Futures and Frosting

by Tara Sivec

  Fuckshitballdamn!

  “I know, right? First of all, they haven’t been together that long and second – who the hell proposes at someone else’s rehearsal dinner? That’s in poor taste if you ask me. You’re taking the spotlight off of the soon-to-be-married couple and putting it on you. It’s like a slap in the face to them. Like, ‘Oh hey, look at me! I’m an asshole and want all eyes on me instead of the two people they should be on! Ha ha, I’m such an asshole, who has a camera to document my assholeness for all of eternity?’” Claire says with a laugh and a shake of her head for the imaginary asshole in her mind.

  Except I'm the asshole! I'm the mother fucking asshole!

  An arm slides between our bodies and in the haze of my asshole pity party, I realize there is a champagne glass attached to the end of it. I literally feel my brain shutting down. I hear a computerized voice in there counting backwards from five and feel like I'm in the movie “The Hurt Locker” and don’t know whether to cut the red or the blue wire.

  The red or the blue?? THE RED OR THE MOTHER FUCKING BLUE?!

  Claire reaches for her glass of champagne.

  You know how people always talk about how during a moment of panic they feel like they’re in a dream and everything is in slow motion? I have never experienced that before and always just assume they are full of shit and trying to make their story sound better.

  Well, I'm right.

  This shit isn’t moving in slow motion; it's moving faster than the speed of light, and I'm cutting the wrong wire and exploding into a complete jackass spaz.

  My arm, as if completely detached from my body, flies away from its spot resting on the table, knocking over a lit candle, the salt shaker, my own glass of champagne, and two full water glasses until my hand grasps onto Claire’s champagne flute right before it touches her lips.

  I yank the glass out of her hand, sloshing expensive champagne everywhere in the process. In the back of my mind I could hear someone yelling, “Noooooooooo!” and am completely oblivious to the fact that the bat shit crazy screamer in the middle of Pier W is me.

  Not even taking one second to think about my actions or the fact that everyone in the place is looking at me in horror, I quickly bring the glass to my lips, tip my head back, and dump everything into my mouth, including the ring.

  Drew leans over and whispers in my ear when I slam the empty glass back down on the table. “Dude, are you changing the plan? Because if the new plan is that you’re going to try and shit out that ring, I gotta tell ya, that’s not very romantic.”

  13. Tee Time

  I’m going to cry.

  I’m going to cry like a God dammed baby and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. It’s getting hard to swallow because my throat is so tight, and I’m starting to feel like I’m at a rave with a really bad strobe light because of the way I keep blinking my eyes to keep the tears at bay.

  Son of a bitch, I’m going to ugly cry. Some women can pull off crying without their make-up running or fluids leaking from every hole in their face but not me. I’m in a gorgeous gown, my hair is professionally done, my make-up is flawless and in three seconds I’m going to ruin it all by losing complete control of the muscles in my face. I’m going to try really hard to stay quiet which is going to fuck me over because it’s going to force me to make sounds that you only hear in the middle of the night on the Discovery Channel. By the time I’m finished, I’m going to look like I have pink eye after being punched in the face by Mike Tyson.

  This is all Liz’s fault. Why does she have to look so beautiful?

  We’re standing in the alcove at the back of the church, just seconds away from walking down the aisle. The other bridesmaids have already left to meet their groomsmen at the front of the alter, the doors leading into the church closing behind them to keep the guests' first view of the bride a secret until the last minute.

  Mrs. Gates is busy fluttering around Liz making last minute adjustments to the train of her dress and reminding her to smile, but not too much or the creases at the corners of her eyes will show in the pictures. She’s standing up and squatting down over and over as she circles Liz, and I giggle-snort around the tears forming in my eyes since she reminds me of a horse on a merry-go-round. I suddenly want to ask Liz if she has a riding crop I can borrow so I can whip her mother and make her go faster.

  “I can’t believe you’re getting married,” I whisper to my best friend as we both ignore her mother reminding Liz to clench her butt cheeks as she walks.

  “Me either,” she says with a smile through her own tears.

  “I love Jim and I know you two will be so happy together,” I reassure her. “But as your best friend, it is my duty to tell you that should you need it, my car is right outside, fully gassed with the keys in the ignition and a suitcase with vodka in it in the trunk. I’ve also been keeping my pimp hand strong, just in case Jim gets out of line and needs a little bitch slap.”

  She laughs and I lean in to give her a quick hug, careful to avoid tugging on her veil or messing up any part of her. I do not need the wrath of Mary Gates raining down upon me.

  “Thanks, BFF. I love you.”

  The sound of gagging and thumping interrupts our Hallmark card moment and we turned to see Jim’s little cousin Melissa in her flower girl dress straddling Gavin on the floor and trying to choke him. Gavin flails and kicks beneath her, trying to dislodge her hands from around his neck.

  “Hey!” I whisper-yell. They both cease all movement and turn to stare at me. “What are you doing?!”

  Gavin shoves with all of his might and Melissa tumbles off of him. He scrambles up, grabbing his fallen ring bearer pillow and clutching it to his chest.

  “She freaking hell took my pillow! Stupid punk!” Gavin says loudly.

  “He kicked me in my no-no-zone!” Melissa complains with a stomp of her foot.

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Gates mutters.

  “You should eat dirt!” Gavin turns and yells at Melissa.

  “I will NOT eat dirt!” she counterattacks.

  “EAT IT WITH YOUR CHICKEN FACE!”

  It's complete and utter child anarchy and before I can pick a kid to yell at, the organ music changes and begins playing the song that I needed to walk down the aisle to with Gavin and Melissa right behind me.

  I quickly bend down in front of both of them and stare them square in the face with as stern of an expression as I can muster.

  “Both of you little monsters, listen up. As soon as you step foot out of those doors, you better have smiles on your faces and your outside voices duct taped inside your bodies. If you speak, push, shove, swear, argue, or even blink at each other I will haul your asses out of that church and lock you in the basement with the scary clowns.”

  I huff to emphasize my point and stand, tugging up the front of my strapless dress.

  “If I see a clown, I’m going to punch him in the nuts.”

  “Gavin Allen!” I scold.

  “What? We didn’t step fru dose doors yet,” he argues, pointing behind me.

  “Kid has a point,” Liz whispers.

  “Behave,” I whisper through clenched teeth as I turn and nodded to the two church attendants so they can open the double doors for my entrance.

  “My mom’s not afraid to punch a kid,” I hear Gavin whisper to Melissa as I take my first step down the aisle.

  Thankfully, my threat pays off and both kids make it to the front of the church without killing each other. The ceremony is beautiful and the only interruption came during communion.

  Liz is Catholic so she had wanted a full, Roman Catholic service. Carter is a “sort-of” Catholic in that he was baptized, made his First Communion and everything else he was required to do while growing up, but he only goes to church for holidays, weddings, and funerals. Regardless, when it comes time for communion, he gets in line and takes Gavin with him since Gavin is on his side of the church through the ceremony.

  I really don’t believe in any one religion, but I
have been known to sit in on a few services every once in a while just in case someone up there is taking notes. I sit in my seat in the front row with one other bridesmaid who isn’t Catholic and we watch the procession and smile at those who walk by. I crane my neck and watch happily as Carter holds Gavin’s hand while he stands in front of the priest and receives his little Jesus wafer. In the quiet serenity of the process, with only the beautiful sounds of the organ to fill the silence, Gavin’s voice bursts through the tranquility.

  “Whatchu got in your mouth?”

  I bite my lip and cringe at how easily Gavin’s voice carries through the church. Carter bends over and whispers something to Gavin as they turn and start to walk back to their seats in the front row on the opposite side of the church from me.

  “GIMMEE WHATCHU GOT IN YOUR MOUTH!”

  I cover my eyes with my hand but not before seeing Gavin try to shove his little hand into Carter’s mouth. Carter smacks his hand away and as they both sit down, Carter pulls his cell phone out of the pants pocket of his tux and hands it over to Gavin. His face lights up with glee as he snatches the phone out of Carter’s hand and sits down quietly next to him. Obviously, Carter is quickly learning that as a parent, nothing works quite as well as bribery. Seconds later the opening notes from Angry Birds blare through the soft din of organ music, and Carter quickly grabs the phone from Gavin to silence the sounds while Gavin yells, “Heeeey! I was playing that!”

  The ceremony finally ends and we spend the next couple of hours getting pictures taken. Before I know it, we are finishing up dinner at the reception and the wait staff begin clearing tables. As part of the wedding party, we are all seated at the long head-table at the front of the room. It’s always fun to sit facing a group of two hundred strangers so they can watch you eat.

  Carter takes his seat next to me after a quick trip to the bathroom, and I noticed he was rubbing his shoulder in pain.

  “What happened?”

  “I passed Jenny and Drew on the way back from the bathroom. She wanted to know if I loved the Balsa McChicken we had for dinner,” Carter explains with a raise of one eyebrow.

  “I take it you told her it’s called balsamic chicken?”

  “No. I asked her if that was something new McDonald’s was serving on their menu with the McRib. Drew punched me.”

  I glance around the room until I find my father and see him getting up from his table. He offers to head out early and take Gavin home with him as soon as he gets tired. I look at the chair next to me where Gavin is currently asleep on his stomach with his head, arms, and legs dangling down towards the floor.

  “No, I didn’t club him like a baby seal,” I assure my dad as he puts his hands on the table and leans over it to get a look at his grandson.

  “Your mother is starting to tell people about Tee Time. I think that’s my cue to leave,” my dad tells me as I stand with Carter while he scoops Gavin up into his arms and passes him off to my dad.

  “What’s Tee Time?” Carter asks as we watch Gavin sigh and snuggle his face into my dad’s shoulder, muttering something about flashlights and donkey kicks.

  My dad smiles evilly at Carter and then looks at me. “I’ll leave you two to discuss the Rachel Morgan Tee Time tradition.”

  We say our good-byes and as the reception hall door closes behind them, my mother’s voice comes over the microphone’s speaker.

  “TEE TIME! IT’S TEE TIME! Everyone meet over by the bar in five minutes!”

  I close my eyes and sigh as I hear Jim let out an excited yell and jump up from his seat.

  When I open my eyes, Carter is watching as a crowd of about twenty people, led by Jim, walk over to the bar.

  “What is going on?”

  “Carter! Now that you are part of this family, it’s time you learned about the grand old tradition that is Tee Time,” my mother exclaims as she pushes her way between us and grabs both of our arms to leads us to the bar. “This is an age old ritual that my family performs at every wedding to ensure the married couple lives a long, happy life together and that all of their ups and downs are in the bedroom.”

  Jim stands by the bar, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement as we made our way up to him.

  “Mrs. Morgan! What’s our first order of business at this Tee Time gathering?” he asks with a big grin.

  “I do believe whiskey is the first on the agenda tonight, my handsome groom,” she replies with a smack to his ass as she waves someone over from another table.

  “Hold on, wait just a second!” Liz’s mom yells as she comes running up to us. “The cake needs to be cut, and you still haven’t done the first dance and the photographer still needs-”

  My mom steps in front of Mary’s path and puts her hand up to stop her from getting any closer to Jim.

  “Mary, dear, you look stressed. When was the last time you used the bullet I gave you for your birthday last year and gave yourself a nice, big orgasm?”

  My mother, after having dealt with Mary Gates for enough years, knows exactly how to divert her attention onto something else. It's nice to see her focusing on someone else’s sex life for once. With Mary sputtering and at a loss for words, the wedding reception checklist is forgotten.

  “I have to say, I’m a little bit astounded by the fact that you were still a virgin the night we met. How is it possible your mother never bought you a male hooker for your birthday?” Carter asks.

  Jim lets out a cheer when he sees his mother-in-law practically running away from the bar and yells to the bartender for twenty shots of whiskey to go around.

  “So really, Tee Time is just another excuse to get trashed at a wedding?” Carter asked.

  “That would be correct,” I reply as I take the shot glass filled with amber liquid that is handed to me. “Calling it Stupid Time would just be too obvious.”

  “I guess since you’re drinking that means this gorgeous stud hasn’t impregnated you again,” my mother states as she takes her own.

  “MOM!” I scold.

  “What? Can you blame me for wanting another grandchild? You two make beautiful babies. The man obviously has super sperm. And by the looks of your late-night kitchen trysts, he still knows where to put it.”

  Mortification, party of one, your table is now ready.

  “Did I ever tell you about the boyfriend I had in college who thought blow jobs could cause pregnancy? It’s a shame really. I can suck a tennis ball through a crazy straw but he missed out.”

  Shouldn’t there be some sort of law about people knowing these things about one of their parents?

  My mother finally shuts up as Jim leads the group in a toast that consists of everyone raising their shot glasses, chanting “Tee Time, Tee Time, Tee Time!” before downing the whiskey.

  Carter quickly learns the ins and the outs of Tee Time. Basically, the person in charge (my mother) borrows the microphone from the DJ and announces when it’s Tee Time. It starts off as being every twenty minutes. After the first few rounds everyone quickly forgets just how far apart Tee Time is supposed to be. Eventually, it’s every ten minutes, then every five minutes, and then there is someone puking in the middle of the dance floor and the bartender is out of a job because Tee Time attendance quickly jumped from twenty people to seventy-eight people and they’ve taken over the bar so they can pour the shots faster.

  Every single wedding I have ever attended since I was three had a Tee Time. And frankly, even some of the funerals adopted the same tradition since honoring the dead can only be accomplished with adults sitting by the casket snort-laughing and loudly discussing how they think they just saw the body move.

  Two hours after the first Tee Time, I plant my ass down at one of the tables, slide off my heels, and prop my feet up on a chair so I can watch Carter, Jim, and Drew attempt to break dance to a Celine Dion song. Drew has long since shed his tuxedo coat and white dress shirt, not really caring who sees the tee shirt he wore underneath that says “I’m not the groom, but I’ll let you p
ut a ring on it” with a picture of a cock ring below the words. I watch Carter attempt to do the Running Man, unable to stop the huge grin that spreads across my face.

  “Good thing I caught you in a good mood,” Liz states as she suddenly appears next to my chair and grabs my hand, pulling me up and out of my seat. “Get your ass up. It’s bouquet-toss time.”

  I let go of her hand and sit right back down.

  “Nice try,” I say with a chuckle.

  Liz moves to stand right in front of me with her hands on her hips and glares down at me.

  “Don’t you give me that look,” I threaten. “I am not standing out there in the middle of the dance floor pretending like I give a rat’s ass whether or not I catch your stupid bouquet.”

  All around us, single women are shoving people out of the way to make it up to the dance floor in the hopes they will be the chosen one: the woman deemed worthy enough and loved enough to be the next one to walk down the aisle. It doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend or not. If that bouquet filled with all of the good luck from the recently married woman arcs through the air in your direction, you are as good as wed in the eyes of everyone around you.

  Even if I don’t really believe in that whole thing about how if you catch the bouquet you’ll be the next person to get married, I'm still not taking any chances. I had learned early on that I'm probably not a good candidate for marriage. I don’t really have shining examples of success in that area. My parents have five marriages between the two of them. I share the same genes as people that stayed married because the healthcare was cheaper. And also because the one time they had made an appointment with a lawyer, eight years ago, my mother got a flat tire on the way there. She still claims it was a sign from a higher power that they shouldn’t get divorced. Something about “If you love something you shouldn’t set it free or you’ll get down to brass tacks in your tire.”

  I won’t admit to anyone that I’ve been secretly wondering what it would be like to be married to Carter. Frankly, I shouldn’t even be thinking it or lightening will strike and ruin everything. Our life is perfect just the way it is. A few stray thoughts here and there about what it would be like to sign the name Mrs. Claire Ellis doesn’t mean anything. It just means that every once in a while I can act like a typical girl. It doesn’t mean I have any desire to don a white dress and parade myself in front of hundreds of people whose only thought about me at that moment in time is whether or not it's appropriate for me to be wearing white.