Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters)

by Robyn Peterman

  “The flu developed into a double ear infection,” I screamed, just to piss them off.

  They backed away. I realized volume was my friend. They started talking quietly, assuming I couldn’t hear them due to the ear infection. I smiled, stared off into space, and let them have at it.

  “Bless her heart,” Mrs. C said, “what in the Lord’s name is wrong with her face? She looks like a shiny albino or a deranged clown.”

  Ouch, that hurt. I hadn’t had any time to sunbathe and I’d sprinted a mile about an hour ago . . . what in the hell did they expect?

  “She always looked deranged to me,” Edith sniffed.

  “I heard her mother, bless her heart, that slut, dropped her on her head repeatedly as a child.”

  Holy hell, my mother was a lot of things, but slut was definitely not one of them. Plus, if anyone was going to call my mother unflattering names, it was going to be me, not the old bags.

  “Look at her,” Edith told Mrs. C, barely moving her mouth. To screw with any lipreading skills I might have, I suppose. “She’s getting too old to find a husband, so she’s going to attract some old geezer with those disgusting knockers. I’m sure this slutty idiot right here got a boob job.”

  “I think you’re right,” Mrs. C agreed. “Bless her heart, new boobies won’t get her a man. She’s as dumb as a box of hair.”

  “Some men don’t care about brains,” Edith piped in. “A good set of hooters can go a long way.”

  “Ladies,” I shrieked, making them jump. Shoot, I was hoping to give one or both of them a heart attack. Dumb as a box of hair, my ass. “Apparently”—I kept the volume high because it was so enjoyable to watch them wince—“we’ve had some complaints. Several customers have left the shop in tears. Many people are swearing never to come back because you two are such horrid bitches.”

  Mouths agape, they stared at me in shock.

  “What did she say?” Mrs. C whispered to Edith.

  “She called you a bitch,” Edith whispered back.

  “No,” Mrs. C hissed, “she called you a bitch.”

  “No,” I shouted, “I called both of you bitches, because that’s what you are. For the sake of clarity,” I continued to bellow, “I believe I called you horrid bitches . . . not just plain old, disgusting, putrid bitches.”

  “She doesn’t have a double ear infection, does she?” Mrs. C asked Edith. Edith shrugged her bony shoulders.

  “No, I don’t,” I answered her, grinning from ear to ear.

  “That was a dirty underhanded trick, you awful girl,” Mrs. C wasped at me.

  “I thought it was pretty good. By the way, the boobs are real. Quite honestly, ladies, your obsession with knockers alarms me. It makes me ponder your relationship.”

  They paled considerably and began to fidget. No. Way. I was just trying to mess with them. I didn’t really think they were lesbians. Sweet Lutheran God, the visual was enough to give me nightmares for the rest of my natural life.

  “You can’t speak to your elders like that, little hussy,” Edith snapped, trying to swat me with her claw. It seemed she thought she could scare me or beat me into forgetting they were gay. If it were only that easy.

  “You’re right, I can’t,” I said to the pair of self-satisfied smirking old biddies. They looked so superior sitting there, looking down their mean old lesbian noses at me. Bushy unibrows a-twitching. Had they never heard of tweezers? They truly believed they had the upper hand and I would cave to whatever their demands were, enabling them to continue to terrorize the knitters and quilters of Minneapolis . . . while I paid them.

  There was one thing they hadn’t counted on . . . I was at the end of my rope. I was exhausted, overworked, and undersexed. And I was getting more pissed off with every moment I had to spend with these evil women who gave lesbians a bad name. Life lesson: Never mess with an overly tired, cranky, horny girl.

  “You’re right, I can’t talk to you like that. Come to think of it, I don’t want to talk to you ever again.” Was I brave enough? My stomach clenched in excitement and my hands shook. “You’re fired,” I shouted at them.

  “You can’t fire us, you little potlicker,” Mrs. C yelled.

  What in the hell was a potlicker? Whatever. I narrowed my eyes at the abominations sitting behind the counter in my beloved grandma’s shop and I smiled sweetly.

  “I believe I just did.” A huge weight began to lift from my shoulders.

  They didn’t move a muscle . . . just sat there like they owned the place. “You just wait,” Edith threatened, “this whole town is gonna hear about that boob job.”

  “That’s okay,” I countered gleefully, “I can’t wait to tell everyone you guys are muff divers.”

  Their shrieks of rage were music to my ears, but they still didn’t budge from their perch behind the counter.

  “I think it’s time for you gals to leave,” I told them as I walked toward the front door.

  “I think it’s time for you to read the stipulations in your grandma’s will,” Edith said smugly.

  The blood in my veins turned to ice. “What are you talking about?”

  “You can’t fire us. We come with the store,” Edith cackled.

  Who did I screw over in a past life? I simply didn’t deserve this crap. “Fine,” I snapped, “I’ll sell the damn place.”

  “Can’t do that either,” Mrs. C chimed in. “At least, not for five years. You might want to pay your grandma’s lawyer a visit, girlie.”

  I gave them a hostile glare and tried to come up with a brilliant parting shot, but I was in shock. If what they said was true, I was screwed. Nothing but the word assclown came to mind, and I don’t really know what that means . . . so I stayed silent, turned my back on the old cow patties, and left. The lightness I had felt only moments earlier had disappeared. The weight of the world was squarely back on my shoulders. Crap.

  Chapter 3

  “Gotcha!” Jack jumped out from nowhere and trapped me in a suffocating bear hug while showering me with noogies.

  Jack had an apartment downstairs, but since he and Rena were in luurve, he spent all his free time in our apartment . . . hogging the couch and the remote.

  “Get off me, you dork,” I laughed, pushing the six-foot-two Greek god away.

  “Leave her alone,” Rena chimed in, smacking him on the butt. “She’s had a day from hell.”

  I moaned in agreement, threw my purse on the kitchen table, and flopped down on the couch. The tension in my neck began to loosen as I grabbed my Minnesota Vikings fleece blanket and curled into a tight ball. I was home. My day from hell was over and I had the entire evening ahead of me to watch bad reality TV . . . Heaven. I closed my eyes, but didn’t miss the wild-eyed look of concern that passed between the lovebirds. I really, really hoped they were going out. I so didn’t want to rehash my day and have them try to make me feel better.

  Rena was the sister I’d never had and by default, Jack had become my overprotective obnoxious older brother. Their love was true and slightly nauseating. As happy as I was that my best friend in the world had found the real deal . . . I was a little jealous. I wanted what they had too. I just couldn’t seem to stop dating losers . . . like the douche, oops, I mean Ethan, my absent boyfriend. Why I even labeled him boyfriend was becoming a mystery to me. We had only gone out on six dates. He was hot and exceedingly polite. He’d made several bizarrely considerate comments about my rear end. He badly needed to work on his flirting, but his looks made up for his strangely well-mannered lack of finesse . . . I think. Originally from somewhere in Texas, he’d relocated to Minneapolis three months ago. Oh, and he was Jack’s boss. For a cop he sure traveled a lot.

  “Are you guys going out tonight?” I asked, snuggling deeper into my purple and gold blanket.

  “Um . . . no,” Rena replied quickly. “I thought we’d hang out here, eat ice cream, and watch Housewives of Whatever-the-Fuck.”

  I sat up swiftly and narrowed my eyes at a very guilty-looking duo. “A
ll right, who died?”

  “Why would you ask something like that?” Rena laughed, not quite meeting my eyes.

  “Because you hate the Housewives and we only eat ice cream for dinner when really bad stuff is going down,” I informed her calmly as my insides danced wildly. I glanced at Jack, who seemed to find the ceiling fascinating. “Spit it out. I’ve had a crap day and I can’t take any more bad news.”

  “Did Edith and Mrs. C do anything awful at the shelter?” she asked, scooping ice cream into bowls as if her life depended on it.

  “No, Mariah Carey threatened them and they left before they could do much damage.”

  Jack decided the ceiling was just fine and chose to rejoin us. “Did she break their noses?” he asked, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh.

  “How do you know about Mariah Carey and her nose-rearranging issues?” I giggled, forgetting for a moment they were the enemy.

  “Kristy,” he explained, still grinning, “every cop in Minneapolis and the surrounding area knows Mariah Carey. She’s at the station almost as much as I am.”

  “Damn,” I muttered. “I keep trying to help her get a handle on her fists, but she clearly has a few anger management problems.”

  “Jail time might help,” Rena offered, shoving a bowl of ice cream into Jack’s hands and placing one on the coffee table in front of me.

  “Maybe,” Jack agreed, “but the irony of it all is every guy that she mangles is the kind of guy we’d all like to mangle if we weren’t law-abiding citizens.”

  “Maybe so,” I said through a clump of black raspberry chip ice cream, “but it’s kind of hard to hold down a job if you assault the customers, no matter how well deserved.”

  “She does have a certain charm,” Jack admitted, “but that voice . . .”

  “What about her voice?” Rena asked, pulling out our last box of Thin Mints. The Girl Scout cookies proved definitively that the pair were hiding something, but I didn’t know if I had the strength or the brain cells left to pry it out of them.

  “She sounds like a defensive end for the Vikings.” Jack, spoon in hand, slapped his hand over his mouth, spraying ice cream all over the wall behind him.

  “Oh my God,” I shouted. “Did Brett Favre die?”

  “No,” Rena interjected, grabbing the Thin Mints and shoving them at me. “Brett Favre is just fine.”

  “Guys”—I closed my eyes, feeling utterly miserable—“stop plying me with sweets and tell me what’s going on.”

  Rena sat on one side of me and Jack sat on the other. Oh shit, this was going to be bad. Jack rarely sat down . . . ever. I drew in a deep breath and blew it out. What could they want to tell me that merited this buildup?

  “Oh sweet baby Jesus,” I shrieked. “You guys are breaking up.” I felt my eyes well up with tears. This could not be happening. They were perfect together . . . of course I would back Rena, but I’d grown to love Jack too. It had taken Rena so long to find the man who could deal with and love her brand of crazy. God, I felt sick . . .

  “Hell no, we’re not breaking up,” Jack said. “If Rena tried anything like that, I’d cuff her to the bed till she changed her mind.”

  “Oh please,” Rena giggled, “if Jack tried to leave me I’d cut his substantial man-bits off with a dull butter knife. We are not breaking up.”

  “Ookay,” I said, trying to escape the visuals they’d just planted. “If Brett Favre is alive and you guys are still together, then what is going on here?”

  “Honey.” Rena took my hand. “How much do you like Nathan?”

  “Who is Nathan?” I demanded.

  They exchanged a bewildered look. Jack grabbed the cookies and put four in his mouth. He clearly found my lack of recognition disturbing.

  “Again,” I said, grabbing the cookies from Jack, “who in the hell is Nathan?”

  “Jack’s boss . . . the guy you’ve been dating,” Rena supplied, seizing the cookies from my hand and cramming a few into her mouth.

  “His name is Nathan?” Even I could hear the faint thread of hysteria in my voice.

  “Um . . . yep,” Jack said.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I yelled, fighting to control emotions I couldn’t name. “I’ve been calling him Ethan for three months. Are you positive it’s Nathan?”

  “It’s definitely Nathan,” Jack said, moving away from me. I didn’t blame him. I wasn’t sure if I was going to laugh, cry, or split in two like Rumpelstiltskin.

  “Oh. My. God. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me I was calling him by the wrong name. What kind of douche bag does that?” I said, dipping my Thin Mint into my ice cream and inhaling it.

  “I think there’s a lot he didn’t tell you,” Rena said quietly. “What exactly do you know about him?”

  I stood and paced the room. Sitting still was not working. I took the cookies with me. “I know he’s from somewhere in Texas. He’s polite, almost to the point of creepy. He travels a lot and he’s really hot.”

  “Kristy, he’s from Dallas. Born and bred in Dallas, Texas,” Rena said, watching me closely.

  I felt like the wind had been sucked from my lungs. My knees gave out and I sank to the floor. “No,” I gasped.

  “Yes,” Rena said, kneeling down on the floor with me. She put her arms around me and rocked me back and forth.

  “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it,” I said, accepting her condolences.

  “I know, sweetie, I couldn’t believe it either when I heard.”

  “I am so humiliated that I made out with a Dallas Cowboys fan. I feel . . . dirty,” I moaned and shoved the remaining Thin Mints into my mouth.

  “Tell her the rest,” Jack said, backing away like we were contagious.

  “I’m getting there,” Rena hissed.

  I wasn’t worried. There couldn’t be anything worse than a Cowboys fan. Nothing in the world could top the fact that he worshipped Tony Romo. Nothing.

  “He’s also married.”

  I was wrong.

  Dizziness and nausea overwhelmed me. I never should have eaten so many cookies, but more than feeling sick, I was pissed. Really pissed. That freaking jerk had touched my butt and stuck his tongue in my mouth . . . while he was married and rooting for the Cowboys. He needed to die. Now. Mariah Carey’s need to break noses suddenly made sense.

  With the renewed strength and purpose of a predator out to kill, I jumped up and lunged for my purse on the kitchen table.

  “What are you doing?” Jack asked, alarmed.

  “I’m going to call that fucktard and rip him a new one.”

  “Oh my God”—Rena tried to suppress her glee—“I thought you quit swearing.”

  “Let me tell you something,” I ground out through clenched teeth, rooting through my purse for my phone, “today is not the day for me to release the word fucktard from my vocabulary. Maybe tomorrow. Where is my cell phone?”

  “You don’t need it,” Jack, ever the diplomat, said.

  “Yes, I do,” I yelled, dumping the contents of my purse on the floor and locating my phone. “I’m going to dump the douche.”

  “Actually, I already broke up with him for you.”

  I froze mid-dial.

  I couldn’t decide if that was weird or nice. I elected to go with both nice and weird, if slightly invasive.

  “What did he say?” I asked, kind of relieved that the deed was already done.

  “He was extremely polite, wanting me to offer you his most sincere apologies. He also wanted to know if he ever got divorced, could he call you?”

  “And you said?” I was a ticking time bomb, about to go off.

  “Nothing,” Jack replied with pride. “I punched him and knocked him out cold.”

  “Holy shit, Jack,” I gasped. “You could lose your job.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head and raised an eyebrow. “Turns out he was also dating the mayor’s wife. He’s been transferred.”

  “Effective immediately,” Rena added. “And the m
ayor gave Jack a big bonus.”

  Stunned didn’t cover it. How could I have been dating a married Dallas Cowboys fan who was two-timing me? I’d sunk to a new low.

  “Please tell me you didn’t play hide the salami with him.”

  “I think I need to leave,” Jack muttered, heading for the door.

  “Don’t move,” Rena hissed.

  He rolled his eyes and obeyed.

  “Kristy, please tell me you never saw that Tony-Romo-loving douche’s pork sword,” she pleaded.

  “I’m delighted to inform you, Jack, Lutheran Jesus, and all the angels and saints that I. Did. Not.” A strange wave of calm washed over me. I suppose if my entire day hadn’t been from hell, this latest blow might have bothered me more. Oddly enough, I just felt relief.

  “Thank you, Lutheran Jesus,” Rena said. “And we do have some good news.”

  “Short of you telling me I don’t have to go to the Bigfoot meetings with your aunt Phyllis, nothing you could tell me would be good news.”

  “There’s this guy and . . .”

  “Nope.” I cut her off.

  “Seriously.” She laughed. “He’s Jack’s best friend and . . .”

  “Nope,” I yelled. Volume had worked with the gay she-devils. I was hoping for a repeat performance.

  “He’s hot and he’s not married. He’s a Vike’s fan and he’s a cop,” she said, speaking faster than an auctioneer.

  “What part of ‘nope’ don’t you understand?” I asked as I settled myself back on the couch.

  “Oh come on, Kristy, you should see him. His ass could melt butter.” She waggled her eyebrows.

  “Hey now,” Jack protested, turning around to display his fine backside.

  “Yours is better, honey,” Rena laughed. “Kristy, just meet him.”

  “You must be brain damaged to think I’m even going to look twice at a cop. No offense, Jack.”

  “None taken,” he said, sitting down beside me.

  “I am not going to date anyone. Ever again. Never. Not until the second coming of Lutheran Jesus,” I informed them in my serious voice.