I'm clearly looking at her with annoyance and put my hands up in the air in a “what the f**k?” gesture. She opens her mouth but before she can say anything, Liz grabs onto my arm with both hands now and is trying to drag me away from everyone. She’s alternating between giggles and repeatedly whispering, “Oh sweet Jesus.” I'm starting to wonder if everyone around me has been roofied.
I yank my arm out of her clutches and turn around, coming face-to-face with Carter’s grandmother. I put a big smile on my face and began to introduce myself when she cuts me off.
“You,” is all she says as she looks me up and down.
The look in her eyes and the tilt of her head as she scrutinizes me suddenly forces a memory from last night to surface from the depths of my subconscious.
“She’s going to take our cab. Are you kidding me with this shit?” Drew yells indignantly. “I’ve been standing here trying to hail a cab for like three years and this skank just waltzes in and takes the one that stopped for us.”
“Dude, we came in a limo bus. It’s parked over there,” Jim tells him.
“I don’t care if we came here on a magic carpet. That was OUR cab!” I pipe up indignantly.
I stumble over to the back door of the taxi that is still open while the old woman gets situated and stick my head in.
“You’re a dick. Go f**k your face,” I yell drunkenly before I’m yanked back out by my friends so my head doesn’t get mangled by the shutting of the door.
“Dude, you just say that to a seventy-year-old woman!” Emmett yells while patting me on the back.
And here that seventy-year-old woman stands with a cocky smile on her face when she sees that I have made the connection to who she is.
The entire room is silent as they watch the exchange between us. I look horrified and Carter’s grandmother looks like she's going to throw her little arthritic fists of fury in the air and beat my ass.
There will never ever be another moment in my entire life that is more embarrassing than this one right here. Mark my words.
Madelyn interrupts the stare-down Grandma is giving me, and I suddenly wish there was a hole in the floor that would swallow me up when I see Liz’s cell phone in her hand.
“What does ‘gigantic, stinkotic, vaginastic, clitoral, liptistic whore dizzle’ mean?”
8. The Incredible Shrinking Penis
“No, Drew, a trip to the strip club will not make everything better,” I say for the third time. “Claire is completely mortified after brunch last weekend and thinks my family hates her. She’s also pissed at me because according to her, my number one rule as her boyfriend is to stop her from doing anything remotely stupid while she’s drunk.”
I let out a huge sigh and lift my arms in a “T” so the store owner could measure the length of my chest. While the girls are over with Liz getting a last minute fitting for their dresses, I meet the guys across the street at the mall with Gavin so we can get measured for our tuxes. This might come as a shock, but I’ve never been measured for a tux or a suit before. When I tell you this is the most awkward moment you will ever have with another person, I’m not lying. It’s right up there with prostate exams.
Some strange man named Steve who barely mutters a greeting when we walk in, immediately pushes me in front of a set of mirrors and then gets down on his knees and sticks his hands in the general vicinity of my balls.
Where exactly are you supposed to look when there is a man between your legs cupping your nut sack and he isn’t a doctor asking you to bend over and cough? His head? Deep into his eyes when he glances up at you to yell at you for squirming? I’m sorry but I can’t stand still when there is all this unwelcome ball-handling going on.
I really don’t see why it’s necessary to take four measurements that go from where my balls hang to my ankles. My balls haven’t moved; you’re going to get the same number each time so just write the f**king number down and move on - preferably to a spot away from my nuggets.
Is a store owner even qualified to do this shit? Doesn’t he need some type of degree or something before he can just go off wielding a measuring tape and sticking pins in people?
I glance over at Drew and he is looking up at the ceiling and whistling like it's no big deal, like he always has strange people with their hands all over him while they are eye-level with his junk. Wait, look who I’m talking about! It probably had just happened to him at the gas station a half hour before we got here.
“Claire needs to chill. If your parents don’t hate me by now, they don’t hate her. I’ve done much worse things to them over the years, believe me,” Drew says.
“Yeah. I know. My mom still brings up what you did to her parakeet back in high school.”
Drew rolls his eyes.
“That wasn’t even my fault.”
“Uh, you opened the cage and it flew straight into the glass door and died,” I remind him.
“Is it my fault that thing was stupid?” he argues. “I thought it would just fly around the room, maybe shit on the carpet. How was I supposed to know it was suicidal? It’s your mom’s fault really. She should have known her bird was depressed. And frankly, what I did to her Mynah bird was way worse.”
Steve spends a few minutes pinning the legs of my pants and gives me a reprieve from ball cupping.
“That bird is still saying ‘Where my ho’s at, bitch?’ whenever my dad whistles. My mom couldn’t get the bird to stop so she put a ban on whistling in the house,” I tell him.