Not Tonight


This is definitely a great idea, she congratulated herself. What could be more practical than getting totally hammered by oneself the evening before boarding an extremely long flight to the other side of the world? Why, nothing at all!

It’s too unbearable to leave any food or drink in the house that her sister in law might find and eat, so in the course of the past three days she has devoured all the cookies, frozen pizzas, and snacky foods in the house, out of spite. The bowl of fruit and the six remaining carrots, she knows, are safe and will be moldy when she comes back. The bag of rice and the frozen peas sleep soundly in their bags knowing they are out of danger for the next three weeks.

It has been a patience-trying evening, she thinks, filling her wine glass for the third time with cheap shiraz that will guarantee a ridiculous clown-version of Red Wine Mouth for the long-haul flight tomorrow. Oh, how embarrassing that will be for her, to be seated for more than 12 hours next to an interesting person born in the same decade as she is, and to be hyper-aware of this person’s eyes traveling always down from hers to assess the damage done the night before.

She will feel compelled to offer something in the way of explanation, or apology, when she notices this happening more than once. “I’m a vampire?” she will say awkwardly, feeling slighted and totally misunderstood. That will end the conversation with alacrity.

All of the mothers have called tonight. All of them have called and gotten weepy on the phone with her, lamenting the distance, the insurmountable distance of this journey. She rolls her eyes as they weep and wail, wondering how a person who only calls once every three weeks, on Sundays when she is not too engrossed in Lifetime movies, can claim this type of ownership over her. This mother has been behaving in such a stupid way since her birthday a few days ago.

This time, the Tale of Her Birth was expanded to include graphic details about how much suffering the Mother had to endure before the doctor (who had left to attend a holiday party in the midst of this) granted her a c-section. Odd that these details had not been introduced in the preceding 25 renditions of the story, but whatever. It surprises no one to learn that this family’s history is not…exactly…what it was previously thought to be.

This is the side of the family that routinely finds itself contacted by long-lost cousins given up for adoption in the 1970s. This is the side of the family that is so world-renowned for its absurdity that people in her graduate program, people who are considered by the rest of the department to be incredibly good-looking (but who just seem arrogant and obvious to her, personally) are prone to confronting her in the small room behind the mailboxes, to say, “did I ever tell you that my parents know your uncle?”

Further conversation on this matter makes it clear that yes, he is aware that her uncle is dead; yes, he is aware that her uncle had a secret second family that he hid until on his deathbed; and yes, he is aware that her uncle was bullied into giving up a child while in high school, just like all of her mother’s relations. She sighs inwardly and smiles at him, shaking her head with feigned amusement at her totally fucked-up genetic blueprint. How in the samhell does this chucklehead know these things about her? She has never spoken to him before.

This genetic cesspool will be the literal death of her, she laughs bitterly into her wineglass. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What right did these idiots have to produce so many doomed children? Fuck.

This evening witnessed a great deal of Being Talked At by her husband’s family members. Hence the bottle of wine. Exhausting, she thinks. It’s fucking exhausting to listen to that unparsable stream of yammering. Have a good time in NZ, sweetie. Oh and while I have you did you get the check from grandma? Because she always thinks you won’t get the check. [yes, the check endorsed to an imaginary name? Thanks much] The kids at school. Retards. How awful, the parents of these retards, wanting their children to sing songs instead of learning to read “help wanted” signs. Now THAT is a life skill they will need in the future. She groans inwardly and spaces out her disinterested “uh-huhs” to mask the fact that she’s taping the catsitting schedule onto the fridge, she’s rolling her eyes to her friend in the living room, she’s eyeing the bottle of wine on the counter and daydreaming about cracking it open by herself with the tivo in the background while she plows through the last remaining academic obstacles to her departure.

What We Need Is A Persuasion, What You Give Is A Retaliation

The silence is abruptly shattered by a question so complete in its thoughtlessness that she knows the Finer Things Club meetings are over before they have even begun: What do you think are the similarities and differences between classic fiction and modern fiction?

Modern fiction, she reflects, in this case means books about stupid shit. She looks at her toenail polish. Pretends to cough. Waits until Bea has opened her mouth to respond and then opens and closes her own mouth, obviously, as though she had been about to say something but then had paused to avoid interrupting.

Really? she thinks to herself, while her friends begin a heated discussion of a paper Kay wrote on Bea’s book in high school English class. About symbolism. Of course.

She vomits quietly in her own mouth and chases it with a swig of cold tea, the last bite of guacamole, and half a scone.

White dresses worn by the characters in Bea’s book represent virginity and purity. Duh. That book sounds promising. Not the symbolism, but the story itself. None of them can pronounce the title but it sounds promising. Kay’s book sounds like it would make her stab people. Two friends and their lives. Their comical foibles. Their life trajectories, their multiple husbands, their children and their siblings and their involvement in meaningful careers and also drug addictions and emotional affairs. Really? Sigh.

She picks up this book and sees the Redbook endorsement on the back cover. Drops it like it bit her. Stirs her tea and half-listens to the ongoing soliloquy about how cultured and knowledgeable Kay intends to become, about everything. This is not what it was supposed to be like, this club. This may have been a total waste of guacamole, she thinks.

*****

She is going to be the best wing-person ever, she’s decided. This kills several noble birds with one ignoble stone: She gets to flirt with boys while her husband is on another continent, but it’s to negotiate potential suitors for someone else to go home with. It’s flirting with a higher purpose.

A means to several peoples’ ends.

She mentally high-fives herself after making that joke in her head. She’s not sure these friends would get it, or laugh if they did get it, so she keeps it to herself. What a waste of her best talents, to keep these stupid jokes to herself. She briefly feels lonely and then shoves it out of mind again.

There’s practically nowhere to get a drink at 11pm in this town, so the new wine bar that serves until 11:30 is kind of a big deal. Sitting at a table with her back to the wall, she scans the bar for dark-haired men who are not thinner than she is. There are only two reasonable approximations. Both look like they might be chowderheaded clowns. But one must start somewhere, mustn’t one?

Don’t look now, she starts.

Her friends both whirl around to look, right now, all over the place. Thanks to this unspoken invitation for All Males to Please Look Over Here, indiscriminate eyeballing ensues. Their cover is blown. Ah well. She will be the best wing-person ever, eventually.