Free Dolls Behaving Badly by Cinthia Ritchie Page B

everything except the bourbon, cheese, and milk into a large casserole dish, adding enough milk
     to cover noodles. Splash with bourbon and spread cheese over top. Cook at 350˚ for 40 minutes. Eat with a large glass of wine.
     Serves two sad and frustrated sisters plus one greedy dog.

Lesson Three
Can You See Abundance in This Picture?
    At some point during the diary-writing process you will be hit with an insight that forces you to see things as they really
     are. Once this happens, you’ll never be able to go back and see things as you used to. Be forewarned—change isn’t a party
     dress. It doesn’t always flatter your life. But like a London Fog raincoat, it will keep you warm and dry.
    —The Oprah Giant

Chapter 6
    Wednesday, Nov. 2
    “DID YOU CALL HIM YET?” Sandee asked as we fake-smoked during a cig dig outside of Mexico in an Igloo. A stingy inch of snow covered the ground,
     and the air was crisp and cold.
    “Call?”
    “The god, you know, the Swedish guy.”
    “Norwegian,” I corrected. Then I sighed. “I doubt he even remembers. He was just being nice.”
    “Yeah,” Sandee snorted. “Guys are so nice . They leave their numbers for the hell of it.” She looked at me sharply. “When was the last time you fucked someone, Carla?
     Can you even remember?”
    I opened my mouth to answer, but she waved her finger in my face. “And don’t you dare say Barry—he doesn’t count.”
    Well, I couldn’t remember, that was the thing. Sex with Barry was fierce and angry and intense, but it certainly wasn’t deep.
     It didn’t startle my soul. Afterward I sometimes sat in front of the refrigerator and ate whatever was handy: cheese slices
     or lettuce dipped in mustard or Jell-O scooped up with my hands. I wasn’t hungry but I had to eat. I ached inside. And the
     few men I’ve seen since my divorce have been insipid and vague. Sex with them was like watching a rerun, everything dulled
     and lacking in surprise or wonder. Right after I left Barry, when I still felt adventurous and brave, I had an affair with
     the Mighty Muffler man. When I dropped the car off I told the young man (and he was young, sweet Jesus, barely legal) that
     I didn’t care what he did, to just fix the goddamned thing. I was crying by then, and Dave (his name stitched across his pocket
     in blue letters) patted my head as if I were a dog.
    “There, there,” he murmured, offering me a soiled rag pulled from his pants. “We’ll have her ready by five.”
    What is it about a sad woman that melts a particular kind of man’s heart? When I picked up the car, Dave slipped me his phone
     number. I swore I wouldn’t call but two nights later I broke down and did just that. We went at it on the couch, the dishwasher
     turned on to drown our sounds. Afterward, I cried again, but Dave didn’t mind. He had grown up in a family of sisters, so
     he was used to a woman’s tears.
    “Baby,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Poor sweet baby.”
    But he was just a kid, barely out of high school. When he invited me over to play video games with a bunch of his buddies,
     I knew I had to cut the cord. Still, he was such a nice, tender man. Boy. Man-boy. I still have his Midas shirt tucked in
     my dresser drawer. Sometimes I take it out and trace his name over and over, the curve of the D, the jut of the V, the clever
     jaunt of the E.
    I didn’t love him. I was too raw and hurt at the time. But I needed to believe that someone loved me. And he did, I think,
     his fingers lingering against my skin as if learning the shape of my cells. He was the last one, almost three years ago. He
     was the last one that filled me up.
Letter #4
    Ms. Carlita Richards
    202 W. Hillcrest Drive, #22
    Anchorage, AK 99503
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