“Dad, no one says that.”
“Everyone says that,” he replies, pushing himself away from the counter and moving his hands to his hips.
I roll my eyes and began wiping crumbs off of the top of the display case.
“Really? Who?” I challenge as the bell above the door chimes and a customer walks in.
“People,” he states firmly.
I sighed and turn away from my dad to smile and greet the woman who is perusing the white chocolate section at the opposite end of the case from where we are standing. After making sure she doesn’t have any questions, I glance back at him.
“Dad, it’s two-thousand-and-twelve, not the nineteen-fifties. People live together all the time before they make any kind of huge commitment. We just need some time to get used to each other and learn to live together as a family without killing each other. It’s not that big of a deal.”
My dad huffs and it is his turn to stare at me in irritation.
“Really, Claire, when have I ever given you any kind of indication that I’m old fashioned? I just don’t want this yahoo to think he can move you and Gavin into his place and then never have to do anything to make it official. At least if he married you, I wouldn’t have to worry about your whiny ass showing up on my doorstep anytime soon wanting your old room back.”
I wonder how many Butter Brickle Bars I can fit in my mouth at one time.
“Did you really just call Carter a yahoo? How about we take a seat on the davenport so we can discuss that little hooligan and how you aren’t old fashioned in the least?” I state sarcastically.
“I should have sold you to that traveling circus when you were four. I could be out on the lake fishing right now instead of having this conversation,” he mutters.
My dad had been married twice before he married my mom, and he had his first wife Linda’s name tattooed on his arm. When I was younger I tried to change Linda to my mom’s name, Rachel, with a sharpie marker when he was sleeping. Unfortunately, he woke up before I could finish. It took him three days to wash Rinda off of his arm. When I told that story to Carter, he started singing like the Chinese men in “A Christmas Story”. Deck da hars with boughs of horry, fa-ra-ra-ra-ra, ra-ra-ra-ra! He tried joking with my dad once about it saying, “You reary roved Rinda.” My dad thought he was impersonating Scooby Doo and didn’t find it funny. Could be why he wasn’t one hundred percent sold on the whole living together situation. And all of it was a prime example of why I wasn’t jumping on board the marriage band wagon just yet. My dad had struck out three times and my mom twice when she had finally decided marriage wasn’t for her when I was twelve and packed up to get a condo in the city.
I don’t really have shining examples of happily ever after in my life.
Anyway, the point is everyone makes their own decisions about life, some good and some bad. They all teach us something about who we are and blah, blah, blah. No matter what my dad’s opinion is, I need to know if Carter’s snoring and his inability to put a new roll of toilet paper back on the holder is going to be a deal breaker before we do something legal that we can’t back out of.
So far, stupid bad habits aside, we are doing quite well cohabiting. Gavin has adjusted nicely, and I haven’t smothered Cater in his sleep. That’s total win right there.
My dad can finally tell by the look on my face that I am closing the conversation for further discussion or arguments, and he has given up on the beer/sex/whatever the fuck analogy. He grabs the newspaper he set down on the counter when he first walked in, tucks it under his arm, and walks over to one of the small tables by the front window to drink his coffee. Regardless of the mood he had put me in, seeing the four black, round tables set up in front of the picture window at the front of the store makes me smile. They had just been delivered the prior week and seeing someone sitting in them, even if it is my father, made me giddy. This is my store and those are my tables and nothing can mar the elated feeling that gave me.
The chime above the door sounds again, and I glanced over to see my friend Jenny storm in with an angry scowl on her face. Never in a million years have I ever picture myself being friends with someone like her. She is runway model beautiful and the things that come out of her mouth rarely make sense, but she’s proven to be a good friend in the few months since I've met her and would help anyone with anything they asked without a second thought. Much to everyone’s surprise, Jenny had managed to grab onto Carter’s best friend, Drew, and wrap him around her little finger. Drew is the biggest man whore you will ever lay eyes on, but for whatever reason, Jenny is able to tame him. Somewhat.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask Jenny as I round the counter to meet her halfway. I glance down at my watch and see it's only eleven in the morning. “Why aren’t you at work?”
Jenny works for the same computer design company she has since her freshman year in college.
She had started off as an intern and quickly made her way up the ranks and was now one of the most talented graphic designers they had on staff. She helped me out in a pinch when I was opening my store and made all of the flyers, brochures, and business cards in her free time and refused to take any payment. It had been one of the main reasons I decided I liked her.
Anyone who doesn’t charge me for services rendered is good people in my book.
Jenny laughs manically at my question about work and crossed her arms in front of her. “That’s a great question, Claire. And the answer would be, I got fired,” she replies before bursting into tears, flinging her arms around me, and burying her face in my shoulder.
Oh Jesus God no.
I awkwardly bend my elbow and pat my hand against her lower back. She still has her arms wrapped around me in a vice grip and that’s as high as I can reach. I shove my other hand into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my cell phone, sending a quick “please help me, God” text to Liz next door.
Jenny continues to cry, sniffle and every few minutes wail. After subtly spitting out some of her hair from my mouth as she burrows further into my neck and shoulder, I anxiously glance down at my cell phone wondering how much longer I will need to pretend I enjoy soothing people during breakdowns before Liz gets her ass over here and rescues me. It probably won’t be very friend-like of me if I start freaking out that there might now be a pile of someone else’s snot pooling on the shoulder of my tee-shirt. My phone buzzes in my hand and I crane my neck over Jenny’s shoulder to see the message.
I am busy with customers. You are going to have to MAN UP and comfort her yourself. Start acting like you have a vagina for fuck’s sake and hug her.
XOXO – Liz
I grit my teeth at the knowledge I am on my own in the pits of consoling hell.
“There, there,” I say, patting her on the back again. I really think I should have been born a guy. I don’t know many women who get skeeved out by displays of emotion. If I see a woman crying, I usually run in the other direction. I am not one of those people that throws my arms around her and tells her everything will be okay—because it probably won’t. It will most likely suck just as much whether I hug you or not, so it’s probably best for everyone involved if I just stand off to the side and let someone else do the touching. I feel much more comfortable wallowing in anger and stewing about something privately until my head explodes. That's natural. Hugging and crying and snotting all over someone isn’t.
“Didn’t you just get a raise? Why in the hell would they fire you?” I ask as I worm my way out of her arms and try to subtly back away from her.
Don’t look at the snot on your shoulder, don’t look at the snot on your shoulder. I know you can feel it there, but for God’s sakes, DON’T LOOK AT IT!
Jenny finally releases her hold on me and uses the back of her hands to wipe the tear streaks off her face. If only she would have done that with the snot instead of using my shoulder.
“I don’t have any idea why they really fired me. They gave me some song and dinner about positive attitude.”
she pouts.
“You mean dance?” I ask in confusion.
“Claire, focus! I got fired! This is no time for talk about dancing,” she yells.
I take a deep, calming breath and put my hands on my hips to keep from strangling her.
“Okay, so they fired you because they didn’t like your attitude?” I reiterate.
Jenny looks at me incredulously. “I know, right? I told them I was the most positive person in that dump.”
“Verbatim?” I ask her.
“I didn’t forbid them anything. What are you talking about? Are you even listening? Have you been drinking?”
The last is stated in a stage whisper as she looks over at the customer who came in earlier. I pinch the bridge of my nose and try not to stomp my foot and throw a temper tantrum like Gavin does when I tell him he is grounded from PlayStation.
“What am I going to do without a job?” she whines as she paces back and forth in front of me. “It’s mine and Drew’s three month anniversary and I was going to buy him something really special and now I’m not going to be able to afford it.”
I grab onto her elbow to stop her pacing and pulled her back behind the counter with me when I saw the customer was finally ready to order.
“I’m sure Drew will understand,” I tell her as I start filling a box with the woman’s request of a pound of white chocolate covered pretzels.
“No he won’t. He’s going to be so upset. I already told him what I was buying, and he was really looking forward to the vagina mold,” she says dejectedly.
I drop the metal candy scoop on the floor and look over at Jenny as she sighs miserably.
As I pick up the scoop and toss it into the sink before grabbing a clean one, all sorts of thoughts swirl through my mind that shouldn’t be when I am waiting on a customer—like who-ha’s covered in green fuzz and moldy cheese vaginas dancing around the Tupperware container in the back of my fridge with two-month old spaghetti in it.
Jenny looks over and sees the horror on my face as I try to block out the mental image of moldy cheese vaginas singing, “Mold, mold, baby,” in the voice of Vanilla Ice in my head.
“Claire, didn’t you see the new product Liz got in last week? It’s a mold you can make of your vagina. So your guy can…you know…”
Jenny uses the age old finger gesture of a penis going into a vagina by making a circle with her index finger and thumb and using the index finger of her other hand to move in and out of it.
“Eeeew, what? That’s disgusting,” I whisper, smacking her hands to get her to stop making that motion with her fingers as I hand the customer her chocolate.
“It’s not disgusting,” Jenny says. “It’s romantic. Drew wants a replica of my…” she glances at the customer and then lowers her voice “…love tunnel so he can be with me whenever we’re apart.”
I step away from her to ring up the customer, trying not to picture Drew holding on to some little floppy, silicone vagina-looking thing, talking to it in a baby voice like it's Jenny. “Oooooh, I wuv my wittle fake Jenny-vagina! Yes I do!”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just get him a blow-up doll and tape your picture over its face?” I ask as I watch the customer leave the store with her purchase and hope she didn’t hear enough of this conversation to prevent her from ever stepping foot in here again.
Jenny shakes her head at me in pity. “You have absolutely no sense of romance, Claire.”
I huff in indignation as I get busy filling a box with chocolate covered strawberries for an order that's being picked up after lunch. I am plenty romantic.
Just this morning while he slept, I had left Carter a box of his favorite candy next to his pillow–Globs: piles of white chocolate covered, crushed potato chips and pretzels drizzled with caramel. I figured it would soften him up to the note I placed next to the box telling him if he left the toilet seat up one more time and my ass got an involuntary bath at six in the morning, I would put super glue on the head of his penis while he slept. I had even signed the note with a couple of Xs and Os.
Who says romance is dead?
I close up the box of strawberries and finish it off with my signature pink bow and a sticker with the name and address of the store. Setting it aside, I turn to face Jenny and find her inhaling an entire pan of white chocolate covered Nutter Butter cookies that I had been experimenting with that morning.
“Jenny, put the chocolate down and step away from the tray slowly.” I speak to her in my best hostage negotiator voice. “I wanted to ask you if you’d be able to help out with a few things for me, but I knew you were busy with work,” I explain as I reach around her and take the tray from her hands before she harms herself or others with her unemployment gluttony.
“Work!” Jenny says with a whimper as her lip starts to quiver. She reaches out with both hands and grabs back onto the tray of half-empty chocolates.
“Oh Jesus, will you let me finish?!” I scold as I smack her hands.
She sighs and finally lets go of the tray of chocolates, spitting out a half-eaten Nutter Butter into the middle of the pile before she turns to face me.
“Those are delicious, but I feel kind of pukey right now,” she mumbles, putting a hand to her stomach.
I move the tray far out of her reach and my line of sight before I myself become pukey.
“As I was saying, I have a bunch of things you could do for me here. I need a website created and maintained, advertising managed, and everything that goes along with marketing this place that I know nothing about. I got a call just the other day from a magazine wanting to set up an interview, and I have no idea what I’m doing. I know it’s not your ideal job, and I probably can’t pay you anywhere near as much as you’re used to making, but in the interim, until you find something else, would you like to work for me?”
The squeal that erupts from Jenny breaks the sound barrier and makes small dogs throughout the land howl in terror. She throws her arms around me and bounces up and down, making me feel uncomfortable once again at the displays of affection people feel the need to give.
“Thank you so much, Claire! I promise you won’t be disappointed. I will do such a good job you’ll want to bang the shit out of me!”
I glance up to see my dad standing behind Jenny looking like he’d rather eat the regurgitated chocolate covered Nutter Butter at that moment than inadvertently hear our conversation.
“I just…I’m gonna…my dog has the hungry,” he mumbles before turning and walking away.
Jenny lets go of me and watches as he quickly exits the shop. “You’re dad has a dog?”
I shook my head and let out a deep sigh. “Nope.”
3. He Went to Jared
“Hey, Carter, when I drunk dialed you last night, did I by any chance mention where I put my keys?” Drew asks as I walk into the living room.
He rummages through the couch cushions, cursing and pulling out loose change, McDonald Happy Meal toys, and other goodies he finds in the cracks and crevices. I grab my baseball cap off of one of the end tables and stick it on my head before turning to watch him.
Drew and I haven’t shared a living space in months, yet somehow, even now that Claire and I are living together, I still manage to find him passed out on my couch every once in a while.
“How did you even get home last night if you didn’t have your keys? And I hope you know that I use the term “home” loosely. As much as I enjoy your company and watching you stumble drunkenly around my home at four in the morning when Jenny won’t answer her door because she thinks you’re an axe murderer, this is not where you live. Even though you might think so since I always seem to answer the door and let you in.”
A cell phone sails out of the couch as Drew continues to dig to China in search of his keys. I walk over and scoop it up, putting it in my back pocket. Now I remember why I let Drew in the door. He isn’t afraid to stick his hand down into the bottom of a couch. I had known exactly where I lost my cell phone; I was just too afraid to
go in search of it. There are scary, scary things living in the bottom of those cushions. Something I had quickly found out was a direct result of living with a child.
“I probably took a cab. Or walked. I don’t know, the evening got a little fuzzy after I found produce stickers on my penis when I went to take a piss,” he replies in all seriousness as he gets up from his knees and turns to face me. The wrinkled and stained shirt he wears that states, “Ask me about my huge penis,” has one of the sleeves torn off and proves he had a rough night.
I don’t even bother trying to tell him that if he didn’t have his keys when he left the club or wherever he ended up last night, it stands to reason they won’t be hibernating in my couch. I have other things on my mind at the moment though. I walk away from Drew and into the kitchen, making my way to my coat that's hanging on the back of one of the chairs. I reach into the inside pocket, pull out the small, black velvet box, and open the lid to look inside for the ten thousandth time since I picked it up last week.
The sight of the one and a half carat, platinum, diamond ring nestled in the white satin makes my heart pound with excitement. And I’m not going to lie; it also makes me want to throw up in my mouth. Just a little bit. I stare down at the precious metal that that took me eight days and six trips to the jewelry store to pick out. The main diamond is princess cut and framed by twelve, three-quarter carat round diamonds. The ring is complimented by lines of round diamonds along the band. It's elegant and beautiful.
Yes, I know I sound like a walking advertisement for a jewelry store and men everywhere are humming the tune of “Taps” right now and brain screaming, “MAN DOWN!” but I feel a little fist pump is in order due to the fact that Claire will be able to look over at her friends all smug-like and say, “He went to Jared!”
If she says yes. Which she totally will, ha ha! I’m not nervous at all. I don’t feel all itchy and ball-sweaty thinking about popping the question and the possibility that she just might laugh in my face and tell me I’m bat shit crazy. Who gets married after only being together a few months? Who has a one-night-stand in college and finds out five years later it resulted in a child? Who spends all those years turning into a creeper that stalks bath and body shops every time they get a new chocolate-scented lotion line and gets a hard-on at work when some guy, whose wife just had a baby girl, passed out Hershey bars with the cutesy little wrapper that says, “HERESHEIS!”