by Howe, Violet
Mel, on the other hand, seemed to have become Cabe’s biggest champion. She refused to back down from her assertion that we were more than friends. I knew she had always harbored hopes that Cabe and I would end up together, but I guess I didn’t realize how much hope she was holding on to.
“I don’t know,” Mel said. “I always thought Cabe really loved Tyler. I think she just kept shutting him down and not giving him a chance, so he took off to find love somewhere else. There’s no way he would have even been with Monica if Tyler had ever given him the slightest hint there could be more between them. Now he’s back, and hopefully she’ll see what’s right in front of her.”
My head swung around to face Melanie like it was on a swivel. “Excuse me? I’m sorry, I think you’ve confused me with someone else. What are you talking about?”
“Humph!” Carmen grunted. “Tyler ain’t wanting none of him, are you?” She turned to me but never stopped talking to Melanie. “My girl wants a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to reach out and take it, right, Tyler? They been friends too long to be getting all up in each other’s business. If he wanted it, he woulda told her a long time ago. If you wanted him, you would’ve known it a long time ago, right, girl?”
I nodded slowly, somewhat dazed at how I had become the ball in their tennis match. Carmen nodded as well, rocking back and forth as Lila nursed.
“Yeah, that’s right,” she said, clearly on her soap box now. “Tyler, you don’t settle for nobody. You wait until the right man comes and sweeps you off your feet. A man you can’t live without. Makes you feel like a better woman just by being by your side. Don’t settle for no bullshit man who don’t know what he wants. And you damned sure don’t want no man who’s been divorced. Oh, no, girl. You wait and get one that is yours and yours alone. Don’t be signing up for no baggage.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I saluted her dramatically and laughed.
Mel shook her head. “She can’t keep waiting for some magical man to sweep her off her feet, Carmen. Real men have real issues, just like real women do. There’s no such thing as Prince Charming. You can’t overlook the great men that may already be there waiting for some perfect ideal that doesn’t exist.”
“Pshhtt. That’s bull. There’s a Prince Charming for everyone. I got mine. You got yours. Tyler will get hers.” Carmen refused to be swayed.
I kept thinking about their playful disagreement long after Lila had been put to bed and Melanie and I had said our goodbyes and headed home.
All the movies, the books, the fairy tales—they all sell us Prince Charming. THE ONE. When he arrives, you will know immediately that he is The One. Stars will twinkle, birds will sing, and all will be well. The fairy tales don’t get into financial problems, health problems, conflicts with the in-laws, or a mid-life crisis. They don’t mention arguing over the housework, working second jobs to pay the bills, or not showering all day with a new baby. They never show you the Prince’s faults or point out that the Princess has some stuff to work on herself.
In reality, I know Melanie is right. There’s no one riding in on a white stallion to rescue me from life. It’s not only unrealistic, it probably keeps a lot of great people from getting a fair chance at being in a relationship. It sets up men to fail since they can’t possibly be that perfect or actually rescue someone. It sets women up to fail because they have set their sights so high they feel as though they’ve missed out on something or settled the moment it’s not perfect.
From what I’ve seen in real life, no one actually lives happily ever after. Carmen said she and Melanie had their Prince Charmings. But I can name several things about Paul and Oscar that really irritate their wives. I am sure Oscar and Paul could point out some faults in their ladies as well. Melanie and Paul never thought their fairy tale wouldn’t include children, and I know for a fact Carmen and Oscar didn’t expect the emergency costs incurred when Carmen went into labor early at the Olive Garden.
But even though Mel is right, I don’t care. I’m with Carmen. I want the fairy tale. He doesn’t have to ride in on a horse, and after Mr. Bubble I don’t particularly care for him pulling up in a Porsche, but I want Prince Charming.
I want someone to sweep me off my feet. To know without any doubt he is The One. Because if he’s The One and it’s meant to be, then I’m safe. It can’t go wrong, right? No more painful break-ups and devastating hurt.
I want a passionate, romantic, and legendary love. At the same time, I want solid, honest, and real. Someone who thinks I am the absolute greatest thing walking despite my faults and shortcomings. I know no one is perfect. I’m okay knowing my Prince Charming will have some faults of his own. But I refuse to give up on the Happily Ever After.
For now though, I’m still stuck trying to find the Once Upon A Time. You can’t have the happy ending without a beginning, right?
Monday, October 28th
’Til death do us part can be a scary concept. I couldn’t imagine going to a car lot and having the salesman tell me to pick one car I’d have to keep for the rest of my life without ever having another. But that’s what we sell in the wedding business. Step right up and pick a bride. For life.
Melanie’s groom today, Wardell, was feeling the weight of the decision in a big way. When I escorted the guys into the holding room after pre-ceremony photos, Wardell hung back, letting all the other guys go in without him.
“You okay, Wardell?” I asked.
“Have you seen her?”
A common question from grooms on their wedding day. Tradition torments them with the belief that it is bad luck for the groom to see his bride on the wedding day.
“I haven’t,” I said, “but Melanie says she looks gorgeous!”
He leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“What do you mean, Wardell?” At least that’s what I think I said. My mind was saying “Oh crap! Oh crap! Oh crap!”, so I hope my mouth said something better.
“I don’t know. I love her. But we talking about the rest of my life, ya know? Like old man, gray-haired, crippled and shit. It’s all over after today.”
I didn’t know what to tell him, so I used something I saw Laura write in a card to a bride and groom once.
“Wardell, out of all the world and all the people, the two of you have chosen each other to wake up to. It’s a beautiful gift to give and receive. I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”
Actually, I added the “I’m sure you’ll be just fine” part for reassurance.
“You don’t get it.” He put his hand on his chest and patted it, his voice filled with emotion. “I do choose her, and I do love her. And she loves me. I’m grateful for that. But this means I get one cereal every day for the rest of my life. Like every damned morning, I’m gonna know as soon as I open my eyes, that’s the only cereal in the house. The only cereal I’m allowed to eat. That scares the hell out of me. How can anybody eat one cereal every day the rest of their life and not get sick and tired of it?”
I couldn’t tell this man I had my own doubts and fears about this, so I decided to take his clever analogy and run with it.
“Wardell, what’s your absolute, most favorite cereal?”
He thought about it a minute before answering.
“Frosted Flakes.”
“That’s awesome,” I said. “Now, no one in their right mind would tell you to eat Frosted Flakes every day. It wouldn’t be healthy. But what if you could eat Frosted Flakes every day and it be good for you? What if no one could tell you not to eat it? You’d get to have your very favorite thing every day. And think about this . . . you’re the only one that gets the Frosted Flakes.”
I was grasping at straws, but I’ve never professed to be a relationship counselor. Far from it.
He looked away for a moment as though considering this option and what it would look like for him. Then he grinned, just a little at first and then a wide, toothy gold grin. A visible swagger settled over him, and Wardell was back in
action.
“You all right, girl. You alright!” He gave me a little fist bump and opened the door to join his groomsmen.
When the ceremony ended, Wardell came back down the aisle like he’d won the jackpot of all lotteries. He pretty much floated beside Marquisha as they made their way toward me amid the shouts of congratulations.
He made eye contact with me right as they passed, pausing for the briefest of moments to say, “Frosted Flakes, baby! Every day! You know that’s right!”
I hope it is. I really hope it is.
Thursday, October 31st
Mom called today to ask if I had a date for Halloween. I didn’t, and I wasn’t nearly as upset about it as she was. I had made plans to go downtown with some of my old coffee shop friends. No date, no drama. Just dancing, one of my absolute favorite things to do. I invited Cabe, but he didn’t feel up to being around people. He says that a lot. Some days I feel sorry for him and other days I want to tell him to snap out of it and start living.
“Are you wearing a costume?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, but nothing fancy. I got a cat-ear headband, and I’ll paint on some whiskers. I’m wearing a black dress and black tights,” I said.
“Well, that’s original,” she said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Why don’t you put some thought in it and come up with a good costume? You were always so creative.”
“We’re not going to a costume party or anything, Mom. We’re going to stop by some bars and go dancing. I don’t want to have some elaborate costume I can’t dance in.”
“I just think if you’re going to dress up, you ought to put in the effort and do it right.”
“Mom, I’m twenty-five years old. I’m not going trick-or-treating. It doesn’t matter what costume I wear. We’re going out. It’s not a big deal,” I said, rolling my eyes and wondering why I answered the phone.
“Your sister says Erin is going to be Raggedy Ann and Eric is Raggedy Andy. Do people still have Raggedy Ann dolls? I don’t think anyone will know who they are. I wonder why on earth she would pick that. Undoubtedly, there was something else the kids wanted to be.”
Sounds like Tanya had gotten quite the earful about my niece and nephew’s costumes. Of course, Tanya wouldn’t care. She doesn’t let Mom get to her the way I do. She simply does what she wants to do. It doesn’t bother her if Mom doesn’t like it.
“Maybe it was an easy costume to do,” I offered.
“No, she sewed them. Made them matching outfits with aprons and overalls. Stockings, too. There’s no telling how long it took her. She’s always complaining she has no time, but then she puts more on her plate. Now why couldn’t she just go to Wal-Mart and buy them a costume already made? That would have made more sense.”
“I don’t know, Mom. I guess that’s not what she wanted to do.”
“So why don’t you have a date tonight?”
I wondered how long it would take to bring her back around to that popular topic of conversation.
“I’m going out with friends, Mom. It’s a big group of us. No one has dates.”
“You need to get new friends. You need friends who will introduce you to someone. You need to go out with someone other than Gabe.”
“Cabe, Mom,” I interjected.
“You never meet anyone new. All the men you meet are either getting married already or coming in town for a wedding and leaving right after it. You need to meet local men.”
She was right on that count. Every wedding serves up a handful of groomsmen and a bevy of guests, usually with at least a couple of single ones in the group. Sometimes the single ones are great-looking, fun guys. Occasionally, one seems either interested or interesting, or both. But I’m working, and they’re partying. Then they go back home to their own lives, and I greet the next group.
“I did meet someone local, Mom. He works at a hotel. We’re going out next month.” What the hell? Why did I say that? Why did I even tell her about him? I have no idea what’s going on with him and whether or not I even want to go out with him, and now I blabbed about it to my mother?
“Really? Well, why haven’t you said something? Who is he? What does he do? Does he go to church? Is he divorced? I know at your age there’s a high probability anyone you date might have been married before, and I don’t think you should rule that out. Why aren’t you going out with him tonight?”
Immediate regret for my big mouth. I wanted so badly to say, “This would be why I haven’t said anything.” Instead I said, “It’s only been a few phone calls. We haven’t gotten into a whole lot yet.”
“Well, you need to ask these questions! Don’t wait until your heart is involved before your head gets the facts. You need to be your own best advocate.”
“I know, Mom, I know. I need to go get ready. I’ll talk to you later.”
“How long can it take to put on a cat-ear headband? Please put some effort in. I’ll tell Tanya to send you pictures of Erin and Eric. She texted me some, but I still can’t figure out how to open pictures on this new phone. Don’t eat too much candy, okay? You know it goes straight to your hips, and it’s not worth it. Love you! Happy Halloween!”
Amazing how a conversation with my mother can make me feel like I got the trick instead of the treat.
I had a great time tonight, though, cat-ears and all. There’s nothing I love more than dancing, and we danced the night away. It’s so fun to just hang on the dance floor with the girls without the pressure of worrying about a guy.
Some poor dude came up and tried desperately to have a conversation with me. He literally screamed over the music. “So, where ya from?”
“What?”
“Where ya from?”
“Here. I live here.”
“Wow. That’s cool. So what do you do?”
“What?”
“What is your job?”
“I kind of just want to dance.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to talk. I only want to dance.”
“Oh. Right. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
I turned and danced away from him. The poor guy has probably been told he needs to talk to women and ask them questions to get to know them better. I myself have complained that guys need to be more straightforward and let you know they’re interested. The middle of dance floor surrounded by blaring music is not the place to put it in action, though. We’re all trying to figure it out, buddy. Kudos to you for trying. Tonight, I just wanted to dance.
November
Saturday, November 2nd
When you hear the bride’s name is Diamond Starr, you automatically think stripper or porn queen. Stripper, in this case. The groom, Billy, owns a chain of upscale gentlemen’s clubs (strip joints) in Manhattan. Diamond is his main attraction. Personally and professionally, it seems.
Chaz said she was born Elizabeth Anne but changed her legal name to Diamond Starr after she dropped out of college to pursue her lucrative dancing career. Diamond Sparkl Starr according to the marriage license.
I’m not sure what I expected, but she wasn’t it. She stood a little under five feet, and I think her thigh might have been as big around as my arm. I’ve been dying all day to ask if the long cascade of dark brown hair hanging well below her hips is a wig, but I couldn’t figure out how to work it into conversation. I do know with absolute certainty her boobs are fake. I encountered them up close and personal when I went to her room.
Diamond looked like a tiny living doll. By which I mean a nude doll wearing nothing but white lace garters, thigh highs and heels—Stripper Barbie. Hard to look at and hard to look away from. As if I didn’t have enough self-esteem issues when I look in a mirror. I awkwardly averted my gaze and tried to speak casually, but it’s hard for me to be casual when people are naked.
Maybe it’s my conservative upbringing or my mother’s own obsession with being fully covered at all times. I don’t know, but I definitely felt overdressed in this forced encounter with someone so comfortable with her
body she’s made a career out of sharing it.
Diamond rushed forward to shake my hand and tell me how much she appreciated me being there with Chaz for her big day. I think she said something about Chaz raving about me. I’m not sure. I can, however, report there are two light bulbs out in the chandelier in the Gardenia Suite.
She finally released my hand and introduced me to her bridesmaids, who thankfully were clothed. Albeit in the sheerest of sheer cotton candy pink, wearing nothing but white thongs underneath. And yes, it was sheer enough for me to know that.
I nodded as I shook hands with Vanity, Destiny, Vixen, and Carla. (Carla was Diamond’s cousin. She didn’t have a stage name.) If we’ve ever had a more beautiful group of bridesmaids, I don’t remember them. None of them had spared any expense in their quest for cleavage, and they didn’t share my inclination toward modesty. Laugher erupted all around when I offered to step outside so Diamond could finish dressing.
“Don’t worry about me!” Diamond said. “I paid a fortune for these puppies. I fully intend to show them off to anyone who will look.” She emphasized the puppies’ size and prominence with a playful juggle.
I couldn’t help but look. I have never in my life seen such humongous boobies up close and personal. I tried to look away, but they fascinated me. Maintaining eye contact proved damned near impossible. No wonder men have a terrible time with it.
I struggled to focus on her face as she stood there with her hands on her hips, making no effort to cover herself or get dressed. As if drawn by invisible magnets and without any conscious thought on my part, my eyes kept glancing at her massive breasts.
She laughed and said, “It’s okay. Go ahead and look.” She cupped her hands underneath and lifted them up like a pair of bowling balls. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she asked. “You have to touch them. You just have to. You will not believe how natural they feel.”
