Free The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir by Annette Fix

rice, stewed tomatoes, diced green chilies, black olives, and jack cheese. I preheated the oven to 350 degrees and set the timer for forty minutes.
    I'd have just enough time to get ready for work, eat dinner and cake with the boys, and go.

    I took another lap around the club and scoped out the prospects for my next private dance campaign. December was always a busy month, no matter what night of the week. Husbands would tell their wives they were going out Christmas shopping, then spend thirty minutes in the mall and three hours at the local strip club.
    I checked the time on my cell phone and decided to call Josh before it got too much later. It was too noisy out on the floor, so I wandered into the back dressing room.
    “Hey Wonderboy, I'm just calling to say goodnight and make sure you brushed your teeth.” I dug a mint out of the Altoids tin in my moneybox and popped it into my mouth.
    “Not yet. I'm having another piece of my cake and watching Dogma , but it's almost over. Is work good?”
    “I'm really busy, it's slammed tonight. I can barely keep up with all the drink orders.”
    One of the dancers touching up her makeup turned to me and raised her eyebrows.
    The curtain into the dressing room parted as Brandy pawed her way through it, her thin, bleached hair disheveled by the heavy velvet folds.
    “Fuckin’ clumsy sonofabitch!” She staggered and almost fell. “He tried to grab my tit and spilled his whole fuckin’ beer on me.” She stopped in the middle of the room to use the wadded dress in her hand to wipe the wetness from the large tattoo on her stomach.
    I motioned with my hand for her to keep her voice down and pointed to the phone pressed against my ear.
    Brandy scowled at me and reached out to steady herself with the edge of the makeup counter. She missed and stumbled into me, directing her crimson mouth less than six inches from my phone. “We're all fuckin’ strippers, nobody's fuckin’ quiet. It's a strip club. Fuckin’ deal with it.”
    I backed her into the wall of lockers and held the cell phone against my bare abdomen. “Shut up,” I hissed in an angry whisper, “It's my son.” I glared at Brandy and walked away.
    I stepped into a bathroom stall, closed the door behind me, and lifted the phone to my ear. “Hey Wonderboy, you still there?”
    “What was that all about?” he asked, a sharp edge to his voice.
    “Just some girl. She's drunk.”
    “I guess so.”
    There was an awkward silence.
    “Well, I have to get back to work. Don't stay up too late. I love you,” I said, struggling to sound as if nothing had happened.
    “I won't. See you in the morning, love you too.”
    I slammed open the stall door and went looking for Brandy. I found her perched precariously on one of the wooden stools in the makeup area.
    “What the fuck were you thinking?” I yelled. “That was my son. And he thought I was a cocktail waitress until you opened your big mouth.”
    “Well, fuck, you shouldn't be on the phone with your kid back here. What the fuck did you expect? Get over it, so now he knows. Big deal.” She shrugged and looked away.
    I wanted to reach out and choke the stupidity out of her. “Unbelievable,” I said, turning on the heel of my platform stilettos.
    I brushed through the velvet curtain. Four hours left in the shift.
    Happy thirteenth birthday, son. Just thought you should know, Mommy is a stripper.

    homeschool park days
    Thursday, December 13

    “What if they're all weird?” Josh's anxiety overflowed in his tone.
    “I talked to the mom who organizes the group. She seemed really nice. I'm sure the kids will be nice too.” I guided the car up the 57 Freeway toward the community park in Brea.
    Josh squirmed in his seat. “Just because they're nice doesn't mean they won't be weird.”
    When we pulled into the lot, I parked my sporty little convertible in a line of minivans and SUVs. It reminded me of a kindergarten worksheet: Which Object Does Not Belong? Maybe Josh had