Rocking the Pink (13 page)

Brad started golfing with his friends every weekend. I was offended.
He should be spending time with the girls and me, dammit!
But Brad is not, and has never been, a man who can be cowed into doing what anyone else wants. Rather than cut back on his golf outings, he suggested that I, too, arrange to have more fun.

“Maybe you should get together with friends more often,” he suggested, deflecting my complaints. “It might give you the opportunity to . . . relax?”

This was a revolutionary idea, considering that outings with my friends had fallen completely off my world map since the girls had come along. Brad and I had just moved into a new neighborhood, and there were lots of ladies down the street I was hoping to befriend.

I had an idea:
I'll start a bunco league.
And so it was that the legendary Bunco Girls were born.

 

 

Have you ever played bunco? If not, here's what you do: Once a month, you and eleven other women drink wine, gab, gossip, and guffaw. After a little while, you drink a little more wine, gab a bit more, and then you . . . Wait, what do you do next? Oh, yes, you roll three dice. And count how many times the right number, whatever that happens to be, is rolled. If you happen to roll the lucky number on all three dice, stand up and shout, “Bunco!” (Heads up: Within seconds, someone is going to bean you on the head with rearview mirror–style fuzzy dice).

When the dice rolling has ended, eat a brownie or perhaps a piece of mud pie as you find out whether you have exhibited sufficient prowess to win a bunco prize, which might be a scented candle or a casserole dish. (Or perhaps a penis-shaped lollipop—it just depends on the crowd.)

Since I formed the group, the Bunco Girls consisted of two factions: “Laura's old friends” and “Laura's new neighbors.” Most Bunco Girls had young children and, like me, were frothing at the mouth to have some girl-style fun.

With each monthly bunco session, rolling dice became less and less central to our purpose. What we were actually doing was creating a safe haven, an indispensable support system, for each other, a place to admit when we were saturated with temper tantrums and whining (by both our husbands and our kids). We commiserated about diaper duty, nighttime feedings, discipline, and childcare. We exchanged recipe ideas, book recommendations, and all manner of phone numbers for plumbers, baby sitters, hairdressers, and massage therapists, and we laughed. As time went by, we supported each other during
pregnancies, divorces, injuries, and illnesses. Sometimes we cried and the dice remained untouched on the table.

Each and every time I returned home from bunco, I was surprised and relieved to see that Brad had capably put the girls to bed and the house was still standing. Not once did I come home to find my family huddling and shaking in a corner in their own feces, like dogs at the pound.
Not once!

Now that we felt confident our husbands and children could manage—
briefly—
without us, the time had come for the Bunco Girls to venture out for a girls' weekend. In Las Vegas, no less. After kissing our husbands and kiddies goodbye, we piled into a limousine headed for the airport, wearing matching pink tank tops that read MOMS GONE WILD.

In Las Vegas, the Bunco Girls danced into the wee hours of the morning among the twentysomethings in the clubs. We lounged at the pool and drank fruity drinks with pineapple garnishes. We played blackjack and craps in the casino. We ate uninterrupted meals at fancy restaurants and resisted the urge to cut up anyone's meat but our own. We sat in the front row of the ABBA musical,
Mamma Mia!,
singing along to “Dancing Queen” and waving our arms in the air. We were like caged animals who'd been set free. And when we returned home, though our heads were pounding and our eyelids were drooping, we were revitalized and energized. We kissed and hugged our husbands and kids and thanked our lucky stars to have them. Our hearts were full.

Brad and his partner in crime, Sophie, had started making noise about wanting a puppy. Whenever we saw someone walking a Boston terrier along the sidewalk, they would coo, “Oooh, so cute!” and, “Let's get one!”

“A puppy would be good for the girls,” Brad reasoned one day. “They would learn responsibility.”

“No way,” I said, without a hint of equivocation. Between work and the girls, I didn't have any extra energy or time to spend housebreaking and training a puppy. “I'm the one who's gonna have to take care of it, and I've got enough on my plate. Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on, honey,” Brad tried to charm me. “It would be so fun to have a new puppy.”

But I wouldn't budge. “No way.”

“C'mon, honey,” Brad persisted. He wasn't used to my resisting his charms.

“Brad, no.” And, knowing my husband all too well, I added, “If you go out and get a puppy without my consent, so help you God, you will rue the day. Not only would you be the sole caregiver for that puppy—and how you would handle that while at work all day is beyond me—but you'd also have to learn to enjoy life with a wife who hates your guts.”

I couldn't have been any clearer.

And so, a week later, right before a three-day weekend off from work, Brad and Sophie came home with a brand-new Boston terrier puppy—a little mound of fur that looked like a black-and-white guinea pig. He looked quite a bit like our poor, departed Crazy Buster, but even I could see that this one didn't have crazy eyes. He actually seemed pretty calm.

Still, I was livid. “I told you no!” I yelled at Brad. “
I told you no!”

“I know,” Brad soothed. “But isn't he cute?”

I was speechless.

Brad switched to a conciliatory tone. “Sophie and I went to a breeder just to look. And then the look on Sophie's face . . . I just couldn't say no.”

Silent treatment. A volcano about to erupt.

“Buddy, I promise, I'll do
everything,”
Brad coaxed.

“You got that right.” I walked away in a huff.

Four-year-old Chloe, who had been just as surprised about this new development as I had, ran out into the alley behind our house and hollered at the top of her lungs, “We got a puppy!”—just as I had done thirty years earlier, when my parents (note to Brad: “my
parents,”
plural) had brought Darrow home.

At Chloe's magic words, a horde of neighborhood kids descended upon the furball in Sophie's lap, oohing and ahhing and jockeying to hold him. The expression on Sophie's face was priceless—as if she had just sprouted magic wings that could fly her to Disneyland.

I wouldn't hold the puppy, cute as he was. And I refused to pet him. I knew we would wind up returning him to the breeder within mere days, and I didn't want to get attached. My heart ached for poor Sophie. She would be devastated when we told her the puppy had to go. She had just turned seven, and I knew she wouldn't be able to understand. But really, how could Brad have gone out and gotten a puppy against my express wishes? It was inexcusable. Irresponsible. Disrespectful!

Over the next few days, while the girls cuddled and snuggled the puppy, Brad became that dog's bitch. When I found a little puddle of puppy pee on the floor, I turned on my heel in the opposite direction, calling, “Brad!” When I found a little turd on the carpet, I just kept right on a-walkin', shouting, “Brad!” And Brad, bless his heart, was Johnny on the spot with the Nature's Miracle cleaner. At night, he woke up to take that puppy outside, and first thing in the morning, he did the same thing. He praised the puppy for every outdoor pee and poop, as if the dog had brokered world peace. Every day, Brad shoved the puppy blob through a doggie door over and over, just to show him how it worked. The dog looked quizzically at Brad with his Tootsie Roll eyes, as if to say,
I don't know why you keep shoving my butt through that little door, but I like it.

“What should we name him?” Brad asked the girls enthusiastically.

I pulled him aside. “Brad, we can't name the dog. Once we name the dog, we have to keep the dog. And we're not keeping the dog. You see how much work it is, and you can't keep this up when you go back to work after the long weekend. And don't even
think
about me helping you.”

Brad mumbled something that sounded a lot like, “You're probably right.” He sounded dejected. It broke my heart, really, but our lives were complicated enough. We didn't need to take on another dependent being. This would teach Brad not to go against my explicit wishes. He needed to realize that, on occasion, I actually knew best.

The next day, as if on cue, the puppy flopped his guinea-pig body right through the doggie door all by himself and then trotted off outside to pee under a bush. The whole family, even me, cheered maniacally. “Good puppy!
Goooood puppy!”

I had to admit, the puppy was a genius. And so darned cute. And sweet. I'd never seen such a calm, affectionate puppy before. He was already following simple commands, just out of an innate desire to please. It seemed that Brad and Sophie had picked out a truly one-ina-million little dog.

Again, Brad asked the girls, “What should we name him? I was thinking maybe Boomer the Boston terrier. Or maybe Bruiser. Or Bubba?”

“No, Daddy,” Sophie said. “Let's call him Buster.”

Brad and I looked at each other. Although Sophie did not have any firsthand memories of our departed Crazy Buster, she had long been watching family home movies featuring her toddler self dressing Buster in socks and hats. But wasn't it weird to name successive dogs
the same name? Wasn't it odd that George Foreman had, like, six sons all named George? Yes, we were pretty sure it was very strange.

“Maybe let's try another name?” Brad suggested. “How about Bandit?”

“No, Daddy.” Sophie was certain. “He's Buster.”

We shrugged. What's in a name? It certainly was easy to remember. I picked up the puppy and kissed his soft face. He was so warm. Just a little angel.

“Okay,” I proclaimed. “He's Buster Francis Martín Hoffman Roppé II.” And there was no chance anyone was going to return this sweet little puppy back from whence he had come.

 

 

A week later, I called Buster “Buzzy Wuzzy” when I nuzzled his fuzzy face. And that's when I knew: I'd fallen hard.

You see, my name is Laura and I'm a hardcore nicknamer. It's a disease.

Buster the First was Buzzy Wuzzy, Buzz Saw, and Buzzard. And now Buster II would inherit all of those nicknames, and probably more.

Brad, my lucky love, gets to endure being called Bird and Buddy. Not too crazy, right?

Sophie, is Soph-a-Loph, Fifi, and Fee. Still within the realm of reasonableness, right?

But my little one, Chloe, is my nicknaming masterpiece, my magnum opus. She is Chlo-Chlo, Coco, Coco Chanel Number Five, and Coco Puff. Puff Daddy. She is Cokie, which morphed into Cokie
Roberts (a reference to the journalist) and Cokie Rabinowitz (a reference to no one). Cokie became Kookoo, which morphed into Kookoo for Coco Puffs, at which point I congratulated myself on artfully merging the Kookoo and Coco nickname branches.

You see? I can't stop.

When Chloe was about three, Brad and I became acquainted with another couple, whose son was on Sophie's T-ball team. After we'd been friendly with them for about six months, the husband told me he'd only just realized Chloe's real name.

“I couldn't figure it out,” he said. “You never call her the same thing twice.”

“Oh, you know how it goes with nicknames,” I laughed. “What silly names do you call your kids?”

He looked at me blankly. “I call them by name,” he answered. “By their given names.” And though he didn't say it, I'm pretty sure what he meant to say was, “
Duh.”

Chemo Day had finally arrived. As Brad and I entered the chemo infusion room, I told myself I was She-Ra, Princess of Power. I was ready to rumble.

The chemo infusion center was a huge room with rows and rows of Barcaloungers, in which rows and rows of cancer patients—some better off than others—were receiving infusions from adjacent IV bags. Little whirs and beeps, as well as the sounds of televisions turned to low volume, filled the otherwise hushed room. My stomach was churning.

I smiled at the other patients as Brad and I walked to my Barcalounger at the end of the row. Some met my smile, but others, whose eyes were vacant, could not. They had been fighting this fight for a long time. I took a deep breath and settled into my chair, white-knuckled with fear. It was going to take about eight hours to administer my chemotherapy drugs, Nurse Julie advised me. The
drugs had to be infused very slowly, or else severe complications—like a racing heart or closed throat—could occur.

Just do it already. The anticipation's killing me.
I winced at my casual use of that particular idiom at a time like this
.

Nurse Julie began slowly pushing a drug called Adriamycin—what the other patients called the Red Devil—into my port. It was blood red (hence the nickname) and was so toxic, I was warned, it would burn my skin severely if it were to leak during administration. The sight of it entering my body was horrifying to me.