THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Read online

  About the Book

  When Harley Aberle got her first iPod, she created the kind of playlist every girl wants to keep on solitary lockdown. She called it The Exes—a collection of long-lost songs that instantly steamrolled her down a memory lane of men wider than a six-lane freeway.

  The Exes in My iPod: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country is a no-holds-barred account of Harley’s quest to win the hearts of a motley crew of men during her twenties—that golden decade of poor judgment where college, career, alcohol and romance run a crash course. With a musical time capsule of “lucky 13” songs, Harley takes you on a rockin’ journey through laugh-out-loud heartaches and headaches, as this redneck waitress from a long line of alcoholics searches for true love and her calling in life—finding both in California wine country. Grab some earbuds, pour a glass of wine and kick back with an amusing e-book that will inspire you to create your own Exes playlist and discover the hidden beauty of all that baggage.

  “Like a great wine or memorable song, this deliciously funny and heartwarming tale brings joy to your soul and a smile to your face. Enjoy the read with headphones on and glass in hand.”

  — Leslie Sbrocco, author of The Simple & Savvy Wine Guide and host of Check, Please! Bay Area

  “Hilarious and frank, Mattson is one part relationship anthropologist, one part adventurer—like Amelia Earhart and Carrie Bradshaw rolled into one. Every woman of our generation will identify with Harley and her journey.”

  — Erin Jimcosky, Mutineer Magazine

  www.exesinmyipod.com

  THE EXES

  IN MY IPOD:

  A PLAYLIST OF THE MEN

  WHO ROCKED ME

  TO WINE COUNTRY

  Lisa M. Mattson

  Copyright

  THE EXES IN MY IPOD

  Copyright © 2013 Lisa M. Mattson

  ISBN: 978-0-615-89645-8

  Published: September 30, 2013

  First Edition

  The right of Lisa M. Mattson to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction, inspired by personal experiences. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this e-book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.

  Lyrics are not included to respect copyright licensing requirements.

  Songs mentioned are the property of the artists and/or their record labels.

  iPod® is a trademark of Apple Inc. in the U.S. and other countries.

  All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.

  Cover design by Andrew Brown, Designer for Writers. Interior design by 52 Novels.

  Find out more about the author on her website, Facebook or Twitter.

  For all my ex-boyfriends—without you, this book wouldn’t be possible.

  A Note from the Author

  This book is the result of a decade-long journey through men, music and alcohol to find myself. First, I must confess that I am no music expert. The only thing I have in common with Nick Hornby is a flat chest. I’m just a thirty-something woman with a career in wine and hospitality who has met Mr. Right as many times as Madonna sings the word “material” in “Material Girl” (45, if you’re wondering). When I hear a favorite song from my past, my mind is always transported back to an ex-boyfriend. Did I really need a teleporter to the past lives of my failed relationships? At first, I wasn’t so sure. But if I walked into a bar right now and Extreme’s “More Than Words” was spewing from the jukebox, my mind would race to prom night, when my high school sweetheart stood in a gravel driveway sporting a black tuxedo, cooing to the guitar melody spilling from the tape deck of his Ford Tempo. That will always be my Lonnie song. Period.

  Fast-forward twenty years, and my iPod is a diary of my life—the roads I’ve traveled, the jobs I’ve held at restaurants and wineries, and the men I’ve chased harder than a cold beer after a shot of Jägermeister. When I got my first iPod at age thirty-three, I had no idea that shiny little square was the best relationship therapist money could buy. As soon as I started digitizing my CD collection, I was steamrolled down a memory lane of men—well, more like a six-lane freeway of boyfriend blunders. Triggering these embarrassing memories for the first time in years, I could have hit fast-forward or delete—or grabbed a sledgehammer and went Gallagher on my MP3. Instead, I created a playlist called “The Exes” and let the music transport me.

  Years ago, music helped me mourn those men. It gave me the strength to strap on my boots and wade into the dating pool (and take a face-plant) again and again and again. Now technology has helped these long-lost songs make a comeback with a purpose. With this musical time capsule of my love life, I can reflect on what I’ve learned from my mistakes. I can laugh at my immaturity—and my insecurity—with men, and my progression as a lover of delicious food and drink. Am I proud of the fact that practicing poor judgment with men for fifteen years made me the Jedi Master of heartache? Absolutely not. The healing powers of time and music have helped me face down embarrassment and embrace the beauty of all that heavy baggage. I now realize it was my destiny to find happily ever after through trial and error. Every time I journey to my past with my Exes playlist, I learn something about myself and how I’ve grown as a woman. I’ll never stop listening. I’ll never stop learning.

  So, I’ve done enough hard time on the dating circuit to make Dr. Drew blush, which I believed gave me enough street cred (and material) to write a novel based on my own experiences—my bewildering journey from lust to love and beer to wine told through a playlist of songs. This book is a work of fiction, shaken and stirred by music and alcohol-lubed memories. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental. While my string of ex-boyfriends is deep enough to fill a National Football League roster, those guys without songs did not make the cut to inspire chapters in this book. (My apologies to the Puerto Rican techno dancer, the Harley-riding waiter, the Egyptian poet, the Bolivian saltwater fish salesman, the exotic flower importer, the aspiring actor, the South Beach hotel manager, the wine collector, the medical marijuana defender and the cougar-chasing construction worker.) And that only includes half the rejects of one decade! This whittling act resulted in a fitting number of exes—thirteen—who left their mark both emotionally and musically on the most pivotal years of my life. And revisiting those relationships through fictional writing was an exercise in self-discovery with a poignant reminder: being unlucky in love doesn’t have to mean being unlucky in life.

  Reliving past relationships has been a powerful tool for understanding the woman I’ve become. The journey back in time—and the search for the real Mr. Right—has been much brighter and colorful set to music. Grab a chair. Pour yourself a glass of Champagne. Read along. Laugh at dating mistakes. Distant memories can be unlocked from the corner of your mind too with a quick visit to iTunes. Create your own Exes playlist and see where the music takes you.

  Besides, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than therapy. Time to play on. And drink up.

  Note: This e-book is sprinkled with hyperlinks, allowing readers to preview songs, peruse lyrics or simply brush up on pop culture references. After ope
ning iTunes hyperlinks, click on the number next to each song to hear a preview. Explore and enjoy.

  “People take from songs only what they want to hear.”

  —John Mellencamp

  Fresh Air, National Public Radio, March 31, 2009

  The Exes Playlist

  Chris: “Box of Rain,” Grateful Dead

  James: “Labour of Love,” Frente!

  Robert: “Laid,” James

  Marco: “Closer,” Nine Inch Nails

  Matthew: “Santa Monica,” Everclear

  John: “Suavemente,” Elvis Crespo

  Michael: “Troubled Mind,” Everything but the Girl

  Raul: “Brass Monkey,” Beastie Boys

  Fernando: “Crash Into Me,” Dave Matthews Band

  Tyler: “Superman’s Dead,” Our Lady Peace

  Paul: “Hunter,” Dido

  Chance: “Something in the Way She Moves,” James Taylor

  Kevin: “Fly Away,” The Black Eyed Peas

  THE EXES

  IN MY IPOD:

  A PLAYLIST OF THE MEN

  WHO ROCKED ME

  TO WINE COUNTRY

  CHRIS

  “BOX OF RAIN”

  Grateful Dead

  REWIND: Business in front, party in back. That’s how the burly guy ran his dive boat and wore his hippie hair. Thick curls of gray snaked behind his leathery shoulders as he tossed a rusty anchor over the back end of the boat’s hull. He had the face of Blue from Old School and more tattoos than 50 Cent. A real catch.

  This is the man Chris calls his idol? I thought, sandwiched between two divers on the side bench. I looked down at the blue flippers on my feet and readjusted the matching mask stuck to my forehead. Chris was following his dreams, and while the original plan didn’t involve being mentored by a tatted up mullet man, I knew it was my duty, as his girlfriend, to be supportive.

  The fiery, summer sun heated my face and broad shoulders. I glanced at the turquoise waters glistening in the afternoon light and inhaled deeply, letting the salty, warm air fill my lungs. Never again will I live without the ocean. The epiphany kept replaying in my head. My eyes moved to Chris, hunched over a giant bucket of water near the engine room. As he forcefully plunged snorkel masks into the bucket, his long, chunky bangs bounced over his round, sunburned face. Party in front, business in back: that was how Chris lived his life and wore his hair.

  “Hey, what did those masks ever do to you?” I cocked my head sideways. A gust of wind whipped my ponytail, and I wrapped my beach towel tighter around my waist.

  Chris cracked a smile. “It’s how we remove the salt, Honey. The salt water damages equipment.” His thick arms pulled a trio of dripping-wet masks into the air.

  My eyes sunk to the lower half of my swaddled body. “Ohhh, got it.” Chris always helped fill in all the blanks in my head, and I had more than Cher Horowitz in Clueless. He taught me about the world outside my childhood zip code—my very own Mr. Miyagi, minus the karate.

  “Who wants to be first to take a dip?” Captain Bob, the old man, asked with a cackle. The faded mermaid tattoo on his arm looked like Roseanne Barr when his leathery bicep flexed. A Grateful Dead keyboard-harmonica riff wailed from two overhead speakers. I looked around at the clusters of tourists smiling and swaying their shoulders to the beat. They all let out a “Woo! Woo!” in unison, like a crowd of fans hollering back to cheerleaders at a pep rally.

  “Me!” I shot up from the fiberglass bench as if Chris had just goosed me. I’d volunteer to be the first in line for anything except giving blood. My heart pounded so hard my chest hurt. It was the kind of dip I’d dreamed of taking for years, and it didn’t involve chewing tobacco or jumping into a muddy pond. Back when my only wheels were on a doll stroller, I’d already begun plotting my escape to the real world. I hail from a very isolated town in southeast Kansas near the Missouri-Oklahoma border—the kind of backwoods place where mullets and Skoal Bandits are still in fashion. I would have worn my snorkel gear in the car if Chris had let me.

  I looked down at the beach towel covering the bottom half of my body. A knot of shame formed in my stomach. I wanted to swim, but I wanted to hide. Hesitantly, I peeled away the towel and rested it on my backpack. My eyes darted around the boat to see who was looking at my body, i.e. who looked like they were about to blow chunks. My ears filled with the sound of fins slapping on fiberglass for the first time, as I hurried past a couple from Orlando who were grabbing their snorkeling gear from Chris. I kept my butt turned away from them—like a horse backing into a stall—and nearly knocked over the cluster of yellow dive tanks lined up like bowling pins, bringing even more attention to my dimpled body.

  “Sorry!” I mouthed to Chris, quickly pulling the snorkel mask over my eyes. I wanted to crawl into a conch shell.

  The old sailor impatiently waved his wrinkled hand at me. I adjusted the Kodak disposable camera lassoed around my wrist, trying not to stare at the missing pinky on his right hand. I had my own scars to deal with—three hideous wounds across my pubic area from kidney surgery, two sliced up knees from car accidents and two forehead gashes from playing catch with a metal water nozzle when I was seven. Part of me wondered why any boy would want to date such a damaged girl. My first name only made things worse. My parents named me Harley because they loved motorcycles, especially choppers, but couldn’t afford one. Cue Jeff Foxworthy saying, “You might be a redneck if…”

  The back of the boat blended right into the calm, turquoise ocean. My cheeks began to ache, partly from smiling and partly from the snorkel mask stuck to my face tighter than a Shop-Vac hose. I exhaled deeply through my mouth like Chris had taught me, while Captain Bob herded the rest of the group like a teacher on a playground. Divers snapped the buckles of their buoyancy compensator vests (BCs) while Chris scurried in the corner, checking the pressure on each of their air tanks. Chris always took care of other people first—that was one of the reasons I loved him.

  I fumbled with my snorkel and quickly plopped down on the submerged platform at the back of the boat. My thighs spread out around me like Jabba the Hutt’s rolls, and I grimaced, praying for the water to engulf my horrific saddlebags and ugly knees. I had the kind of shape you’d want … in a Bartlett pear. My bikini had been buried in a sock drawer since high school. The boat rocked gently, water sloshing against its bow. I looked up at the blazing sun in a cloudless sky and tried to find the bright side of my insecurities. Chris deserved better on such a special day.

  It was the first week of September in 1994, and I’d just turned twenty; I’d crossed that imaginary line into a world of wisdom and independence, the land without teens. I was living out the kind of fantasy most Midwestern girls dream about while sipping Slurpees in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart—sitting on a boat off the coast of Key Largo, Florida. Most of my family had never even flown on an airplane before. My grandma had never driven a car.

  The sun sparkled across the ocean’s tiny waves as I moved my flippers up and down in the water. My eyes fixed on the crystal-clear surface—a gigantic window into an undiscovered world. I looked over my shoulder to Chris and smiled. Our life was one big, awesome adventure, just like he’d promised.

  “Don’t forget to breathe out of your mouth,” Chris said, hunched over the yellow tanks. His long, brown bangs fell over his rosy face again, as he struggled to heft a full air tank onto the diver’s bench. He’d looked far more natural at a desk back home, writing code for computer programs.

  “I won’t!” The muffled words spit out my snorkel as I rolled my eyes. My head bobbed along with the rocking boat. A ring of pasty-white belly peeked out from under Chris’s The Cure T-shirt while he continued trying to put the tank into a Half Nelson. I winced and suppressed the urge to run over and tuck in his shirt. Chris had this pudgy Charlie Sheen thing going for him—long before Charlie had #tigerblood. He was barely 5-foot-9 and proudly referred to himself as “200 pounds of aquatic fury.”

  The cool water splashed over my warm thighs. I looke
d down at Chris’s fraternity lavaliere pendant on my necklace and exhaled. I had no room to be passing judgment. Sure, my long, blonde hair and sky-blue eyes helped me get double takes from guys now and then; my hair and clothes hid the scars. Customers at the restaurant often told me I looked like Sarah Jessica Parker back in her Miami Rhapsody days. But my curls were fake—the product of way too many perms—and I was 5-foot-3 with more “junk in the trunk” than Nicki Minaj. And I had to stuff my bra. Chris had told me I was pretty when other guys would have called me … well, a booty call. He’d seen me through the darkest hours during my first years at college, and he’d never stopped smiling and telling me our life would be better if I’d just trust him. Take a chance. Move to Florida.

  I plunged the rest of my body into the tepid water.

  “How’s it feel?” Chris yelled from the side of the boat. My legs stung as if tiny pins were pricking every pore. Chris had told me swimming in the ocean would feel like taking a bath in Epsom salt. Those were the kind of pictures he had to paint for me. Before that day, I’d only seen the Atlantic Ocean once on a postcard Chris had brought back from St. Croix. For years, my idea of an adventure was coon hunting with my dad after midnight.

  I pulled the salty snorkel from my mouth. “It really does sting, but it’s a good sting.” The ocean tasted like the bucket of tears I’d cried in first grade when my first cat had died. I looked up at the clear, blue sky, letting the sun warm my face. Only months before meeting Chris, my pipe dream was to move to the big city—Kansas City. I’d already plotted a master plan for life with my high school sweetheart, Lance, and step one was following him to Kansas State University. Two weeks into my first semester, he’d dumped me for a Kappa Kappa Gamma—a Kappa cow! Talk about Pan-Hellenic devastation.