The Wedding Bet (17 page)

“Telepathy?” I voiced unsure.

Debra remained silent, writing on her yellow pad. Her head down, eyes fixed on the yellow pad. She started tapping her pen on the wooden table.

“Intuition. Crystal Ball. Tea leaves,” I offered.

“Questions!” Debra shouted. “You’ve got to open that small dainty mouth that covers your face in that clown smile.”

“I’ll ask a lot of questions,” I assured Debra.

“I hope so because the more questions you ask, the less the men will like you.”

“It’s my time to take the lead.”

“Your time!” Debra raised her voice

“My time!” I shouted.

“Take up space, Megan! You’re the boss!”

I threw my papers all over the negotiation table. I spread my legs wide. I raised one leg and propped it up. “I like being in charge. I like rejecting men’s advances. I pulled a loose blonde lock of hair behind my ear.”

“What did you just do, Megan? What?”

“What? I took up space. I spoke with my real voice not my whiny, feminine voice. My normal tone of voice. Just like your prevideos said.”

“Watch PR Man.”

I watched PR Man for one, two, three, four, after five minutes, I began to wonder what was the point? “I don’t understand this part.”

“Keep watching!”

I wanted to skulk but that was feminine, girly, powerless behavior. It’d attract men—the wrong type of men. A no-no.

I slowly slump my head onto the negotiations board table, after ten minutes. “I give up.”

“When did he touch his hair?”

“I don’t recall when in the last thirty minutes.”

“That’s my point. You don’t touch your hair, makeup, clothes or anything if you want to put men off.”

“I have long hair, Debra.”

“Cut it off or stop touching it.”

“I’ll stop touching it.”

“I’ll be watching you—closely,” Debra went on.

,
No wonder she has all these awards,
I thought
. She’s a regular mind control freak.
We went on through the basics. Don’t answer your cell phone unless you can talk in two syllables or less. All this time, I tried and noticed my hair melted over one ear. Blonde tendrils started morphing lower on my bangs. Tendrils of hair crawling down onto my shoulder. Soon I thought this must be how Medusa felt with all those snakes on her head. But at least she had the power to turn men to stone. What a power!”

After a pressing hour of reprogramming girlhood ended, I learned to always bring up religion and politics. Get into arguments over the man’s most sensitive areas, penis, baldness, lack of income, inability to rise above middle management. I knew more ways to destroy a man’s self-esteem than a spy working for counterintelligence waging psychological warfare. I was ready

“I’m ready, Debra. I’m ready.”

“You had better be or you’ll be married before six months are out.”

She stood up.

I stood up.

PR Man stood up.

Each of us waited for the other to make a mistake of touching their hair, clothes, or voicing a wimpy emotional, sensitive thought like thank you, or have a nice day or see you soon, have a good life, good luck and peace.

None of us did. So I turned and started walking to the door leaving PR Man to tag alone behind me.

* * * *

Unfortunately for me, the marriage counseling session came too soon. The Speed Date Olivia set up for me got postponed into November 10. That was approximately one month after I learned all that good information about slouching and chewing gum from Debra.

Each day I puttered around in my catering shop trying out new cake icing. Black licorice had potential. So did virgin white cream filling. I looked at the stack of married couples I top the cakes off with and decided to permanently fix the height issue. I melted an additional platform of plastic under the brides. Now all the brides looked into the grooms eyes, and not upward like some swooning-swept-away-needy-girl bride.

I rested and refused to see any men. Or talk to any. Men who stumbled into my shop because they liked the fourteen-tiered fake plastic wedding cake in the window, I told them go tell your wives to talk call me or visit. Men became off-limits and taboo. I needed men like chains needed rust.

* * * *

My life slowed down as everyone waited and watched the holiday decorations creep onto the store shelves. I wanted to talk with my best friends Cynthia and Olivia, but our failure to find a truce at the first meeting back in the summer prevented hopeful optimism from fooling my heart again. I waited for one of them to call me. You’d think since they started this wedding bet, it’s they’re obligation remain to see it strengthen our friendship and not weaken it.

I curled up with my all white tabby cat DotheRightThing. “You’re my only friend, DotheRightThing. Just you and me.” I hugged him and gave him a kiss.

He hopped out of my arms and ran into the kitchen.

“Guess it’s just me alone.” DotheRightThing wanted me to feed him. Never ceases to amaze me. Men. He disappears for days and then when he comes back, all he wants is food.

I heard him meowing. I got up.

I opened a can of gourmet cat food and placed it in a clean bowl. I placed a fresh bowl of water down. He started nibbling on it. “I guess that’s all you need me for, uh-hmmm, DotheRightThing.”

He stopped eating for a second and looked up. Then went back to eating.

* * * *

I dragged myself back onto the couch as my cell rang. Olivia showed on the cell window.

“How’s the Desperately-Seeking Bride of Joinrite City doing?”

“I’m doing fine. I’m not desperate. I said I’d look for a husband for one year, not beg for a husband, Olivia.”

“What’s got you in a foul mood today?”

“You know Olivia—”

“What Megan?”

“Men suck.”

“Suck what?”

I knew where she was going. This is how we used to always slip into our deep conversations about oral sex. My response should have been ‘suck at licking clit’ or suck at eating the sandwich between my legs.’ I changed things. “Men suck at everything. I talked with PR Man.”

“Ooooooooo your romantic PR Man. The one at the Lover’s Dance. The Black Knight.”

“Olivia,” I said in a tired voice. “No one knows for sure who the Black Knight really was.”

“To think he hid his armor and an entire horse.” She made an Italian kissing sound; I recognized required her to put her fingers to her lips. “A man, who can hide a horse and armor at the same time, must be highly creative.”

“Or obsessed with playing out some fairytale fantasy. Olivia, we don’t need men like that. We need down to earth men. Men who will sit with us day to day and listen to us talk about life, our problems, hopes and dreams. Not some one-a-day hero.”

“One-a-day hero.” Olivia started laughing. “You make him sound like a vitamin pill that one takes every day.”

“I mean. He’s only useful for a day. All the other days of the year, he’s gone off on some project building epic empire nonsense bonding with his male friends—”

“—no doubt in his man cave.” She laughed quietly in into the phone. “Mr. Lauser isn’t like that. His empire building days are over. He’s established. He loves to talk.”

“Uggggghhhhh!” I silently thought. Listening to the positive qualities of your romantic rejects just stretches the belief in friendship as a concept. But we were the Triad. “I’m sorry, Olivia. Go ahead, tell me about Mr. Lauser.” I put the phone on speaker and grabbed a tub of chocolate chip ice-cream. Someone had to try out the new brands of ice cream before they got entered onto the wedding menus.

“You sitting down?”

“Now I am.” I plopped down on the couch. I stared into my back wall at a drawing of Flanders from a Hamlet play backdrop given to me a few years ago—by yet another failed, bad-man suitor.

“Mr. Lauser and I love to ride horses—which you knew. He likes my list of cooking meals. Breakfast and dinner mostly. He says we could always order lunch in. He’s got a lot of money. He wants someone to spend it on. You know. A man with a lot of money and no woman is a poor man indeed.”

I giggled, after licking my big spoon of chocolate ice cream clean. “Keep me laughing. Maybe I’ll be in a better mood.”

“He’s got all these relatives. And you know how I love big families. With my near photographic memory, I’ll be a hit with his Wales clan.”

“Olivia, you talked to him over the phone or Skype?”

“Phone. He hates Skype. It’s too impersonal. You find out too much too soon English said. It’s like drinking a wine before it’s properly aged. We’re going to meet half way in New York in February of next year.”

“Half way. I like that. You don’t want him spending all that money on you thinking you owe him a roll in the hay.”

“No sex. Not right now. Not that I’m telling you about, anyway.” Olivia started laughing.

I imagined her mom smile wowing the Lauser clan. Somehow they really blended well. “I thought you two circled around the same planet.”

“In New York, I’ll know if I can stand him or not. You said he was very neat and orderly. I am too, but not to a fault. Every now and then I might leave a dirty dish around. He’s got to accept I do other things, teach children in the library and such. I’m not quitting work unless he’s super gentle and kind and trustworthy.”

“Good for you. You should have caught that wedding bouquet. Why didn’t you?”

Olivia remained silent on the other end.

“You made a bet, Megan. Don’t go trying to make me feel guilty about the bargain. All you had to do was say no. I don’t want to follow the tradition.”

“How could I do that? We’re the Triad!”

“PR Man is there helping you thread the love ring. He’s got all sorts of wonderful exciting things to distract you from truly finding your life love.”

“Don’t switch the subject, Olivia. You had good hands in college, on the soccer field.”

“I was nervous. Emo Amber vowed to catch the roses. She’d been bragging about it all day. I can’t stand Amber.”

“Amber’s immature, emotional, annoying, and doesn’t follow tradition. She suggested a retoss. But still, Olivia. All this could have been avoided. Think! I’m the third in our Triad; you’re the second member. You’re supposed to be married second, then me third.”

“How sweet!” Olivia said the lift in her voice noticeable.

I started scraping the bottom of the pint size chocolate ice cream container.

“You’re eating like a pig over there. This is what happens to women alone in fall and winter. Megan, stop eating for emotional reasons. What’s going on?

“PR Man scheduled me to be on this local talk show.”

“The Brent Parks show, say it’s the Brent Parks show! I’ve always loved that show—ahem—whenever I record it or have an off day from the library kindergarten children tours.”

I paused, blushing. “Yes. The Brent Parks show.”

“That means Cynthia and I get to be on it to explain your wedding bet!”

“Uh. No.”

“No. We started this. You’re just an innocent bystander.”

“Now I’m an innocent bystander.”

“Why don’t we get to go on the show, Megan?”

“Brent Parks’ ego said no. What happened between you and your girlfriends is irrelevant to my show, he said. All my audience cares about is why you have to avoid getting married for one year.”

“Did you explain—?”

“—I tried to explain it. He said that parts a bore. Brent picked out another opposition candidate for the show. Lucy Trill.”

“Trill. Why does that name send a cold chill up my spine?”

I placed the empty ice cream container and spoon on my table and curled back up in the fetal position, holding, lying on the couch. “She’s head of the Conservative Women’s for Traditional Values and Marriage Society (CWTVMS).”

“Now I remember! That television station conservative women’s group. She advocated those Purity Rings for Girls (PRFG), and Purity Balls.”

“That’s the Trill I’m going to have to face.”

“Only in her wildest dreams does Trill represent the energy that started this bet. Friendship, camaraderie. Our life-long bonding since grade school. That isn’t worth being on a talk show?”

“Apparently, not to Mr. Brent Parks. I’ll get some coaching from PR Man on how to handle her.”

“Believe me, Megan. If this is the Lucy Trill you’re talking about, never, ever mention sex in any way. CWTVMS goes nuts over sex!”

“That’d be a relief, if you meant she liked it.”

“She must hate sex. How she justified opening her legs and getting pregnant is beyond me, Megan?”

“Olivia a woman doesn’t have to open her legs to have sex. Nature made it so. Ms. Trill lies on her stomach. Her husband comes up behind her parts her cheeks and wham a few times getting her Prego.”

“That sounds so—so—clinical, Megan.”

“I’m not the Trill. I’d hate that type of early 19th century intimacy.”

“They fucked that way in Margret Sanger’s day.”

“Probably. No foreplay or anything.”

“Mr. Lauser isn’t like that—” Olivia sniggered. He likes sex. I can’t believe we can’t be on the show!”

“Sad but true. If you’re off work, call in and ask a question.”

“I might. Like Ms. Trill given that you hate sex, did you find penetration a violation of your purity ring?”

I laughed. “The whole idea of purity made no sense when one thought about the biological properties of sex. The man emits something that goes on and mostly in the female. How can she be pure?”

“I know,” laughed Olivia. “The fate of women is to clean up after men.”

“I’ll let you know when the show’s going to air. And I’m glad you and Mr. Lauser are riding horses at the same speed.”

“I’m keeping my fingers and legs crossed too.”

“You’re crazy, Olivia. Bye.”