Daddy will you hold me?
When are we going to be there?
This is taking too long!
I don’t want to see the maple forest anyway!
Mom can we go back?
Mom do you have any snacks?
Mom I’m thirsty.
I have to go potty.
Mom I smell poop.
You see in my house, even if Grant is in the kitchen making himself a snack, the kids will go out of their way to knock on the bathroom door—which is locked—beg and pound until I give in and open it with a head full of shampoo and a half shaven body. Apparently, only mom will do for all tasks, regardless of their complexity.
“What do you need? Where’s your dad?”
“Dad’s in the kitchen. Mom, can you get me a grilled cheese and put on Finding Dory?”
“Why can’t you ask your father?”
“I want you to do it.”
“Please ask your dad. I’m in the shower.”
“But Dad cuts them into squares and I don’t like squares and he’s not listening to me.”
“Okay send your dad in here and I’ll tell him how you like it then he can make it for you so I can finish taking a shower.”
Assuming the house is content when I get out of the shower fifteen minutes later, I find that the kids are still waiting for me to make them a grilled cheese and no one has started the movie yet because only mom will do.
“What are you doing out here? The kids are asking me for stuff you can do while I’m trying to take a shower.”
Grant looks back at me from the couch, empty plate of waffles sitting on the floor completely licked clean by the dog who is still waiting for more crumbs to drop. She too knows that when Grant moves around the house, crumbs drop from some magical, endless place. The kids also have this special ability of producing crumbs out of nowhere to everywhere.
“Can I just rest my stomach for a minute?” he says.
“Come on kids. I’ll get you some food.” I signal for them to follow me. “Daddy ate too much and can’t move. Don’t be like Daddy.”
Now it’s not always like this in my house. Okay, it is usually like this in my house. Sometimes it’s even like this.
“Mom can I have candy?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause we’re not eating candy for breakfast.”
“Dad can I have candy?”
“What did your mother say?”
“Yes.”
“Well whatever she says.” Grant reaches into the tallest cupboard to retrieve the remnant Halloween candy just as I walk back into the kitchen.
“I thought I said no candy for breakfast?”
“He told me you said it was okay.”
Our little man with spikey hair quickly secures a small Kit Kat before I can do anything about it.
“On what planet do we let our kids eat candy for breakfast?” Grant shakes his head and smiles as he saunters toward me with a charming look on his face. The one that he uses when he does something utterly stupid and is trying to explain why but there is no explanation because it’s utterly stupid and he knows it.
I say to him what I often say in times of co-parenting. “Honey. For as smart as you are. Why are you so dumb sometimes?” He kisses my cheek, neck and pulls me in tight as I try to pull back so we’re not late for school and work.
Battle for Control—Birth Control.
Grant would never ask me to have a tubal ligation or some other procedure for birth control that I wasn’t willing to consent to. I extended him the same respect. Until I couldn’t.
Grant admits that in fact he did tell me after our last baby, he would get a vasectomy. And that in fact, it was the easiest and most commonsense thing to do for our family. I considered this to be one of the terms of our agreement about procreation.
Three years after the birth of our second child, Grant is still dragging his feet. In this time I’ve been a patient wife. I have tried to gently nudge him along our agreed path for the good of our family, and my sanity. I’ve given him time to come around.
At first I tried to be responsible and buy condoms. Then a different type of condom after the first ones were unsatisfactory. Then another after that, which all inevitably failed the sensitivity test. Yet still, I pressed on, determined to let him get snipped in his own time.
I decided to give the Pill another college try and take one for the team. One after the other, each new kind of hormone brought a new undesirable symptom. These ranged in severity from weight gain, mood swings, depression, to the complete eradication of my libido, which was already on the fritz since the last few years have been round-the-clock child bearing, rearing and milking. Yet still, I’m just supposed to what? Deal with it? Stay on the Pill, get fat, depressed and never want to have sex? Sounds like a divorce on the horizon. The Pill was not a good option. Grant understood. Still, the phone call had yet to be made.
In a Hail Mary pass I decided to try the ring. Unbeknownst to me it fell out somewhere in Alaska, where I promptly took Plan B, just to be sure. Now if you don’t know, Plan B is NOT an abortion pill so don’t picket my front lawn. New month, new ring, new hope. I was going to put the past behind us, not pressure him because that’s what he would do for me.
Until this happened.
“Honey I can’t find the ring again,” I say the moment he walks through the door from work.
“What do you mean you can’t find the ring? Did you lose it?” He sets his coat down and takes his shoes off completely unaware of what I’m talking about.
“Not my wedding ring. The Nuva Ring, it’s not in there.” I shrug. “I’ve dug around and I can’t find it.”
He looks concerned now. “How long has it not been in there?”
“How should I know? I don’t dig up there every day. I put it in weeks ago.” Anxiety is beginning to brew.
“Shit. What about last night?”
“No shit what about last night. What about last week?” I say completely defeated as he leans in to pull me close. But this hug is like being enclosed within the very cause of my anxiety and I can begin to feel an old friend starting to creep up on me. My pal resentment who I never wanted to see again, especially not within my marriage.
“I’ll go get a pregnancy test. Should I pick up more Plan B too? Just in case, for last night?” I sense he knows my brew has begun to boil.
“Well I fucking suppose! God dammit, do you have any idea what that dose of hormones does to me!?” I begin to bawl out of anger, fear and resentment.
Grant looks for the bright side. “Are you sure it’s not in there?” Maybe you just didn’t feel it? Maybe it moved?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t find it.”
“Do you want me to try?” he asks gently.
Well fuck.
If you had a vasectomy we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I wouldn’t have to take Plan B again. And now I could do without the embarrassment of putting my feet into make shift stirrups at the edge of my bed so my husband can shine his iPhone flashlight between my legs with an ungloved finger to search for the lost fucking ring!
“I suppose!” I throw my hands up and walk toward our bedroom. He follows.
Search and recovery is unsuccessful. “I can’t find it either, maybe you should go to the doctor.”
“I work twelve hours tomorrow. I can’t. I’d have to cancel clients!”
“Well you have to go in.”
And so after a negative pregnancy test and a dose of Plan B, I cancel clients to see my doctor so she can confirm that in fact my fears are true, I have the world’s largest vagina and the ring must have fallen out when I pulled out a tampon or something.
“What’d she say?” Grant asked.
“She said it must have fallen out of my Grand Canyon because not long ago a vacuum ripped things apart trying to suck out a kid!”
“She said that?”
“Yes. She also said I’m going
to need a Vaginoplasty or whatever it’s called. She gave me the name of a plastic surgeon.”
“She said that?”
“Yes. Can I have your credit card?”
Remember, I’ve just taken Plan B the day before and now I could tear apart all the leaders of the free world with words alone.
“What do you mean now what? Now nothing. I do nothing. You get a vasectomy, I do nothing. That’s what.”
“I know. Okay I will. I’ll make the call.”
Reassurance floods in and I feel better.
Not.
Chapter 24
Forever After-Grant
Grant: Do you know what I found on my camera roll today when I was scrolling through pictures?
C.J.: No. What?
Grant: Your nipple. I found your nipple.
I was stooped over loading the dishwasher, my head concealed behind the island when he said it. I froze, took a moment to process his comment then remembered exactly what he was talking about. I concealed my laughter and stayed hidden.
C.J.: What? What are you talking about?
Grant: Well let me tell you what I’m talking about.
I feel him staring in my direction.
You see, I found this odd picture I don’t remember taking or recognize. Upon further inspection and based on the pictures around the odd photo, I’ve concluded that it’s your nipple. At some point when we were in Hawaii, you commandeered my phone and took that picture. Am I right?
C.J.: No. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I take a picture of my nipple on your phone. That doesn’t make sense. That’s stupid.
Grant: Umm . . . hmm. And there is one other thing too. Dylan sent me the video. I know what you did.
C.J.: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Grant: Sure you do.
Of course I do. I posted a video on FB of me brushing the sand from my feet onto his bed sheets when we were on vacation.
C.J.: No I don’t.
Grant: I’ll get you back you know.
C.J.: Honey, I only did those things ‘cause I love you and you’ve already done worse to me so please, let’s just call a truce?
Grant: No way.
C.J.: Fine. I’m not sorry for what I did to you when you locked yourself out on the balcony.
Grant had one too many drinks in the sun and locked himself out on the second floor balcony of our hotel room in Maui. I thought it was the perfect time for a harmless joke. So I made him drop his shorts and boxers down to his ankles before I let him back in.
…
The pranks have not stopped.
They may in fact be escalating.
Chapter 25
“FOOL ME ONCE, SHAME ON YOU;
FOOL ME TWICE, SHAME ON ME.”
-GEORGE HORNE
Punked
AFFAIRYTALE-Deleted Scene
I was living on my own but we were still sneaking around since my divorce wasn’t final. We explored what our life together would be like without opening the door to judgmental onlookers tempted to poison what we had found. I learned quickly that our life together could be summed up in a few words. Love, Adventure and Pranks. Endless pranks.
I arrived at Grant’s place hoping for a night of wine and private serenade, making love and drowning my physical pain with emotional ecstasy. What I found instead was a neon pink Post-it stuck on the garage door waiting for me.
Let yourself in baby
I miss you! I might be running
a few minutes late. Use your key.
Mwah!
My key. I still couldn't believe I had a key! Never in my life had a key been this important. It was a symbol of our lives becoming increasingly entangled. I welcomed it, wanting us to be so interwoven that not even a hurricane could blow us apart. That night was the first time I used my key.
The shiny, silver secret holder slid into the knob with ease and the door popped open as if it was expecting me. When I wiggled the key back out, I kissed it with the same passion I would kiss a lost puppy returning home then held it to my heart.
At the top of the stairs the cream carpet felt plush under my feet, the air was warm and smelled of jasmine and vanilla. Rose petals were scattered across the floor again, or perhaps they hadn’t been picked up yet. The house was dark and deathly silent with not even a hum of the kitchen appliances. I reached for the light switch but nothing happened. I tried it again. Nothing. I should have known then that the flowers and darkness were a rouse; a distraction and camouflage for a house filled with booby-traps.
The trail of petals lead me down the hall toward the kitchen where a second light was also curiously not working. On the table, another pink fluorescent Post-it meant to guide me through his playland.
There’s a good bottle of wine
chilling in the fridge. Pour us a glass!
I’ll be home soon.
Mwah!
Suspicious, because I was also guilty of this type of tomfoolery, I proceeded with caution. It was there on the back of the refrigerator door handle where my intuition was confirmed. I wrapped my fingers around the long, silver rod ready to retrieve heaven in a bottle, but instead I found my palm smeared with KY. I elbowed the door shut, smiled and shook my head feeling my slick, ready-for-a-hand-job, hand.
There was a single paper towel conveniently placed on the counter next to the fridge. After wiping off the petroleum lubricant I reached into the fridge, which was also dark due to the apparent total power outage, to find the very nice bottle of Firestone Wine. A Riesling. When I wrapped my fingers around the bottle I was greeted with a familiar slime. Disappointed I didn’t see that coming, I vowed his title as King Prankster would be usurped.
Fool me twice . . .
KY covered surfaces were not the real prank though, something much more elaborate was waiting for me silently overhead. An intricate design of moving parts that had taken much thought, a marvel of engineering and ingenuity. The type of clockwork puzzle you set up in your empty basement over Christmas vacation, not something you throw together on a Wednesday night.
When I opened the fridge door to pull out the bottle of wine, action was set in motion. A domino effect of random objects triggering other random objects to move and zip along invisible string weaved and interlaced like lattice overhead. A mad scientist’s creation all for me. I felt honored as I stood among the animated objects. He’d taken the time to create a genius symphony of wooden spoons, cereal boxes and kitchen utensils that came to life like Disney characters emerging to dance with each other once the humans were gone.
Impressive.
Then I heard Grant. Unable to contain his laughter he nearly imploded. He’d been watching the scene unfold from behind a chair in the den. And, of course, videotaping. He jumped over the back of the chair and bounded toward me laughing and smiling; camera in one hand, paper towels in the other.
“Babe, that was so funny, I’m sorry,” he said in a very unapologetic voice as he wiped the remaining lube off my hand and kissed me on the cheek.
“Did you skip work today to design this little fun house for me?”
He laughed some more, evidently pleased with himself. Then grabbed me by the hips pulling me close as he leaned back and cackled like a crazy wizard.
The gloves had come off. Anything was fair game now.
If they had to be summed up in a police report, it would sound something like this.
October 1st
Police were called to the parking lot of CostMart where Ms. Summers claims to have found a wad of something suspicious, possibly feces, on the handle of her car door. Foul play is suspected. She flicked off the brown, moist chunk only to realize it was regurgitated chewing tobacco that reportedly smelled like cherries.
Later that evening, police were called to a Mr. Grant English’s residence where video of the incident was uncovered when Ms. Summers suspected he was involved in the feces/cherry chew incident due to his inability to keep a straight face and history of childish
pranks.
November 3rd
Ms. Summers filed a report claiming she awoke to intruder taking pictures of her while she was sleeping. The intruder fled the scene and his intentions are unknown. Ms. Summers voiced her concern that the individual may look at those pictures while pleasuring himself and she may, or may not take issue with that.
November 6th
We have been called back to Ms. Summers’ residence where she showed us images she received via text and has concerns they are from the intruder incident earlier in the week. The pictures depicted an object close to Ms. Summers’ head while she was sleeping—maybe a finger. The actual object is unclear.
July 1st
Due to the rash number of incidences Mr. English and Ms. Summers have reported over the last ten months—fifty-three in total—it is our determination they are all connected and best resolved domestically through a throw down match in hot oil. We informed Mr. English that no longer being able to use the restroom without taking his drink with him, was not a criminal matter—regardless of how much hot sauce or bio freeze the suspected assailant had been using to contaminate it. It should be noted that he was concerned with the escalation in quantity and variety of condiments and thought that maybe it would progress into something more sinister.
Ms. Summers was also contacted and asked not to report any further pranks no matter how uncomfortable, due to their non-criminal, albeit immature nature. We again explained that pouring cold water over her while she is taking a hot shower is not a criminal offense. We suggested she retaliate with an ice bucket as many times as necessary. She thought this was a positive step toward reconciliation.
2010-present day
Due to the continued bad behavior between the two parties involved, it is assumed that Mr. English will be subjected to a lifetime of having a wet finger stuck in his ear at unsuspecting moments. Further, Ms. Summers will forever have KY lube on her hands at the most inopportune times and will have to adjust to having a very difficult time opening door knobs wherever she goes. The department is closing this case and strongly encourages the two individuals to stop tormenting each other before they have a War of the Roses.
Forever After Page 10