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YOU KNOW HOW THEY SAYyou should learn something new every day? Well, today I learned that there is a big difference between baklava and bukkake.
One is appropriate for dessert at a wedding shower and the other is a word I’m not even sure why I know. (That’s a lie. The answer is porn.) But I offered the wrong one as a suggestion to my sister on the phone, and now Megan is listing all the reasons that I won’t be helping her plan our brother’s wedding even though I am the only person in our family who knows how to have fun.
Not that bukkake is my idea of fun, necessarily. But I thought she’d like the baklava suggestion since our grandfather is Greek. It was an honest mistake. Slip of the tongue.
Freudian slip of the tongue, maybe.
We’ve moved on, and I’m only half listening to her as she yammers on about the upcoming wedding, which is still a month away, but which my entire family has been at DEFCON status for the entire engagement...in Megan’s mind only. I honestly don’t think Leo and Dixie, my brother and his sweet fiance, care about the wedding. They just want to go on a honeymoon, but Megan is having a particularly problematic Saturn Return this year, and it’s hitting her like a mid-life crisis. Of course, she won’t listen to any of my astrological advice about it, but I did slip a rose quartz into a slice in her mattress to help her relax.
"Also, your breasts are a disaster."
Well, that gets my attention. "Excuse me? What's wrong with my breasts?" I look down. I think they are rather impressive, actually. Megan is probably just jealous because she is built more like our mom, which works out pretty well for her most as the time. Being a size six, Megan has a classic beauty and lean figure. I, on the other hand, have been built like a brick house since the age of twelve. And it wasn't until I turned twenty that I learned how to use my curves to my advantage.
"The dress shop is having a really hard time getting your dress just right," Megan says.
"Well, you should've thought of that before you suggested a plunging neckline. My breasts didn’t magically sprout after you chose the style.”
I will admit that I am sort of the family fuck up, but I will not have my lovely lady lumps blamed for it.
She goes back to centerpieces, so I go back to web browsing.
"But Ineedto know who you're bringing, Stella.” I can picture her quite clearly right now. She’s in her car, probably on her way to a house showing. She’snotfixing her lipstick because her lipstick is always already perfect. She’s simultaneously planning hersomeday-weddingto Brad, how she’s going to convince her executive client and his wife that the five-bedroom house on the bluff is just perfect for them despite the fact that they are moving here to downsize and only need two bedrooms, and how she’s going to corral her little sister (me) into a woman of substance. At least for one day.
We all know the wedding will go off without a hitch, the exec will totally buy the house once his wife sees the view, and her sister is already a woman of substance—just not very serious substance. Thank you very much.
Anyone with a passing acquaintance with Psych 101 can diagnose classic transference. She’s stressed about the fact that Brad hasn’t popped the question to her, so she’s obsessing about the wedding she can control. Because my brother’s fiance didn’t know to say no when Megan offered to plan her wedding. I’m surprised Dixie hasn’t run for the hills. She must really like my brother.
Shit. Megan is still talking. “I have to know if he is going to sit at the wedding party table with us, or if he will be sitting at a guest table."
What she means is: Will he begood enoughto sit at the family table at this ridiculously formal wedding she’s planning for two people who hate formal things?
And the answer is most likely not.
I love my sister. I just love her more when she’s not acting the part of Bridezilla in another woman’s wedding. I am so, so tired of talking about this wedding. About dresses. Cakes. Flowers. Chair covers. Bows. Tulle. All of it.
Except maybe bukkake. I could probably talk about that for a little while longer without being bored.
One more month. If I don’t kill my sister before June, it will be a miracle. She goes back to analyzing the deeper meaning of centerpieces, so I go back to web browsing. I resume half-listening status and pull up another veterinary clinic’s website to research.
Dr. Anderson, my boss, wants to revamp our own veterinary clinic site, so I’m comparing our clinic to the closest metropolitan area to our small little town of Brazen Bay. I have a pretty good idea of how I want the site to look, but it never hurts to check out the city ones. More people are moving to Brazen Bay and commuting—like the househunting exec—for better or worse. We want them to feel comfortable bringing their pets here rather than the city. Or Port Jacks. Port Jacks is a college town and just gross.
"Also, he needs to wear a suit and tie. Not Dockers and a T-shirt."
"Who does?"
"Oh my God, Stella. Your date. Your date for my wedding," she screeches. “I mean Leo’s wedding,” she adds a little quieter.
She’s really losing it.
“About my date...”
“Can you maybe bring someone who isn’t in a biker gang?”
One time. I dated a bikeronetime. “Noted.”
“And maybe someone whose IQ is larger than his shoe size.”
My track record with men isn’t great. Actually, it’s awful. I tend to skip over the cerebral types in favor of eye candy with personality issues. And sometimes the big dumb ones. And the one time, a biker. In my defense,Sons of Anarchywas really popular.
