Cinderella Has Cellulite Read online

  Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press

  Austin, Texas

  www.gbgpress.com

  Copyright ©2014 Howard Bond Media, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by Greenleaf Book Group

  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Greenleaf Book Group at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512-891-6100.

  Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group and Debbie Berne

  Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group and Debbie Berne

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN: 978-1-62634-210-1

  Second Edition

  Other Edition:

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62634-209-5

  To my husband, Herb Weitzman. As Herb read each section after I wrote it, he found the humor, as I did, in the musings of a last wife. He stayed by my side as I traversed the precarious path of a Cinderella romance and never wavered in his love and support. Herb is special.

  And to my sister, Betty Jean Wilbanks. She knows my every thought and is part of the air I breathe. She rejoices with me, chides me when I’m crazy, supports me when I’m low, brings me back to sanity when I flip out, and always loves me.

  My readers, I hope you are as blessed.

  CONTENTS

  Ode to a Last Wife

  Preface

  Introduction

  Blinded by Love

  If He’s Rich, You’re a Witch

  Ties That Bind

  Rings and Bling

  Cougars and Kittens

  It’s Raining Soirees

  A Civil Union

  The Nest: Yours, Mine or Hers?

  The Evil Empire

  (Or The Women Who Didn’t Get Him Club)

  Whose Kids Are These, Anyway?

  The Perfect Progeny

  The Long Arm of the Sisters-in-Law

  “Trust” Funds

  Knives and Needles

  Friends Never End!

  A Bad Day for Cinderella

  The Other Man

  Dear Mama Bear

  Dear Goldilocks

  She or Me—Who’s in This Tree?

  Cinderella Has Cellulite

  Epilogue: Silver Linings

  About the Author

  I want to acknowledge my sons, Brandon and Collin, who have lovingly lived with their mom being a Last Wife.

  And to my Last Wife friends who have been my inspiration and shared the journeys of Last Wives with me, thank you.

  ODE TO A LAST WIFE

  Oh, ye to thee

  that’s number Three.

  You are just another

  in his she-tree!

  Down can be lonely

  when your love stalls,

  And it hurts when others

  rejoice in your fall.

  If you think his love

  is such a blast,

  The day could come

  when you won’t be his Last!

  But being the Last

  is much better than zero;

  Love can conquer,

  and He your hero.

  Don’t let the numbers

  scare you away;

  You worry your head

  some other day.

  Yes, hope springs eternal

  and life must go on,

  As you get cozy

  on your own little throne.

  Being Third in a trilogy

  Can bring out the best;

  You smile like Madonna,

  you pity the rest.

  My sisters, be warned

  of the ups and the downs.

  Being Third in the household

  can tarnish the crown.

  Keep an eye on his switch-itch,

  the potential’s alive;

  His next Wife could be

  number four or five.

  If He swan dives into

  the Next little nest,

  You’ll move quietly aside

  and make room for the rest.

  But Tomorrow’s the Future,

  and this is Today!

  I’m ready, I’m happy,

  and I’m here to stay.

  PREFACE

  I have always thought that books should be about big things, larger than life people, bold actions and ideas. Maybe that is why I have felt a lifelong inadequacy when writing about anything. Who am I to write a book? Nobody would want to read it, and if they did, they’d laugh at me and think, What a waste of time!

  While writing this book, I realized that I have been consistent throughout my entire life: that is, consistently, desperately lurching for approval. I have never been able to get enough approval, to the point of being angry when I did not get it. Words are inadequate for me to explain what I suffered when easily attained approval turned out to be beyond my grasp during my Cinderella journey. My Prince is good-looking. He is smart and successful. I really want his approval and that of everybody around him. (Oops, there I go again!) The more desperately I lurched, the less I got. Doesn’t seem fair, but who said life is fair?

  Nevertheless, I hope you’ll be “in the moment” with me. Read my musings through the clenched jaw and throbbing headaches I suffered, and you will see a woman of 60 who was furious because she was no one’s Princess.

  Above all, have hope and humor as you imagine yourself in these circumstances. Take heart, we’ve all been there at least once. Go back in your mind and revisit your thoughts and actions. Hopefully, you were and are wiser than I am, and handled yourself with much more skill. The good news for me is that I survived, and now I can thrive. But, yikes, I stepped in it often . . . hopefully you can be a better ballerina!

  INTRODUCTION

  Ah, love. A second chance. Oops, I mean third chance. Fourth? Well, who’s counting anyway?

  Ah, love. How perfect! All you can think about is having someone to come home to at night. Someone who will wrap his arms around you and protect you from the outside world, singles bars, the boogey-man and crazy people. That special man who will hear your thoughts (after all, you do have wonderful thoughts!) and make all your dreams come true.

  You can’t wait to tell your friends that you have found the One, can you? The world sees you in a different light now. You are headed down the aisle . . .

  . . . Or is it a gauntlet?

  It is likely that ever since the fateful night your eyes fixated on your Hunk of Burning Love, there have been numerous outbreaks of questions and concerns. Being a Last Wife, you know this is not His first rodeo. As you prepare to saddle up in your vintage Dale Evans fringe and ride off into the sunset with your cowboy, it is wise to know just how close the arrows are that are whizzing next to your scalp. Pull your sombrero closer to your ears, Amiga, this could be a wild ride!

  To assume the coveted position of Last Wife, you will experience, at best, a mixed bag of comments with scattered compliments delivered by His menagerie of acquaintances and your well-meaning support groups. But beware, Besotted Beauty, of nefarious jabs piercing your newly formed love handles (acquired during your numerous love trysts). These pricks are likely the diabolical attempts of Camilla-like warfare on unwary Princess Diana—and they can hurt.

  Thus, the purpose of this book, Cinderella, is to warn you that you will need your rubber galoshes as you walk in the sun holding his hand. Yes, the perfect day could end in a short, but torrential downpour and a maze of mud holes resembling the Everglades. Whether you choose to gingerly step over or around the sludge, or
wade directly through the mire, it is best to prepare for the swamp.

  You have entered the quagmire that a Last Wife often traverses in her celestial journey. The muddle can be quite offensive at times. However, keep in mind that mud is not all bad. It can also be a healing agent and a choice skin care product. Although you may feel soiled by the dirt that can cling to you during your courtship, just think how pure your skin will be upon peeling off the mud mask.

  You might be dreaming of slinging your own retaliation pie. My advice is not to get stuck in the muck but to bask in the glow the mud afforded you! After all, Cinderella’s frock can be hand washed and look almost as good as new! And the rain boots—they are there to protect your crystal footwear.

  Okay, Lover Girl. Your New Man has you startled, staggered, and swept off your feet! The store clerk caught you scooping up beauty tips and slipping Cosmo magazines under the milk and potatoes in your grocery cart. You are busy checking in at yoga studios to tighten your arm muscles and buttocks and announcing, “He may be The One” to anyone who will listen.

  Lingering over martinis with one of your girlfriends, you can hardly breathe as she asks, “You have a New Man?”

  Before you begin giddily describing your new Sweetheart, you secretly wonder what her reaction will be. Will she be delighted for me? Or search my purse during a bathroom break, steal his Facebook address and “friend” him, offering to meet him for coffee when it’s convenient?

  But the news is so good you don’t care. This cannot wait. Besides, you have no reason to suspect treachery. None of your past losers have even merited a yawn from her, and you are so tired of her pity. Wait ’til she hears this!

  “Well, tell me,” she coos, expecting another of your boring tales about the latest dud. You smugly smile and confess that there is so much to say you don’t know where to start! But both of you know you’ll try. Sex is first. You practically choke on your giggle. “He is so sexy—Angelina would leave Brad.”

  You can discern her fake smile—she is eaten up with jealousy!

  Meanwhile, she is frantically wondering if she can find your college roommate’s number on her cell phone, who is today one of her trusted therapists. You can hear it now, “Hilda? I’m here with our Mouse and she’s delusional. I think she needs your evaluation.”

  Satisfied with the impact of your sexual analogy, you go on. “And He is sooooo funny. I turn off Jimmy Kimmel just to listen to his diatribes.”

  Your friend shares a weak giggle, not giving up on scheduling your upcoming $200 per hour visit with Dr. Help. Like the song says, she thinks you’ve been lonely too long!

  “And smart,” you continue. “This guy could upstage Bill Gates. He could have founded Microsoft, but it was not his cup of tea. Instead, He perfected his pecs and challenged Andrew Agassi at the Four Seasons bar.

  At this, you say with a lovesick sigh, “I can’t wait to see him in his tennis whites!”

  You can hear it now, “Hilda? I’m here with our Mouse and she’s delusional.”

  Your girlfriend’s suspicion is growing and she’s thinking, I doubt I’ll want anything to do with the loser. That does it. With a disgusted huff, she slips off to the bathroom, ready to speed dial emergency services and report a lovesick sex kitten on the loose.

  Your girlfriend’s suspicion is growing and she’s thinking, I doubt I’ll want anything to do with the loser.

  You clench your handbag and get ready to leave upon her return. You can discern her fake smile—she is eaten up with jealousy! She will be the last one to meet my Man, you tell yourself on the way home. He must be firmly in your loving arms before she attempts to pull him into her overly enhanced bazookas. No one will come between you and Sir Galahad!

  Statistics never lie. Money is likely one of the reasons you are now positioned to assume the Last Wife’s place. Doesn’t the Bible tell us, “The love of money is the root of all evil”? You are about to find out! During your necking sessions with your new Rock, your Savior, and the Man of your Dreams (who was the man of Her dreams, and maybe a few before Her) He vows to you, and you to Him, “Money will never be an issue for us!”

  When you exchange these words, be aware of your body at that point. The tightness in your jaw is not because of the TMJ you developed during your last life as a Last Wife (or potential Last Wife). That locked jaw is your brain telling you that you only wish it were so! This could be where you fall for your first big lie. Rest assured, Dreamboat is not oblivious to the almighty dollar! Whether you assumed your Last Wife position by death or divorce, you can be certain that money will be an issue.

  Unless you discovered your Saint locked in a Tibetan monastery, you can bet He has money issues. If there’s a lot of money to fret over, rest assured his concerns are not his alone. Whether He has secretly stashed stacks of greenbacks in a posh Switzerland account, or the non-descript vehicle circling his street turns out to be the private investigator employed by the last, Last Wife trying to nail him for past-due child support for his Precious Ones, He has money issues!

  Whether or not you accept it, money has a lot to do with how you are treated as the Last Wife.

  If you and your Honey are at a five-star dinner with the CEO of a New York City bank, you can bet these two discussed his millions earlier in the day. The greedy banker made his point, “How can we make sure it rots in my vault never to be touched by her manicured fingers? After all, money is meant to be inherited by your Precious Ones.”

  Your Scrooge realized, “He’s right! This must not include any Tiny Tim not conceived through my loins. I’ve been successful in my own right as a man, and my Precious Ones stand to inherit!”

  “After all, money is meant to be inherited by your Precious Ones.”

  Whether or not you accept it, money has a lot to do with how you are treated as the Last Wife. If Moneybags has already implemented an ironclad prenup that will control your every move, then whether He has pecs the size of Arnold, or the buzzards make a daily pass by the house just to see when his stretcher is rolled out for a potential feeding, money will be your soulmate.

  So face it. If He’s rich, you are a witch. I think that pretty much sums it up.

  If you are one of the fortunate ones whose heretofore committed Stud Muffin has been lavishing you with over-the-top booty bounty, this could be bad. Step on the bathroom scale and record your fighting weight. You may need to bulk up for the arm wrestling and body blows that are looming in your future. The La Perla lingerie that He so deliriously delivered on Friday as you deftly slipped into your dancing shoes may be inadequate for the next phase of relationship bliss.

  Once in the throes of his unparalleled charm and cunning remarks about your sexy smile, you may accidentally overlook it when He whispers, “We are going to need a prenup.” Later, of course, you will replay every moment of the evening in your head, including his offhand remark. Did you hear him say we need a prenup? Your mind may jump to The Donald. Trump is probably the only one who will need another prenup. Surely, not my Man-Angel?

  Your mind is buzzing, and the room is spinning. Suddenly, you realize the Rat has slipped something into the multiple martinis He insisted you swallow. You try to regain your composure even as your red La Perlas start pinching your cellulite. Of course, in the initial days of your courtship He assured you, “I don’t see any cellulite, Honey.” You suspect that He has since checked you out in the glaring sunlight and quietly shaved off one third of any assets He would share with you in the future. He knows that in order to have blissful consummation night after night, He will need to spring for your liposuction. And He happens to know a good plastic surgeon. This man is no fool!

  What do you do now? You pray. You wait. You try to find your lawyer.

  A tear comes to your eye as you think, I am in over my head! This is a good time to think about the one person you admire the most, your yoga instructor. She has prepared you for this moment. In times of extreme stress, you have learned to take deep, cleansing breaths . .
. now, do it! With each labored breath, your devious Dinner Mate will simply think you are hot for him! This is good; let him think it.

  The Sly Devil breathes deeply also, but his is a sigh of relief as He tells himself, If she puts up a fight at some later date, my lawyers will do all the dirty work. I will just remind her that she affirmed her cooperation. “But, Honey, don’t you remember, we agreed the night I gave you the red lacy bra?”

  What do you do now? You pray. You wait. You try to find your lawyer. Where is he? At Gold’s Gym again? Don’t begrudge him—this could work in your favor because he will need big muscles to protect you.

  Still sitting at dinner, you suddenly hear an ominous craaack—is it a crack in your relationship, or is it just the term his lawyers will use to gain position and bargaining power when they tell your Prince Charming (or Don Juan) that you might be “cracking up”?

  They’ll say, “As your lawyers, we must tell you we believe you should shave another third from your assets because she is going to need therapy!”

  And they may be right!

  Is your engagement ring bigger than Hers? Everyone is going to ask. If that is the case, do you strut around with your big diamond shining in Her kids’ faces? You know the question the Ex is dying to ask—“What kind of ring did Daddy get her?”

  If your friends mistake your engagement ring for a crystal paperweight, and your body weight increases by a percentage point once it’s on your finger, it might be said of you, “She’s a gold digger.”

  Everyone will think you hit pay dirt before the big day. You can bet that after you ran into Her old girlfriends at the deli they whipped out an iPhone and asked Siri to dial up his Ex.