44 Chapters About 4 Men (28 page)

This photo is one of my favoritest, proudest, most prized photos, which I snapped in Venice Beach while visiting my ladyfriend Sara Snow.

Rather than take advantage of the opportunity to praise his wife, Ken simply said, “Huh. A skater pic.” then GOT UP AND LEFT THE ROOM.

I would have accepted anything, Journal.

Oh, look at that. You didn’t fuck it up,
or even a condescending,
Looky-wook at the pwetty-wetty picture
, with a matching pat on the head.

Anything.

So, when Ken passed back through the living room on his way to bed and told me good night, I chose to respond by flipping (or flicking, whichever you prefer) him the fuck off.

Take that, asshole!

I think the desired outcome of that gesture was, in my head, for Ken to be immediately struck down by the same hurt his apathy had caused me, like my middle finger was Harry Potter’s magic wand of feelings and effeminacy and boners and unicorn tears. Then, he would rush to my side to apologize and coo over my art and make it up to me with a foot massage, followed by some gentle well-lubricated anal with a vibrator reach-around.

(Yes, yes, I am that drunk.)

Instead he just looked puzzled. Not even surprised yet amused, like,
Oh, Brooke
(because that’s what he calls me, fucking
Brooke) you’re so cheeky
.
Put that finger away, you silly girl!

He was more like disappointed and judgy, like,
Really, Brooke? Grow up. Who gives people the finger anymore? Seriously.

I’ll tell you who!

I totally just flashed back to one of my fondest childhood memories. My mother’s parents were hard-core Irish Catholics. They’d sent all four of their redheaded, green-eyed freckle-faced daughters to Catholic school. Every Sunday, my grandmother would play the organ, and my grandfather would volunteer to be an usher at church. Every St. Patrick’s Day, my grandfather would organize a parade downtown and surreptitiously dye the city fountain green even though the city would threaten to arrest and fine him for vandalism.

Before every meal, my grandfather would toast, “If I had a ticket to heaven and you didn’t have one, too, I’d tear my ticket to pieces and go to hell with you.”

They were like real live leprechauns. Full of mischief and whimsy, those two.

Well, I remember once, when I was visiting for the summer, my grandmother had yelled into the living room where my grandfather was watching
Murder, She Wrote
(with the volume at full blast) that she was going to have a beer and scream-asked if he wanted to split it with her.

Seriously, these little elfin lightweights
split
beers. Maybe that’s why I’m so drunk off one topped-off thimbleful of Clos du Bois. It’s genetic!

After at least
fourteen back-and-forths about how he couldn’t hear her and the TV was too loud and how she was going deaf—no, he was going deaf—my grandmother, with a flourish of badassery, thrust her brittle, translucent knobby-twig-like middle finger into the air and stuck out her tongue before sashaying right back into the kitchen where she immediately cracked open a can of Coors Light and proceeded to drink the whole damn thing.

Those two were married for almost sixty years. I can only pray that my inability to metabolize cheap alcohol, love of limericks, and penchant for giving the finger are signs that, I—like my fiery, impish grandmother—also have what it takes to keep a marriage intact for the better part of a century. And given that she’d emerged from the baby-booming 1950s a Catholic housewife with only four kids suggests that her secret probably involved lots and lots of anal.

You do the math, Journal.

Guess I’d better stock up on pinot G ’cause it’s going to be a long sixty years.

Dear Journal,

So, a few nights ago, I miiiiiight have gotten a little drunk…and I miiiiiight have written a journal entry about anal sex…and I miiiiiight have decided it would be a great idea to save it in my Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever because (A) drunk and (B) it seemed like a nice passive-aggressive way to apologize for flipping him off without having to actually have a conversation about my juvenile behavior.

Well, Ken must be checking my Super Private Journal for new entries fucking hourly because, the next night, after polishing off the very same glorified thimbleful of white wine, Ken eyed my empty vessel and asked, “How drunk are you?” with an unusually wicked, predatory look in his eyes.

Not wanting him to see me sweat, I cocked one eyebrow, stared him right in the face, and slurred, “As drunk as I am every night.”

Before I had a chance to flip/flick him off again, I found myself being dragged down the hallway by the wrist toward our bedroom. When my eyes finally adjusted to the dark, I noticed, arranged clinically on the nightstand, a roll of toilet paper, a damp washcloth, a vibrator, and an expired tube of Wet lubricant that was given to Ken by his gay male coworker nine years ago as a bachelor party gag gift.

My first instinct should have been to protect my poor, leprous, postpartum rectum from being penetrated by pointing to a shadowy corner and screaming,
Tarantula!
before making a mad dash for the master bathroom.

Then, while Ken dutifully looked for an imaginary spider to protect me from, I could have been loudly rummaging through all the drawers and cabinets while shouting through the door,
Honey? Have you seen the Pepto? That spicy chili you made is tearing me up!

But, before my wine-soaked brain could register what was happening, I absentmindedly picked up the dusty old tube of lube and flipped it over, curious to see if that AOL-era shit had an expiration date printed anywhere. Just as I suspected, I saw
June 12, 2009
. That goo was so old that I’m pretty sure the instant it touched Ken’s penis, his skin would have fallen right off like some kind macabre banana peel.

Tut, tut.

I immediately tossed it aside and pulled open my nightstand drawer to retrieve the much newer tube of K-Y gel I’d bought a few months prior as a precaution before my daughter was born.

(For those of you who
haven’t
pushed a baby with a head in the ninety-eighth percentile out of your vagina, putting anything back in there for the next eight to ten months requires a fistful of Vicodin, a stick to bite down on, a transcendental happy place, and a shit-ton of lube. I learned that lesson after my firstborn had a head like Newt Gingrich. The miles of scar tissue he left in his wake caused my vag to feel and behave as if it had grown a thousand hymens overnight. Happily, my daughter’s dainty little noggin was half the size of her brother’s, so the K-Y had been an unnecessary precaution.)

It wasn’t until I caught sight of Ken’s elated expectant expression out of the corner of my eye that I finally registered the magnitude of what I had just done.

Gulp.

By casually pulling out that tube of K-Y, instead of setting off the burglar alarm and running into the middle of the cul-de-sac to blow my rape whistle, I had essentially given Ken my passive consent to sodomize me. This was happening.

I might be a lot of things, Journal, but a whore is one of them. I’d made this bed, and I was going to have to lie in it—on my side with one leg in the air like Elton John on his honeymoon. Besides, I was probably
just
intoxicated enough to not be able to feel my anus—or so I hoped.

In other news, I’ll be switching to beer—indefinitely.

FROM: B. B. EASTON

TO: KENNETH EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 12:36 P.M.

SUBJECT: FRENCH IMMERSION

Hey Boo Bear,

I just found out that the new elementary school down the street is going to pilot a new French immersion program starting next year. I’m so excited! It’s going to be the only one in the county! Maybe if I grease some palms, we can get Little Man enrolled for kindergarten. That way he’ll be fluent enough by second grade to translate for us while we’re summering in Paris.

(BTW- I’ve decided we’re going to start summering in Paris. I’m putting it on my vision board tonight.)

B. B. Easton, Ed.S.

Oppressed School Psychologist

Conservative Public School System That Probably Still Supports the Confederacy

FROM: KENNETH EASTON

TO: B. B. EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 12:45 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: FRENCH IMMERSION

Sounds good. I assume other schools will start picking up these programs, so bribery is probably unnecessary.

You should also put some winning lottery numbers on your vision board, if you want to summer in Paris.

We can revisit this conversation at a later date.

Kenneth Easton

Blah, Blah Financial Money-Stuff Person

AGTBRF (Some Fucking Acronym I Never Bothered To Learn) Telecommunications

FROM: B. B. EASTON

TO: KENNETH EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 1:15 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: FRENCH IMMERSION

Why, Mr. Easton, that was so formal. I appreciate your time and input.

Good day, sir.

B. B. Easton, Ed.S.

Oppressed School Psychologist

Conservative Public School System That Probably Still Supports the Confederacy

FROM: KENNETH EASTON

TO: B. B. EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 1:18 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: FRENCH IMMERSION

I think I am going to give you some input tonight.

Kenneth Easton

Blah, Blah Financial Money-Stuff Person

AGTBRF—Some Fucking Acronym I Never Bothered To Learn—Telecommunications

FROM: B. B. EASTON

TO: KENNETH EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 1:20 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: FRENCH IMMERSION

Tonight, Mr. Easton?

I never make appointments on such short notice, but for you, I suppose I could clear my schedule. Looking forward to it, sir.

B. B. Easton, Ed.S.

Oppressed School Psychologist

Conservative Public School System That Probably Still Supports the Confederacy

FROM: KENNETH EASTON

TO: B. B. EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 1:25 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: FRENCH IMMERSION

I hope you can squeeze me in.

Kenneth Easton

Blah, Blah Financial Money-Stuff Person

AGTBRF—Some Fucking Acronym I Never Bothered To Learn—Telecommunications

FROM: B. B. EASTON

TO: KENNETH EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 1:36 P.M.

SUBJECT: RE: FRENCH IMMERSION

Mr. Easton! I’m going into a very serious meeting and have no more time for your tomfoolery.

Until tonight, sir!

B. B. Easton, Ed.S.

Oppressed School Psychologist

Conservative Public School System That Probably Still Supports the Confederacy

FROM: KENNETH EASTON

TO: B. B. EASTON

DATE: THURSDAY, MARCH 6, 1:47 P.M.

SUBJECT: I’LL SHOW YOU IMMERSION

Tom who?

Kenneth Easton

Blah, Blah Financial Money-Stuff Person

AGTBRF—Some Fucking Acronym I Never Bothered To Learn—Telecommunications