The Midlife Rampage of a Minivan Mom

By C J Doyle

Karen Cuthbertson – mother of three, fighter of cellulite and wrinkles, defender of all things domestic - finds herself on the run after waking up in the body of a curvaceous twenty something after a scuffle.
While the small waistline is a nice touch, the thugs with weapons, the cute dick (as in private detective)trailing her and the thousands she owes in forged checks is not!
Before, her biggest problem was getting her boys to aim at the toilet while peeing, now she's praying those bad guys with guns can't shoot straight.
Can Karen keep the loan sharks at bay, the dead bodies out of her car and her new young body alive long enough to find a way back home and into her own body?

• Language: English
• Publisher: C J Doyle
• Release date: Jul 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476026572

C J Doyle

C.J. Doyle is a former televison broadcaster who gave up the spotlight for the glow of her computer screen. After writing "serious" books for years, she finally succumbed to her friends' requests that she write something funny and she's not going back.

Book preview

THE MIDLIFE RAMPAGE OF A MINIVAN MOM

by

C.J. Doyle

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY

C.J. Doyle on Smashwords

The MidLife Rampage of a MiniVan Mom

Copyright © 2012-by-Cheryl Doyle Lewallen

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Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this e-book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. This will ensure the writer is able to continue producing many books for many years. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, or places, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Adult Reading Material

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Author Acknowledgement

My deepest thanks, love and gratitude to several friends who have travelled this writing journey with me for almost fifteen years. First to Celeste Bradley and Beth Pattillo who spent more hours than I can count helping me brainstorm and caring enough for me as a friend to put up with my angsting over this crazy writing business. I love you both, dearly. To Kris Fletcher, Renee Ryan, Dorien Kelly and the sisters of RWA who have helped form me as a writer and contributed on various levels to the making of this manuscript. To my husband, Mike, who picked up the slack during my many hours of writing and years of writers’ conferences. To Courtney and Davis who prepared more meals than they should have while I indulged my imagination. For Courtney, who helped me brainstorm final details of the plot (there is definately a writer brain in there, Court) and was able to identify that at the bottom of it all, this was a story about womens’ empowerment. To Kate Lewallen who gave this manuscript a final, very intelligent, comb through. A special thanks to Emma Wang who designed this fun book cover and Judy Ault, a blessed, great friend and PR extraordinare who taught me how and why I am Tweeting. To all aspiring writers everywhere. Keep writing. Keep pursuing your dream.

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To Mike, Courtney and Davis. May we never be separated for too long or have too many miles between us.

Chapter One

Mornings in the Cuthbertson household usually go one of two ways. Example one:

Teenage daughter, code name, Casey, descends the stairs in what her mother, code name, Me, thinks is a half-dressed state, only to discovered this is what she fully intends to wear to school.

Conversation ensues:

No, I say, aiming my peanut butter clad knife at her.

What? She tisks like she has no idea what I’m referring to because we’ve never had this conversation before.

First, you look...trampy. I plop the knife back into the jar and try not to get any on my skin because of my allergies. Second, you won’t get past the principle with that outfit.

Yeah. She rolls her eyes. I don’t have to worry about him. He never takes his eyes off the cheerleaders.

Thirdly, I continue, pretending I didn’t hear that last remark. It’s December in New Jersey, not summer in Florida. You can’t wear a shirt like that.

It’s not a shirt. It’s a top. Besides, I have a coat.

No, I say, resuming the careful patting of my six-year-old, J.J.’s, peanut butter sandwich. Get a blazer or something.

A blazer? She laughs.

This is where we officially reach the point in our conversation where I feel old. Who doesn’t know what a blazer is? Am I that much a product of the 90s? Blazers were a classic part of a woman’s wardrobe for years before Britney and Beyonce came along.

Whatever. I toss back one of Casey’s teenaged lines. Just get something on.

Casey turns then stomps toward the back steps. No fucking way.

At this point, my parent of a teenager gauge shoots from a one (annoyance) to a nine (extreme anger). I stab the knife into the peanut butter and take note that some has ended up on my knuckles.

Okay, I say. That’s it. I march toward her, hoping my show of temper will be enough to control Casey’s increasingly defiant behavior. You get home this afternoon and you’re grounded for the night.

Shut up, Mom. Casey laughs. You can’t ground me. That’s for little kids. I’m seventeen.

I tug her purse from her near naked shoulder.

What are you doing? she shrieks.

I tear open the Kate Spade knockoff I’d gotten her during my last trip into the city. I pull her keys out and jangle them in her face. You can take the bus until further notice.

My daughter’s face fades to white. You can’t do that to me! She lifts her chin to the sky and summons her favorite deity. Daaa-aad!

This is when she upsets me the most. The nerve of her calling for her father. What makes me angriest is she wouldn’t do it if it didn’t work. Frustrated, I brush my hair off my face, remembering the peanut butter on my hands.

Get the schoolbus, Casey. I walk away, but my fingers form little curling motions that would fit perfectly around her neck. My daughter has the ability to make me so mad that I could strangle her - and that scares me.

Enter said husband:

He’s dressed in a white shirt, navy Dior suit and a hand painted Gerry Garcia tie. He smells deliciously of soap. His closely cropped hair is still wet and combed back. I hate to admit it, but he looks 35 and I feel 55.

What’s going on? He sets his empty mug down on the kitchen island.

Mom took my keys from me.

Jason looks my way. I am suddenly ashamed that I have peanut butter in my hair and I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. I blow the hair off my cheek several times. As usual this takes effort because I have pretty unruly hair.

Karen, did you take her keys from her?

Damn straight. I try to jam a fruit cup into my six-year old’s thermal lunch box, but it won’t fit.

I have to pick up Hilary for school, you know. Casey rests a hand on her hip and sneers as if she’s already gotten her way.

My husband looks from his daughter to his wife as if he’s being forced to choose sides. Jason, I say using my mind reading technique, there is no side but your wife’s side!

Casey, Jason says. Go finish getting dressed.

But I am - she stops herself, realizing she can’t afford to alienate her only ally, then turns and heads back upstairs.

Jason. I start back on the fruit cup. I don’t care if she’s picking up Hillary Rodham Clinton for school. She’s not going to talk to me the way she just did and think she can get away with it.

But the boys do and you let them get away with it.

The boys tease me. She’s being mean-spirited and disrespectful and...just bitchy. Besides... I finally zip up the lunch box sans the fruit cup. Why am I defending my parenting to you? What happened to unified front? Why are you questioning my decisions about our daughter?

Do you see me discussing this in front of her? he said. This is a conversation between us.

It’s a conversation she sent you to have on her behalf, Jason. You’re fighting her battles with her mother for her.

I just think it’s a little extreme, he said. That’s all.

Well, maybe so, but I’m the one home all day to make these kinds of decisions. I hit the ‘on’ button on the coffee maker and it gurgles in reply. If you want to stay home with them be my guest. I would love that.

This is the on-going argument between us. It’s a habit neither of us seems to be able to escape. I hate myself for this. Usually the next line out of his mouth is, You couldn’t pay the electric bill on your income. Which always makes me really mad and then I usually say, You couldn’t afford the alimony payments. But today, we opt out because the scale has turned back down to about a five (annoyance) - and I’m thankful.

This is exactly the argument Casey usually waits for: the diversionary battle. If she can keep the scale at eight or above between us she can get her way. Most times, while we squabble she simply grabs her little keys or whatever she wants, then heads out on her happy way.

Not today.

She’s not getting the keys. I turn and walk up the steps toward my youngest son’s room, not feeling particularly proud I had the last word.

Family example two goes something like this:

I tiptoe into J.J.’s bedroom to wake him up since I will be driving him to his Montessori school in a half hour. Before I do, I stand for a moment to watch his sweet, round face and soft little lips as they melt into his faded Spongebob pillow.

J.J. was our pleasant surprise. He’s ten years younger than my middle son. I feared having another child close to 40 but now realize his unconditional acceptance of me is getting me through raising two teenagers. Alas, puppies grow up to be dogs, too. His teenage years will be here before you know it and he will hate me too. But for now, I’ll enjoy his fluffy sweetness.

I can hear my middle son, Marc, talking to himself in the shower. Marc will be sixteen next month. He takes lots of showers. They’re long ones. He also goes through lots of tissues but I try to ignore these facts.

Honey, I whisper into J.J.’s curls. Time to get up.

J.J. rolls over and smiles but keeps his eyes closed like he’s still asleep. He plays this trick all the time and most mornings I think it’s cute. But this morning, I have too many errands to run.

As I lean down to kiss his cheek, J.J. wraps his arm around my neck and pulls me down onto the pillow. Then J.J. lets go of my head and opens his eyes.

He screams.

I teeter and stumble back over his Wii.

What’s going on? Marc runs into the room naked and dripping wet. His voice cracks.

For Godsakes! I say. Put a towel over yourself.

J.J. is still screaming and pointing at me.

Marc’s eyes narrow. Holy Crap, Mom. You’ve got a disease.

J.J. is crying now, like he always does when he thinks I’m hurt.

I run into the boys’ bathroom and wipe the steam from the mirror. My face has swollen up like a pumpkin.

Mom’s gonna die! J.J. cries.

Stop it! I say to J.J.. I’m fine. I’ve had an allergic reaction to the peanut butter, that’s all. And I will be spending the day high on Benadryl now.

It looks pretty bad, Mom. Marc still stands naked and dripping. He puts his thumbs to his ears and hangs his tongue out of his mouth. Kind of like boil-face-mannnnnnnn! He crosses his eyes and comes at me with his fingers in the air. Water drips from his face. Boil-face-mannnnnn! Aaaahhhhh!

This gets J.J. laughing. Then the both of them make scary noises as they chase me out of the room.

Get dressed! Both of you, I yell, but I can’t hide the laughter in my voice.

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Afternoons are a continuation of the mornings. When you don’t work outside the home, you live a linear world. There’s no definition between work clothes or regular clothes, work friends or neighbors. The job description is all the same.

Mornings usually consist of dropping off J.J., then attending a weekly PTO meeting, or grocery shopping, then home to clean before the afternoon drive time begins. Today, I was supposed to be Christmas shopping. Since my allergic reaction made me feel like the creature from the black lagoon, I headed to my best-friend, Laynie Goldburg’s, instead.

Laynie’s life had been in a state of flux since she separated from Morty last year. Since then, she lost weight, redid her house, and her hair and was trying out different New Age things. She was meditating, talking about crystals like they were for something other than wearing to cocktail parties, and was experimenting with Tarot cards. Her rabbi was not happy.

In some ways, I envied Laynie this breakout period of her life. I couldn’t have mine for another ten years. I might die of asphyxiation from dirty laundry before then.

Apparently, part of my dear friend’s new found lease on life was to paint her door and shutters purple, because that’s what she was doing when I drove into her driveway.

Isn’t the neighborhood association gonna have your butt for that? I asked. Amidst the snow, Laynie had set up workhorses and plywood where she stood in her sneakers painting.

Not when you’re screwing their president. She looked up at me and smiled. What happened to you?

Just an allergic reaction. I took some Benadryl. I looked at the shutters. Why are you doing this?

She set the paintbrush on top of the can. My therapist says I can’t heal unless I forgive Morty. If that’s the case, then I’m still in the ‘fuck you’ stage, so I’m putting purple on my house. Purple is the color of high spirituality.

O-kay. I stopped asking for clearer definitions from Laynie years ago and just went with her most times.

Want some tea? she said.

Sure.

Laynie carefully opened the door. I followed her over the purple stained newsprint then tiptoed into her foyer and slipped off my coat. On the floor was an odd looking, wrought iron doorknocker. I walked around to view it from another angle. Is that what I think it is?

Yep, she said, wiping her hands. It’s a cast iron penis. Isn’t it faboo? My girls will probably have a fit when they come home for Hanukah and see it, but I don’t care. They’re in college now and if they don’t know what a penis looks like yet, well, that’s not my problem. She reached down and lifted the penis up by the, well, penis. Then she knocked furiously. Isn’t it a great conversation piece?

You might lose dates over that one.

The funny thing is the doorbell’s broken. Laynie laughed. I’m thinking I won’t fix it either.

We got our mugs and sank down into Laynie’s brand new couches. They were white and overstuffed and to die for. The white too, was a middle finger to Morty, since he would never let her get anything lighter than brown. Brown wears well, he used to say.

I took a long sip of the hot tea then looked down. A photo of my children sat on her coffee table. I picked up the picture, which was set in a heavy, wrought iron frame and smiled. The picture had been taken at my stepfather’s summer home on the shore. Casey had been eleven then, her cheeks were baby plump and she still liked me. Marc was nine and had decided he wanted to grow his hair out. But Marc’s curls quite literally grew out and not down, so in the photo with his sun-bleached locks, he was looking a bit like Albert Einstein on sunscreen. J.J. had barely been a year then. He was sitting naked on a towel and none too happy about the humiliating exercise his siblings had just put him through. The poor child had been rolled in sand like a breaded chicken breast. Just as Casey and Marc happily held up their baby brother for the photo, J.J. let out a wail that revealed his tiny pink tonsils. That year, I had made the photo into a holiday card and to this day, I haven’t been able to get a photo as cute as this one.

My shoulders relaxed as I looked at it. My kids had only been in school for forty minutes and already I missed them.

Laynie looked around her living room with a satisfied grin. Now that I’m almost finished getting the house the way I want it, I have to start thinking of what I’m going to do for the rest of my life.

The room really did look nice. Even the crystals she had disbursed on windowsills and tables to allegedly ‘clear the air’ made things seem homey. The walls were a soft green and everything was light and feminine. All chenille and cotton. This revenge stage looked gratifying.

If I managed to have one room in my house stay clean for more than two days I was doing well.

I set the photo down at an angle that allowed me to see the kids. What about your acting career? Before Laynie got pregnant and dropped out of college, she was studying to be an actress. Frankly, she would have made a great stand up comedienne.

Laynie laughed. Honey, the best I could hope for is to be William Shatner’s arm candy. He’s about the only one in Hollywood who might think I was young enough for him.

That’s not true, I giggled. I hear David Hasselhoff’s on the market.

Nooooo. She slid a bowl of chocolates my way. I can’t date a guy who’s had more plastic surgery than me. She popped a candy into her mouth. That would be just gross.

Well, if I was on the market, I snuggled up with one of her pillows. I’d have to date Barney. We have the same asses.

Laynie and I have known each other too long to spend time on false compliments. She laughed and said, I can loan you my purple paint. That might be kinda kinky.

She set her tea on the table and lay back onto her pillows. Yawning, she flipped off her shoes and stared up at the ceiling. When we hung out like this, it was like we were in college again, talking to each other late at night in the dorm room.

You know, Laynie eventually said. The key is to find them a little older. Then they really appreciate you.

If you find them much older, you’ll be cruising the nursing homes, Laynie. Morty was a decade older than you and look what happened, I said. Aren’t there any men out there who’re our age who just want to be with an equal?

Not in our circles, apparently. They need to trade down, so-to-speak.

What about younger men who appreciate older women? I said.

Laynie lifted her head off her pillow to look over at me. A freak of nature. It really doesn’t happen. Then she sighed. Though, really, I would make a great cougar wouldn’t I?

My Benadryl high was kicking in. I settled back onto my pillow and felt my jaw slacken.

So, you going to Madeline and Robert’s Christmas extravaganza tonight? Laynie asked.

It took me a moment to respond, since my brain was getting foggy. I have to. Are you going?

I’m a pagan now, I don’t celebrate Christmas or Hanukah.

Which was Laynie’s way of saying she had been crossed off the Maddyworld guest list because she was no longer part of a married couple. My heart pinched for her.

Then I’m not going! I said.

You have to go, it’s a company party. It would make Jason look bad.

It was always about that, wasn’t it? Like I was a fifties wife boosting up my Madman.

I went silent a while and so did she. This was the sticky part of her being single. She was slowly being carved out of this social network we’d had for years. I was angry, but couldn’t control what someone else chose to do. Though, truth be told, I was also a little ashamed at myself for still being part of it. This was not how I imagined my life and friends turning out. Striving, upwards, and a afraid of losing what we have gained seemed a desperate place to be in.

I bet Morty is invited, Laynie eventually said.

No way. I pushed myself up to a half seated position. You’re the one who brought him into that circle. They were your friends in college and they’re still your friends. Even to me my voice sounded false.

Yeah, but Morty’s one of their big accounts in the law firm now.

Because of you. Besides, Madeline doesn’t like him.

Yeah, well, she said. Madeline doesn’t like anyone, which is the reason she has so many large parties. That way she doesn’t really have to talk to anyone. Laynie paused for a moment, then a deliciously evil glint appeared in her eyes. Remember last year when someone spilled that Cosmopolitan on her brand new white couch? I thought she was gonna have a coronary.

Ummm. My stomach rumbled and I felt my face flush. That was me.

Laynie darted up from her prone position. What?! Ohmygod, that was you? Why didn’t you tell me?

I lay back down onto the pillow. I was trying to slide through the crowd and my butt knocked over the drink.

Are you serious? Lanynie guffawed.

Messing up Madeline Griswold’s flawlessly high-end world was a sin worse than killing one of her children. I never understood why she insisted on having this party - which hosted close to two hundred - at her mausoleum of a house anyway.

Each year, I entered Maddyworld with great trepidation and each year I left having to do penance for the next twelve months. No nun in my high school could have laden me with fear and loathing like Madeline Griswold could.

Not funny, I said. I was mortified. And who sets a Cosmopolitan - or any drink for that matter - on the arm of a couch?

I dunno. Laynie patted her pillow. Who has a party with a gazillion people and leaves their white couch out to be trampled on?

We giggled.

No one knows that was me, by the way, besides Jason, I said. And it took me six months to admit that to him. So, don’t say anything, please.

Me? I’m a vault. She lifted her tea to her lips. At least when it comes to your secrets.

That party has had fun times.

Yeah, and they usually happen when Madeline was on the other side of the house.

Sixteen years, I said. That’s how long that party’s been going on.

Long time. Laynie set her tea onto a coaster and rested back down onto her pillows. So is a twenty two year marriage.

A sadness washed over Laynie’s usually upbeat demeanor. I suspected I was seeing the dark side of letting go of even a crappy husband.

The group’s changed a lot, Karen. Haven’t you noticed? Laynie put her arm over her forehead and stared at the ceiling. Friends are getting divorced because the men want younger wives or affairs that their wives won’t tolerate. These guys are the upper echelon, the masters of their own puny universes. The economy’s tanking so they need reassurance from somewhere else that they still got it going on.

Oh, I dunno... .

When Laynie talked like this, I had to remind myself that this was her reality. She had married someone like Morty who couldn’t keep it in his pants. Not everyone had some Twinkie waiting in the wings.

Yet, I had to admit, my ideal vision of friends who stayed married forever was slowly peeling away, especially as I ticked off the amount of couples who had gone their separate ways in the last five years. The scariest part of it was, I was the last first wife in our crowd. Well, me and Madeline Griswold.

Chapter Two

Jason rang the Griswold’s doorbell that night.

I forgot my underwear, I whispered to him.

Somewhere, years ago, I’d read this line in a smut magazine. The suggested outcome was supposed to be that your man would be driven so crazy by the idea of you walking around half naked underneath your dress that he couldn’t wait to take you home and fuck your brains out.

Then don’t sit on Madeline’s white couch.

Sister Mary Madeline opened the door and my sphincter tightened.

The Cuthbertsons! she said. Come in, come in! I looked for white around her nostrils. She was far too animated.

A thousand candles flickered behind her in her grand hallway. Every year she turned off more and more electricity and lit more votives, perhaps in conjunction with the amount of wrinkles she discovered in the mirror that year. Either way, the party was a pyromaniac’s wetdream.

Merry Christmas, Jason! Madeline flung her arms around my husband’s neck and pressed her rock hard, fake breasts against him. Then, over my husband’s shoulder, she smiled at me like a leopard who could eat her young for breakfast.

Ka-aren. Nice, ah, Santa Clause dress. Laura Ashley, is it?

"Vintage Laura Ashley. From the back of my closet. Just trying to get into the Christmas spirit."

Madeline pulled away from Jason then looked down at me and said, Come in. Robert has mixed you a nice red drink, Karen, but don’t worry, her laugh was hollow. We’ve reupholstered the couch in a nice chocolate brown fabric. She glanced at my hips. You like chocolate, don’t you, Karen?

I was so stunned that I stopped in midstride and gaped at Jason. His face went pale. I was hoping that look in his eyes said, I didn’t tell her, but something told me he had spilled the beans. A horrible sense of betrayal overcame me. I might have taken the whole conversation one step further with him, had I not caught the gloating expression on Madeline’s hard, perfectly chiseled face.

Oh, how I despised her. Not because she was beautiful and thin and oh-so-chi-chi, but because she cultivated a certain element of soullessness. When she smiled, it never extended to her eyes, though maybe that was because of the Botox injections.

Madeline worshiped all that was edgy and perfect. This reflected in her house and children who were always dressed perfectly and acted like little robots when their mother was around. And so not perfect when she was not around.