People I Want to Punch in the Throat (17 page)

I looked at her wide eyes. Her answer wasn’t good enough. Maybe she had seen something but didn’t
realize
what she was seeing. A friend’s husband used to go on “daddy date nights” with his daughters and they’d always “coincidentally” run into the same single mom (who also happened to be the office bimbo)
who just “happened” to be eating at the same restaurant. And the husband, being the gentleman that he is, always invited this woman to join his party. This went on for several months until the oldest son mentioned to his mother one day that it was weird how often they run into the same skank. That’s when my friend put two and two together and kicked out his cheating ass. Maybe the Hubs was bringing his lady friend around and the kids didn’t even notice!

I tried a different tactic: “Has Daddy ever introduced you to a lady when I wasn’t around?”

“No.”

“I mean when Daddy takes you places by himself.”

“Daddy never takes us anywhere by ourselves. He always wants the whole family to be together.”

That was true. The Hubs never takes the kids anywhere alone.
Seriously, would it kill him to take the kids to a movie sometime by himself and give me a couple of hours of peace and quiet?

I was getting off topic. “Okay,” I said, relaxing. “See? Daddy doesn’t have a girlfriend. If he did, we’d see him with someone we don’t know or he’d talk about her sometimes.”

“I don’t know,” Adolpha said thoughtfully. “I don’t think he’s at work today. I think he’s with Ms. Marlene.”

Marlene was a close friend of mine.

“What?” I practically screamed.
Oh, I’ll kill that son of a bitch!
“How do you know he’s with Ms. Marlene, Adolpha? Why do you think that?”

“Easy. ’Cause she’s your prettiest friend. She’s a little bit prettier than you, and Daddy would want a pretty girlfriend. Y’know, one prettier than you.”

Gee, thanks, kid
. We drove in silence the rest of the way to the craft store. My mind was spinning.
Marlene!
She was prettier
than me, but not the Hubs’s type.
What is the Hubs’s type
, I wondered,
besides short, fluffy, and unkempt?

I called the Hubs a few times on his cell phone and kept getting his voicemail. That’s not unusual, though. Whenever we’re with a client, we always ignore our phones. If I wanted to get his attention and let him know we had an emergency, I would need to send him a text message. I almost sent one that said,
You cheating bastard, where are you and what are you doing with Marlene?
Instead, I reined myself in and waited for him to come home from whatever “work” he was doing.

When he got home a couple of hours later, I casually mentioned the conversation I’d had with Adolpha. “I had a funny talk with Adolpha today,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah. You’re going to laugh when you hear this.”

“Okay, let’s hear it.”

“So … Adolpha thinks you’re a cheating bastard.” I watched his face closely. “Ha-ha, right?”

“That is funny. She’s hilarious.”

“Yeah, she’s a real hoot,” I said. Then I changed gears quickly, trying to catch him off guard. I sneered, “Are you cheating on me, you son of a bitch?”

“What?” he exclaimed.

“Do you think Marlene is prettier than me?” I demanded.

“Who?”

“Marlene. Adolpha thinks you spent all afternoon working on Marlene!”

He laughed and said, “Jen, you and Adolpha are both crazy.”

“
I’m
certifiable, no doubt, but
she’s
crazy like a fox. She’s onto you. She’s got your number.”

“Jen, you can’t be serious,” he said.

“I might be. I don’t know. Adolpha made some good points today. Like Rex’s dad was with his girlfriend when he told his family he was at work.”

“Jen, you can’t think that I’m cheating on you—and not with Marlene.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true. Marlene is out of your league,” I said.

“She is not. I could totally get Marlene if I wanted her,” he argued. “But this is what I love about you, Jen. You’re always cracking me up with your stories.”

He laughed.

I laughed, too—and then demanded to see his cell phone records.

“Come on, Jen! You’re really going to check the cell phone bill? You’ve never cared about it the entire time we’ve been married. I took over the cell phone bill because you could never be bothered to pay it and our phones kept getting shut off.”

“I don’t give a shit about that,” I replied. “I want to see the log of who you’re calling and texting.” I’ve watched enough
Law & Order
to know that the cell phone bill is always where they get their man.

“It’s all online.” He waved a hand at the computer. “Go ahead and log in and check it out.”

“You know that’s above my pay grade. I don’t know how to do that,” I whined. I’m a technological idiot. I can barely log in to check my email, let alone log in to our bill-pay manager thingy.

He sighed heavily and handed over his phone. “That’s a lot of work. Just go through my phone history.” After I checked all of his incoming and outgoing calls, emails, and text messages, he said, “Satisfied?”

“I’m not sure.” I still wasn’t convinced. “You’re smart. You probably have two cell phones or something like that.”

“Jen,” he said, getting serious and a bit irritated now, “either you trust me or you don’t. Do you really believe Adolpha? What the hell? She’s a preschooler with an overactive imagination. This is stupid. We’re fighting over an imaginary girlfriend that our daughter dreamed up!”

I thought about it. Sure, he had lots of opportunities to be away from the house “working” and could easily be using that time to cheat on me, but the Hubs could barely afford me and manage my ridiculous demands. There was no way he could handle two women bitching, whining, and nagging at him and making him buy them stuff.

“You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry. She made me a little crazy.”

“Well, I guess it’s nice to know you still care enough to get jealous,” the Hubs replied. “And besides, Marlene would not be my first choice among your friends. It would be Allison. She’s much prettier.”

“Asshole.” Of course it would be Allison, with her fake boobs and hair extensions! The Hubs
really
didn’t have a chance with her. I smiled. Let him dream. “Let’s go put Adolpha to bed and have a chat with her and let her know that Allison is really more your type.”

We went upstairs to Adolpha’s room and sat down on her bed.

The Hubs started, “Adolpha, why would you say I have a girlfriend?”

Adolpha looked up at him with huge brown eyes. “Because Mommy doesn’t love you as much as you love her,” she said solemnly. “She only loves you this much.” Adolpha pinched her fingers and squinted to look at the minuscule space between them.

The Hubs laughed and nodded. “Yes! That is so true, Adolpha!”

I was shocked. “Adolpha! Why would you say that? That’s not true at all.”
At least I don’t
think
it is
, I thought. True, there are some days that I love him less than he loves me—he can be sooooo annoying—but not
every
day. No, this was completely unfair. I loved the Hubs just as much as he loved me! If I didn’t love him, would I put up with all of his ridiculous rules to save energy, money, and time? (FYI, I’m typing this by the window, because he doesn’t like lights to be on in the daytime: “There’s no need to pay for lights when we’ve got nature’s light for free!” We only eat out when he has a buy-one-get-one-free coupon. Just once I’d like to go to dinner and not have to choose a restaurant based on what’s in his coupon keeper. And he complains I use the brakes too much in our car and wear them out. It’s true, I like to brake—because I prefer to stop instead of run into the car in front of me. I don’t think it’s safe to coast along and hope traffic starts moving before I have to apply the brakes.)

Adolpha turned to me. “It’s true, Mommy. Girls always break boys’ hearts because they don’t love them as much as boys love them. It’s okay that Daddy loves you more, but …” She paused and looked at me with all of the sincerity she could muster. “He might get a girlfriend ’cause you don’t love him enough. You need to be careful, Mommy.”

I sat there in stunned silence while the Hubs chuckled, kissed her on the forehead, and said, “That is right. Goodnight, my smart girl.”

So there you have it: love advice from my five-year-old kid. She basically told me my friends are too pretty and I’d better step up my game a bit and convince the Hubs I love him more or else he just might get a girlfriend.

“I tell you what,” I whispered to the Hubs as we left Adolpha’s room. “If she’d do the laundry and the cooking and give me two nights off from my wifely duties for reading and writing, I’d consider letting Allison join the family.”

“No way,” he whispered back. “We can’t afford her. Can you imagine how much our electric bill would be when she’s done blow-drying all of that hair?”

If you ever looked at my calendar, you would think that I have a very active social life. I’m super popular. I get invited to a party almost every single week.

I know you’re jealous right now, but you really shouldn’t be. It’s not like I’m being invited out for drinks or over for a home-cooked meal or even to a bunko game. I never get invited to a cocktail party, a murder mystery dinner, a surprise birthday party, or even a loathsome
half
-birthday party. Nope, the only time I’m invited over is when a friend is hosting one of those home shopping parties where some perky housewife-slash-entrepreneur is going to try and sell me a bunch of overpriced shit that I don’t need just so she can drive around town in a shiny new car. And that’s mostly because I never say no.

That’s right. If I’m available, I go every single time. I’m happy to go, and I buy a pizza cutter or a duffel bag or a scented candle. Whatever they’re hawking, I’m buying. I am the easiest mark in everyone’s phone book. It’s not because I’m a sucker. I go because I am the
biggest
perky housewife-slash-entrepreneur who wants a shiny new car. Only I’m not selling lipstick, I’m
selling houses, and I want everyone at that party to buy one from me.

The hostess is usually my latest client throwing a shopping party as a housewarming for her new home, and that’s why she’s invited me. I owe her. She saw that closing statement. She knows how much I made from selling her that house and she figures the least I could do is buy a damn spatula—or fifty. While
I
might think it was hard work putting up with her impossible demands, conducting late-night marriage counseling sessions, and perfectly blending her champagne taste with a Two-Buck Chuck budget,
she
thinks all I did was drive her around and show her a couple of houses and then cash my check. If I want her to refer me to all her friends at her Pampered Chef party, then I’d better show up and bring my credit card—the one with the
big
limit.

I always buy something I can use (who doesn’t need more dry dip mixes or tubes of eye cream?), and I weasel my way into her social group. By the end of the year I’ll sell a house to someone connected to the hostess
and
enjoy my delicious dip or less wrinkly peepers.

I’ve been to so many of these parties by now that I have my routine down cold. I like to arrive just a little early so I can be helpful. I rarely know anyone else attending, so I might as well pour drinks or take coats (after all, I do know where the coat closet is). Also, that’s when I can get an idea of what the plan is for the night. Are we doing drinks and browsing the merchandise, or will there be a full-on presentation with a hard sell to write my $995 check for my starter kit and begin my future career in skin care
tonight
? Of course, I prefer the parties where you can mingle rather than just sit there and listen to someone talk to you about the miraculous effects of specially formulated
viper venom on fine lines, downlines, and success stories. So if I know it’s a presentation, I usually hang out at the back and just let the hostess know that I’ll need to slip away before it’s over, but I always add, “Please hand me that order form, because I need some of that amazing viper venom eye cream before I go.”

Sometimes I like to stay for the presentation, just because every now and again I’m lucky enough to be invited to a party that I know is going to be a hot mess and I don’t want to miss it. So when my friend Colleen hosted a sex toy party, I made sure I arrived early, made myself a drink, and got a good seat at the front of the room.

I’d never been to a sex toy party before. None of us had. Colleen and I had met Joyce, the sales representative, at an event the month before where she’d spoken to a room full of middle-aged women about embracing our sexuality. During her speech, Joyce never mentioned she was a sales rep for Flaming Desire parties. Instead, she stood there in her buttoned-up business suit and talked to us about harnessing and releasing our “feminine energies,” whatever the hell that meant. I guess Colleen understood what she was talking about, because afterward she wanted to meet Joyce and thank her for coming. We finally got close enough where we could shake her hand and promise to be “mindful” of our sexual health. When Colleen confided to Joyce that she wished she could do a better job releasing her feminine energies, Joyce said, “Oh! You and I need to talk!”