Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink

by Kim Gruenenfelder

Nic laughs. “I’m sorry. I have kids now. I meant, ‘Oh my God!’” Her voice goes up two octaves. “You look fan-fucking-tastic! Superhandsome as always. I hate you!”

  “And you’re so tiny,” he lies. “Be honest, is there really a baby coming? Because I want a DNA test.”

  “I … love you!” Nic exclaims. “Now, what do you guys think of the game?” Nic begins reading from her magazine again. “Tell your guests that the conversation the bride is having with her friend while threading the needle is the same conversation Seema and Scott will have on their wedding night. You know, ‘I can’t get it in. Quit moving.’”

  “‘Why can’t you just throw away the sock that has a hole in it, you cheap bastard,’” Jeff continues.

  We both look at him on my screen. “Just me, then?” he says, drawing himself another beer from a tap behind his bar.

  Nic turns to me. “What do you think?”

  I think, Ick!—but I’m not going to say that out loud and hurt her feelings. “Well, it’s not as bad as the guess-the-baby-poop game,” I say weakly.

  Nic looks up from her magazine. “Word.”

  Jeff actually spit-takes his beer, then begs, “Please be kidding.”

  “It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Nic states.

  “Honey, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as it sounds,” Jeff retorts.

  “You microwave different kinds of chocolate bars into diapers, and your guests are supposed to look inside the diaper and guess the candy,” I tell him.

  Jeff looks as if he might hurl. “So Nic’s the one who’s pregnant, but I may be the one to throw up. That’s probably the most disgusting party game I’ve ever heard of. And I’m a gay man.”

  “Which is why no one did it at my baby shower,” Nic assures him. “Jeff, do you have any suggestions?”

  “Skip the party games, get a male stripper and a lot of booze, and call it a day.”

  “Personally, I would love that,” Nic tells him. “But, unfortunately, it doesn’t fit in with the theme of Seema’s wedding.”

  “Which is?”

  Nic and I repeat the mantra in unison, “Don’t piss anyone off.”

  Lately, there seems to be a trend going on in themed weddings. The Monopoly wedding, the Enchanted Forest wedding; I’ve even seen a Star Wars wedding (and all I can say to that is, wow, the bride must really have wanted to close the deal with that guy!).

  The official theme for Scott and Seema’s wedding is, and I quote, “Let’s try not to piss anyone off too badly.” I suspect other couples, particularly those where the fiancés are from different cultures or observe different religious traditions, have been in their position.

  Scott comes from a nonpracticing Protestant family. You know, they celebrate Christmas, but not so much that they trek out to midnight mass in Connecticut in the middle of a snowstorm in December. Their Easter has to do more with a candy-bearing lagomorph than an everlasting deity. The only wings associated with Sundays are chicken and made to be eaten while watching football. We all know the type. Personally, I am the type.

  Naturally, Scott’s mother insisted on a full-blown Christian wedding, complete with a minister, a white dress, and a sermon.

  Seema is a third-generation American of Indian descent who was raised Hindu, and in her family’s case that just means that she has a few Ganesha and tealights in her kitchen for a small shrine, and that she celebrates holidays such as Diwali (Indian New Year). But I don’t remember her ever going to temple. Plus she gets to eat meat. (Her dad is Punjabi, and they eat meat.) She grew up in Arizona, puts up a Christmas tree every year, and has attended more than her share of Easters, Passovers, and Hanukkahs.

  Since both of Seema’s parents were born and raised in the States, and since they don’t go to temple either, naturally Seema is having a full-blown Indian wedding that’s going to include a henna ceremony, a one-hour ceremony in Sanskrit, several bridal dresses that were made in India, a mandap (the wedding canopy), and a white horse.

  This has been fine with me, as I actually get to wear a cool maid-of-honor dress, as opposed to some of the hideous bridesmaid’s frocks I’ve been forced to wear in the past. I mean, what is it with brides and colors like Spam Pink or Sea World Aqua, not to mention the fixation on satin or tulle? Who was the first bride who passive-aggressively hated her maid of honor so much that she decided to wrap her in an explosion of taffeta?

  My outfit is a beautiful blue silk, hand-beaded choli (which is a midriff-baring top), and matching lehenga (a free-flowing skirt) that she had made for me in Mumbai. Nic gets to wear a gold silk choli and lehenga with gold embroidery and beading and looks like motherhood personified with her eight-month-pregnant belly ever-so-slightly peeking out of the ensemble.

  Their wedding has gone from a small affair for close friends and family to a three-day celebration featuring two different ceremonies—an Indian one during the daytime on Saturday, followed by a Christian one Saturday evening, a rehearsal dinner/henna ceremony the Friday before, and a brunch on Sunday at which they will serve everything from eggs Benedict, bacon, and sausage to Pongal, vada, dosa, aloo sabzi, and nan.

  For the most part, people are getting along pretty well, and the wedding is going to be exquisite. I’ve never seen two people so happy while planning their wedding and I’m sure it will go off without a hitch.

  But their theme still means that we have to be extrasensitive about Seema’s bridal shower.

  “Unfortunately, Seema’s Aunt Hema is coming, so we have to be G-rated,” Nic explains to Jeff.

  “And yet thread-the-needle seems like a good idea,” Jeff reminds her.

  “The shower’s in less than six hours, and I’m clutching at straws,” Nic admits defensively. “Other than the cake pull, Mel has nixed all of my other ideas.”

  “I never agreed to the cake pull,” I remind Nic. “Not after what happened last time.”

  Nic waves me off. “Right. Like you’ve ever said no to something that involves cake.”

  Her statement sounds insulting, but since it’s spot-on, I’m gonna let it go.

  “Nic, can you explain the cake pull to me in a hundred words or less?” Jeff asks.

  “It’s a bridal-shower game with silver charms buried inside the frosting of a two-layer cake and pulled out by a ribbon. Each guest pulls one ribbon from the cake, and the charm that is attached to that ribbon is supposed to determine the guest’s future. So, for example, the girl who pulls the engagement-ring charm from the cake would be the next to get engaged, the girl who pulls the baby carriage will be the next to get pregnant, etc.”

  “Is there a charm to get Mel to come visit me in Hawaii?” Jeff asks.

  “The passport,” Nic answers. “But she’s already asked for the antique phone, which means good news is coming her way.”

  “Hmm,” I say, thinking aloud. “Maybe I would like the passport. My last day of school was Friday, and I have tons of time to kill. Maybe I should go abroad this summer. I’ve always wanted to see Paris.”

  “Or Hawaii,” Jeff suggests.

  “Hawaii doesn’t need a passport,” I tell him.

  “And Paris doesn’t have a free guest room for you to stay in for as long as you want.”

  Jeff makes a fine point. Those student loans are not going to pay themselves down, and a free place to stay would keep expenses more reasonable. But mostly, it would be wonderful to see Jeff. Since he completely reinvented his life and moved to Maui two and a half years ago, there’s been a hole in my heart I haven’t quite been able to fill.

  “Oh, my date’s here!” Jeff says cheerfully, hopping off his bar seat. “Gotta go!”

  “Isn’t it four in the morning where you are?” Nic asks.

  “I’m a guy. We live to start dates at four in the morning. Love you both. Bye!” And he flickers off.

  Speaking of flickering, I have a flickering of jealousy pass through me. Not because he’s my ex-boyfriend, but because I can’t even remember the last time I liked a guy enough t
o see him at four in the morning. Or even at 8:00 p.m. on a Saturday night.

  “What do you think about toilet-paper bride?” Nic asks.

  I turn to look at her. “I don’t think it would be one of your best looks.”

  THREE

  At noon, I’m all dressed up in my favorite purple Suzi Chin dress (which expertly hides my recent increase in girth) and some modest beige pumps. I sit at Nic’s nicely appointed granite kitchen island, stabbing large cooked shrimp with multicolored cellophane-tipped toothpicks and placing them on a decorative serving tray while Nic places a pile of bingo cards next to me.

  “I’ve been inspired!” she tells me proudly. “Bridal bingo!”

  Nic trots over to her refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of champagne while I read the squares on the bingo card at the top of the pile. “On this card the eternal and bridesmaid squares are right next to each other.”

  Nic pushes the champagne bottles into a giant stainless steel bucket filled with crushed ice, then turns back to get more bubbly. “Fine. I’ll take that card.”

  I flip to the next card. “On this one, the mother-in-law square is next to the groom square, with the bride square three spaces away diagonally.”

  Nic shoves two more bottles into the big bucket, then pulls the cards away from me to put them back on the counter. “You’re overthinking this.”

  “I’m just saying, have you even looked at where they put the word sex? Because if it’s near a space marked ‘free’…”

  “I’m begging you not to finish that thought.”

  I shrug, then go back to my toothpicking. Nic pops open a bottle of champagne. My face lights up. I happily grab a champagne flute, then wave the glass in front of her, a gleeful, oversize grin on my face.

  Nic laughs and pours me a glass.

  The doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I say, nabbing a large shrimp for myself to accompany my champagne. I walk through Nic’s marble foyer, with a glass of champagne in one hand and a now-empty toothpick in the other, and open the door to Seema.

  “Why do women get married?” she asks me irritably.

  I look up to the ceiling to think. “Um … so they can feel morally superior to the rest of us?”

  Seema takes my glass of champagne, takes a very healthy sip, and marches in without giving me my glass back. “Scott and I just had the biggest fight.”

  As she heads toward the kitchen, I close the door then quickly follow. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Seema says angrily, then sighs. “I just want to get drunk, get presents, and revel in the mockery that is the supposed bliss of the engagement.”

  Okey-dokey.

  “There’s our blushing bride!” Nic gushes happily.

  “Shyeah, right,” Seema responds.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Nic pats her hand on a barstool by the kitchen island, inviting Seema to sit. “What is it? Did he ask for a prenup? Has he not written his vows yet? Do you want a nice ginger martini for your signature cocktail at the reception, but he’s going all hoppy and IPA beer on you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” Seema sighs, then downs the rest of the champagne from my flute. She grabs the open bottle of champagne from the stainless steel bucket and refills my glass.

  Oh, dear. It’s a little too early to be one of those kinds of days. “We have mixers to go with that,” I hint to Seema. “And not just orange juice.” I point to several pitchers of mixers in a rainbow of colors. “I also made fresh peach purée, not to mention strawberries mixed with muddled basil, plus the purple one is a reduced Concord-grape juice mixed with orange zest, orange bitters, and rosemary—”

  “Stop,” Seema interrupts, furrowing her brow. “You have met me, right?”

  I take a deep breath, then say to her diplomatically, “I’m just suggesting that you might want to take it easy on the champagne. You don’t want your Auntie Hema seeing you loaded.”

  Seema takes another gulp of champagne. “First off, don’t say auntie. You sound like you’re being condescending. Second, not to worry, in the last ten years she’s never seen me sober.”

  Aunties are the older Indian women who help the bride with her wedding, both with the henna ceremony the day before, and then with putting on her sari the day of the wedding (a several-hours-long process). Seema only has a couple of aunts: Hema and Neya. Personally, I think they’re charming and lovely women. They drive Seema crazy. Which is fair, because she adores both my aunt Jacqui and my aunt Kris, and they are both nuts and a total embarrassment, so we break even.

  Hema came into town a week before the wedding just to be at the shower today, so we’re conscientious about everything’ being perfect.

  Nic promptly walks over to Seema, takes the glass out of her hand, and gives it back to me. “Hey! That’s mine!” Seema protests.

  “Oh, no,” Nic says. “You are so cut off for now. And your guests will be here any minute expecting a happy bride. So vent before they get here.”

  Seema only pouts for a moment before unloading. “Scott doesn’t want to give up his loft after we’re married. He is paying almost three thousand dollars a month on rent. That’s money that could be going toward our retirement fund, toward buying a bigger house.… Hell, at this point, I’d agree to use the money to go on a camping trip to Mount Rushmore.”

  I furrow my brow. “Why Mount…?”

  “I just really hate Mount Rushmore!” Seema whines. “That’s not the point. The point is, he already has an exit strategy. While I’m planning our wedding, he’s planning our divorce. So why am I bothering to marry him in the first place?”

  “My advice?” Nic says calmly. “Let it go.”

  “Let it go?” Seema shrieks in disbelief.

  “Let it go,” Nic repeats. “Men need time to adjust to the idea of ‘forever.’ You need to see your future together sort of like a great-white-shark attack. Just keep him in the water, swimming happily, and eventually it’ll sneak up on him and strike.”

  “She says that in such a soothing voice,” I say to Seema, a little disturbed.

  Seema grabs my flute out of my hand for the second time. I let her.

  “I thought I said you were cut off,” Nic tells her sternly.

  “And I thought you saw marriage in a more favorable light than the opening scene from Jaws,” Seema retorts, then drains half a glass in one gulp. “Anyway, I had Scott drop me off specifically so I could imbibe. Mel’s driving me home.”

  “I am?” I ask, surprised.

  “You’re not?” Seema asks me.

  Rats. “No, I guess I am,” I say, letting my shoulders slump. Damn, no champs for me.

  Seema grabs a large shrimp from the platter I’m assembling, takes a bite, then says to Nic through a full mouth, “I cannot believe you’re taking his side.”

  “There are no sides. It’s marriage. You’re a team now.”

  Seema glares at Nic disbelievingly. I probably just look confused. Nic rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine. There are always two sides. Sometimes three or four. My point is, just take a few days to meditate over this before you go off. Scott having his own apartment doesn’t mean he’s planning to do anything stupid. He’s not the type to divorce, nor is he the type to have an affair. Frankly, he’s too lazy.”

  Seema’s eyes nearly burst out of their sockets. “Who said anything about an affair?!”

  “Oh,” Nic says. “Ignore me. I’m the wife of an NBA coach. That’s where my head naturally goes. My bad.”

  Seema nervously starts to lift my glass to her lips again, but I lower her hand. “Ignore her,” I tell Seema. “Isn’t this the guy who doesn’t want to go to his own bachelor party tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then.”

  I hear Seema’s phone beep in her purse. Seema opens her purse and reads a text.

  A smile creeps onto her face, and she quickly texts something back.

  “Is everything better?” I ask as I move
on to prepping cheese and crackers, and Nic begins putting out bottles of soda.

  “I don’t know, maybe.” Seema is still smiling. “He is being pretty cute though.” She puts her phone down next to her purse, walks over to grab another shrimp, and, before popping it into her mouth, asks, “So, what do you guys have planned for me today?”

  Nic’s eyes light up with pride. “What do you think about bridal bingo?”

  “I think it’s a bad idea to squeal ‘Oh–sixty-nine!’ in front of my aunt,” Seema retorts.

  “Then again, it would be nice to be able to say ‘I–twenty-seven’ without lying,” I point out.

  “No, no,” Nic says, handing Seema the pile of bingo cards. “It’s bridal bingo. See? The squares say things like romance and intimacy.”

  Seema sighs deeply. “Why on earth would I want my aunts and friends ruminating over my intimacy?”

  Nic, trying to stay upbeat, takes back the cards and makes a show of throwing them away over her shoulder. “Not a problem. They’re history. What about the game we played at my shower? Fantasy date/date from hell?”

  Seema squints her eyes at Nic. “Walk me through this. I finally get the man of my dreams, and I’m already supposed to be fantasizing about another guy?”

  “If we play, do we know a celebrity who does dishes?” I wonder aloud as I pick up the bridal cards from the floor to throw them away.

  “Fortune-cookie game?” Nic suggests weakly.

  Seema’s face drops, and she looks over at me for clarification.

  “Be afraid,” I say to her, shaking my head slowly. “Be very afraid.”

  Nic continues, “Each guest pulls a fortune cookie out of a bag, then breaks the fortune cookie open and reads it. Only they have to end their fortune with ‘in bed with Scott.’”

  Seema puts out the palm of her hand. “In front of my seventy-two-year-old aunt?”

  Nic gives up and crosses her arms. “Fine. But, other than toilet-paper bride, all we have is the cake pull.”

  “When did you agree to a cake pull?” I ask Seema.

  She shrugs. “I figured the last time it brought me good luck. Not that I believe in it. But, you know…”