to get me through each day. I can’t even handle the additional effort it takes to adjust my freaking car seat without getting severely rattled. The exertion required to take care of this family and maintain our lifestyle feels like a goliath black hole with gravitational acceleration so significant, one can only hope for an exaggerated fender-bender to break away from its grasp and take a much needed time out. Adding Fix a Marriage to an ever-growing to-do list would require a more serious accident, a longer hospital stay, and some extended short-term disability.

You could be a little less dramatic, no?

My subconscious, typically the rational one, seems to think there’s still some length left to my proverbial rope. And in this specific case, it would be wrong. To put it simply, I do for others almost every waking minute of the day. In contrast, Myles comes home, sits on the couch, waits to be served dinner, and makes sure the couch cushions are kept at precisely 98.6 degrees for another three hours. I can only imagine the shock and disorder that would follow if I, too, resigned from my household and motherly duties, released the rope entirely, and became a professional couch warmer.

The resentment is palpable, and increasingly debilitating. I’m annoyed with him for what feels like 95% of the time and for no less than 14 separate reasons, and it’s not healthy. Nor am I blameless. My expectations have ratcheted themselves into orbit and I can’t seem to find my chill-the-fuck-out button. Our relationship has certainly taken a backseat to Jess and work, and all of the activities in between that make up life. It’s a helluva lot easier to bicker back and forth or ignore each other, whichever option seems best at the time. And while we’re both guilty of it, I don’t think either one of us is ready to throw in the towel.

Myles and I weren’t always so bitter towards each other. Our story started off like any other, we met online and found happiness like we never knew was possible. It felt like we had struck pure boy-meets-girl gold. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the handsome photo that caught my eye. What reeled me in like a hooked fish was a list of his three favorite things on his profile page. The very first item listed was hopelessly boring (Yawn...), his iPod. At the time, it seemed like 70% of eHarmony’s male customers between the ages of 35 and 45 listed iPod as one of their favorite things. It was grossly overused and not very creative, nor does it tell me a goddamn thing about a potential dating match.

The second favorite item he listed was Situational Awareness, not something you see everyday, but I instantly liked it. I’m acutely aware of my space and actions, and how they impact others, almost to the point of paranoia. I can’t grocery shop on a Saturday for fear of having a panic attack in the produce section. It amazes me that more than half of the weekend shoppers are seemingly able to drive to the store while observing motor vehicle laws, negotiate oncoming traffic, and park their cars without a problem in the store’s parking lot but they simply cannot manage to push a shopping cart down an aisle without royally fucking up aisle traffic. Food shopping effectively engages the same principles as driving, and I just don’t understand how people can be so absolutely clueless about their physical presence. I didn’t even know this man yet, but I gave him huge bonus points for having Situational Awareness be one of his favorite things.

Last was favorite item number three and easily the most intriguing: Orange juice with lots of pulp. My first reaction was pure disbelief (Who the hell likes pulp?). I didn’t know a single person in my little world within central New Jersey that likes to drink orange juice with pulp. Lots of pulp. But now I’m curious and want to know more. Myles, from Pennington, knowingly put this titillating piece of information out there, along with Situational Awareness. I sensed wit and character depth, a necessary prerequisite for any potential dating candidate, and immediately sent his profile a wink.

Our relationship had officially started with that one wink. We ping-ponged a few direct messages back and forth, one particularly witty message asking how I felt about polar bears and their recent change in migration patterns truly cemented my curiosity about him. As suspected, it turned out a wine buzz fueled the polar bear question and he was just being a wiseass. Nonetheless, it secured the hook in my lip and he proceeded to reel me in... click, click, click. Like two wild and crazy adults, we decided to be reckless and skip the next eHarmony-guided step, the dreaded phone conversation. I knew I’d only fuck it up with nervous tongue-tied nonsense and inaudibles, and told him as much, so we agreed to meet in person instead.

During that first date, it took me all of seven seconds to realize he was a true gentleman, one that showed promised panty-dropping maturity. Maybe it was the black sport coat with the white button down shirt, the amazing smile, or the childhood story about a canoe, a rogue oar, and reviving a frog that was bonked unconscious, but I was smitten after that night. He too, and apparently missed his highway exit by not one, but two exits while driving home.

Our first kiss wasn’t until the third date, a relentless mood-killing cough at the most inopportune moment prohibited it from happening on date number two. Date number three had to be the big kiss otherwise that magic moment loses the all-important magic. The act itself no longer becomes a sexy, physical introduction but rather a task to check off of a list, and it definitely brings the relationship momentum to an almost unsalvageable and grinding halt.

I was taking every precaution to make sure this spark didn’t burn out. To start, I strapped on my coveted multi-colored snakeskin heels and paired them with a classy outfit worthy of an InStyle cover photo shoot. I wasn’t afraid to bring out the big guns to help secure date night success, but bitchass shoes and a fetch outfit weren’t going to do it alone. A recovery plan like this required liquid reinforcement as well, so I stashed an emergency bottle in my handbag, a maneuver I learned in college and was clearly not ready to let go at the ripe age of 35.

In the end, our evening took us through a delightful Italian dinner accompanied by an even better Italian wine. Somewhere between my third and fourth glass of wine I confessed to bringing a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, which Myles found highly amusing. We popped the cork back at his house and spent the next two hours walking around his neighborhood, bubbly in hand, talking about any and everything.

The third date kiss was worth the wait. Before parting ways we engaged in a severely cringe-worthy, totally awkward but necessary, ten seconds of good-bye conversation before the actual lean-in. First kisses are rarely picture perfect, and that’s where our awkwardness ended. The truth was, I hadn’t been kissed like that in years. It wasn’t a typical hard-to-watch prime time reality show tongue wrestle. This was so much better.

His right hand creeped up behind my neck, fingers laced slowly through my hair then gripped firmly, ever so slightly kissing me harder, as if to take hold of what was rightfully his and say “It’s about time”. His primal approach was unexpected, sexy beyond belief, and sent shockwaves straight to my pidgey. But this wasn’t a one night stand, it was something foundationally solid that had potential to go far. My pidge was desperate to play with something not requiring batteries, but despite experiencing the sexiest kiss I’ve had in 20 years, I wasn’t about to kick off my panties, get horizontal, and possibly screw it up.

The dates continued, and it was clear we were both in the relationship for the right reasons. The heat was building, it was now July in New Jersey, where hazy, hot, and humid are the only words used to describe the weather. In our case, we added a 4th H-word: Hard. The summer swelter acted like a relationship catalyst and launched us into hyper Get-To-Know-You Mode. We couldn’t keep our hands off one another. Date nights started out at classy restaurants with $200 bottles of wine and ended with kinky debauchery and mornings where my legs could barely carry me to my car.

We fell into a date night routine where I’d conveniently forget to wear panties underneath my dress and he’d pretend he’d want to go for a walk after our meal. We sprinkled our self-indulgent, dessert-like banging sessions all over alley ways, parking garages, neighborhoods, park benches, parking lots, and the University campus. And when the weather got cold, we started skipping the walks and snuck into the men’s room at whatever restaurant we were dining at.

The first time Myles suggested a joint trip to the loo was more of a dare, and being a total rule follower, I was feeling shy. He flashed that grin and ordered us both a shot of tequila for courage. The devilish smile, tequila, and knowing I’d get seven inches of the most glorious hardness a man has to offer had won me over.

Hot sex up against an ice cold tile wall only heightens the nerve senses, and both of us came quickly. I walked out of the restaurant with a huge smile on my face and cum dripping down the inside of my leg, all while feeling like a million bucks. The excitement of being desired, loved, and spiritually matched to this man was something I’ve never experienced before.

I was high on life and it wasn’t just about incredible sex. Myles was everything I looked for: Witty, morally-rooted, and classically chivalrous. In a world where women are demanding control and equality in all aspects of life, I wanted tradition and a relationship where I can fully appreciate a man’s masculinity. I didn’t want the over the top, New Jersey guido who worships his biceps, owns a GlowBro 5000 tanning bed, and spends more time looking in the mirror than I do. I wanted the classy, self-confident man who likes to follow current events, holds open doors, and thinks his woman should have pretty things.

It’s so sensual to think about how a man courts a woman, a seductive dance done right ensures every moment is savored. We’d have deep discussions over cabernet and creme bruleé, if that’s what the night called for, or go loco with tequila shots and buffalo wings. He took the time to learn who I was. Not just how to apply the perfectly pressured circles right above my clit, but cerebral things like why I cry at happy news stories, or how to spot signs of an oncoming migraine with body positioning, squinted eyes, and lack of conversation.

One morning I thought I was coming down with a cold and he brought me thick socks to put on. I was already wearing dress socks, but they weren’t warm enough. And he was right, I needed to get warm. The caring wasn’t oppressive, it was the right suggestions at the right time. Being a multi-dimensional thinker was important to me, the ying and the yang. Someone who is one-dimensional is either fatally boring or an extreme liability, there’s no in between.

Strong, profound relationships don’t happen by chance. The contributing factors that support a healthy relationship are so often learned from experiences with previous fucktards, and the emotional pain, dumbing-down, and adult-like babysitting that comes with it. Ours was no different. Myles and I both were fresh from divorcing our less-than significant others, surfacing with a need to find someone truly worthwhile. Both of us had experienced the single scene for long enough that the word ‘rebound’ didn’t register as a potential threat. We were focused on how to properly appreciate someone and to recognize past mistakes while adjusting to avoid future relationship fuck-ups. He was learning to love someone who had a soul and not a material checklist while I was learning to love a responsible and honest man instead of a party boy.

So many powerful lessons previously learned between the two of us that for a long time we felt invincible to the common relationship woes. Never in a million years would Myles come home late at night with skanky glitter still stuck on his neck from a lap dance or with mysterious dents appearing on his car because he drove home blotto for the thousandth time. Just the comfort of those thoughts alone would have been enough for me to say “yes” when Myles asked for my hand in marriage. Naturally, he absolutely has short-comings, but I could look past the relentless and repeated pun jokes, and lack of having any basic home maintenance skills outside of plunging a toilet. I was all in, till death do us part, and beyond.

Deep discussions during those getting-to-know-you cabernet-filled nights had occasionally led to the topic of motherhood. At the time I was nearing 36, while true my biological clock was ticking, I wasn’t necessarily paying a lick of attention to it. I never latched (Pun definitely intended!) on to the idea of being a mom. Maybe my apprehension started with the first husband, knowing all of the responsibilities a baby would bring would ultimately take down the marriage, so I just avoided it.

But then came Myles, and so came conflicting thoughts on which path to take. Do we indulge in life as adults, keep climbing our respective corporate ladders, and spend stupid amounts of money on dining, travel, house, and cars? After all, we were both nearing the top of the age bracket for being active and engaged parents. Or do we take advantage of a beautiful gift that Mother Nature has to offer and possibly create a little monkey of our own that has his butt chin and my hammer toes?

We simply couldn’t decide, the potential regret of making a piss poor decision plagued us. As newlyweds, we did what any decision-avoider would do and handed our fate to the stars while pitching my birth control out the window. The stars RSVP’d about three weeks later on a fine autumn Sunday when Myles and I were indulging in a little afternoon delight, reverse cowgirl style. It was this particular rodeo where Myles and I became pregnant. I cried like a baby reading that damn pee stick. Then I peed on a second stick just to make sure it was correct and cried some more.

I felt like hell on fire the entire ten hours leading up to the pee stick moment, and had myself convinced I was super hungover from throwing a Halloween party the night before. All signs pointed in that direction; near-vomiting queasiness paired with the sweats, exaggerated body aches, and a pounding headache, all reinforcing a half-assed promise to never drink again.

Earlier in the afternoon, I attempted a McDonald’s resuscitation with a double quarter pounder with cheese, large fry, and a diet coke. When the 2,000 calories of heart attack-inducing loveliness didn’t make me feel any better, I started to think maybe I had caught some sort of feverless flu. Every piece of my body hurt, including my scalp from slightly snagging my hair on a zipper pull earlier that morning. The lousiness I was feeling didn’t make sense. Despite throwing the best Halloween party ever, I never reached Rock Star Mode because I was playing hostess, so technically I couldn’t be THAT hungover. But holy smokes, did I feel like the floor of a New Jersey Transit bus.

Slowly, I started putting the fertilization pieces together. Since when did a trip to McDonald’s ever fail to cure me from my hangover? The answer to that was never. In all of my 20 year relationship with alcohol, McDonald’s was the no-fail cure-all. Every. Single. Time. And why the hell was my scalp still throbbing? The hair snag was ridiculously minor. And, (Oh shit!) why has my period been spotty over the last ten days? And that’s when the dim light bulb went off over my head.

Cue the tears, because life as I knew it was over. No more wine, no more life-threatening amounts of coffee, and even sex got weird quick. Wanting a hard and fast, animalistic doggy style session seemed like a serious conflict of interest when you’re pregnant. And once I started to show, it got even worse. But I stayed positive and focused on preparing for my role as a mom, after all, I couldn’t wait to meet her.

Like most new moms, once Jess was born I went bat-shit, postpartum crazy. Times were tough, emotions were unstable and mixed, but we got through it day by every-single-nipple-leaking day. I slowly acquiesced into motherhood and kissed my former, sexually-satisfied adult life good-bye. Even though I was endlessly amazed on an hourly basis at a little drooling ball of pudge and spit-up, I missed what Myles and I had like peanut butter misses jelly. But alas, the honeymoon was over. By the time the toddler years rolled around, we had become that constantly bickering couple we forever swore we wouldn’t be.

It’s becoming harder and harder to remember what we used to be like, what we can still be like. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. The wrinkles and sunspots are fine, well maybe not fine, but not the end of the world either. It’s the anger, frustration, and resentment that’s tearing me apart inside resulting in a ferocious furrowed brow and resting bitch face. I hate feeling like I’m on the verge of insanity at any given moment.

I’m not looking to recapture the life filled with ultimate freedom and the exhibition style we once had, but I would like some of it back, dammit. We’ve still got the raw ingredients to bring this relationship back together. I’m about to turn 42 years old and what I want for my birthday is to reclaim the old me, to engage in a Strategic Mode and figure out a plan on how to get my sanity and my man back. I want a bit of my old self back, and Myles and I back to good.

As I navigate my way through the bowels of New Jersey’s pharmaceutical country, I ponder the different ways to go about reconnecting with Myles. It’s exhilarating to think of potential opportunities that may lie ahead, but also downright scary to think that whatever masterplan I come up with could also lead to the mother of all rejections; Divorce.

What if Myles isn’t feeling as convalescent as I am?

The reality is that we have not been in a good place for a very long time. The thought of us failing in marriage triggers my gut into a Great American Scream Machine-worthy free-fall, and the ride deposits me right into a swamp of major uncertainty. The stench of it radiates failure.

Get your shit together, Rachael West.

This isn’t going to be a walk on the beach. Without some sort of responsibility pause button that resembles a hospital stay, I’ll be pushing myself past my normal RPM redlining efforts, if that’s even possible. But I have to at least try. Sometimes I think it would be easier to just keep our status quo, ignore the obvious and glaring funk that’s screwing up our marriage, and go buy myself a new Marc Jacobs bag for my birthday. But then again, nothing worthwhile comes easy.