Futures and Frosting (10 page)

“Anyway, back to
the subject of strippers,” he yells over his shoulder.  “You are drastically
underestimating the power of naked women dancing on poles.  That shit could
cure cancer or put an end to war if people would open their eyes.  Give pole
dancers a chance!” Drew shouts with a fist in the air.

“I think you
mean ‘Give peace a chance.'  And watching strange women gyrate on stage is not
going to make Claire
less
angry with me.  I’m pretty sure that is the
exact definition of something that is guaranteed to piss off your girlfriend,”
I tell him, flinching when a measuring tape is spread across my ass and then as
hands glide up and down my legs.

My penis is
shrinking.  MY PENIS IS SHRINKING!

“Sylvia, come
here and make sure you have everything you need,” the owner yells in the
general direction of the back storage room as he stands up and wipes his hands
on the front of his pants like being in that close proximity to my manhood made
him feel dirty.  Shouldn’t it be the other way around?  I feel violated.  I’M
THE VICTIM HERE.  I just want a tux, not go to second base with Steve, the
handsy man who sews.

“I think I have
what she needs,” Drew leans in and whispers conspiratorially.  I glanced up to
see a blonde Amazon with a measuring tape draped around her neck walking
towards us.  You’re probably thinking, “Okay, he has nothing to complain about
now.  Some hot chick is going to get on her hands and knees and touch him!”

False.

Sylvia the
Seamstress is stalking towards me, and I suddenly realize just how many people
are in this store with nothing better to do than stare at me while they wait
for their turn.  The lights shining down from above are making me hot and now
that I know everyone is watching me, I’m getting the ball sweats.  I want to
pull the dress pants and my boxers away from my junk but I have to just stand
here like an idiot with my arms out to the side because Sylvia is already in
front of me...on her knees...reaching for my penis.

I know she’s not
actually reaching for my penis, but my penis doesn’t know that.  He’s a simple
creature and all he knows is that there is a hot woman assuming the position
and reaching for him. 

I know this
is going to be hard for you to comprehend, my friend, but this does not mean
she wants to have sex with us.  I know it’s crazy. I know it doesn’t make sense
but there it is.  Stay strong little buddy, stay strong.

Stop judging
me.  All men talk to their penises.

Wait! Is the
plural of penis, penises?  Or is it like the word deer and it’s just penis?  I
have five penis.  No, that’s not right.  Maybe it’s peni, long “I” like, “There
are too many peni in this porno.”

“Could you stand
still please?” Sylvia says in an irritated voice.

If she had
sweaty balls and an almost-boner she wouldn’t be so judgmental.  Am I right, or
am I right?

“Gavin, you
almost dressed?” I call into the dressing room, momentarily forgoing my penis
grammar lesson to realize my son had gone in there ten minutes ago, claiming he
was a big boy and didn’t need any help trying on his tux.  I begin to wonder
about the brilliance of that decision when I don’t hear a reply.  Part of me
secretly hopes he lit something on fire in there so we can finally put an end
to this trauma.  At least it forces Sylvia to finish the hell up and move on to
the next victim so I can stop giving my penis pep talks.

“Gavin, are you
okay in there?” I yell as I take a few steps in that direction.  Gavin steps
out of the room then in a crisp, brand new toddler tuxedo.  Lucky little shit
doesn’t have to worry about Sylvia or touchy-feely Steve.  The suit fits him to
perfection and I have to say, he is one handsome little boy.

“Wow, Gav.  That
looks really good on you,” I tell him as I squat down in front of him and fix
the buttons he fastened wrong.

“I know.  I’m a
bad ass, man,” he replies as he turns away from me and looks at himself in the
mirror.  He holds onto the lapels of the suit coat like he is James Bond the
Toddler Years and twists from right to left to get a better look.

“Gavin, don’t
talk like that,” I scold.

“Nice suit,
little dude,” Drew says as he walks up behind Gavin and ruffles his hair. 
“Mine looks better though.”

Gavin turns
around and looks up at Drew with an angry look on his face.

“I’m going to
put corn and hot sauce on your wiener, and then I’ll hit you in the face with
it.  Hit you in the face with your corny wiener.”

“Dude, you are
an angry little man,” Drew tells him as he shakes his head.

“You’re a juice
bag!” Gavin yells.

“Okay,
time-out.  Both of you.  Gavin, go put your other clothes back on.”

Gavin sticks his
tongue out at Drew and turns to run back into the dressing room.  I stand up to
face Drew and fold my arms in front of me.

“What?  He
threatened my wiener.  He’s lucky I didn’t throw down fisticuffs with him.  And
just because he said ‘juice bag’ doesn’t mean we don’t both know what he was
really thinking.  That kid is an evil, evil genius, and I never want to be left
alone with him.  So, strip club, yea or nay?”

~

“It needs to be
tomantic…tmotmantic…ramtantic…dude, it needs to be all loving and shit,” Jim
states as he goes to sit down next to me on the couch, missing the cushions by
about six inches and landing on his ass on the floor.

After all of the
fittings are over, the girls take Gavin up to the shop so they can help Claire
with some last minute orders, and Drew and Jim decide to stick around our place
until they are done.  Somehow the topic of my proposal to Claire is brought up
and after rehashing the debacle from the Indians game, we all need copious
amounts of liquor.

Since Drew’s
proposal during a ball game idea has gone straight to the shitter, Jim decides
it is his turn to try and make this thing work.

“WHY IS THERE A
DR. SEUSS CONTACT IN MY CELL PHONE?” Drew yells from his spot sitting
Indian-style in the middle of our kitchen table.

“You need
candles and you need a violin and you need your shoes shined and a guy in a tux
with a white towel thing over his arm and OOHHHH!  You need a piano.  Chicks
dig a guy that can play piano.  Can you play the piano, Carter?” Jim asks,
finding his way back up to the couch and sprawling across the cushions, kicking
me repeatedly in the process.

“Yes!  I can
play the piano!” I shout.

Why am I
shouting?

“I’m not talking
about your little Casio keyboard where all you have to do is press the “demo”
button and then pretend you’re really a piano prodigy,” Jim says with a roll of
his eyes.

“Whatever,
asshole.  I can fake-play the SHIT out of “Cherish the Love” by Kool and the
Gang.  You don’t even know.  You DON’T.  EVEN.  KNOW.”

I rest my head
on the back of the couch and stare up at the ceiling wondering why it's moving.

Ceilings
shouldn’t move, should they?  If ceilings moved, floors would be moving.  We’d
never be still like broccoli.  We’d constantly be moving like in a funhouse. 
Funhouses are creepy.  Funhouses have clowns.  Clowns are always moving because
they’re out to get you and eat your face while you sleep.  I wonder if a moving
ceiling could kill a clown.

“I DON’T EVEN
FUCKING LIKE GREEN EGGS!” Drew shouts from the kitchen, still staring at his
phone in anger.

“On my keyboard
I used to know how to play “London Bridge is Falling Down” and “Chop Suey”.

Heh heh. I
said Chop Suey when I meant Chopsticks.
 

“Chop
sueeeeeeeeey, chop sueeeeeeeeey!” I sing.

“London Bridge
is a SWEET song!  Wait, I know!  You should take her to Paris and propose. 
That’s where London Bridge is, right?” Jim asks, grabbing the bottle of tequila
off of the coffee table and taking a swig.

“I don’t know. 
Carmela went to Paris and was all depressed and shit.  I don’t want Claire to
be depressed when I propose.”

Jim stared at me
blankly.

“Who the fuck is
this Carmela person?  Are you cheating on Claire?  I will FUCK YOU UP!” Jim
yells.

“Dude, simmer
down.  Carmela Soprano.  Remember?  Tony sent her to Paris with her friend Ro
so she could ‘find herself’.  It really was a beautiful gesture on his part
since he was banging the Russian chick with one leg,” I state.

“Hey, fuck
face.  You know these people only live in your television, right?  THEY. 
AREN’T.  REAL,” Jim argues.

“Take it back,”
I whisper menacingly.  “Take it back right now.”

“FUCK YOU, SAM I
AM!” Drew screams at his phone, holding it up in front of his face.

“And anyway, I
think they moved London Bridge.  It’s in Arizona or some shit like that now,” I
explain as I took the bottle back from him and rest it on my thigh.

“WHAT THE FUCK
ARE YOU SAYING?” Jim yells right in my ear. “London Bridge is in Arizona?  When
the fuck did this happen?  Does London know about this?  The queen has got to
be pissed.”

“It was on ‘Real
Housewives’ so you know it’s true,” I state.

“Orange County
or Atlanta?” Jim asks.

“Orange County,
what the fuck is wrong with you?  Does anyone even
watch
Atlanta?” I
argue.

“YOU AND YOUR
STUPID RED AND WHITE STRIPED HAT!  FUCKING CATS DON’T WEAR HATS!” Drew screams
in frustration before throwing his phone against the wall.

What the hell are we even
talking about?  I feel like I’m going to puke.  And why the fuck is Drew
meowing in the kitchen?  Do we have a cat?  Oh fuck, did I forget to feed a
cat?  Claire’s going to kill me if I murdered her cat.

The last thing I
remember before passing out is Jim telling me in a moment of drunken brilliance
that Claire would marry me if I fed her lobster and that we should call the
queen and ask her if her she would trade us some Grey Poupon for the bridge she
doesn’t know she lost.

The muffled
vibrations of my cell phone from its spot under my pillow forces my eyes open. 
I blink the sleep out of them, pull my ear plugs out of each ear, and slide my
hand under my pillow to answer the phone.

“Jesus, Claire. 
What the hell is that noise?  It sounds like a monster.  Is there a monster in
your house?”

I chuckle at
Jenny’s question and roll over onto my back and look over at Carter who's fast
asleep next to me.

“No, there isn’t
a monster in my house,” I whisper.  “That growling snort you hear is Carter
snoring.”

Once again I
thank the good Lord for blessing me with the best earplugs in the world.  Not
something people typically give thanks for, but I am pretty sure God felt
slighted because he is only remembered for the big stuff.  I firmly believe
there is a special place for me in heaven because I remember to thank him for
Southern Butter Pecan coffee creamer and Coochy Cream shaving gel.

“Wow, he really
needs to get that checked out,” Jenny informs me.  “You know, I read something
the other day that maybe he should try.  It said taking those relaxative things
for a few days will make your whole body healthier.  Maybe that would fix his
sinuses.”

“Did you say
relaxative
? 
Jenny, what the hell is a relaxative?”

I fling the
covers off of me and sit up in bed so I can wake up a little more and be able
to talk to her with a clear head.  I doubt it will help, but here’s to hoping.

“You know,” she
says with a huff, “R-E-L-A-X-A-T-I-V-E.”

The fact that
she feels the need to enunciate the word like
I
am the one with the
problem and my inability to understand is irritating
her
makes me want
to shank her. 

“I heard the
word. I just don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I complain as I
get out of bed and stretch before making my way out into the hall.

“You know, those
pills you take to flush out your system.  Relaxatives.”

I open Gavin’s
bedroom door across the hall from our room and peek in on him.  He was still
out, lying on his back horizontally across his bed with his head hanging off of
the edge.  There’s no way that can be comfortable but I'm not  about to move
him back up to his pillow and run the risk of waking him up before I've had my
coffee.  I shut the door quietly and go back to dealing with Jenny while I head
to the kitchen.

“I think you
mean
laxatives
,” I tell her with a sigh.  “And they aren’t really
supposed to be used to flush out your system.  Where the hell did you even read
that about snoring?”

“Google.  So you
know it’s true.  Tell Carter to try it and you can thank me with chocolate when
it works,” she replies.

I stop in my
tracks in the kitchen doorway at the sight before me, unable to even formulate
a reply to Jenny about how making Carter shit his brains out most likely would
not stop his snoring.

“So anyway, I
was calling to ask you if Drew was still at your house.  I got a text from him
last night as I was leaving your shop that the Cat in the Hat told him he
should spend the night.  I have no idea what that meant, but as long as I got
the whole bed to myself I didn’t care.”

After the girls
had helped me put together the huge chocolate and cookie order last night for a
wedding today, we all left to go home.  Gavin had fallen asleep in the car so
when I got in the house, I bypassed the kitchen and went straight down the hall
to his bedroom and then put myself to bed next to a snoring Carter.

I don’t know
whether I should be happy that I didn’t see this sight last night or not.  On
his back, with his arms and legs flung out to the side, is Drew.  Asleep.  ON
MY KITCHEN TABLE.  His ass now rests exactly where I usually put the salt and
pepper shakers.