“I know what you guys are doin’ when you make a phone call,” Gavin pipes up nonchalantly from the backseat.
You know how when you’ve told a lie and someone catches you in it your face gets all hot and you get butterflies in your stomach? It’s ten times worse when it’s your own freaking toddler calling you out and looking at you like, “Are you kidding me with this shit?”
“Heh, heh! What do you mean, buddy?” Carter asks, laughing nervously.
He looks at me and I look at him, and we both look in the backseat at Gavin. Thank God we are stopped at another red light. I don’t think Carter can be trusted to keep the car in our lane at this moment. Frankly, I don’t think I can be trusted not to open up the door and jump out. TUCK AND ROLL!
I’m going to have to tell my son about the birds and the bees in the car on the way to my father’s house. I don’t even get the term, “the birds and the bees”. How does that properly teach a kid about sex? You never see a pigeon railing a dove or a honey bee sticking it to a bumble bee. They really need to call it, “the cows and the horses”. Just the other day we drove by a farm and one cow was mounted up on another cow and Gavin said, “Awww look, Mommy. That cow is giving the other cow a hug!” I could have explained it easily then. I could have used correct terminology like penis and sperm and fertilization. It was a farm for fuck’s sake. That sort of stuff can be seen every two feet between goats and pigs and roosters and chickens. I could have given him plenty of examples. But then I would have to answer the age old question about which came first, the chicken or the egg and that question still boggles MY mind. Now I’m going to have to make up some type of analogy that has to do with phones. “First, you pull the antenna out so it’s nice and long, then you push the right buttons so the other phone is in the mood to make a call…”
I can’t do this. I’m not ready for this. He’s too young to know about long distance phone calls and roaming charges!
“M-o-o-o-o-m! Did you hear me? I said I know what you guys are doin’ when you make phone calls,” Gavin repeats.
Sure, go ahead and repeat it. Obviously you need to make sure we are sufficiently freaked out. CHILDREN ARE THE DEVIL.
Maybe if I just completely ignore the situation, he’ll forget about it. I turned on the radio, frantically searching for a song he knows that he can butcher the lyrics to.
Why is there so much f**king talk radio at five o’clock in the evening?
“Ooooh, this is a good song, Gavin! Do you know this song?” I ask overenthusiastically.
Carter looks at me like I'm insane as Kenny G notes filled the car.
Fucking Kenny G. Couldn’t you record ONE song with some lyrics? Michael Bolton taught you nothing. Epic fail, Kenny. Epic fail.
“You guys always lock your door when you make phone calls,” Gavin says.
Son of a bitch, Kenny G! You put everyone to sleep but my son. The ONE thing you had going for you and now it’s gone to shit.
“You guys kiss in there, don’t you?” Gavin asks.
I stop swaying to beat of Kenny G and shut off the BIC Lighter App on my phone, noticing that Carter is still looking at me funny. It’s like he’s never met me. I'm trying to get Gavin’s mind off of fertilization and bees f**king pigeons!
“YES!” Carter shouts. “That’s exactly what we do. We kiss. That’s all we do. Just kiss. Sometimes Mommy and Daddy need to lock the door so we can kiss. And…just kiss. What else would we do in there besides kiss? Ha ha! Mommy and Daddy sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-”
I reach over and squeeze his arm to get him to stop talking as we pull into my dad’s driveway. Gavin unbuckles his seatbelt and scrambles out of the car to race to my dad, his attention already diverted. My dad scoops him up into his arms and meets us at the car as Carter gets Gavin’s overnight bag out of the backseat, and I stand by my open door, breathing a sigh of relief that Sex Ed with our four-year-old is finally over.
“Hey, Papa! Mommy and Daddy lock their door so they can kiss!” Gavin tells him excitedly.
My dad looks a little grossed out and quickly changes the subject.
“I got that movie 'Gnomeo and Juliet' for us to watch tonight,” he tells Gavin.
Sadly, Gavin isn’t going to be deterred even for garden gnomes that come to life and ass rape a small community while they sleep. I’m sure that’s not what really happens in a children’s movie, but in my mind it is. Garden gnomes are creepy. I firmly believe they come to life after you go to bed at night and violate you.
“Mommy and Daddy make a lot of noise when they kiss. Mommy talks to God a lot. I talk to God sometimes too. I asked him for a puppy and a new monster truck but I was nice and didn’t yell at him like Mommy does. He still hasn’t gotten me the puppy though.”
And on that note, we kiss Gavin good-bye, jump into the car, and take off. My dad can deal with the birds and the bees and cows and the chickens and the kissing horses while visions of his daughter screaming for Jesus dance in his head.
We pull up to Liz and Jim’s house fifteen minutes later and park in the street behind the biggest limo bus I’ve ever seen. Liz had told me she rented something small and modest to drive us around so we wouldn’t have to worry about ruining someone’s night and forcing them to be our designated driver. Obviously her version of small and modest differ greatly from mine. This thing could house an entire football team with room to spare.
“It’s about time you two fuckers got here!” Drew yells as he meets us at the end of the driveway, tossing a beer through the air towards Carter.
In honor of the wine tours that evening, Drew dons a shirt with a picture of a corkscrew on the front that reads, “I pull out.”
We walk up the bus steps to join everyone else, noticing they are all well on their way toward getting drunk, everyone except Liz. She is all alone at the very back of the bus with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.
I take one look at her and know I had made it there just in time.
How could this have happened? Why wasn’t anyone helping my poor friend?
Leaving Carter at the front of the bus with Drew, Jim, and Jenny, I hurry down the aisle and sit down next to Liz.
“Who did this to you?” I ask angrily as I wrap my arm around her shoulder.
She looks at me and I swear I see her lip quiver.
“It’s okay. You can tell me. We’ll fix it,” I reassure her as I rub soothing circles on her back.
I see hope flare in her eyes, and I know she's going to be fine. I will make this better for her if it’s the last thing I do.
“My mother! It was her. It was all her!” she wails in anguish.
I quickly glance to the front of the bus, fearing that just thinking about Mrs. Gates will suddenly make her appear. Forget bridezilla! Mrs. Gates is mother-of-the-bridezilla. She is the biggest wedding Nazi in the world. Every single wedding tradition, old wives tale, ritual, and custom, Mary Gates believes in it, practices it, and forces everyone around her to participate in it.
Right now, my poor best friend is wearing a rhinestone tiara with a veil attached, a sash across the front of her that reads, “Bride to Be”, and underneath that sash, a tee-shirt with individually wrapped suckers strategically attached directly on top of her boobs. In bright pink glitter puff paint are the words, “Suck for a Buck”.
“I’m in bachelorette party hell!” Liz screeches.
I reach over and started plucking suckers off of her boobs.
“It’s okay; I’m going to get you out of this,” I tell her.
“Claire Donna Morgan, I hope you’re giving my daughter a dollar for every one of those suckers you are removing from her shirt!”
It's like something out of a movie. The music that pumps out of the limo’s speakers screeches to a halt and all of the laughter from our friends immediately dies.
“Run! Save yourself!” Liz whispers loudly as she tries to shove me away from her.
I slowly stand up and put on a brave face, letting my friend know that I will take one for the team. I will stand in between her and sudden bachelorette party death. I turn around just in time to be bum rushed in the aisle.
“Can you believe my baby is getting married?!” Mrs. Gates squeals as she throws a sash over my head that reads, “Maid-of-Honor” before I can blink.
She pulls me into a tight hug, bouncing me up and down like we're long lost sorority sisters, the cloying scent of White Diamonds perfume surrounding me and threatening to make my eyes water.
Where my family is more along the lines of the Connor family from the show Roseanne, Alice’s family leans more toward The Brady Bunch.
On crack.
Or maybe acid.
Which is the one that makes you see fuzzy bunnies singing about lollypops and kittens and puppies frolicking on a rainbow?
“Claire, I am entrusting you to make sure my baby has a great time tonight,” Mrs. Gates says sternly as she pulls away from me and thrusts a piece of paper in my hand. “This is a treasure hunt for Liz. You have to make sure she does every single thing on the list before the night is out. I’ve been told this is all the rage with you young people.”
Don’t look down at the list; don’t look down at the list.
“Well, don’t just stand there, Claire. Look at the list!” Mrs. Gates demands excitedly.
“Get a stranger to give you his underwear,” I mutter, reading the first line.
Mrs. Gates squeals like little girl. “Oh my gosh this is going to be a hoot! Keep reading!”
I take a deep breath, forcing the vomit that had lodged itself in my throat to remain where it is and not splatter all over the piece of paper in my hand.
On second thought…no list equals no scavenger hunt.
“And don’t worry, I made enough copies for everyone!” Liz’s mom says enthusiastically as she pulls a handful of papers out of her purse and starts passing them out.
I cover my hand over my mouth as I scan the list. No point in puking now. I’ll never be able to projectile vomit far enough to reach all the copies.
Find a guy with an accent.
Meet a guy with the same name as the groom and take a picture with him.
Make out with one of the bridesmaids.
I really don’t think I should be sober for this right now.
“Mrs. Gates, you are looking positively radiant this evening. Have I mentioned that yet?” Jim states sweetly as he comes up behind his future mother-in-law and puts his arm around her shoulder.
“Now, don’t try and distract me, James. I’ve got something for you too,” she says as she unfolds a baseball hat that said “Groom” on it and places it on his head.
“Folks, if this is everyone, I need you all to take your seats so we can leave,” the limo driver informs us as he pokes his head in the door of the bus.
“Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Mrs. Gates says as she stands there, not making any attempt at moving.
She glances around at everyone expectantly, waiting for someone to beg her to stay and join us.
No one speaks.
Or moves. There might have even been an uncomfortable cough that I think came from the driver.
“Okay….well…you kids have fun now!” she finally says as she walks to the door of the bus. “Oh my goodness, I almost forgot the most important thing!”
She turns back around and rushes down the aisle towards Liz. Everyone groans quietly.
Mrs. Gates stops in front of her daughter and reaches into the giant suitcase she calls a purse and pulls out a penis. Or should I say, “penis products.” Lots and lots of penis products, things I didn’t even know they made in the shape of a penis, and now I will have to bleach my eyes at the thought of Liz’s mom walking into a store and purchasing these items:
A candy necklace full of sugary penises, a penis-shaped water bottle, a penis-shaped pacifier that she decides needed to be tied around my neck.
Yes, I am absolutely going to stay classy this evening.
But she isn’t done yet, oh no. Next out of her bag of tricks: penis-shaped pasta. Seriously? What the f**k do we need with a bag of penis-shaped pasta on a limo bus? We’re not going to fill a pan with some water from the tiny bathroom at the back of the bus and stick it on the engine to boil it so we can make macaweenie and cheese.
She hands Jenny a box of penis gummies that Drew tells her to open up immediately because he wants to hear her say, “This penis tastes so good.” Last but not least, she hands everyone different colored rubber penis pen caps. Because you know, at some point during the night there might be an emergency that calls for someone to write a note using only a pen with a penis pen cap.
I should check the scavenger hunt. It could be on the list.
Mrs. Gates looks like a perverted Mary Poppins pulling penises out of her carpet bag. I'm waiting for her to pull out a penis-shaped lamp or a penis-shaped coat stand. When she finally emptied her bag of all things phallic, she steps off of the bus and we all let out sighs of relief—and then we rip every single sash, hat, veil, and suck for a buck item off of us.
Drew pours everyone a shot of Tequila Rose (in penis shot glasses, of course) and passes them out.
“What is this pu**y shit?” Jim asks as he sniffs the thick, pink liquid in his shot glass.
“It smells like strawberry milk,” I say with a cringe. I don’t know about anyone else, but milk and liquor just does not sound like it should go together.
“It tastes like strawberry milk too. And it’s good shit. I thought I’d start us off with something girly tonight so know one hurls in the first hour,” Drew explains.
We all nod in understanding. No one wants to be the first one to puke.