There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  Dejected, I start to head back to the ballroom just as John emerges from the men’s room. “There you are,” I say, very happy to see him.

  “Oh, hey,” John says to me awkwardly. “Miss me?”

  “I did,” I tell him sweetly. “Say, do you want to go out and take a walk on the beach?”

  John takes a moment to think about my suggestion.

  That can’t be a good sign.

  “Um … sure,” he tells me, taking my hand. “Let’s go.”

  We walk hand in hand out onto Santa Monica beach. The night is wildly romantic. It’s late August, so it’s not cold yet. I smell the salty air, and listen to the ocean’s waves pounding against the sand mixed with the sound of a bass pounding out from the ballroom.

  I look up into John’s eyes, then I lean in and kiss him.

  He politely kisses me back. (That’s bad.) And when I pull away from him, he has an almost pained expression on his face.

  I try to give him a hopeful expression. “Shall we try again?” I joke, and lean in just as he looks down at the ground and …

  Bwahh …

  He throws up wedding cake all over my dyed-to-match shoes.

  “Oh God!” I yell, involuntarily stepping back in horror as he grabs his stomach and says, “Jesus! I’m so sorry. I … Bwah…”

  And there goes the filet mignon with Roquefort, all over the sidewalk.

  Ew! Ew! Ew!!!! What kind of a red hot chili pepper is this?!

  I rub John’s back as he stays bent over, ready for the next assault on his system. “Are you okay?” I ask him. “What happened?”

  John starts hyperventilating as he tells me, “I thought the ice cream I picked up at the airport tasted funny, but I figured, ‘Oh, I don’t eat much ice cream, I guess this is how it tastes. And now … Bwahhhh…”

  I bring John over to a nearby chair and help him take a seat. He clutches his stomach as he finishes his story. “For the last hour I’ve been feeling queasy, but I was hoping it would go away.”

  I rub his back for a few moments. After the next wave of vomit, I ask him, “Do you have a room here?”

  John painfully nods yes.

  Twenty minutes later I have helped get John into bed and returned to the ballroom, where I see Seema sitting at a table, looking forlorn.

  “Hey,” I say, throwing down my purse. “Where’s your date?”

  “He’s with the police.” She sighs.

  I do a double take.

  Wonder if there’s a cake charm that can predict that?

  Twenty-two

  Nicole

  A writer has to write. I can’t help it. I am going nuts on this family cruise, and I need to vent.

  I am sitting at the teeny tiny pool on the cruise ship, a watered-down mai tai at my side, watching the girls slide down the waterslide and into the pool over and over again.

  Any mathematician who insists there is no such number as “umpteenth” has clearly never had kids.

  Today, I have to write.

  And by that I don’t mean real writing—I mean sending e-mails to my friends to complain.

  I place my portable computer on my lap, click online, and begin writing to Mel and Seema.

  To: Seema@atotalwasteofmakeup.com, Mel@atotalwasteofmakeup.com

  Subject: Are we there yet?

  I will not, WILL NOT, at $0.55/minute Internet cafe rates, click on the Hotel Danieli live cam in Venice, Italy to see what I’m missing. Nor will I look up pictures of the Tuscan villa that Jason and I should be staying at later this week.

  I am in the first ring of Hell—there are no real criminals here, but I am in Hell nonetheless.

  First off, I had forgotten that I am my mother’s daughter. As you both know very well, this means that I get seasick in spite of my love of water sports, and that water from any country other than my own makes me … oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Sick on both ends.

  But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

  So, as you two know, my darling husband (all right, I’ll admit I am LOVING that word) and I had to leave our wedding reception early to take a limo over to the airport for a red-eye flight to Orlando. (By the way—both of you seemed to be doing very well when I left. What’s the latest with each of you? Am I going to be an aunt anytime soon?)

  The kids were great on the plane. Malika fell asleep almost immediately upon takeoff. Megan watched movies. Myself? I had two of those little airline bottles of Scotch and a valium I snagged from my dad. Because I’m worth it.

  We got to Orlando. I had this vision from watching too many thirtie’s musicals that someone was picking us up. Instead, we were entering the Sheeple Mover. We had to wait, overtired and unshowered, at Orlando Airport for three hours before we got on the bus. During this time we met a nice couple, Jeff and Brian, with two small children, one of whom would scream at the top of his lungs for no discernible reason every ten seconds or so. The five-year-old, I mean. Although Brian was threatening to do so on at least two occasions. Me compadre! I bonded with him immediately.

  We also met a honeymooning couple going on their—wait for it!—twelfth cruise. It is a cult. The honeymooning couple had the system down. They were the first ones on the bus. They have Caribbean cruise–themed webbed necklaces with plastic covers for their room cards. We, of course, after three hours of waiting, almost missed the first bus because of a potty emergency.

  On to the terminal! Where we had another long wait under overcast skies with tropical humidity. The words “one hundred” pop to mind—as in one hundred degrees, one hundred percent humidity.

  And then we boarded. Upon each family’s arrival, someone introduces them by name in the grand lobby, and then a paid staff of crew members cheers wildly. We are all special here.

  We started at the buffet. The buffet is big. Since we’re off to the Caribbean, naturally they featured a wide array of tropical items, including macaroni and cheese, hamburgers, and minicorndogs. There is margarine and Cool Whip in abundance.

  Also, you are immediately pressured into joining the wine program.

  And here is my first official observation for the week: people are here because they do not actually want to spend time with their children. They are here to dump the kids and drink. (As Malika so succinctly put it on our third day here, “What kind of parents force their kids to play basketball just so they can go drink?”)

  Out of the mouths of babes.

  But back to that first day.

  Lest I be considered a teetotaler here, the parents are not wine tasting. God knows, I love a good wine tasting. No, no. They drink heavily, and with an air of desperation and in this mock hilarious way that seems more common on the East Coast than the West. And they eat. There are many obese people here whose idea of a vacation is moving from one mediocre buffet to the next. We Americans are not a pretty people.

  We got through the buffet. Megan felt sick. She didn’t actually vomit. We checked out the kids’ areas, which the girls seemed to like. Then we finally got to go to our stateroom. It is the tiniest room I have ever seen. Truly. There are bunk beds that come out of the walls at night. Let us just say there can be no “classic honeymoon activities” when your five-year-old stepdaughter accidentally shoves her foot off of her bunk bed, and into your nose.

  We changed to go to the pool.

  The pool deck is like the line at Disneyland. The big children’s pool, the one with the water slide, was closed because some small child had pooped in it. It would not be open again until we got to sea. The other pool, which is ten feet by thirty feet, must have had fifty people in it. The smell of chlorine makes your eyes water. Elbow to elbow with the Coney Island crowds, I tried, to the tune of “Celebrate Good Times Come On,” to pretend that I am enjoying this.

  Then we needed to leave the pool to have our emergency evacuation drill. You have to go to your stateroom, put on your life vest, and then go to your lifeboat. A great way to start a trip, packed together, everyone, like sardines on the fourt
h floor.

  And then we took a nap, so we missed the bon voyage party. I was lying in bed with Megan and Malika when I heard the engines start. I fell back asleep only to be awakened by severe nausea as soon as we were under way.

  We wake up the girls for dinner. This was a mistake. Malika spent the entire meal at the lovely pseudo-French restaurant crying, “This place sucks. I want to go home,” in various forms, over and over again.

  And so do I.

  Would it be really bad form to fly to Tuscany for one day, then fly home?

  Love to all,

  Nicole—aka, the Wicked Stepmother ☺

  I hit send and close my computer.

  “Nic! Nic! Watch me!” Malika yells as she races down the slide—and splashes water all over my computer.

  Sigh. I throw a dry towel over my computer and place it on the clear plastic table next to me. Then I give her a thumbs-up, and encourage her to go again.

  “They’re really loving this vacation,” Jason says from the chaise next to me.

  “They’re definitely getting into the spirit of things,” I say with false cheer.

  Jason smiles and takes my hand. “Do you need another mai tai?”

  I lightly kiss his hand. “No, I’m good.”

  We share a calm moment just before the cruise director yells over the loudspeaker, “Okay, everyone! Get ready to Macarena!”

  I squint at the cruise director as Jason stands up. “I’ll make it a double.”

  “Thank you.”

  I’m starting to rethink that wine club.

  Twenty-three

  Melissa

  They’re having sex right now. I’m sure of it. It’s around one in the morning, Fred’s favorite time of day for seduction. And it’s Friday night, when he’s done with his workweek and ready for some recreation.

  My imagination is doing terrible things to my heart. I am convinced that at this very moment he is having the best sex of his life, and he doesn’t ever want it to end. He’s kissing her neck, she’s rubbing his thighs. They’re doing things I would never do, and then reloading with Gatorade and doing it all again. He’s glad I’m gone. He’s happy to be free.

  I look over at my clock radio, and wonder if I’ll ever sleep again. How many more nights do I have to wonder what I could have done differently to save my happiness? I play in my head not believing him the first time he said that men on business trips didn’t sleep around as much as women thought. Would it have changed anything if I had quit my job to join him on lengthy business trips? Would that have helped? What if I had changed my physical appearance? One of the lies men say is that they don’t understand plastic surgery—and yet they love bigger boobs, fewer wrinkles, and skinny thighs.

  I’m not only mourning the old relationship, I’m mourning the future I thought I was going to have. The future I’d been planning for. Fighting for. Counting on.

  I counted on something, and I lost. I fought hard for something, and I lost.

  I lost, and Fred won.

  I don’t understand why the universe is allowing Fred to be rewarded for his betrayal. For his lies. Why should he be loved when I’m alone? While he gets off scot-free, I suffer the heartbreak. He smokes—I get the lung cancer.

  And then out of the blue … like, in a matter of seconds … the thought that I should continue suffering just because he is a jerk makes me so angry.

  I know I should still be grieving but, at least in this moment: I’m. Just. Pissed. Off.

  What the Hell ever happened to karma? What does it say about our society that we let our men regularly cheat on their women, and we never do anything about it? Why are advertisers still willing to pay spokespeople like Kobe Bryant and Tiger Woods? Why does Hugh Grant continue to make romantic comedies, of all things? David Letterman’s ratings went up when he not only cheated on the mother of his child, but cheated with a subordinate who worked for him? Physical abusers like Chris Brown go down in flames (as they should)! So why not psychological abusers?

  I once read that betrayal can only happen if you love someone. Fair enough. So by that logic my happiness is as simple as not loving the schmuck who did this to me. To not let the psychological abuser get away with his actions.

  Without thinking, I get out of bed, march over to Seema’s room, and knock on her door. “Are you awake?”

  She starts to mumble, “Not really. I was sort of staying up, because Scott sometimes calls in the middle of the—”

  I open the door, and turn on her light. “They’re passive-aggressive motherfuckers, and we can do better!”

  Seema is lying in her bed, possibly asleep. She opens her eyes. “And I guess, ‘Not really’ could be construed as ‘come on in…’ ”

  “Seriously, it’s been almost a week!” I tell her angrily. “Why the fuck hasn’t Scott called you?”

  Seema blinks several times, forcing her eyes to stay open. She sits up. “He’s holed up in his loft, working. He’s got less than four weeks to re-create everything that was stolen last Saturday, plus he needs to turn in several extra pieces—”

  “That’s passive-aggressive bullshit!” I yell accusingly. “He’s just such a … MAN! They ALL are.” I turn on my heel, and march back to my room. “I’m going to get the rest of my stuff,” I announce, going into my room to grab my car keys and purse from the dresser, then passing through the living room and over to the front door.

  “Wait. What?” I hear Seema yell from her bedroom. She quickly races out of her room, throwing on a robe as I open the front door. “What are you going to do? Go confront Fred while he’s with the other woman?”

  “I think I am,” I say, feeling in control of my life for the first time in days, weeks, months, possibly (six) years. “I’m gonna go get my life back.”

  And with that, I’m out the door. Seema runs out after me in her pajamas and robe. “Wait. This is a bad idea.…”

  “Why? I have no furniture there—I had to put my major stuff in storage, remember?”

  The look on Seema’s face shows me she does remember, but that she thinks that’s beside the point. I head to my car. “I need my stuff out of there. It’s only a few carfuls. I can be out by dawn. And when I am, I will officially have my life back.”

  “Wait,” Seema says quickly.

  I turn around to face her. We engage in a staring contest. I don’t blink. I’m not going to be swayed. Seema finally rolls her eyes and sighs, “Let me follow you in my car—then we’ll have enough room to get everything out in one trip.”

  I smile. “Thank you,” I tell her quietly.

  She gives me a quick smile, then goes back into the house to get her keys and purse.

  I pull out my cell phone, and hit the speed dial. “Hey, it’s me,” I say to Fred. “I’m coming to get my stuff … Yes, now.… Well, if she or you are anywhere near my vicinity when I get there, you will see the difference between a dumb woman’s anger and a smart woman’s wrath.” Fred forces me to explain, so I do. “I say that because she only threw a drink in your face, and then stupidly took you back. That’s dumb. I, on the other hand, am smart. I would never take you back. Oh … and if you’re stupid enough to be at home when I get there, I’m smart enough to make what happens to you look like an accident.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I am standing on my old doorstep, Seema by my side, listening for voices, footsteps, or perhaps sirens.

  All I hear is silence.

  “Are you insane?” Seema whispers. “I know you’re mad, but he could call the cops after a threat like that.”

  As I pull out my old house key, I shake my head knowingly. “That would mean he’d have to admit to the policemen, or policewomen, that he was afraid of a little five-foot-two wisp of a thing. Never gonna happen.”

  I use my key to unlock the door, then slowly push it open. Fred is nowhere to be found. I smile triumphantly. “All clear,” I say as I walk in.

  “Wow,” Seema says in amazement. “You actually got him to clear o
ut in the middle of the night with no notice?”

  “Be very impressed,” I say to her, feeling like a force to be reckoned with as I walk into my old kitchen.

  “I am,” Seema says. “Remind me never to cross you.”

  We walk through the house, and I make a mental note of what’s mine and what’s his. Hideous plaid couch: his. Tasteful sterling silver frames with pictures of the two of us in happier times: mine.

  Seema surveys the scene with me. “So, what do you want to take back first?” she asks me.

  “Well, I’ve taken back my dignity, and my life. So let’s start with those Britney Spears CDs.”

  Twenty-four

  Seema

  I am so fucking tired.

  Although I was happy to help Mel get everything out of her old place, I wish she would have put a little more thought into the timing. We were packing and loading up until five in the morning. By the time we got home, Mel was completely hyped up on a combination of coffee, Diet Monsters, and adrenaline. I, on the other hand, could fall asleep on a bed of nails. I yawn as we each carry in Glad bags of her clothes.

  “Isn’t this just the best day?!” Mel announces, beaming. “Where do you want to go for brunch? I’m buying!”

  “Sweetie,” I say. “I can barely keep my eyes open. We’ve got our cars locked in the garage, so your stuff is safe. Let’s just take a nap, and…” I yawn so wide that my ears pop, “leave the rest of the unpacking for later in the day.”

  “We need to join an online dating service,” Mel tells me purposefully.

  My eyes are stinging. At what point does someone slip from a really good friend into a codependent? “You’ve had too much ginseng and caffeine. Go to bed.”

  “I know a lot of success stories,” Mel insists to me as she tosses her Glad bags of clothes onto her bed.

  “No, you don’t,” I counter, throwing my Glad bags next to her closet.

  “Yes, I do,” Mel insists.

  I heave a big sigh. “No. You know people who dated someone who wasn’t all that into them for three months, maybe a year. Or, worse, you may know some people who were never in love but who married their safety net—because they weren’t getting any younger and at least this person was nice to them. But you do not know anyone who actually fell in love on a dating Web site.”