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Authors: Kim Gruenenfelder

Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Humorous

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BOOK: Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink
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I might as well have slept until noon, then stayed on the couch in my pajamas guzzling mai tais all afternoon while watching Food Network for all the good it did me. The results would have been almost the same, except with the PJ/mai tai/TV option I might have finally mastered the art of making the perfect crêpe suzette or roasting and deboning a whole chicken.

The rewards for all of my hard work included a guy throwing up on my shoes after I kissed him, going out to dinner with a man whose fiancée showed up halfway through the date (although technically she wasn’t his fiancée when she first got to the restaurant, since he didn’t propose to her until the end of dinner, sooo … yeah), getting propositioned for a threeway by a dentist, and having a pimply teenager at Home Depot generously offer to sleep with me. If my dating life had been a rocket, it would have leaked fuel all over Cape Canaveral, then accidentally blown up Florida.

And then I met Danny. Beautiful, perfect-bodied Danny. He was smart, nice, funny. He had a good job, genuinely liked me, and told me constantly that he was in love with me. And the cake nailed it in terms of the red hot chili pepper, for that man had a knack for making a woman …

TMI. Let’s just say our sex life wasn’t the problem.

The problem was I wasn’t in love with him. Maybe because he was the first guy I dated after a serious relationship; I don’t know. For months I kept trying to force myself to feel that … spark. I was thirty-two and desperately wanted kids. But every time he brought up marriage, I got nauseous. Like a genuine, sick-to-my-stomach, “What is wrong with me?” pukey feeling. No matter how hard I tried, it never felt right. And I had compromised on so many other aspects of my life, I couldn’t compromise on whom I was going to hold hands with in fifty years.

So we broke up.

If you ask my friends, they would tell you that it was completely amicable. They were wrong. The only time breakups are amicable is when no one cares enough to be hurt. That was not the case for either of us.

I turn back to Seema and shrug. “Fair enough. But I still want the passport this time.”

As I carefully push the passport charm back into the cake, Nic points to Seema. “Seema, you want the baby charm, right?”

“Yes!” she says excitedly, which is rather uncharacteristic for her.

“It’s right here, under the four o’clock position from the heart cake topper,” Nic tells her.

As Seema pulls out the baby-carriage charm (just to be sure), I ask Nic, “Why do we need a cake topper?”

“It’s just another insurance policy against getting the wrong charms,” Nic assures me. “Not that we got the wrong charms last time, but this time I want to control my destiny a bit more. Based on the angle of the topper, I can point to each ribbon around the cake and know exactly what charm is hidden inside. Check out this ribbon. That’s mine.”

I pull out a square charm. Nic smiles, clearly pleased with herself.

Seema leans into Nic to get a better look. “What is that? An earring?”

Nic is clearly offended. “No, it’s not an earring. It’s a picture frame. It means a future with a happy family.”

Some days I swear these jewelers just make this shit up.

The doorbell rings. “Your guests are here,” Nic chirps excitedly to Seema. “Can you guys go greet them while I finish tucking these charms back in?”

“Okay,” I say, hopping off my seat to go greet the guests in the front hallway. “Just remember the passport…”

“One o’clock position, after I place the topper directly in front of Seema. You can’t miss it!” Nic assures me. “Seema, you’re midnight.”

Seema and I head over to the front door, and I begin the long-standing single-gal tradition of trying to be happy for yet another friend who got to a major milestone first.

Actually, I
am
happy for her; I just wish that I didn’t have to participate in the following conversations over and over:

Happy Guest: “So are you and Danny thinking about tying the knot?”

This question should be followed by a swig of peach Bellini, followed by my upbeat, though not too cheerful, answer that we broke up months ago. (Instead, since I am driving, I drink Diet Dr Pepper. It is not the same.)

My answer is always incredibly well received, with said guest looking embarrassed and grief stricken for me, patting me on the shoulder, and telling me I’m still young, I’ll find someone even better. Or that she never really liked him. (Say what now?) Or that ubiquitous assurance that, and I quote, “Everything happens for a reason.” A statement that people only use when your news is so hideously awful, they can’t think of anything comforting or useful to say.

But the romance question isn’t nearly as bad as the questions about my pink slip.

Guest (looking at me with a mixture of concern and pity): “Have you any more news about your job next year?”

I teach calculus at a public school in Los Angeles, and unfortunately, because of state budget cuts, this year they’re going to have to lay off a bunch of teachers. Because my union insists on “last in, first out,” I may not have enough seniority to stay. So last March, I received a “possible layoff” slip from my high school, and it’s been weighing heavily on my soul ever since.

What is a “possible layoff” slip? Government bureaucracy at its finest. Basically it’s a sheet of paper that tells me that it is possible that my employer won’t be needing my services next year, but that I shouldn’t make any plans to do anything else because they’ll probably need me. This is the fourth one I’ve received in as many years.

My perpetual job insecurity is probably the last thing I want to talk about at a party. (Though why I’m not married yet is definitely running a close second.)

Since I’m driving Seema later, I continue to console myself with more Diet Dr Pepper, then give my pat answer: No, I have not heard anything yet, but pink slips are common in the Los Angeles Unified School District, and they happen every year. I am always hired back, I will be fine.

Grief stricken and/or embarrassed look by guest, followed by comments ranging from “I’m sure it’ll all be fine—you’re so good at what you do” to “Everything happens for a reason” to “You still get unemployment and some pension though, right?”

And finally, there are the conversations of where I will be living next month. You see, Seema owns her house; I am just renting a room from her. I have agreed to move out when Scott moves in. And the rental market in Los Angeles is everything you’d think it would be in terms of both affordability and quality—meaning it lacks either one or both of those features, depending on where you look.

By the fifth time I am asked, “How is the apartment hunt going?” and “Are you excited to finally get to live alone?” I have switched to full-sugar Coke and begun counting down the minutes before we start the opening of the presents (Ooh … Aah…), the pulling of the charms from the cake (Yikes! Really?), and the hugging good-bye of the guests, followed by the postgame gossip session (“She’s back together with that loser?” “I swear to God if I had those Miss Piggy legs, I would never wear that skirt”).

An hour later, we have all stuffed ourselves with mini quiches, mini arugula-and-shrimp pizzas, melon balls with prosciutto, and bowls of namkeens (a sort of spicy, salty snack mix) and samosas (Indian potato pastries). The food is amazing, Nic’s place is beautiful, it’s a great opportunity to see my friends—and yet I just want to curl up in a ball and cry.

At some point, I wander into the empty kitchen, ostensibly to get more food, but really to take a time-out. I walk over to Nic’s sink and admire her backsplash.

Nic has two stepdaughters (bonus daughters, she calls them), Megan and Malika, who are ten and six. They’re constantly drawing pictures, so last year she had her favorites turned into kitchen tiles, which she has turned into a backsplash above her counter. The pictures show the kids’ versions of a perfect family. One was made by Malika when she was five and is a line drawing that looks like four little snowmen in the family: big snow-daddy Jason, slightly smaller snow-stepmommy Nic, an even smaller Megan, and the smallest, Malika. Next to that is a much more artistically advanced Christmas tree; a heart tile made by a smaller child with
I Love You
written in the middle, an arrow going through it diagonally; and about a gazillion tiles showing stick figures, hearts, and
I Love You
s in various combinations.

A long line of pictures representing nothing but peace, tranquility, and love. Not to mention knowing what your life’s passion truly is, and that you’re fulfilling it daily.

I’m horribly jealous of Nic for a moment. I wish I knew what my life’s passion was. I wish I had something in my life I was motivated to work on every day.

I hear the kitchen doors swing open, and turn around to see Nic. “You okay?” she asks quietly.

“Never better,” I lie, smiling and holding up my flute of Coke for a toast.

The two vertical lines between her brows shows me she doesn’t believe me. “You missing Danny right now?”

“Not exactly,” I tell her truthfully. Though I do wonder why I’m feeling such sadness in my gut right now, almost like a weight that’s pulling me down. I absentmindedly play with a white doily on her shiny granite counter. “I think I miss what I thought he’d be. Or I miss knowing what I thought my future was going to look like. Or … I don’t know…” My voice peters out.

Nic sits down on a chair at her kitchen island. “None of us ever really know—”

“—what our future is. Yeah, I know, I get that. But you know you’re going to be a mom, Seema knows she’s going to be a wife. I just … I guess I just wish I knew what I was going to be. Like, if I knew I would always be single … okay, fine. Maybe I’d be okay with that. Maybe I wouldn’t keep hoping for something that doesn’t exist.”

Nic’s stares at me, clearly studying me. “What
are
you hoping for?”

I think about her question for ten seconds, then twenty. It’s a good question. Finally, I shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

Nic considers my answer. “For the cake, you wanted the passport charm. Where do you want to go?”

I can think of twelve places off the top of my head. But only one really stands out in my mind: “Hawaii.”

“Well, there you go. School is over, get on a plane.”

“I don’t want to go to Hawaii alone. How depressing.”

“You’re not alone. Jeff lives there these days.”

“Yeah, running a bar for honeymooners. Hawaii’s the place you go to when you’re in love. Not run away to because you can’t find love. I want to see it when I can share it with someone.”

“Go anyway.”

Before I can answer, Seema pushes through the doorway. “I need cake.”

“Why? What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing happened. I just need cake.”

Nic picks up the cake and heads for the kitchen door. “Your wish is my command. Mel, can you grab the cake knife and pie server?”

As I grab Nic’s superfancy sterling-silver serving pieces, Seema puts her hand on Nic’s chest to stop her. “You’re sure you did this right?”

“I’m sure,” Nic insists, a bit insulted.

“Because I don’t want to pick a Winnebago charm,” Seema warns her.

“First of all, it’s not really a Winnebago. Symbolically, it’s a travel charm—”

Seema puts her hand to her chest. “Nic, try to understand that in my mind, if there is a hell, I won’t spend eternity in a fiery abyss filled with sinners. I’ll be stuck in a Winnebago for all of time, driving around North Dakota in February with Karl Rove and Kim Kardashian.”

Nic shakes her head slowly. “That’s
oddly
specific.”

“I have nightmares. Let’s go.”

Seema opens the kitchen door to let Nic through with her cake, and me to follow closely behind with the serving pieces.

Earlier, Nic promised us up and down that she would put the cake topper in front of Seema, we would pick the charms in the midnight and one o’clock positions, and we’d live happily ever after.

Now, as a math teacher, I could have told Nic the problem with using a cake topper as a marker for a circular cake. If you turn the cake 180 degrees, the cake topper looks exactly the same. Which means the midnight position is now in the six o’clock position, and my one o’clock position is really seven o’clock. Etc. So when we all grab our white satin loops and pull out our charms …

While other guests squeal in delight, let’s just say I am not as enthusiastic. “What the hell?” I blurt out after seeing my charm.

“No…,” Nic groans as she sees hers for the first time.

“Okay,” I ask, showing mine to Nic, “can we trade this time?”

“What did you get?”

“The money tree,” I say sadly, tossing it on the table.

“Oh,” Nic says, confused. “Well, at least that’s not a bad one. It means a lifetime of financial security.”

Right. That’s not so bad. Maybe I’ll just spend the rest of my life worrying about making money, and waking up every morning to go to a job that I hate just to have more of it. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I got the moon,” Nic says, holding up her charm for me to see. “Trade?”

It doesn’t look too ominous, her cute little half-moon charm. But, then again, I’ve been to this fire before. “Depends. What does it mean?”

Nic can’t suppress an eye roll. “An adventurous nightlife.”

I look down at her belly. “How are you…?”

“I know, right? Trade?”

As I try to decide if I even want an adventurous nightlife, we hear from a girl in the group. “Ooohhhh, I got the wedding cake!” she giggles. “Does that mean I’m the next one to get married?”

“It does indeed,” Nic says, immediately plastering on her happy-hostess face. “The yellow sheet of paper in front of each of you is a list explaining what each charm means.”

While all of the guests read their charts to foresee their futures, I watch Seema’s jaw tighten. She leans toward Nic and whispers, “I thought you had this rigged.”

“I did,” Nic whispers back defensively, frowning at her charm.

“What did
you
get?” one of Seema’s friends asks her excitedly.

“The snake,” she says, reluctantly showing it to the bevy of giggling women at the table.

BOOK: Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink
7.33Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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