Band-aids. Do you rip them off quickly? Deal with the stinging pain in an instant or try to slowly ease the plaster away from your skin. Everyone has their methods. Maybe it's all a matter of preference.
For Robbie, the chance to make a quick and clean break had long since passed. Too many band-aids over one wound. Three months after the engagement announcement -- which, of course, she congratulated through grinning, gritted teeth -- the "Save the Date" card arrived. And with it, a heavy dose of reality.
"I am so fucked."
Back then, there was still some time until the actual wedding date. A lot of time. Twelve whole months full of nothing but time to reflect on the last decade. Fuck, had it been ten years? No matter. This was the inevitable. The thing in the back of her mind that she always knew would eventually come, yet for whatever reason (and heaps of self-delusion) she'd been avoiding.
"Idiot. What were you thinking?"
Twelve whole months later, Robbie stepped out of a taxi, as dusk began to fall. Her heels click-clack-click along the cobblestones as she hurried, late and already a little tipsy, into the reception hall.
"Robbie! I didn't think you'd make it! I didn't see you at the ceremony." Mrs. Bernhard, mother of the groom, greeted her at the entrance.
"Traffic was a killer, but I got here as soon as I could!"
It was a lie, but the best that Robbie could come up with at such a short notice. She made a beeline towards the bar. Too late for liquid courage, she opted for liquid happy. Or, at the very least, made a valiant attempt.
"This could have been my wedding." *gulp gulp* "No, wait...could this have been my wedding?" *gulp* "You never even wanted to get married." *gulp* "He never asked and you were never officially together." *guuuuuulp* The questions swirled around in her thoughts as she started her second glass of wine.
"So very fucked." She chugged the second glass and went back for a third.
Looking across the dance floor, she spied the bride and groom sitting at their table. Even while engaged in conversation with other guests, Robbie is distracted. No one notices. The buffet is opened. Robbie poured herself another glass of wine.
After everyone has eaten, the best man and maid of honor get up to make a toast. A waiter rolls out a projector from the back and - surprise - the toast is now an iMovie clipshow of relationship highlights documenting a thirty-some-odd years of life and ten years of true love blah blah bullshit.
Fifth glass. Robbie was there for it all, but more the crazy parallel universe version of events. The sanitized instant replay burned like salt in a wound.
The train of congratulatory speeches feels endless. The open bar is the only saving grace. After the last speech, a group of waiters and waitresses appeared, clutching clusters of red, heard-shaped helium balloons and began handing them out to guests. The best man announced to the attendees that they should write down a wish, or message, or quote on the little sheet of paper attached to the end of their balloon string. Once everyone is finished, the group is to go outside to release the balloons.
After several minutes of drunken scribbling, the crowd began to file out the doors. Clutching her balloon, Robbie discreetly choked back her tears as the countdown to release began.
The brief message that she wrote replaying in her head over and over like a mantra.
It read:
I used to love you. Now I don't.
The crowd chants in unison, "3-2-1...Woooo!"
And one hundred and eighty red, heart-shaped helium balloons drifted into the sky.
Why'd you have to say that?
Before dinner, my mother-in-law Ellen serves Little Caesar's pizza and cheesy bread to our nephews who are holding their knives and forks expectantly. My brother-in-law Aaron is one of those dads who has apparently decided that kids won't consume anything but chicken nuggets, pizza, goldfish, chocolate milk, and various kinds of juice. Ellen asks each of them what color tupperware cup they'd like.
"Owange," says George.
"Lellow," says Lee.
Once the boys get their pizza, we watch them eat (our salmon is still grilling on the barbeque pit outside).
"Don't hold your knife crooked. Hold it like this or you won't be able to cut your pizza," Aaron says to George.
"Like this?" George struggles to cut his cheesy bread with a butterknife. He seems used to constant corrections.
"Is that good?" I croon at Lee, who is in a special class at school for slow learners. He has some kind of speech impediment.
"Yee-ah!" he sings. He's been humming since Ellen placed the food in front of him.
In my in-laws' dining room, we have assigned seats. I'm sitting next to my husband Brian. Next to him is his seven year old nephew George, then Ellen (who has dubbed herself "Grandmama," Montreal-style), then the five year old nephew Lee, then Brian's brother Aaron, then my father-in-law Olav (dubbed "Bestifor," Norwegian-style).
Brian's brother Aaron has driven in from Florida--he and his two sons in his black Chevy stationwagon that he bid on over the Internet. (Brian had noticed a new sticker in its window when we drove up: Romney 2012). Aaron is a single dad: we heard, through Ellen, that he and his ex-wife Lisa divorced a few years ago, and she moved into the house next door. Aaron is a manager at a construction company and remodels houses for a living; he'd bought and renovated the house next door with the idea that he would use it as a rental property, and we're guessing he had Lisa move there partly to help her out and partly to make custody visitation easier. No one talks about what this must be like for George and Lee: weekdays at Mom's, looking out the window at Daddy's house but not going there, and weekends at Daddy's house looking out the window at Mom's.
We can only guess how this housing situation is affecting Aaron since he doesn't talk much about anything but his interests, of which there are few. Over the years I've deduced that he likes Sci Fi TV shows, cars, craft beer, raw fish, hunting, guns, pure breeds of cats and dogs, and Libertarianism. He doesn't eat vegetables or fruit, he has two close friends, and we can't tell if he's had any dates since the divorce. Now, we see him when he drives the kids in for a visit. Lisa is never mentioned by anyone. Even George and Lee seem to be aware that nobody wants to bring her up, but every once in a while they slip and puncture all of our pretending.
We adults finish our salmon and asparagus while the boys run off to play matchbox cars in the den, and Ellen calls them back to the table to eat dessert with us. There are large squares of fruit in a bowl: honeydew melon, watermelon, and mango, and there is a small storebought strawberry cheesecake. Ellen places these on the table to a few oohs and ahhs (dessert is never discussed, either) and we aren't sure if the boys are going to touch any of it.
Lee hears "cake" and wants some of that. George peruses the fruit.
"The red one's watermelon," I say. Ellen loads his plate with one of each kind.
"What's the green?" says George.
"Honeydew," says Brian. "It's a melon."
"I want some yellow watermelon," says George. He pierces a tough slice of unripe mango and saws it with his butterknife. "I had this kind with my Daddy before."
"You did?" says Ellen, looking at Aaron. Aaron shrugs.
"Yeah," says George. "With my other Daddy. At mom's house." I look at my plate and take a bite of cheesecake, then another. "I have two daddies," he says matter-of-factly.
"George, hold your knife straight," says Aaron. "Not like this, like this." He demonstrates with a chopping motion of his hand. We all watch George saw at his Mango to no avail. Finally, his knife slides through and hits the plate with a clunk, and we can at least be relieved about this.
"There you go. It's hard as a rock," I chuckle. Brain's the only one that chuckles back.
"Owange," says George.
"Lellow," says Lee.
Once the boys get their pizza, we watch them eat (our salmon is still grilling on the barbeque pit outside).
"Don't hold your knife crooked. Hold it like this or you won't be able to cut your pizza," Aaron says to George.
"Like this?" George struggles to cut his cheesy bread with a butterknife. He seems used to constant corrections.
"Is that good?" I croon at Lee, who is in a special class at school for slow learners. He has some kind of speech impediment.
"Yee-ah!" he sings. He's been humming since Ellen placed the food in front of him.
In my in-laws' dining room, we have assigned seats. I'm sitting next to my husband Brian. Next to him is his seven year old nephew George, then Ellen (who has dubbed herself "Grandmama," Montreal-style), then the five year old nephew Lee, then Brian's brother Aaron, then my father-in-law Olav (dubbed "Bestifor," Norwegian-style).
Brian's brother Aaron has driven in from Florida--he and his two sons in his black Chevy stationwagon that he bid on over the Internet. (Brian had noticed a new sticker in its window when we drove up: Romney 2012). Aaron is a single dad: we heard, through Ellen, that he and his ex-wife Lisa divorced a few years ago, and she moved into the house next door. Aaron is a manager at a construction company and remodels houses for a living; he'd bought and renovated the house next door with the idea that he would use it as a rental property, and we're guessing he had Lisa move there partly to help her out and partly to make custody visitation easier. No one talks about what this must be like for George and Lee: weekdays at Mom's, looking out the window at Daddy's house but not going there, and weekends at Daddy's house looking out the window at Mom's.
We can only guess how this housing situation is affecting Aaron since he doesn't talk much about anything but his interests, of which there are few. Over the years I've deduced that he likes Sci Fi TV shows, cars, craft beer, raw fish, hunting, guns, pure breeds of cats and dogs, and Libertarianism. He doesn't eat vegetables or fruit, he has two close friends, and we can't tell if he's had any dates since the divorce. Now, we see him when he drives the kids in for a visit. Lisa is never mentioned by anyone. Even George and Lee seem to be aware that nobody wants to bring her up, but every once in a while they slip and puncture all of our pretending.
We adults finish our salmon and asparagus while the boys run off to play matchbox cars in the den, and Ellen calls them back to the table to eat dessert with us. There are large squares of fruit in a bowl: honeydew melon, watermelon, and mango, and there is a small storebought strawberry cheesecake. Ellen places these on the table to a few oohs and ahhs (dessert is never discussed, either) and we aren't sure if the boys are going to touch any of it.
Lee hears "cake" and wants some of that. George peruses the fruit.
"The red one's watermelon," I say. Ellen loads his plate with one of each kind.
"What's the green?" says George.
"Honeydew," says Brian. "It's a melon."
"I want some yellow watermelon," says George. He pierces a tough slice of unripe mango and saws it with his butterknife. "I had this kind with my Daddy before."
"You did?" says Ellen, looking at Aaron. Aaron shrugs.
"Yeah," says George. "With my other Daddy. At mom's house." I look at my plate and take a bite of cheesecake, then another. "I have two daddies," he says matter-of-factly.
"George, hold your knife straight," says Aaron. "Not like this, like this." He demonstrates with a chopping motion of his hand. We all watch George saw at his Mango to no avail. Finally, his knife slides through and hits the plate with a clunk, and we can at least be relieved about this.
"There you go. It's hard as a rock," I chuckle. Brain's the only one that chuckles back.
Hi're yuuuuu?
Bertie shuffled around the kitchen, stirring, rearranging, slamming cabinet doors shut while she muttered to herself about Lord knows what. In honor of Thanksgiving, three generations of her family had gathered in her cozy, slapshod house and were trying to ignore how awkward it was that they were related. They usually segregated themselves like children at a Middle School dance: boys on this side, girls on the other.
The front door squeaked open and slammed with a flimsy bang, as everyone turned to see who had arrived. It was Ally, Bertie's middle child, who always smelled slightly of patchouli.
"Hi're yuuuu?" crowed Bertie as she grabbed Ally, gave her some sugar and hugged her neck.
"I'm good, Momma," Ally answered warmly. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good. My hip's been just aaaachin', and see my thumbs here," she held up the deeply-lined palms of hands. Ally looked, narrowed her eyes to slits -- all she could see were her mother's hands.
"See how this part is disappearin'?" Bertie asked as she rubbed the meaty bit of flesh directly beneath her thumb.
"No, Momma. I don't see that."
"Well, anyway ... you lookin' good. I just love to see you in some jeans," Bertie said as she turned to stir the cranberry sauce and take the homemade rolls out of the oven.
Ally walked towards the boys' club to say hello and overheard one of them explaining, "Yep. Whin I'm bow huntin', if I don't git that aim up, I will miuss ever' dayum tam."
"I've had similar issues with my own bow hunting," Ally offered, as 6 sets of eyes turned and stared as if she'd farted.
"Whoops," she chuckled. "Didn't mean to kill the conversation. Nice to see y'all again."
"I's reddy!" bellowed Bertie.
All three generations emptied into the kitchen, gathered around the overflowing tables and halted.
"Who's gonna say grace?" asked Bertie.
"Why don't you say, Momma? You did everything else. Might as well say grace, too" Ally suggested.
"Oh lawrd ... awright. BlessusohLordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttorecievefromthybountythroughChristourLord, Amen."
"Amen," echoed the entire troop, in unison.
"Le's eat," Bertie cried.
With that, they descended on the hearty buffet like a tidal wave.
The front door squeaked open and slammed with a flimsy bang, as everyone turned to see who had arrived. It was Ally, Bertie's middle child, who always smelled slightly of patchouli.
"Hi're yuuuu?" crowed Bertie as she grabbed Ally, gave her some sugar and hugged her neck.
"I'm good, Momma," Ally answered warmly. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good. My hip's been just aaaachin', and see my thumbs here," she held up the deeply-lined palms of hands. Ally looked, narrowed her eyes to slits -- all she could see were her mother's hands.
"See how this part is disappearin'?" Bertie asked as she rubbed the meaty bit of flesh directly beneath her thumb.
"No, Momma. I don't see that."
"Well, anyway ... you lookin' good. I just love to see you in some jeans," Bertie said as she turned to stir the cranberry sauce and take the homemade rolls out of the oven.
Ally walked towards the boys' club to say hello and overheard one of them explaining, "Yep. Whin I'm bow huntin', if I don't git that aim up, I will miuss ever' dayum tam."
"I've had similar issues with my own bow hunting," Ally offered, as 6 sets of eyes turned and stared as if she'd farted.
"Whoops," she chuckled. "Didn't mean to kill the conversation. Nice to see y'all again."
"I's reddy!" bellowed Bertie.
All three generations emptied into the kitchen, gathered around the overflowing tables and halted.
"Who's gonna say grace?" asked Bertie.
"Why don't you say, Momma? You did everything else. Might as well say grace, too" Ally suggested.
"Oh lawrd ... awright. BlessusohLordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttorecievefromthybountythroughChristourLord, Amen."
"Amen," echoed the entire troop, in unison.
"Le's eat," Bertie cried.
With that, they descended on the hearty buffet like a tidal wave.