My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts)

By Rene Gutteridge

Act I: Avoid conflict at all costs. Even when someone signs you up for something you really don't want to do. Act II: Try to hold things together, even when your life is spinning out of control. Act III: (You'll have to read the book to learn how it all plays out.)

Playwright Leah Townsend doesn't think of herself as a doormat. In fact, her life is pretty good. There's the gorgeous and dependable Edward (even if he is a little dull), and her challenging career (even if the last two plays were flops). The trouble is, Leah's feeling restless these days. The new play isn't going well. Her agent is handing out ultimatums. And her boyfriend Edward, who insists Leah "doesn't handle conflict well," has the nerve to enroll her in a conflict-management class full of people she's sure are her polar opposites, including a conservative talk-radio host named Cinco Dublin who thrives on the very thing Leah wants to avoid--making waves. Can a conflict-challenged playwright ever learn to stand her ground...even if life doesn't come in three predictable acts?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Mar 5, 2006
• ISBN: 9781418526702

Rene Gutteridge

RENE GUTTERIDGE has been writing professionally for twenty years, with published and produced work in fiction, comedy sketches, novelizations, non-fiction and screenwriting, and is co-director of WriterCon in Oklahoma City. Her novel My Life as a Doormat was adapted into the Hallmark movie Love's Complicated. She is head writer at Skit Guys Studios. She lives with her family in Oklahoma City.Read more about Rene's work with The Skit Guys and her other projects at renegutteridge.com

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Praise for Rene Gutteridge’s Novels

"I really, really enjoyed My Life as a Doormat. It’s an entertaining, well-written tale, and I think most fans of Christian fiction will enjoy it. For that matter, most fans of women’s fiction/romance will enjoy it, Christian or not."

—www.epinions.com

"Got two days? That’s all you’ll need! Once you start My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) you’ll forget your kids, husband, bills, and need for food or sleep. The only thing you’ll wish you had is enough pages for day number three!"

—Denise Hildreth, author of Savannah from Savannah

and Savannah Comes Undone

. . . so enjoyable are Gutteridge’s offbeat characterizations and her sense of mischievous delight in the story.

—Publishers Weekly review of Boo Who

Gutteridge has a fantastic wit and a firm understanding of what makes everyday life funny.

—Christian Fiction Reviewer

Gutteridge’s characters are believably eccentric.

—American Library Association

Highly recommended.

—Christian Fiction Review for Boo,

Boo Who, and Boo Hiss

Rene Gutteridge is a truly gifted comic writer. Her drama background enables her to put sparkling dialogue into her characters’ mouths, generating hilarity and turning seemingly mundane incidents into high comedy.

—The Romance Readers Connection

Gutteridge’s ability to create down-to-earth characters will cause you to wonder if she’s writing about your family.

—www.myshelf.com review of Troubled Waters

The unique and hilarious plot of Rene Gutteridge’s latest offering will hold the reader’s attention from start to finish.

—www.romantictimes.com review of Boo

My Life as

a Doormat

(IN THREE ACTS)

Other Books by Rene Gutteridge

Boo

Boo Who

Boo Hiss

The Splitting Storm

Storm Gathering

Storm Surge

Ghost Writer

Troubled Waters

My Life as

a Doormat

(IN THREE ACTS)

a romantic comedy

by Rene Gutteridge

aa

© 2006 by Rene Gutteridge

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

Thomas Nelson, Inc, titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [e-mail].

Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-59554-570-1 (mass market)

The Library of Congress has cataloged the earlier edition as follows:

Gutteridge, Rene.

My life as a doormat (in three acts) : a romantic comedy / by Rene Gutteridge.

p. cm.

ISBN 1-59554-084-9 (trade paper)

I. Title.

PS3557.U887M9 2006

813’.6—dc22                                         2005029656

Printed in the United States of America

08 09 10 11 12 QWB 6 5 4 3 2 1

To anyone who has ever

felt stepped on.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

[She glances over the menu.]

I’m practical. Practical people can be romantics. I don’t think the two contradict each other. Sure, I cringe when an insane amount of money is spent on a dozen roses, and as I watch them die their slow deaths despite the Evian and the aspirin tablet, I can’t help but wonder what better use there was for forty dollars. Can the feeling of holding roses really match saving the starving children of the world? I simply pose the question.

I’m getting sidetracked. The fact of the matter is that I just see romance differently. I see it in defined spaces, with reason and structure attached. Romance doesn’t necessarily need spontaneity either. Scheduled romance is certainly a viable option for busy people. There’s no reason why a bottle of wine can’t be sought out days ahead of time, why a horse-drawn carriage can’t be ridden in the off-season to save ten dollars. Practicality is a simple frame of mind that, in all honesty, offers more perks and functionality than such frivolousness.

Jodie Bellarusa wanted more head time. She was on quite a roll up there, and I didn’t want to stop her stream of consciousness, but it was 7:03 p.m. The workday was over, and it was Edward’s time to arrive. You could set your watch by his schedule. Every Thursday night we meet at this French restaurant for dinner, and every Thursday night he arrived at 7:03 p.m., claiming to be on time because, he reminded me, It’s not fair to factor in parking and the distance it takes to walk to the front door.

Secretly, I wanted him to arrive just once at 7:10 p.m. Or even 7:30 p.m., rushing in with a frantic look on his face, finding me in the crowd, relieved I was still there, and with exhaustion and anxiety in his eyes, approach the table cautiously, reverently, hoping I wasn’t mad. He’d apologize and wait to see if I would accept. And then I would smile and tell him that of course I would accept.

But Edward was never late. Edward never looked frantic. And now Edward was doing the same thing he always did at the front door, which was removing his scarf, folding it three times, and instructing the maître d’ on how to hang his coat, which was the same coat he wore every single spring.

As I watched him, my mind wandered back to my character of Jodie Bellarusa. For now she would have to wait. But soon enough, I’d be able to bring her back alive on the pages of my computer. I was still in the first act, and Jodie had yet to meet Timothy, her eccentric opposite. Four or five scenes down the road, they would meet and hate each other. But like all good romances, love would blossom, despite Jodie’s preference for practicality.

I watched Edward make his way around the tables that stood between us. He could maneuver them blindfolded. We’d been eating at this restaurant for two years. I’d once suggested we try a window seat. Edward gave his best to be compliant, but I was forced to watch him eye our regular table all night like it was another woman.

And just like two years ago, we still loved each other’s company.

He sat down without making eye contact, found his napkin, placed it on his lap, and then looked directly across the table at me. Smiling warmly, he said, Good evening, Leah.

He’d never had a pet name for me, and I guess I never wanted one. I used to hate when I’d go out with couple friends and they’d call each other the weirdest things that would be offensive in any other context. But as the months passed, I started wishing for a pet name, something whispered in public, in my ear, like a private joke. But it was always Leah, pronounced with preciseness but not lacking delight.

Hi. I smiled back.

He took my hand from across the table. His were cold, and he apologized by explaining he’d left his gloves at the office.

He glanced around for our waiter, who would be Joel on this evening, because it was the second Thursday of the month, and Joel always took Curtis’s shift, because Curtis played in a band or something like that. How was your day? he asked, obviously still monitoring Joel’s response time.

Something held my tongue and it surprised me. Normally I would say fine and provide some highlights if he looked in the mood for details. But today was not fine. My agent had explained my desperate need for a new and dynamic script, reminding me that despite my first success, the last two plays had been utter flops and that my career was hanging in the balance of hell and heaven, as if all of eternity rested on my ability to move dialogue along. She’d said this as though I might be unaware that my last two plays had been disasters. But I was very much aware. A bright One-Hit Wonder sign hung itself on the dark side of my eyelids every night when I went to sleep.

Where is Joel tonight? asked Edward. I really don’t like him as well as Curtis.

He’ll be here. Just gives us more time to talk, right?

His honey-colored eyes, the ones that I fell in love with more than two years ago at a banquet, studied me like I was a formula written out across an expansive chalkboard.

Sure, of course.

Good evening, Joel said, sliding toward the table out of nowhere. How are you two this evening?

Fine, Joel, Edward said. Edward then proceeded to order. I had to hand it to him. We didn’t eat the same dish every Thursday. He liked to throw in a few surprises. This evening, he requested a pasta dish that I couldn’t pronounce.

But just as he finished speaking, the words crêpes suzette flew from my mouth. I think I gasped as they escaped. Edward looked up at me. Joel glanced my way, too, as if he was surprised I could actually speak, since Edward had always ordered for us. But the fact was, I didn’t feel like pasta tonight.

Edward frowned at me. Those flaming French pancakes? So everyone can observe what we’re eating? It was true. The waiters would bring the dish out with fire encircling the mushroom crepes. It was one of the restaurant’s specialties, and they liked to brag by way of dangerous combustion. I’d once observed a man order it for his wife, then watch with pleasure as all attention shifted to her when they delivered it to their table.

It sounds kind of good to me. I’m not really in the mood for pasta.

Edward was leaning toward me, examining me with intense eyes. Why not fish?

I don’t know, fish just doesn’t—

Edward turned to Joel and said something that sounded like kah bee yoh ehn pee puh rahd. Joel smiled and turned to me. We have a wonderful baked cod in a Piperade sauce. We use serrano peppers, blended with bell peppers, plum tomatoes, and garlic, simmered to perfection . . .

I was nodding and acting interested, but my attention focused on a strange stirring inside me. It was nothing I could identify, and it could just as easily be related to nerves about the new play I was attempting. But some kind of restlessness was provoking bizarre behavior, like ordering flaming pancakes.

Sure, I finally said, noticing Joel’s mouth had stopped moving and both men seemed to be waiting for an answer. The baked cod sounds lovely.

Edward leaned back in his chair and smiled. The smile stretched into a grin. So, I’ve been working on my speech all day.

It was a speech he was to give five months from now, but Edward had a long and distinguished history of speech phobias. To nearly everyone but me, he was Dr. Edward Crowse, professor of physics at Boston University. I still did not understand what exactly the speech was for or to whom he was giving it, but I knew it was important. Edward had been talking about it nonstop for five weeks.

Yes. I think I’ve finally got the perfect opening joke. He rubbed his hands together with anticipation.

Well, let me hear it. I grinned.

Okay. There’s this farmer, who is having a great deal of problems with his chickens. They’re quite sick, and he has no idea what to do about them.

Uh-huh.

And so after trying all conventional means to find why his chickens are sick, he decides to call a biologist, a chemist, and a physicist to see if they can help figure out why the chickens are sick.

Okay.

So the biologist takes a look at the chickens, handles them a bit, and looks them over. But he cannot figure out what’s wrong with the roosters.

I thought they were chickens.

Right. Yes. Chickens.

Okay, go ahead.

Well, then the chemist takes some tests and makes some measurements, but he cannot come to any conclusions about the chickens either.

Interesting.

So the physicist tries. He stands there for the longest time looking at the chickens. Not touching them. Just looking at them. Then, all of a sudden, he starts scribbling away in his notebook! The farmer rushes to his side, wondering if he’s figured it out. After several lengthy calculations, he suddenly states, ‘I’ve got it! But it only works for spherical chickens in a vacuum!’

Edward leaned toward me, his eyes wide with expectation."

In a vacuum. That’s funny."

Do you get it?

Sure. That’s good.

Edward leaned back in his chair, scratching his chin. Then, flopping a lock of moppy golden hair to its proper side, he said, I don’t know.

Well, joke-telling is really all about the timing—

Maybe it’s too long.

How long do you have?

Forty-five minutes, but I have to make some introductions and things like that. What about this one? Two atoms accidentally bump into each other. One atom says, ‘I think I lost an electron.’ The other asks, ‘Are you sure?’ to which he replies, ‘I’m positive.’

Too obvious.

Yes, I guess you’re right. Edward sighed, and the conversation continued about his day until Joel returned with our meals.

I stared down at my baked cod, then looked up at Joel. Would you mind lighting this on fire just for kicks?

The startled expression covered Joel’s face again and Edward’s fork dangled from his long fingers as he stared across the table.

I’m kidding. I laughed, a warm blush crawling up my neck. I liked to call it a blush sometimes, as if that single word would somehow add a femininity and attractiveness to what was really just splotching. I’m sorry, I said to Edward after Joel left. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

Edward shook his head. That’s okay. The cod does look a little dull, doesn’t it?

It’s okay. Fish is better for me than mushroom-and-cream–filled crepes, right?

Edward went on to a new joke. Two pheromones walk into a bar. One orders a drink. The other says, ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’

I don’t get it.

Edward was looking dejected. I suppose I do have to worry about the wives and girlfriends in attendance. I have to tell something universally funny.

I tried again. Edward, telling a joke successfully is all about the timing and delivery. For instance, remember that joke you told me last week at the party? About the superconductor in Alaska?

I don’t remember.

Sure you do.

Edward shook his head.

Come on. You told it to Tom, and then to Jeff, and I think later to Mr. and Mrs. Lavonte. About the researchers in Fairbanks?

What researchers?

In the joke.

Oh, I know. About the fish.

No. About the superconductor. How the researchers in Fairbanks, Alaska, had discovered a superconductor that would operate at room temperature.

Edward blinked, his eyes dimmed for a moment of thought, and then he raised his fork, indicating he did remember.

Well, I said, holding back a sigh, that right there is a great example of how not to tell a joke.

Edward didn’t get what a remarkable display of bad timing that was. Instead, he suddenly seemed interested in his pasta, poking around in it with his fork.

There’s an odd spice in here. I can’t quite identify it. It’s not French, I can tell you that. Strange. It definitely doesn’t belong in this dish.

Hmm. Maybe the chef is trying something new.

Maybe. But he should be careful. A spice this strong can really wreck the medley of flavors a dish such as this is supposed to have. He moved the pasta around some more. Maybe you could come over tonight. Help me out. This is, after all, your area of expertise. He managed a smile and a glance at me in the midst of his search for the mysterious spice.

Don’t you have chess club tonight?

Didn’t I mention it? They’re changing it to Wednesdays on the third week of every month. What is this spice? It’s nearly overwhelming the entire platter.

I found myself staring at the cod, flaking its flesh with my fork tines, realizing that in a strange way Edward had put into words what I was feeling. There was an odd spice inside me. Something that was bold and strong and distinct, yet misplaced. It was interrupting all the flavors that were important to my daily life. Tiny and unidentifiable, yet there, nevertheless.

What was it? And on what dish in my life did it belong? Was it there intentionally, or had it been put there by mistake?

I think I’m going to call for the chef, Edward said.

Edward.

He looked up. Yes?

I gazed at his delicate face, his amazingly beautiful eyes, his blond, curly hair. How could I tell him all that I was feeling? How could I explain that once in a while I wanted to have dinner on Wednesday and eat hot dogs at the park? Could this simply be about food?

Leah, are you okay? He set down his fork. Is something wrong? You’ve been acting strangely all night.

It’s just that . . .

His eyebrows rose, his lips pursed in an expectant manner.

What?

Well, it’s about . . .

Yes, Leah? What is it?

I sighed. Who was I kidding? I think I taste that spice in my food too.

He beckoned Joel.

Chapter 2

[She turns, examining herself.]

Imet Elisabeth Bates six years ago. She lived in the apartment across from mine, and we instantly hit it off. We spent hours together watching movies, decorating each other’s walls, shopping, and complaining about other tenants.

Then she met Henry Jameson. Now she has three children under the age of six. She’s always called herself a forward thinker, refusing Henry’s last name, wearing her wedding ring on her left middle finger (which somehow was supposed to represent balance), and naming all of her children after people she’s forgiven in her life, two of them being former boyfriends. She swears it never creates an awkward moment. Maybe not for her.

So, what with her being a forward thinker, I always considered it amusing that she had a bad habit of referring to her nondeceased mother in the past tense. She told me it helped her say nice things. For the longest time I actually thought her mother was dead.

And Elisabeth is one of those mothers who doesn’t understand how important the basics of parenting are. Conventional mothering—things like discipline and social instruction—aren’t relevant today, she claims. But in my view Danny, Cedric, and little Amelia are the reason more and more parents are deciding to homeschool their children.

My apartment door opened as I hid my last piece of valuable decor. Elisabeth never, ever knocked. I greeted her with a hug, looking behind her. No trailing children. Where are the kids?

At my neighbor’s, she said, throwing her bag on my couch and looking around. Leah, your place is so dull. It wouldn’t kill you to have a nice crystal vase sitting around, you know. And I’m not a knickknack person, but in your case, I’d go for it.

I laughed. I didn’t want to, but it was one of those crazy, instant reactions, like gagging or swatting at a fly around your face. Have a seat, I said.

Thanks. She sat on the end of the couch and looked at me. You look good. Vibrant. Life is treating you well?

It is. I took a seat in my oversized leather chair, just catty-corner to Elisabeth, pushing the ottoman to the side.

Four weeks had passed since I’d talked to Elisabeth. I never could quite understand what it was that still drew me to her after all these years, but I’d finally decided it must be the familiarity of the older days. I hadn’t seen those days in a long while, but they were vivid in my memory, and maybe I always hoped they would be back.

How are the kids?

I expected the usual answer, which consisted of detailed descriptions of each of their latest and greatest accomplishments, such as wiping their own bottoms or graduating from bottle to sippy cup. I waited, but then I realized she wasn’t answering. She was staring. At my carpet. Then I expected a quip about how I should add more color to the living room and get rid of the grays. But she was still staring. I stared too. Was there a stain? A crumb? A faux pas of some other sort?

We’re all fine. Dullness filled her voice, a tone that suggested exhaustion. And as I studied her, I found other signs. Dark circles that hadn’t seen the light of day since her last child was a newborn. The top of her hair pulled back unevenly with a rubber band. Top-lip fuzz that could’ve used some bleaching cream. Though her children usually looked like extras in the cast of Annie, Elisabeth had always taken pride in appearing polished.

Are you sure?

I read a review of your last play.

I cringed.

It wasn’t bad.

It couldn’t have been good.

Critics. What do they know?

The best way to make a playwright suicidal.

She actually said something good about it.

I looked up. Really?

She said had the dialogue been any more predictable, she might’ve signed up to be a psychic.

I blinked. That’s not a compliment.

It’s not?

Dialogue is not supposed to be predictable.

Elisabeth frowned, staring at the carpet again. But then she raised a finger. "Wait. I know she said something good about it, because she used a word like clinched. It was clinching dialogue. That’s good, right?"

Are you sure she didn’t say clichéd?

Elisabeth looked blank.

"Was there an accent over the e?"

"Yes, but I thought she was just trying to be fancy. I could’ve sworn I saw an n in that word."

Maybe the critic did say clinched, describing the way her jaw was set while she was watching it. I didn’t ask, but I knew the woman was probably Dora Mendez, other-wise known around the theater community as Dora the Exploder. She had a tendency to take out her frustrations with her personal life on anything that came with a playbill.

So what are you working on now? Elisabeth asked. That was unusual. She was hardly ever interested in my plays. She would come to see them, more out of obligation than interest. That was actually one of the things that had drawn me to her in the first place. She was a nice vacation away from the relentlessly aesthetic theater world that I seemed to live in 24/7.

It’s a romantic comedy.

Oh! Like a Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks kind of thing?

Well, no. In fact, it was really more an antiromantic comedy. I was calling it a romanti comedy, leaving off the c in order to form the word anti. I thought this descriptor very clever until I discovered that it took a good ten minutes to explain it to everyone. And even then I’d get vague nods and hear whispering as people walked off.

In all actuality, Jodie Bellarusa, the main character, was about as close to a Meg Ryan type as Cher. She wasn’t perky. She wasn’t blonde. And she didn’t like men who continued to be in romantic comedies long after they were considered adorable.

You’re going to do it, aren’t you? You’re actually going to nod your head. Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks—repulsive and completely unrealistic. Look, you know I respect you. You created me, after all, and who wouldn’t respect their creator? But I have to question this relationship sometimes. I mean, I’ve been in some unhealthy relationships, thanks to you. But what good is a relationship when you can’t be real? That’s what I’ve been preaching since I came into existence! Forget the romance. Forget the flowers. Let’s all be real here! Be real!

Sure. Wouldn’t I be lucky to get Meg Ryan? I lied.

I’d kill for her curls. And her body. And her money.

Speaking of no curls, no body and, well, no money, I need your help. Your fashion help.

That perked her up. Oh?

"I’ve got to go to this thing with Edward tonight. It’s a semiformal outdoor dinner party, but the real challenge is the company I’ll be keeping. Physicists. And some other scientist-types."

So that low-plunging number won’t do. Elisabeth was being facetious. By low-plunging, she was referring to a scoop-neck dress I wore to one of her parties. For me, it was risky, because I didn’t like my neck exposed.

She followed me into my bedroom where I opened my small closet. She let out a laugh. I did too. Again, a regrettable fly-swatting moment, and I could sense Jodie Bellarusa’s disapproval.

How do you get by? Elisabeth lamented. And why is everything black?

It’s an artist thing. It wasn’t. It was actually an insecurity-about- color-and-the-attention-it-drew thing, but I kept mum.

None of these will do, she finally said after scooting every hanger contemptuously down the line. We have to get you a new dress.

New? In case you haven’t heard, playwriting isn’t the lucrative business it used to be for me.

Come on. I know where to find all the bargains.

How ridiculous. I didn’t need a new dress. Any of these would suffice. Okay.

Glavier had a deceivingly fancy name. Inside it looked more like a warehouse that had potential for conversion but hadn’t been converted. The dressing room, I noticed immediately, was a sheet strung from one empty clothes rack to another.

Don’t worry, Elisabeth said. I know it looks a little scary, but I’m telling you, one of these days you’ll hear about Glavier in all the best fashion magazines. Kitty has a real vision for what’s in style.

Kitty?

She owns the place.

In place of a meow, the petite, middle-aged woman came around the corner and greeted us with an exquisite politeness. Elisabeth got busy explaining my desperate need for a new dress. But Kitty seemed more interested in me.

Is this outdoor or indoor?

Outdoor, I said.

How nice. Evenings in the spring are usually very cool, but it’s been unusually warm this year, and it’s going to be warm tonight. She took me by the hand and guided me toward a collection of dresses. I didn’t see anything black. I was seeing a lot of pastels. She pulled me along, and with her free hand gathered four dresses and then took me to the suspended sheet.

She pulled it to one side and hung the dresses on what looked like a meat hook attached to the wall. Here you are.

They, um, they have spaghetti straps.

Yes.

Unfortunately I’m on a low-carb diet. Kitty didn’t get my joke. She was staring