by Glynis Astie
Imagine my surprise to find a giant cardboard box on the other side of the door! While I formulated my query, a disembodied voice came from behind the box.
“Hi, Syd!”
Interesting. The box talks! I glanced down to see that it also had legs. How bizarre!
Nigel poked his head around the side of the box. “Mind if I come in? Grace is parking the car.”
I grinned and stepped backward into the apartment. “Hi, Nigel! Please, do come in.” I swept my arm in a flourish and gave a slight curtsy. My inner British girl was dying to come out. (Even if she did hail from the eighteen hundreds.)
Nigel put the package down in the foyer and turned to give me a hug. “How are you doing, lovely Mummy-to-be?”
I massaged my stomach. “So far, so good.” I was still experiencing some wicked stomach cramps and a mild degree of nausea, but he didn’t need to know that. Describing unpleasant bodily functions was certainly not very ladylike. And decidedly not British.
Another ring of the doorbell announced Grace’s presence. Since Nigel was next to the door, he turned around and let his wife in. With a loving pat on his stomach, she passed by Nigel and pulled me into a hug.
“Hey, Syd! What’s in the box?”
Should I be worried that I had already forgotten about the giant object which had been directly in my eyeline upon Nigel’s arrival? Less than five minutes ago? Oh, Sydney, what is happening to you? I shook my head ruefully at my impaired brain functioning and turned to my favorite Brit for clarification.
“Right! I found this parcel with your name on it sitting in the lobby. It appears to have come from France. Are you expecting any goodies?” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. I didn’t think it was possible, but Nigel actually had a greater affinity for sweets than I did. Especially if they came from a foreign country.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Not that I know of.”
Grace frowned. “Shouldn’t your building manager hold the parcel for you? Anyone could have taken it and run off.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, Lloyd can be a little lax in his duties.” I had gotten used to his slacker ways. It took days to get anything repaired—regardless of how urgent the need—and he often forgot to notify people of important deliveries. He spent most of his time in the office munching Doritos and rehearsing lines for his one-man play at the senior center. Since Lloyd had an extremely pleasant manner and my husband was handy enough to take care of any needed repairs, it didn’t even occur to me to be put out.
I bent down to examine the label. The package was indeed addressed to me, not Louis. Hmmm. When I finally located the sender on the worn label, my heart stopped. The package was from my mother-in-law. Oh God.
I stood back up and rubbed my temples. “It’s from Simone.”
Nigel put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you feeling alright, Syd?”
Was I alright? Not a clue. My mind raced with the possibilities of what could be in the box. It most definitely had to do with her first grandchild. But in what capacity? I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the contents.
Grace came striding back from the kitchen with a pair of scissors in her hand. “There’s no time like the present, Syd. Let’s get this over with.”
She picked up the box with ease, put it on the dining room table and sliced it open deftly. Thank goodness for Grace and her no-nonsense attitude.
Once she noticed my lack of motion, Grace fixed a severe gaze on me. “Come on. It’s not going to bite. Put on your big girl panties and get started.”
I couldn’t fight the giggling fit which followed. I was being ridiculous! It was just a box of stuff. How bad could it be?
After I opened the flaps and peered down at the contents, I kicked myself for asking such a naive question. I knew better than that. Especially where my mother-in-law was concerned.
The first thing I noticed was the eruption of pink fabric followed by the pungent odor wafting from the box. It was like the most sickly-sweet potpourri you could possibly imagine. On steroids. I gagged and backed away from the box in horror.
“I can’t…” My body started to tremble.
Grace, the most astute of us all, sat me as far as possible from the offensive parcel and began to go through it with the brusque efficiency I have come to love so much. She is my heroine! I could only aspire to be as cool under pressure as she is one day.
She wrinkled her nose. “It certainly is very pink.”
I laughed nervously. “Well, she really wants a granddaughter.”
Nigel broke into a grin. “That’s right! She wanted Louis to be a girl. Maybe she’ll get her way this time.”
“Maybe she will.” I bit my lip. “How bad is it, Grace?”
She sighed. “It’s not pretty. There’s more lace, ribbon and flowers than I have ever seen before.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Need I remind you of the gold sequined monstrosity I had to wear to our French rehearsal dinner? I don’t know how you could possibly forget it (I know I never will.), but let me refresh your memory so you can appreciate the magnitude of what we were dealing with.
The dress was a body-hugging halter top with large red satin roses on the straps and red satin ruffles trimming the very short skirt. Oh, and there were matching shoes. Stilettos, no less! Also accented with red satin roses. All photos of me in this dress have been burned. And buried very, very deep in the ground.
The extent of the wardrobe lurking in this repulsive box only confirmed my theory that my mother-in-law thinks I have no sense of style. She must feel it is her responsibility to provide it in spades for her first grandchild. And as usual, she allowed her impulses to charge on ahead and wreak havoc. What would we do with all of this, this PINK if I gave birth to a boy? Unless she was already planning for the future…
Grace pulled me back to reality by extracting garment after garment from the menacing cardboard box. With each scrap of fabric, I felt my stomach fall a little deeper towards the floor. I knew things were bad when even Nigel couldn’t control his revulsion. The man has manners which I believe to rival the Queen herself and his distaste was palpable.
In all fairness, the collection was truly astounding. There were headbands, booties, onesies, dresses and even bonnets. (Where does one even wear a bonnet these days?) There were ruffles, beads, flowers and sequins as far as the eye could see. Even the fashion daredevil known as Lady Gaga would be flummoxed if faced with such a display.
Grace swept her short black hair back into a ponytail. “OK, we have reached the end of the clothes.”
My shoulders relaxed. “Thank God.” I didn’t want to see anything else in the shade of pink for a very long time. Which was too bad, since a) I was wearing a pink sweater today and lacked the energy to change and b) I LOVE pink. So much so, in fact, when I was seven I thought heaven was living in a pink house—both inside and out. I’ll admit it; I was a rather extreme child. I didn’t believe in doing anything halfway.
Barely able to contain the hysterical cackle forming in my throat, I wondered if this were my comeuppance for the tantrum I threw when my mom insisted on renovating the hot pink bathroom in our house. Again, I was seven and I adored pink. Pink was my signature color. (Steel Magnolias, anyone?)
“Thanks for braving the unknown for me, Grace. You’re a true goddess.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome, Syd. I have no doubt I’ll be knocking on your door for advice when it’s my turn.”
I considered asking when this might happen, when Nigel jumped in with a revelation.
“There’s still more in the box, girls.”
I must have seemed terrified, because Grace came over to soothe me. “Don’t worry, Nigel can handle the rest.”
For a moment it looked like Nigel wasn’t so sure about this statement, but he shook it off and stuck his hands into the pink abyss. Out came an abundance of crib sheets, wall hangings and silk flowers. Grace and I exchanged incredulous looks while copious amounts of pink décor continued to e
merge. Next up were pink stuffed bunnies, bears and oddly enough, a yellow chick. Perhaps Louis’ father snuck that in? Simone wouldn’t have allowed anything to tarnish her homogeneous compilation.
I clenched my hands as tightly as I could. “Please tell me it’s over, Nigel.” I honestly didn’t think I could take anymore. If I employed every item in this box, the baby’s nook would most definitely look like it had been hosed down with Pepto Bismol. (Steel Magnolias strikes again! I’m on fire!)
Nigel shook his head ever so slightly and reached once more into the box. He produced two plastic containers of potpourri with a flourish.
“Ah ha!” He seemed victorious. “We have found the source of the, er, aroma, as it were.”
He shook the containers jauntily and did a little dance around the dining room table. Grace and I collapsed into giggles. The absurdity of his dance only highlighted the absurdity of the plentiful pink package. (My astute use of alliteration made me laugh even harder.)
Once Grace wrapped the packages of potpourri in multiple layers of Ziploc bags, we decided we deserved a reward for our efforts. Nigel very intelligently suggested the Peninsula Creamery, since it was a short walk down the street and I had numerous menu options depending on how cooperative my stomach was feeling at any particular moment. I could want anything from a grilled cheese and fries to pie. I fervently hoped my appetite would normalize in the near future. I already had so much uncertainty to contend with; this seemed like a very small request to make.
I grabbed my purse and headed toward the door. Who should be standing there when I opened it, but Maya!
My jaw dropped to the floor. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Kauai?”
She rolled her eyes at me. “Jeez, Syd. You can’t remember anything anymore, can you?”
I started to respond, but she grabbed my hand and whisked me inside before I had the chance.
“For the last time—I’m leaving TOMORROW. I’m really starting to worry about you.” She stopped short. “What the hell is in your hand?”
Still feeling a bit dazed, I didn’t notice I was clutching the most offensive garment from Simone’s collection—a hot pink lace dress, replete with ribbons and flowers. There was, of course, a pair of matching bloomers with a huge panel of ruffles across the rear. Wonderful! If I had a daughter, she would have her very own ruffle-butt.
“Oh, well, it’s…” Apparently there was no way for me to coherently describe my mother-in-law’s gift.
Maya scoffed. “Let me guess: Simone?”
I held up the ensemble for further inspection. “It does have her signature, um, vibrancy, doesn’t it?”
In one swift motion, she snatched the dress from me and tossed it onto the couch. “What a horrible thing to do to an unborn child!”
I groaned. “What am I supposed to say to Louis?” Pregnancy had seriously waylaid my ability to be diplomatic. How could I possibly manage the next six months spouting nothing but the absolute truth to Louis? Would our marriage survive without the tempering of my comments?
Maya chuckled. “Something tells me you won’t need to say a thing.” She put her arm around me and walked me further into the apartment. “We have some serious work to do, Syd. I brought more matron of honor dress ideas.”
Oh dear God.
Chapter Nine
As it happened, Louis was as horrified by the contents of his mother’s package as I was. (Though not as horrified as I was by Maya’s latest dress proposals. With her definitive choice of crimson, she has doomed me to appear as a giant tomato at her wedding.) While he paced the apartment in fury, he seethed that he had explicitly told her not to buy ANYTHING for the baby yet. He tried to sell it to her as bad luck due to her superstitious nature, but he was simply trying to buy time in order to diminish the amount of flamboyant items she would send.
After hearing him rant and rave, I was fairly certain we would be able to open our own thrift shop by the time the baby was born—catering to the unique taste of those who truly appreciate the style exhibited by Toddlers and Tiaras. Thanks to my ever-changing body and my mother-in-law’s impulsive nature, each day I spent in anticipation of our new arrival had become an adventure.
In light of my current health concerns, Louis and I elected to stay in California for Christmas. No airplanes, no traffic and absolutely NO cranky travelers in the immediate future. Every time I board a plane, the person in front of me puts his/her seat back into my heavily guarded personal space. Given the current state of my hormones, should this have occurred I probably would have employed my father’s patented ten word profanity-fest. Not the first words I wanted my baby to learn by a long shot.
Kate and posse left for the east coast last week to indulge in a two week holiday extravaganza covering both the Bennetts’ and the Wilsons’ party plans. Extra time was needed to accommodate not one, but two, proud grandmothers with a myriad of friends to impress. The mere thought of what was in store for Louis and me at this time next year made my head spin. (Remember we have an ocean and six time zones between our mothers.)
Maya begrudgingly flew back to Maryland with Devon. That poor girl has an astronomical amount of sucking up to do when it comes to Devon’s family. She may have been lucky enough to have her fiancé see through her shenanigans, but she had a LONG road to go before her future mother-in-law would even begin to think of her as anything more than the devil incarnate. It may sound harsh, but she had gotten herself into this ridiculous mess and she would have to put in the blood, sweat and tears to get herself out. Karma was an even bigger bitch than Maya. Truth.
I blissfully thought I was in the clear of endless wedding discussions with her out of town, but I was sorely mistaken. She cornered me before her departure and insisted we Face Time once a day to finalize some vital details. Hmmm. Do you think the color of the ring bearer’s bowtie is a crucial decision? Or whether to give the requisite Jordan almonds as favors or to go bold with a scented candle? Not a chance.
I had a sneaking suspicion Maya was trying to find any possible escape from a woman whom she referred to as “Cruella DeVil.” And this lovely nickname had been given BEFORE Maya’s gigantic gaffe. I bit my lip while wondering what kind of nickname Devon’s mother would earn from this trip. Rather than tell her I had no intention of laying eyes on her face—digital or otherwise—for the duration of her one week trip, I caved and brokered a deal for three Face Time sessions. I’m such a sucker.
Secure in the knowledge that my next required Face Time session was not until tomorrow afternoon, I settled into the couch with a book while Louis cooked our Christmas Eve dinner. My mouth watered just thinking of the scrumptious meal I was about to partake in. He knew how disappointed I was about not being able to visit with my family, so he decided to go all out for our intimate holiday dinner.
Louis came out of the kitchen wearing my pink gingham apron. I cracked a smile, remembering his assertion, “Real men wear pink.”
“Are you ready to eat, mon coeur?”
In an uncharacteristically deft motion, I sprung up from the couch and seated myself at the dining room table. With the degree of appetizing food coming my way, he didn’t have to ask me twice!
My enormous grin continued to grow as Louis brought dish after dish to the dining room table. I wanted to get up to help, but my overly protective husband insisted I not do anything I didn’t absolutely HAVE to do. I knew he was going overboard, but I wasn’t going to argue about being waited on hand and foot.
Louis brought the last dish to the table and took a bow. In his very best French accent he said, “Madame, I have a very special meal for you this evening. I offer you an aperitif of ginger ale, an hors d’ouevre of savory stuffing, followed by an entrée of cheeseburger macaroni casserole and a plat principal of pepperoni pizza.”
Not quite what you were expecting? My morning sickness had kicked in with a vengeance over the past few weeks. I wasn’t a super health nut like Zoe, but I had always done my best to get five
to nine servings of fruits and vegetables a day. The baby, it would seem, had other plans for my diet.
Since the night of our memorable Thanksgiving dinner, every attempt I have made to eat vegetables in any form has been met with a regurgitation response. I quickly gave up salads, as raw vegetables were the hardest to digest and moved on to the cooked variety. I tried steamed, roasted, grilled and even baked, but the baby rejected every single option. And that goes double for the fruit. Apparently my child doesn’t have the Bennett sweet tooth. He/she is definitely a Durand in this regard.
All this child wants is salt, salt and more SALT! Unfortunately, given my blood pressure scare, I couldn’t give the baby the high test options I loved as a child (Hamburger Helper, Stove Top stuffing and Pizza Hut pizza), but I had found some wonderful healthier options which were almost as tasty. Annie’s Homegrown made a close copy of my beloved Cheeseburger Macaroni Hamburger Helper, Arrowhead Mills had some tasty organic stuffing choices and Amy’s had a variety of natural frozen pizzas.
The most bizarre aspect of my pregnancy thus far had been my complete lack of a sweet tooth. I mean, I hadn’t had a piece of chocolate in weeks! And what’s more, I hadn’t WANTED a piece of chocolate in weeks. I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. I actually missed my chocolate addiction; after all, it was an integral part of my sparkling personality.
“Does everything meet with your approval, Madame?”
I nodded my head happily while shoveling a forkful of stuffing into my mouth. Not my most ladylike moment, but very satisfying nonetheless.
After a few moments of culinary bliss, I glanced up to find Louis slowly eating his poached salmon, rice pilaf and steamed vegetables. I began to cackle uncontrollably over our profound representation of stereotypical behavior. Witness the ugly American shoving comfort food into her mouth while the French snob eats his tastefully prepared meal with excellent table manners. What a bizarre pair we make!
Louis raised his eyebrows. “What is so funny, mon coeur?”
