On the Rocks(65)

“It’s a little funny. You have to see that.”

“Why couldn’t he just be normal? We didn’t need to get married or anything, but why couldn’t he at least be a normal human being? Is that too much to ask for?”

“I have no idea why Scrooge McArchitect couldn’t spring for a nice bottle of wine. Unfortunately that is a question I can’t answer for you, lover girl.”

“I’ve been trying to stay positive, I really have. And I followed your advice and tried to go for the opposite of what I’m typically attracted to. Well, I’m sorry. The purple-flower-buying, pink-pants-wearing architect was as opposite as I could possibly get, and I was pretty sure he had potential. I’m done trying. I’ve accepted my future as a cat lady.”

“Jesus, will you listen to yourself? Go take a shower, have a drink, and chill out,” he said. “Maybe in the morning you’ll realize how completely ridiculous you sound. You had a bad date. You can’t let it keep you from ever wanting to date again. I’ve had plenty of bad dates. Believe me, you’ll get over it.”

“No. I won’t.” I took a long swig from my beer and buried my hands in my now-crunchy beach hair. “I can’t do this. All that nights like this do is remind me that I’m better off at home alone on the couch with ice cream in one hand and my remote control in the other.”

“That’s not going to help you. If you keep that attitude and start housing sugar again, you’re going to end up with either an appearance on The Biggest Loser or type two diabetes. Whichever comes first. Just shrug it off and move on. Don’t dwell on it.”

“Sure. That’ll be easy,” I said as I went inside to take a scalding hot shower in the hopes I’d wash the night off me.

I didn’t even have time to dwell on it, though, since the next stop on the “things I’d rather drink bleach than do” tour was coming up. It was time to face the wedding music.





Chapter 16



The Overfed Flamingo




THE ALLIED FORCES spent less time preparing for D-Day than my sister did for her wedding, which I couldn’t understand for the life of me. We got dressed at my mom’s house and waited in the foyer for the florist to arrive, while Katie barked orders and fanned herself with a dinner napkin. I ran around like a lunatic trying to calm Katie’s nerves and earn some goodwill after tackling her in the dress salon. I was doing my best to suck up to her when, for once in her life, my mother finally did something to help me out. She pissed off Katie even more than I had.

“Ladies! What do you think? How do I look?” she called from the top of the curving staircase that led to the foyer. “Isn’t this stunning?”

My sister and I looked up the stairs to marvel at our mother, perched on the top step, with one hand in the air and the other on her hip. She wore a long, satin, cream-colored gown, complete with beading at the bust and crystals covering the skirt. Oh God. She was wearing a wedding dress.

Katie opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak. There she was, at the bottom of the stairs, in her fully mended satin wedding gown, and there was my mother, at the top of the stairs, in hers. It was like looking through a sick and twisted magic mirror. I looked at Katie, unable to breathe, let alone speak, and finally my big sisterly instincts kicked in. No one disrespects my sister on her wedding day. Especially not our clueless mother.

“Take it off,” I said, having a flashback to the bridal salon. Why was I constantly telling the women in my family to change?

“She . . . that . . . it’s . . .” Katie stuttered, still staring at herself twenty-five years in the future.

I stood frozen, alternating staring at the present-day Katie and the future Katie, unsure of what to do. Damn you, Emily Post, I thought. Why do you refuse to address any of my bridal problems? “You can’t wear that, Mom. You just can’t,” I said, still utterly flabbergasted.

“What’s the problem? This gown is gorgeous, and look at all the details!” she said as she turned to display the long satin train. Now I understood why she had suggested that Katie’s train might be too long. She didn’t want it to be longer than her own. I finally realized why my mother had been so obsessed with looking her best for this wedding: in her mind, it was the chance to have the wedding she’d always wanted. The one where she got to wear an elegant gown and have everyone think she was beautiful, instead of the one she actually had, pregnant in a polyester suit at city hall. For a moment, I felt bad for her, and so sad that this stunt was actually her pathetic and misguided attempt to recapture a moment of her youth that she hadn’t been allowed to have.

Then I got over it.

I moaned in complete frustration. “You can’t wear a long white dress to the wedding! You’re the mother of the bride, not the bride! You’re going to make a fool out of yourself!” That was saying something considering this was coming from someone who looked like an overfed flamingo.

“Don’t be ridiculous. First of all, this isn’t white, it’s cream, and second of all, as the mother of the bride, I can wear anything I want.”

“I honestly don’t know how your mind works. What were you thinking?” I hissed as my mother slowly descended the stairs.

“What do you mean? You can’t possibly say you have a problem with this. I told you about this, Abby,” my mother said nonchalantly as she swished past me. Five seconds later her train followed.