Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink (15 page)

Jay emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and a family-size bag of Chee•tos. “They are known for their duck. And lobster and, you know, pretty much everything. It’s a Michelin-starred restaurant.”

As I drool over the restaurant’s website, Jay pops the cork of the bubbly. “Ah, one of my favorite sounds in the world.” He pours me a glass. “So, does that mean you’re thinking about visiting?”

I sheepishly look at him. “Kinda. Maybe?”

Jay hands me the filled flute. “What would make that a ‘Yes. Definitely?’”

I take the glass as I tell him nervously, “I don’t want to be a bother.”

He pours himself a glass. “If you were going to be a bother, I wouldn’t keep inviting you.”

Exit “clingy phase” to make room for “insecure fourteen-year-old with a crush on the prom king” phase. I take a sip of champagne, then ask him in all seriousness, “Why me? I’m sure there are a lot of women in Paris who would love to go to La Tour d’Argent with you.”

Jay considers my question for a moment. “You do realize there is no right answer to that question.”

“Sure there is,” I say as I dig into the bag of Chee•tos. (The answer is obviously
Because I am truly, madly, deeply, in love with you and have longed for you for so many years, and even though I know everything about you, you are perfect … for me. Run away with me! Have my babies!
Not a lot of men give this answer, but that doesn’t stop us women from asking them the question.)

“No. There isn’t.” Almost amused, Jay elaborates, “If I say, ‘No, there are no women who would want to go with me to a decadent five-star restaurant for a romantic night,’ I sound like a loser. On the other hand, if I say, ‘Well, yes, of course there are women. Scads. I’m practically Hugh Hefner back in 1950!’—then I’m an asshole.”

“Scads?”

“That’s a word, isn’t it?
Scads
?” Jay asks as he helps himself to some Chee•tos.

“And why would you want to be Hugh Hefner in 1950? He was married then, and the first issue of
Playboy
wouldn’t be published for another three years.”

Jay tilts his head to the side, his face rendered a little blank by my knowledge of useless trivia.

I point to his face and wave my index finger around. “That’s what I mean. Why do you want me hanging around your pied-à-terre, thoughtlessly correcting you all the time?”

“Well, you’re pretty cute, even when you’re correcting me.” He winks at me. “And it’s not a pied-à-terre. I only have one. It’s an apartment.” He says “apartment” with an accent that is so sexy, I want to pin him to the couch and have my way with him for the third time this evening.

I say nothing for a while. At least twenty seconds. Which, when you’ve been with someone for months or years, is not only
not
a long time, it’s usually a welcome respite. But when you’re both nervously chomping on chips and wondering what the other person is thinking, it’s an eternity.

“Hey, I got a quote for you to
not
correct me on,” Jay says, taking the big bag of Chee•tos. “‘It’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.’”

“Albert Einstein. But what does that mean?”

“Just come to Paris. Don’t give it too much thought—better to be ridiculous than boring.” Jay smiles with rather smug satisfaction. “And it’s not Albert Einstein.”

It is too. But it is more important to be adored than right. I shake my head. “Oh, you’re right, it’s…”

“Marilyn Monroe.”

“Right,” I say, as though I just remembered who said it. (Not!) “Great quote.”

Jay starts laughing. “Oh my God—you don’t believe me.”

“What? Of course I do.”

“No, you don’t. You are actively fighting the urge to look it up online right now and see if I’m right.”

“No!” I deny, feigning offense. A few seconds later … “Okay, yes. A little in my head. But I love the sentiment, and it’s a great quote.”

Jay puts out the bag for me to grab another handful. “I’ll make you a deal. If you look it up, and I’m right, you come to Paris. Next week.”

I take some and pop a few in my mouth. “I won’t make that deal since I’m sure you’re right.”

Jay, still smiling, shakes his head. “You do know that now I can’t fall asleep before you. I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of looking it up without me there.”

“Oh, I can think of a few ways to put you to sleep,” I flirt.

“Round three?”

“Race ya!”

And we make a joke of racing each other back to bed.

*   *   *

He did fall asleep before me. Once challenged, I could not resist the urge to tiptoe out to the living room, open my computer, and google the quote:

Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring. —Marilyn Monroe

Well, I’ll be damned.

I google the words
money tree
along with
Marilyn Monroe
. Sadly, nothing. But I did find this quote from her:

We should all start to live before we get too old. Fear is stupid. So are regrets.

Hmm. I wish she had gotten old—I’ll bet she would have said even more cool things.

T
WENTY
-
ONE

Friday was busy. We had the Christian-wedding rehearsal in the morning, which went off without a hitch. Well, okay, other than a passive-aggressive future mother-in-law loudly asking why the ceremony couldn’t be held “in a real church.” And a future father-in-law showing up with a hooker. Or maybe she’s his third wife—I wasn’t really clear.

Note to self—make sure those two are nowhere near each other, or the bar, or the fire pit during the Indian ceremony.

The rehearsal was to be followed by Seema’s mehndi ceremony in the early afternoon. Which seemed like a good idea at the time.

For those of you who, like me until a few weeks ago, have no idea of what exactly a mehndi is, allow me to explain. You know those temporary henna tattoos you had painted on in your teens to drive your mom nuts, or had done during a wild weekend in Vegas because even loaded on tequila shots and rum drinks you still couldn’t face a needle without fainting at the sight of it? (Show of hands? No? Just me?)

Well, that’s sort of a Westernized version of what a mehndi is. Anyway, a mehndi is a temporary tattoo made from applying turmeric paste in various patterns and designs to the bride’s face, hands, and feet, and sometimes her legs and arms. And the mehndi ceremony is what’s held during the time artists are applying the paste to the bride.

It’s basically a big party traditionally held at the bride’s house (meaning our place) at which the women in the bride’s life (including her mom, aunts, cousins, and friends) come to sing, dance, drink, and help the bride move around after all of the paste is applied.

In other words: Seema’s mom is coming over.

Meaning Jay’s mom is coming over.

A fact I really didn’t think through until the middle of the rehearsal that morning.

We are now thirty minutes from thirty women coming over, and while we should be worried putting out cheese, crackers, nan, chicken, olives, etc., instead Seema and I are racing from my bedroom to hers, trying to move all of Jay’s stuff out of my den of iniquity.

I race into Seema’s room, tugging along his half-zipped suitcase. “Okay, hide this.”

“I don’t need to hide it,” Seema insists. “Mom knows he’s staying here.”

“Yes! But she doesn’t know he’s staying there!” I say, pointing toward my room in a fierce gesture. “And I would prefer she not see me as the slut her son is bagging for the next three days.”

We hear the loud splashing of vomit into the toilet in the bathroom. Afterward, an out-of-breath Nic yells through the closed door, “Don’t forget to do a mommy check!”

Seema and exchange glances. “What’s a mommy check?” I yell to Nic through the door.

“Also called an idiot check,” Nic yells back. “It’s the last look you give your hotel room even if you’re absolutely sure you packed everything. So named because kids leave their glasses in hotel rooms, and their bathing suits, iPods, textbooks.”

“Good idea!” I yell to her. “It’s possible I—”

And then I hear
bwah!
Again in the bathroom.

Yuck.

Seema and I both scrunch up our noses, grossed out. Seema whispers, “I thought morning sickness was supposed to be over by six months.”

I whisper back, “I thought it only happened when you were pregnant with a girl.”

“It can happen anytime, no matter what sex the baby is,” Nic yells through the door. “And by the way, I’m pregnant, not deaf!”

Then we hear
bwah!
again.

“Just try to feel better,” Seema says in a falsely cheerful voice. Then whispers to me, “She’s got the hearing of a tiger moth.”

A thought occurs to me. “Oh, God. I’m pretty sure he left his red boxers under my desk.”

I race back to my room, where I find said boxers, an empty wine bottle, and two dirty glasses. Plus some sundry items in my trash that I decide to take right out to the big black can outside.

For the next twenty minutes, I cleaned, then put out food, like a hurricane. And by the time the party started, Nic wasn’t the only one out of breath and ready to throw up.

T
WENTY
-
TWO

The mehndi ceremony is turning out to be a blast. There is food and singing. Dancing and champagne. A man who is texting me frequently.

Granted some of the texts were a bit mundane:

At Bloomingdale’s now. Can you subtly find out if Seema really wants a $400 ice bucket?

I look up at Seema, being painted by two craggy, old women who specialize in this art. “Jay wants to know how much you want the ice bucket.”

“Eh.” She shrugs. Then she gets excited. “Tell him I want the cheese tray!”

I quickly type back:

She says she wants the cheese tray.

Done. Thanks, love.

And he’s off. But before I can think of what he means by “love,” Kamala, Seema’s mom, grabs my phone and stares at my screen. “Is that Jay? I need to tell him to buy me bunion cream while he’s out.”

“Ma!” Seema exclaims. “Did you just pull that out of Mel’s hand?”

“Oh, it’s okay,” I begin sheepishly. “I didn’t really need—”

“To talk to my son!” Kamala snaps at her daughter self-righteously.

“What if they were having a private conversation?!” Seema barks back.

Oh, shit. Jay, please don’t write back something slutty. Please don’t write back something slutty.…

“What would they possibly be having a private conversation about?” Then Kamala turns to me. “Mel, honey, can you show me how to type back to him?”

“Um … sure,” I say nervously. “You just click on this keypad right here…”

“Mom. Give Mel back the phone, and get Dad to buy the cream,” Seema says a little too sternly.

“He never buys the right kind,” Kamala says offhandedly while beginning to type. She stops and looks up at Seema. “What’s
Vamehndied
?”

Shit. Not that I know what that means, but it just sounds like a
Kama Sutra
term to me. “Ummmm,” I begin sheepishly, “could I just take a look at that?”

I cautiously take my phone out of Kamala’s hand, using only two fingers. Then I read the screen …

Are you getting Vamehndied?

I don’t know what that means.

I made it up. You know what Vajazzling is?

His mom wrote the first response, but clearly he thought it was me. So I quickly write back:

Your mother’s reading this. She’s the one who doesn’t know what it means.

Oh. Hi, Mom.

Kamala reads over my shoulder. “You’re dating him, aren’t you?”

I don’t detect any judgment in her tone. It’s as if she just figured it and doesn’t know what to do with the information yet.

Before I can answer, Seema’s phone rings. As both of her hands are being worked on by the artists, she asks, “Nic, can you answer my phone and put it up to my ear?”

“It’s your brother, isn’t it?” Kamala asks knowingly.

“No!” Seema blurts out, clearly offended. “It’s Scott. He probably just has a few questions about the sangeet tonight.” Nic presses a button and puts the phone up to Seema’s ear. “Hi Sweetie,” Seema says.

I can hear Jay ask with concern, “How much did Mom read?”

“I would absolutely go with a nice filet,” Seema answers, then says in a voice that sounds like code,
“Rare…”

“Sweetie, I can hear him,” Nic says under her breath to Seema.

Seema covers the phone and tells Nic sotto voce, “You could hear a pizza box being opened from across the room.”

I start to tell Seema, “Actually we can all hear…,” just as Jay says over the phone, “Shit. Does she know I slept with her?”

“He’s sleeping with her?!” Kamala exclaims. Then she looks at me. “He just got here yesterday!”

“Actually, he got here Saturday,” I say in my defense.

Kamala repeats, “Saturday!?”—as Seema and Nic both yell, “Mel!”

Then I hear Jay mutter, “Oh, crap.”

Then Kamala turns to me. “What about Jacqueline?”

“Lesbian,” Seema says matter-of-factly to her mother.

“What?!” Kamala cries. She walks up to Seema while muttering to herself, “Why is that boy always introducing us to lesbians?” Then she puts out her hand and orders, “Give me the phone.”

Seema tries not to. “Mom, I…”

Her mother starts squeezing the palm of Seema’s hand over and over quickly to let her daughter know she’s not playing. “Phone, young lady. Now.”

Sighing, Seema resignedly hands over her cell.

Kamala begins speaking rapidly in French.

Rats. Other than hearing
nous
and
vous
a couple of times, I’m lost. I can tell from the tone of her voice she is not pleased and is lecturing him.

How is it all moms have that same tone of voice when they’re lecturing?

Eventually, I hear something I do understand, a quick “Je t’aime, mon choux” (I love you … cream puff?), and Kamala clicks off the phone and hands it back to her daughter.