Page 3 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
Audra sighs. “You know I would, but I have clients until nine tonight and then again early in the morning. But we’re having tacos and margs on Friday, right?”
“Yeah, but that’s days away still.”
She just laughs. “Wow, you really had a shitty day, huh? You’re never this whiny.”
I can’t help laughing with her. “You have no idea how shitty.”
“I’m sorry, babe. Look, I’ve gotta go, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”
“Fine,” I moan, perhaps somewhat melodramatically. “Go be more important than me.”
She just laughs again. “God, you’re being ridiculous. Drink some wine and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Kay-bye,” I say, turning it into one word.
“Bye!” she calls in a singsong.
I haven’t had dinner, and I’m going to end up drinking this whole bottle of wine and eating the entire bag of popcorn but hell, after the day I’ve had, I don’t even care. It’s Skinny Pop, so it’s not THAT bad, right? And they say red wine is good for you…
Honestly, at this point, I don’t even need an excuse.
As I try to relax by catching up on Facebook, my mind begins to wander, and I think back on the past couple of years. Nicholas stopped looking at me as an object of attraction roughly fourteen months ago. Actually, fourteen months, three weeks, and two days ago. And…four hours.
How do I know, down to the hour, when my husband—ex-husband—stopped desiring me?
Because it was fourteen months, three weeks, two days, and four hours ago that I had my last miscarriage after our third and final attempt at IVF. Close to $60,000 in fertility treatments and medications—debt which I bear almost entirely. We tried for years to get pregnant. Countless doctor appointments. Funny positions, lying with my legs in the air for half an hour after lackluster sex with my distracted husband, shots, pills, transvaginal ultrasounds which I attended alone…
After that last miscarriage, Nicholas just checked out. He stopped looking at me. Stopped seeing me at all, much less seeing me as a woman, as his wife, as his friend, even less as a woman with sexual appeal.
He reserved all that attention for Tanya, his secretary. Clichéd, but true. He’s an associate principal at the local high school, and he has his own secretary. Tanya is a twenty-two-year-old, size-three, fake D-cup, community college drop-out, who apparently has a thing for forty-four-year-old balding, overweight, associate principals with a low sex drive, lower sperm count, and a twenty-four-hour refractory period.
With those thoughts running through my head, I notice I’ve already finished my first glass of wine, and think about what I’m going to watch on Netflix. I take my iPad with me to the kitchen and pour another glass of wine. I can’t decide between season four of The Tudors, and the latest Ali Wong special, so I scroll through my Instagram feed for a minute.
My cousin Sheila and her husband are having a baby—woohoo for them.
My favorite reality star is in Tahiti, drinking rum and looking fit and fabulous—I mean, she has a six pack and guns, and she’s older than me. No fair.
Nicholas’s sister is posting a series of selfie-stories, mostly loops of her posing at the gym—she’s a personal trainer, and I followed her on the idea that it would motivate me to get in shape, but instead it just makes me feel even more lacking and unmotivated.
Bloody Hell. Why do I do this? Why do I go on here when all it does is make me feel like shit?
I’m about to close out the app when an ad catches my attention.
Instead of a fitness model, it’s a photo of burly, tattooed, sexy male arm holding a wrench, about to tighten a pipe under a sink.
There’s a caption with it:
Dad Bod Contracting—for ALL your domestic contracting needs. Have a leaky faucet or clogged disposal? Need a new patio with intricate paving designs? Want your garage transformed into a yoga studio? Dad Bod Contracting has you COVERED. Our clean, well-mannered, and friendly professionals pride themselves on attention to detail. Every job comes with a 100% customer SATISFACTION guarantee. No job is too small. Hand us your “honey-do” list and we’ll get it done, and we’ll look good doing it! A good job well done is one phone call away, so call Dad Bod Contracting today!
There’s a phone number with a local area code, and an email address.
I have zero dollars, I remind myself.
Not true—I have just enough in the bank to pay the mortgage, utilities, and buy exactly $126 worth of groceries.
The kitchen window will cost more than $126 to fix, guaranteed.
I have just under two grand available on my credit card, though. That is meant for emergencies, and I’ve been trying to pay that down rather than put more on it.
But it’s going to rain, and I have to at least get a board or a tarp on that window until it can be properly fixed.
