Futures and Frosting
To try and deter him from my fake inclination toward p**n benders, alone in the dark on the couch, and to try and erase the memory in my mind of the sheer look of terror on his face at Liz and Jim’s wedding when I had caught the bouquet, I’ve decided reverse psychology is the best route to go. It works well on kids. And men are pretty much giant babies most of the time anyway, so I figure I’ve got a fighting chance at getting things back to normal between us. Ever since the wedding he’s gone back to being on edge and jittery around me. I think he’s afraid he’s going to wake up one morning strapped to the bed in a tux with me standing over him in a wedding dress, waving a sledge hammer over my head Kathy Bates-style, threatening to smash in his kneecaps if he doesn’t marry me.
He should be more concerned with my father doing that, frankly.
I start off slow by telling him I absolutely don’t believe that whole tradition that whoever catches the bride’s bouquet is the next to marry. I believe I might have used the words hogwash and twaddle in that conversation to bring my point home. But Carter thinks I said twat and then it turns into an afternoon of him saying, “Twat did you say? I cunt hear you. Let’s see if I can finger it out,” while I try to show him just how unconcerned with this custom I am by throwing the bouquet away. The beautiful gerbera daisy, orchid, and lily nosegay that looks stunning in my hand.
Shut up. “The Wedding Planner” had been on the other night and Jennifer Lopez taught me what a nosegay is. I had also learned that Alex, the hot doctor from “Grey’s Anatomy”, isn’t so hot when he’s playing a guy a few fries short a Happy Meal with a shitty Italian accent. And also, the guy from the Magic Bullet infomercial looks a lot like Nigel from “So You Think You Can Dance”. Also, late night television should be illegal in all fifty states and maybe I really would be better off watching “Sweet Home I’ll-a-Slam-Ya” or “Driving Into Miss Daisy”.
“Claire, what the hell is your problem? You’ve been moping around all day,” Jenny says as she comes out of the office of the shop with some invoices for me to sign in her hand.
I jump at the sound of her voice and realize I’ve been dipping the same pretzel in chocolate for the past twenty minutes.
Liz might not be here, but at least I have someone to bounce my thoughts off of.
“Carter thinks I have a p**n addiction,” I blurt out.
“Ooooooh me too!” she replies with glee.
My mouth dropped opens and I stare at her in shock.
“Oh no! I don’t mean I think you have a p**n addiction. Well, not that I know of. I mean Drew thinks I have a p**n addiction too. We’re like twinsies!”
Yeah, I don’t think so.
“I have a membership to a p**n -of-the-month club. It’s kind of like a jelly-of-the-month club except you don’t get jelly. And I can’t tell my mom about it. The p**n , not the jelly. She likes jelly so I could tell her about that. I just got ‘Weapons of Ass Destruction’ and ‘Forest Hump’. Sex is like your box on my cock-o-late,” she says in her best Forest Gump voice. “We should totally watch that one together!”
Not gonna happen.
“Awww, you miss Liz, don’t you? I know what will cheer you up. I’m going to call Drew and have him come up and help you frost all those cookies for the baby shower order tomorrow. He took the night off of work tonight, but we don’t have any plans. Did I tell you his mom’s been making these amazeball cookies for his sick uncle and the guy just raves about them and keeps asking for more? I’ll have Drew bring some up so you can try them. Maybe they’ll spark a little creative genius in you. You can put us to work, kick back, relax, and enjoy someone else’s cookies for once,” Jenny rambles as she pulls out her cell phone and starts dialing. “Don’t forget you have that interview with ‘The Best of Baking’ magazine so we can go over some things for that while we’re at it.”
Even though I'm now privy to more of Jenny and Drew’s sex life than I ever wanted to be and the sound of her voice droning on is starting to give me a headache, I have to admit that hiring her to help out with all my back office stuff was a stroke of brilliance. She had secured me my own domain name instead of a website that included the words “freesite4everyone” in the address, and once I forbid Drew from sneaking in thumbnail pictures of his penis in the “about me” section, it actually looked very professional. Customers can place orders online and even print out coupons thanks to Jenny. She’s organized my schedule so I can work around Gavin’s three days of preschool a week and see Carter before he leaves for work every day, and she’s managed to get me an in-studio interview with the local news station and three write-ups in local baking magazines; the first of which is scheduled for tomorrow.
In just a few days, my best friend will be home from her honeymoon, and I’ll be able to get her advice about Carter. I am so worried about saying or doing something to scare him away that I might have taken it to the extreme. When he had asked me this morning if I wanted more cream for my coffee I replied, “Speaking of cream. Why do women wear cream to their wedding? Weddings are stupid. Married people are stupid. I think I broke my thumb.”
No, I don’t know why the f**k I told him I thought I broke my thumb. I had panicked. And now I’m pretty sure he thinks my maybe-broken-thumb is due to the late night p**n ography habit I just can’t quit and it’s either from A) pressing the rewind and or pause buttons too quickly or B) pressing MY buttons too quickly. Either option is not something I care for him to be wondering about me every time he looks in my general direction.