Autobiography of a Fat Bride (15 page)

The Slattern’s Blue Panties

I
t was lying at the bottom of the dryer, curled up, all nice and snugly, like it belonged there.

Like it shouldn’t have been any place else.

I saw it after I collected my clothes from the dryer that required the dry cleaning I’m too cheap to pay for. I figured out that if you throw the clothes in with a wet dishcloth and a Downy sheet (luckily plucked from a box that my friend Kate left at my house when her washing machine broke), they get steamed, almost like a pot sticker, and reemerge with considerably less odor, wrinkles, and pet hair.

But the parcel I had found, however, wasn’t any of the items from which I had just eliminated what my husband calls “the homeless aroma.”

I didn’t recognize it, and I realized this as I pulled it from the dryer bottom and examined it in my hands.

They were blue and shiny.

And they were panties. Ladies’ panties. With a waistband that was still intact, definite proof that they had never been on my body.

Initially, I was very confused. I didn’t understand. Then, like a bolt of lightning from Sally Jesse Raphael, it hit me.

MY HUSBAND WAS HAVING AN AFFAIR. I knew it. I
knew
it. Only last week, I saw a show on Sally with a panel of “experts” (women who had been cheated on or had done the cheating) and they all said the same thing: “Don’t ignore the signs. The truth will set you free to claim half his earnings!”

Being the shallow sort of person that I am, I scrambled to find the tag.

Damn! I said to myself when I found it and read “Victoria’s Secret.” Damn! The hussy had better underwear than me! I wear Fruit of the Loom, which I had apparently confused with “sexy” since they completely cover and hide from view the double-decker jelly-belly rolls that comprise my torso.

Victoria’s Secret? I thought again. That’s not his type! A girl that shaves and possibly waxes and plucks? AND does laundry at MY house? AND DOES LAUNDRY!!!!

I tried to tell myself to calm down, that there had to be some rational explanation. My husband would never do such a thing. Never, I said inside my head, I light up his life! I give him hope to carry on! That man lives like a KING! And besides, he’s afraid of me!

Then a thought popped in my head. Bing! It has to be my best friend Jamie’s underwear, and I must have picked up her clothes by mistake when we were on vacation in San Francisco. I breathed a sigh of relief and kind of laughed to myself. He’s not having an affair. He’s too lazy! He’s a bum! The King can’t even wash a dish; he’s never located enough energy to finish painting the outside of the house, let alone go through the trouble of sneaking around with a high-maintenance girl who plucks and shaves!
Too much trouble.
If it ever happened, I’d have to be the one to set it all up, introduce them to one another, arrange all the dates, go to Victoria’s Secret and buy her
more
fancy underwear, keep nagging him incessantly, “Get off that rump roast, go to the pay phone, and CALL YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!” and then I’d end up driving him there and plugging in the fifty cents myself. “Hi, Slovenly Woman? My husband is
yearning
for you!”

He’d never have an affair!

But I had to confirm it, just for peace of mind, and to see if the truth would set me free from my obligatory twelve nights a year, if only as an act of revenge.

“Hi!” I said into the phone. “Do you have a blue pair of Victoria’s Secret underwear?”

“Good God, no!” my best friend Jamie shot back over the phone from Los Angeles. “You have to shave with those things, otherwise stuff just pokes out
everywhere
!”

“Oh,” I said simply.

“Why?” she asked. “Did you find some?”

I guess she could hear me nodding.

There was a pause. “That’s not good,” Jamie finally said. “Do you think he’s . . .”

I guess she heard me nodding again.

“Oh, that’s insane!” she told me. “You light up his life! You give him hope to carry on! He lives like a king! Besides, he’s completely afraid of you. I once heard him say that he’d rather eat his own eyes than beat you to the bathroom in the morning! He said he’ll just lay in bed and hold it until either you wake up or he cries from the pain!”

“Didn’t you see Sally’s show on Sneaky, Sex-Crazed Spouses? The experts said not to ignore the signs!” I pouted. “Strange underwear in my house is a red flag, don’t you think?”

“Did you
see
those ‘expert’ women? Who wouldn’t cheat on them?” asserted my best friend. “They had teeth like Jewel! They could cut lumber with those fangs!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said slowly. “This might not be all that bad. If I confronted him with the evidence, maybe I could play the guilt card. Just think of all the possibilities!”

“Wow,” Jamie marveled. “That’s genius! Those panties are like a transferable gift certificate to Crate and Barrel!”

“And for handyman and maid services! I’m going to make him take down the Christmas lights from last year and then make him put them right back up!” I exclaimed. “I gotta go! I’m going to get out the paintbrushes and ladder right now! By this time tomorrow, I can start telling people where I live again!”

“Send him over here when you’re done,” Jamie said excitedly.

“Oh,” I chuckled. “He’ll never be done!”

Before I had a chance to hang up, however, the call-waiting beeped and I said good-bye quickly and switched lines.

“Hi, are you free tonight?” a sultry, sexy, deep voice said. “I was wondering if I could come over to do some laundry.”

It was the Victoria’s Secret vixen, mistaking me for my husband. I knew it! Another sign!

“Sorry, slutty!” I yelled into the phone. “You can’t have what’s not yours!! He’s MINE!!! Go find your own slave!”

“Dork,” the sultry voice said, sounding a little puzzled. “It’s Kate! I don’t want your husband! I just want my box of Downy and my underwear back that I left there! It’s my best pair!”

White Noise, White Soap, and Man Desire: Marriage Advice from Two Mean Girls

S
o, are you ready to get married?” I asked my best friend, Jeff, as he, my other best friend, Jamie, and I sat down to eat lunch at a sidewalk café in Pasadena. I had flown to California for somewhat of a last hurrah, since he was the final one of us to tie the knot and would be a married man by the month’s end.

Jeff looked puzzled. “I’m
ready,
” he snapped as he spread a napkin over his lap. “I bought an extra pillow.”

Jamie and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. We could tell that our little friend had some very lofty ideas about sharing your life with someone as if you were the only one that mattered; just like a man.

“Kristin’s the nice partner,” Jeff explained about his betrothed. “I’m the bossy one. She understands that. We have that understanding.”

“None of us is the nice partner in our relationships,” Jamie added. “All three of us are the mean one. But that doesn’t matter. Things still change.”

“Like you might as well get rid of all of your CDs now, because in two weeks, she’ll think that they all suck,” I said.

“And you should carry roughly five dollars in quarters with you at all times so you can call her from wherever you are,” Jamie added.

“And instead of falling asleep to music, it will be white noise,” I quipped. “Women need that. I have a fan.”

“I have a wave machine. Happy hour will be a thing of the past. There’s something you do instead now,” Jamie inserted. “It’s called dinner at home.”

“And after you come home from work or after five o’clock,” I stated, “you need to ask her if you want to go back out again.”

“Unless she sends you to the store,” Jamie mentioned.

“Unless she sends you to the store,” I confirmed.

“Forget about being the first one to get the mail anymore,” Jamie said. “You’ll never get unhandled mail again.”

“And if you find jelly or ice cream on the remote control,” I insisted, “it’s a totally natural thing.”

“After you get married, you’ll never be as funny at home as you are at work,” Jamie added.

“And when she laughed at your jokes before, she was faking it,” I said.

“Once you’ve told a story, you need to retire it,” Jamie announced. “Because every time she hears a story more than once, she’ll hate you a little more and a little more.”

“And never read to her from a book or magazine article aloud,” I declared. “She’ll never think it’s as interesting as you do.”

“If she gets sick,” Jamie said, “you have to hold her hair and clean it up and then kiss her afterward.”

“But other than that instance, if you’re initiating the kiss, you need to brush your teeth first,” I added.

“Her sexual obligation to you expires in two years,” Jamie stated. “And should she decide to oblige you after that, you should be very,
very
grateful.”

“And you’re never allowed to say ‘boink,’ ‘pork,’ ‘do it,’ or ‘get it on,’” I informed Jeff. “Or wake her up in the middle of the night when you’re . . . overwhelmed by your . . . man desire.”

“You could get suspended for that,” Jamie whispered.

“If she’s not talking to you, like when she’s reading a book or watching TV, that means she’s BUSY.” I nodded. “And
you
need to be quiet.”

“And when you feel the need to go to the bathroom, you should ask her if she needs to go first,” Jamie announced.

“But you should really try to make it a point to do the ‘big things’ someplace else before you get home,” I declared.

“But if you do it at home by accident,” Jamie said carefully, “never, never call her in to look at it. It’s gross and will entirely change her perspective of you.”

“She’ll see you as the animal that you are,” I stated.

“The animal that you are,” Jamie agreed.

“And if there’s some potato chips or cookies in a bag, don’t eat them,” I said. “She might not be done with them, and may want them at some point. Just because there’s food in the house doesn’t mean it’s fair game.”

“And if she asks you if you want to share a dessert at a restaurant, that means she wants some,” Jamie added. “And it’s in your best interest to say yes.”

“And when you’re at your parents’ house and she yawns for the first time, it means it’s time to go,” I said.

“If the phone rings and you don’t think it’s for you,” Jamie added, “you still have to answer it anyway.”

“If she ever comes home and there’s a drunk guy on the couch and another one throwing up in the bathroom, expect to be in trouble,” I informed him.

“If she buys a bar of soap that isn’t white, it is not for you,” Jamie stated.

“And if she asks you to do several things, it’s not okay to just do the last thing she said because that’s the only one you remember,” I asserted.

“Be honest with yourself; set the alarm for the time the Real You will get up, not the Ambitious You, because the Ambitious You doesn’t really exist,” Jamie added.

“At night, if she takes the covers, just get used to being cold,” I stated. “It’s more important for her to be warm. A simple draft can render her infertile, and then your family name will die with you.”

“And that’s selfish,” Jamie added.

“That’s selfish,” I agreed.

Jeff stared at us for a long, long time, trying to take it all in. As I studied his face, I got the impression as he furrowed his brow and crinkled his mouth that he was about to cry. Suddenly, I panicked. Had we said too much? Had we been too honest? Had we scared him horribly? Was he thinking about jumping ship? I looked at Jamie, and realized that she was looking at me with the same awful look on her face that I had on mine.

What had we done? We
were
the mean ones, after all!

“Maybe you’re right,” he finally said. “Maybe I’m not so ready. How could I be so stupid? What am I thinking! Am I OUT OF MY MIND?!”

Jamie and I didn’t know what to say. We just sat there, horrified, our mouths hanging open, getting ready to protest. WHAT HAD WE DONE?

“I don’t have any extra pillowcases!” Jeff proclaimed as he stomped his foot, and then looked at us, smiling wickedly.

As Time Goes By

I
t is 10
P
.
M
. WHERE IS HE?

I light another cigarette and tap my foot against the floor. He is already half an hour late coming home from work. My husband had called earlier that afternoon, saying that he would be home at nine-thirty. Sometimes he stops at the store for beer, I remind myself, maybe that’s what he did. But my foot keeps tapping.

I recognize my behavior as the Sort-of, Kind-of Worried Phase, and I try to calm myself down. As the hands of the clock inch their way into the future, I know I have to stay rational. What’s half an hour? I tell myself. The line at the store could have been very long, it’s Saturday night. He may have been caught in a drunk-driving checkpoint on his way home from Tempe. Maybe he was hungry and decided to stop and get a hamburger, right?

There’s a million reasons for him to be a half hour late.

You are your mother’s daughter, I remind myself, don’t buy into it. When I lived at home and was even ten minutes late, my mother was already making arrangements at the funeral home and would pull out the pink taffeta dress I refused to wear at the prom, determined to finally get her money’s worth by burying me in it. “Late equals dead,” she would pound into my head over the years, saying it every time she emerged from the darkness like a phantom when I tried to sneak in the house at night.

All of her fear paid off like the lottery one evening when a uniformed officer knocked on the front door and, when she answered it, showed her my driver’s license. She was already on her way to the floor with her eyes rolled back in her head by the time the officer explained he had simply found my wallet in a parking lot, where I had carelessly dropped it.

The cycle stops here, my brain commands me, but when I hear the chime of the clock screaming at me that it is ten-fifteen, I throw myself immediately into the Anger Phase.

What the hell is he doing going to the store without calling me first! Now he’s forty-five minutes late! The selfish bastard! His need for beer supersedes my worry? Boy, he’s really going to get it this time. Sleeping on the couch with the dog’s blanket. I’ll blow my nose on his pillow! I’m going to hide his cigarettes, put a chair in front of the door, and turn off all the lights so he hurts his knee when he walks in! HA! That will teach him to be late!

I stop, and then gasp with a long, deep breath. I know what he’s doing!

He’s having an affair! With this single thought, I make the natural, unnoticeable transition to the Accusatory Stage, where my mind gathers up all of my rational thoughts in a ball and shoves them underneath the couch, right next to where my dog keeps her reserve stash of dried-up cat shits.

He thinks he can get away with this, huh? That’s why he took a shower and wore clean underwear to work! That’s why he asked me if he was getting old-man hairs in his ears! I run outside and stand by the side of the road, looking down the street for headlights that look like his truck’s.

Don’t be ridiculous! my logic tells me. It’s ten-twenty. He can’t be having an affair! He’s getting old-man hairs in his ears! Besides, he’s lying on the side of the freeway after a horrific car accident, his last words leaking out of his mouth, “Tell Laurie . . . I love her . . . and that I never thought she was fat . . . I like big butts . . .”

I leap off the edge of the Accusatory Stage and find myself completely submerged in the Full-on Freak-out Phase, completely bypassing the obligatory Prepanic Phase.

My husband is dead. I am a widow. I am alone. The police will be coming soon; who do I call? Do I start calling hospitals, do I call his mother? Should I change into something black now, I just got a new black dress! I’ll have to start dating again! I’m going to have to go on a diet! Oh my God. I no longer have a scapegoat!

I know he’s dead. He’s almost an hour late, of course he’s dead. I see myself kneeling by his casket, holding his hand for the last time, wondering why he’s wearing my pink taffeta prom gown.

My stomach sinks, my hands go white with cold blood, fear crawls into my throat. I keep looking down the street, headlights approach, I’m shaking, the car passes, it’s a minivan. What do I do?

I think, calm yourself down; if he’s dead, you can buy a really nice car with the insurance money. You can have the sofa recovered.
In velvet.
Think of how much money you’ll save on food, he eats (ate) like a prisoner! You can stretch out in bed! That will fill the empty spot in your life caused by his death!

More headlights approach. I wait anxiously, almost jumping up and down. It’s a Dodge Dart with no hubcaps.

Then I start bargaining. Please let him be okay, I start to mutter, please let him be okay. I’ll do anything. I’ll stop picking my face, even if I really do think I have a 40 to 60 percent chance of getting something good out and have access to a mirror with lighting that is simply unparalleled; I’ll start letting people in during heavy traffic, well, all except city buses, because you could get stuck behind one for a good five to seven minutes, maybe even nine if there’s a bike rider on board who has to get off and then unlatch his bike from the front of the bus, and that’s flatly too long to ask for any do-gooder to wait, especially to find out that the person who is holding everything up already had transportation in the first place. That’s a pisser, I tend to find. I’ll be nice, I promise, I’ll buy goods from solicitous youth who knock on my door, clinging to their one last desperate chance for a good, decent life that can be attained only if I buy a box of six caramel turtles for $12, even if I think that paying two bucks per candy item with enough wax in it to melt and pour on your bikini line is a little over the top, I mean, they’re basically little chocolate candles without the wicks, and honestly, what kind of thanks is that for saving the life of delinquent youth? HARDLY ANY. I won’t make faces or roll grapes in front of the people in the express lane with a full cart of food who are oblivious to the time they are sucking from the lives of the people behind them who only desire to purchase a fruit roll-up and a Mountain Dew.

I’m about to promise to be nice to my missing, dead husband if and when he is found alive when suddenly, from behind me, I hear a car pull up, and as I turn around, I can see it’s him. He gets out of the car and waves.

“Where have you been?” I say as I run up to the porch, entirely relieved.

“At work,” he says, giving me an odd look.

“You’re almost an hour late!” I cry. “You are totally late!”

“It’s only nine twenty-five,” he says, opening the front door.

“No, it’s not,” I insist. “Don’t try and trick me! Is that something your girlfriend told you to try?”

“What?” he says, looking at me. “It’s nine twenty-five! Look at the clock!”

I look really hard, and no matter which way I squint my eyes, it still says the same thing. Big hand on the 9, little hand on 25. It’s nine twenty-five. He is absolutely, perfectly, flawlessly on time.

Apparently, if all I really needed to know I learned in kindergarten, I wasn’t paying close enough attention. Either that or Miss Brown, who I once threw up on because I forgot my snack, was simply not concerned with helping me avoid scenarios thirty years into the future in which I would accuse my spouse of cheating, alcoholism, and selfishness and, more horrifyingly, come dangerously close to making a sick promise to let city buses in ahead of me in a frantic yet paranoid moment because clearly I had not really, truly, and successfully learned how to tell time. Damn my codependency on digital clocks, and God help the six-year-olds of today with Velcro on their shoes, I scream in my head. In thirty years, I can just picture numerous corporate execs standing on train platforms, tears streaming down their faces, their mouths open in horror as they point to their feet, their shoelaces nearly liberated and unbound as they shriek, “CAN SOMEBODY HELP ME?”

“Why is my pillow and the dog’s blanket on the couch?” my husband asks me.

“I was just getting ready to change your pillowcase,” I reply, with a smile. “And just so you know, if a gang member comes to the door and asks you to buy candy for thirteen dollars, you hand him a can of spray paint and show him to the nearest wall.”