Happily Ever Madder: Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (9 page)

14

M
ason is still sleeping the next morning when I wake up, so I tiptoe down the stairs, start a pot of coffee, and quickly tidy up the kitchen. I take Buster Loo out for a walk and stop by the Donut Shop and get a bag of goodies because I woke up feeling bad for thinking I’d rather saw off my own arm than listen to Mason talk about his job. When I get home, Mason is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and pecking away at his laptop. His face brightens up when he sees the Donut Shop bag.

“For me?” he says, like a child.

“Caramel apple fritters,” I say, setting the bag on the table. “Two of them just for you.” I walk over to the sink and wash my hands.

“Sounds good,” he says and starts digging in the doughnut bag. “What time are you leaving?”

“Tia is coming at nine.”

“That’s right.” He looks at the clock on the stove. “Looks like we’ve got about an hour to ourselves, then.” He nods toward the chair across from him. “Join me?”

I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a seat at the table. Buster Loo runs in circles around the chairs until Mason finally tosses him a piece of apple, which he smacks on with great enthusiasm.

“So,” Mason says, looking at me. “Let’s talk about our honeymoon.”

“Oh goodie!” I say, chomping on a chocolate-covered doughnut, delighted to know he’s been thinking about our Happily Ever After.

“I need to know what kind of experience you’re looking for.”

“A very sexual one,” I say and bat my lashes like a floozy.

He laughs and gets up to get himself some more coffee. “Well, baby, I can deliver that anywhere, anytime.” He turns to face me. “You need to see the helicopter this morning?”

I eyeball his boxers and shake my head from side to side. “Think I’ll pass on that, but thanks for asking,” I say, wondering if there has ever been a woman anywhere on the face of the earth who actually
needed
to see her man shake his hips and swing his ding-dong around in circles. Jeez.

“Well, it’s always ready to fly for you, baby.”

“I do not doubt that at all,” I say, laughing and rolling my eyes.

“So where am I taking my lovely bride on our honeymoon?” he asks, topping my cup off with steaming-hot goodness. “Somewhere like Italy or Greece, or would you prefer a good dose of winter in a secluded cabin in Breckenridge or maybe a bed-and-breakfast in Vermont?” He sits back down at the table.

“Oh wow! I don’t know,” I say with stars in my eyes. I haven’t been out of the country since I took a year off from college to study in Europe, so I’d love to go abroad again, but on the other hand, a snowy getaway sounds terribly romantic. “Those are excellent choices.”

“We can do it all eventually; I just need to know what you like best so I can get the travel arrangements set up.”

I ponder the choices and then go with the snow. “Let’s do winter!” I say, so excited I’m afraid I might piss myself. I put my coffee cup down on the table.

“Winter it is!” he says, smiling. “East Coast or Rockies?”

“You pick.”

“I pick Vermont,” he says without hesitation. “Connor and Allison went up there last year, and he said it was great, plus the bed-and-breakfast where they stayed allowed pets.”

“Yay!” I exclaim. “Vermont it is!” Buster Loo, as if sensing his sudden involvement, is back on the scene running around in circles again. I lean down and say, “Buster Loo’s going to Vermont! Buster Loo’s going to be a snow dog! We’ve got to get you a new sweater!” I look back up at Mason. “I didn’t know Connor and Allison had a dog.”

“Yeah, it’s one of those little bitty fluffy fuzzy things that barks nonstop and bounces around like a tennis ball. Got a big bushy bunch of fur around its neck and a big bushy tail. What’s it called?”

“A Pomeranian?”

“Yes, that’s it, because Allison gave it a long complicated name that Connor thinks is ridiculous so he runs around calling it the PoPo and Allison gets all pissed off.”

“It’s hard to tell if they’re happy together or not so much.”

“Oh, they’re perfectly happy,” he says, waving off my comment. “They’re just young so they still think it’s cool to bicker and fight all the time. They’ll be married forever.”

“The PoPo,” I say, giggling as I imagine Connor saying that in front of Allison.

“Ask her about her dog sometime,” Mason says. “I can’t believe she hasn’t mentioned it to you.”

“She may have,” I say honestly and think that she could have told me all about it during one of those times I was taking a nap with my eyes open while she talked. “I’ll be sure to ask.”

“Well, just to give you a heads-up”—he raises his eyebrows—“she really, and I mean
really
, likes to talk about that dog.”

“Great,” I say and make a mental note to take a steak knife with me next time I go to the office. Just in case I need to start sawing on my arm.

“Well.” he sighs and looks at me. “I better go upstairs and get ready. Another day at the office awaits!” He comes over and kisses me on the forehead. “Have fun at the Nut Festival.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“I have nuts, thank you.” He flashes a wicked smile and disappears up the stairs.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing on the porch waving good-bye to Mason when I notice a jet-black Tahoe with tinted windows sitting at the curb. I’m wondering if it might be the president of the United States or perhaps someone from the Mob, but then the passenger-side window rolls down and I see Tia. She backs up, pulls into the driveway, and hops out.

“Hey, my GPS was wigging out on me and I couldn’t remember what house number you said it was.” She’s wearing a fuchsia Nike top that matches both her shorts and her shoes.

I invite her and Mr. Chubz into the house, and the minute her weenie dog places one paw on our front porch, Buster Loo appears at the door and loses his little chiweenie mind. He’s jumping and growling and snarling and scratching, and I just stand there and stare at him for a minute wondering if he’s blown some kind of fuse in between his floppy little ears. Mr. Chubz walks up to the door and sticks his snout to the pane, and Buster Loo bares his tiny teeth and starts snapping.

“My dog is in rare form today,” I tell Tia. I nod toward Mr. Chubz, who is clearly unaffected by the manner in which Buster Loo is carrying on, and advise her to pick him up before we go inside. When we step in the house, Mr. Chubz looks down at Buster Loo like a king might glance down at a new court jester, and Buster Loo continues his all-out balls-to-the-wall crazy fit.

“Mr. Chubz is certainly a calm soul,” I say, picking up Buster Loo and trying to settle him down.

“Well, he’s old, God bless him,” Tia says. She looks outside. “Maybe we should go out back.”

“Good idea. Mason built kind of a dog-run thing out there, so they might like playing on that together.” I look down and see that Buster Loo is still all bristled up. “Maybe.”

When I step out the back door, Buster Loo starts jerking and wiggling, so I put him down and he runs over to Tia and starts barking like a maniac. We take a seat on the lounger and Tia hands Mr. Chubz over to me, then leans down to pet Buster Loo, who decides to rocket-launch himself into her lap at the exact same time. He rams his little chiweenie skull right into her forehead, and then she scoops him up and tries in vain to sit him on her lap. Tia is hee-haw laughing, and Buster Loo, showing no signs of getting off the crazy train, proceeds to jump all over her and speed-lick her between the eyes. Mr. Chubz takes notice of the fracas and starts to growl.

“Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve had a puppy around,” she says, still laughing. “C’mon, you little fireball!” Tia says, nuzzling Buster Loo. “Let’s go
run
.” Buster Loo soars off her lap, lands on the very edge of the concrete pad of the porch, loses his balance, and rolls out into the grass. “He’s a stunt devil!” Tia calls, while Mr. Chubz watches her like a hawk and continues to growl. She makes a few circuits around the yard and they both appear to be having a great time when Mr. Chubz slinks out of my lap and makes a beeline for Buster Loo.

They line up snout to snout; then Mr. Chubz starts to bark and Buster Loo does the same, ramping up the volume with each yelp. Neither dog moves an inch; they just stand there and bark. I stop beside Tia and we laugh till we’re both crying. I run inside to pee because I drank too much coffee this morning and I don’t want to embarrass myself by pissing my pants in front of my new friend.

When I get back outside, the dogs are still standing in the exact same spot, but they’ve stopped barking. Finally, Buster Loo breaks the standoff and runs around to sniff Mr. Chubz’s butt and Mr. Chubz takes off running with Buster Loo right behind him. They make several laps around the yard like that, then reverse order and run some more. All of a sudden, Buster Loo stops and they start rolling around in the grass like old doggie friends. I get really nervous thinking about Buster Loo’s proclivity to hump, but he doesn’t attempt to mount Mr. Chubz and I’m relieved.

“Okay,” Tia says, walking up onto the porch. “I think we’re good to go, if I could just use the facilities, please.”

“Sure, right inside and to the left.”

The dogs play for a few more minutes, and then we call them to the porch and lead them out to Tia’s Tahoe. Buster Loo has to sniff every square inch of the vehicle, while Mr. Chubz sits in Tia’s lap like a high-ranking lord of canine aristocracy.

15

W
e leave Pelican Cove, driving north, and I can’t help but notice that the farther we drive, the more things start to look like north Mississippi. To pass the time, we tell stories and laugh and carry on like old pals. Mr. Chubz has relocated to the backseat, and he and Buster Loo are snuggled up snoring.

“This looks just like home,” I tell her when we round a curve, and I swear we could be on Highway 78 between Bugtussle and Tupelo.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she says. “I always come up here when I need to get away from the hustle and bustle of the Cove. There’s a great little country store a mile or so up the road that has a down-home buffet run by the nicest people you’ll ever meet in your life. My grandparents used to live in Jay, so I drive up every chance I get because it makes me happy being here.”

“I can understand that,” I say, thinking about my two-bedroom bungalow that belonged to Gramma Jones. I start feeling homesick again and think I might need to plan a trip to Bugtussle pretty soon before I wind up in some kind of depressed funk.

When we get to the Peanut Festival, Tia pays to park in someone’s yard and I can smell the barbecue the minute I open the truck door. We hook the dogs up to their leashes and walk through the lush green grass to the festival. Mr. Chubz carries himself like a blue blood on a Sunday stroll, while Buster Loo leans forward as he walks, straining against his leash.

“He doesn’t have much experience with places like this,” I say, nodding toward Buster Loo. “Plus that aroma is only adding fuel to the crazy fire.”

We walk past a horse and wagon and a choo-choo train for kids on our way to the gate. Tia gets a cup of boiled peanuts first thing, and, curious, I try one and cannot get it out of my mouth fast enough.

“That’s like the raw oyster of the peanut world,” I say, looking around for somewhere to get a drink.

“Oh, they’re great!” she says, laughing, popping another one in her mouth. “I love ’em!”

I get a Coke and we loop around to a field lined with all sizes, colors, makes, and models of tractors. Behind the tractors are some farm animals, and I get a good grip on Buster Loo’s leash before we walk around there. He sees a chicken in a coop and starts flouncing around like a fish out of water and honking and carrying on like he does when he wants to be freed from the constraints of his leash. Mr. Chubz stops and looks at Buster Loo, then sits down at Tia’s feet.

“Is he okay?” Tia asks, genuinely concerned, as several people stop to stare at Buster Loo, who is lying on his side doing his signature goose honk.

I lean down to pick him up, and he jumps up and dashes toward the chicken coop as fast as his little legs will take him and as far as the leash will allow. Then, when the leash stops him, he goes down on his side and starts flouncing again.

Some lady gives me a dirty look as I’m dragging Buster Loo back across the grass. I want to tell her to mind her own effin’ business, but I don’t because she looks pretty stout. Plus, I don’t need to get involved in a fistfight that might cause me to accidentally let go of the leash, at which point Buster Loo would run a hundred and fifty miles an hour straight into that stack of chicken coops.

“You wanna move on, Ace?” Tia asks, smiling. “I don’t think Buster-Skip-to-My-Loo can handle much more exposure to the farm animals.”

“That would be great,” I say, tugging at the leash, hoping Buster Loo might get on his paws and walk. Finally, he does.

“Hungry?” Tia asks.

“Always,” I say. “That barbecue smells divine!”

“Well, let’s have some,” she says, then turns and starts walking toward a big gray plastic thing that looks like a some kind of fancy water fountain from outer space.

“What is this?” I ask, following her. “A souped-up hand-sanitizer station?”

“Even better,” she says. “Check it out.” She puts her foot on the silver pedals at the bottom, and water flows from a hidden faucet somewhere behind the gray plastic. She puts her hand under the soap dispenser and lathers up.

“Nice,” I say. “The Peanut Festival has all the tricks!”

We wash and dry our hands, then get in the barbecue line, which has about fifty more people in it than it did five seconds ago.

I feel a tug on the leash and look down at Buster Loo, who is straining toward a garbage can.

“Buster Loo, c’mon,” I say, reeling him in and locking the leash so he can’t get more than six inches from my feet. He starts whimpering and looks at me like I just stomped his favorite bone to bits.

We get plates piled high with pulled pork, French fries, and baked beans and topped off with a gigantic ear of corn. I follow Tia as she navigates her way through the crowd to a vacant picnic table. She sets her plate down, then digs two little doggie cups and a bottle of water out of her bag and places them under the picnic table. “Here you go, fellas,” she says, pouring them both some water, which they waste no time lapping up.

I run back to the food truck and get us each a cup of sweet tea, then sit down for a good, hearty lunch. I hear Buster Loo crunching on something and look down to see peanut shells flying out of his mouth.

“Oh, so you eat peanut shells now?” I ask him, but he ignores me and starts sniffing around, looking for stray bounty. I toss him a small piece of meat and hope that will discourage him from chomping on peanut shells. I look at Mr. Chubz, who is having himself an afternoon snooze.

“What a pair,” Tia says, giggling.

After lunch, we wander over to the booths, and Tia looks around and chats with the vendors while Mr. Chubz obediently follows her every move. I can’t look at anything because Buster Loo is still acting like a wack job and I can’t take my eyes off him. He hikes his leg next to a carved wooden bear, so I reach down to get him, and when I raise back up, I’m face-to-face with the station-wagon lady from Bueno Burrito.

I recognize her before she recognizes me, but when she does, she snarls and says, “You!” She’s wearing denim culottes, a yellow T-shirt with birds stitched on the front, and one of those weird foam visors.

“You what?” I hiss at her, hoping to scare her away.

“You better not let me catch you somewhere by yourself,” she says in a low voice. “’Cause I owe you a good one!”

“The only thing you owe is an apology to that curb you ran over with all four wheels,” I say, my voice just above a whisper. I glare at her with my crazy eyes.

“No, I owe you an ass whippin’,” she says slowly and glares right back at me.

“Best I remember, you rolled up that window of opportunity back at the Bueno Burrito,” I quip like a real smart-ass.

“What are you talkin’ about?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“You figure it out,” I scoff.

“I figure that smart mouth of yours needs fixin’.”

“Yeah? Well, you and your crusty old station wagon are gonna need fixin’ after I beat the brakes off you and it, too!” I hope she backs down soon because I really don’t want to make a scene, and to be perfectly honest, I’m almost sure this woman could beat me to death.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she says. “I’m here with my grandkids.”

“I wouldn’t dare because I’m here with my dog,” I say and nod toward Buster Loo, who, instead of barking and snarling like I need him to, is looking at this lady like he’d like to lick her on the cheek.

“I’ll have you know that wasn’t my station wagon! I drive a brand-new Buick! And I didn’t mean to roll that junky land sled into the back of your car!” she snaps in a raspy, low voice.

“Well, you did!” I say, backing off the sarcasm, but only a little. “And you scratched it!”

“Well, I’m sorry. My husband owns a shop and he can fix it. He was servicing my car that day and made me go get him some damned burritos in that piece of crap he traded somebody for some work he did one time. I was mad, okay? And I thought you were just trying to piss me off on purpose, and I wasn’t havin’ it!” She looks at Buster Loo, who leans toward her and whimpers, so she starts petting him. “Haven’t you ever had a bad day?”

“All the time,” I say without a trace of sarcasm. “I’m Ace Jones. What’s your name?”

“I’m Erlene Pettigo,” she says, smiling. She reaches in her purse and pulls out a business card. “My husband’s name is Sam and I’ll tell him you’ll be bringing your car by. Maybe he’ll let you drive the station wagon while he fixes that scratch.” She smiles at me.

“That might be fun,” I say, smiling back at this feisty grandmother in her yellow bird shirt and matching visor. “Well, it was nice to meet you—I guess,” I say, and she starts laughing and pats me on the back.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she says. “And I’m real sorry about your bumper.”

She turns to go, and I watch her walk down the aisle to where she stops next to a man in denim overalls sitting on a bench with two little boys. She picks up the smallest boy and takes the other by the hand, and the four of them start walking toward the bouncy slides.

“Friend of yours?” Tia asks, sneaking up on me from behind.

“Hard to tell,” I say.

“Let me know whenever you’re ready and we’ll head back to the Cove,” she says, stepping over to look at some beaded jewelry.

“I’m ready when you are,” I say, because I’m worn-out, physically and emotionally.

“Let’s get out of here, then.”

We get in the Tahoe, and while she’s chattering about a good deal she got on some earrings, I start thinking about Erlene Pettigo and wondering if that’s how I’ll act when I’m her age. Tia keeps chattering and it’s all I can do not to fall asleep on the ride home. Before I get out at my house, Tia and I finalize plans for the Thursday night Girls Night In, and much to my relief, the conversation is not awkward at all. As she drives away, I remember that I forgot to ask her if she knew of any good places to get married.

I go inside, and Buster Loo and I head straight for the couch, and that’s where we are when Mason gets home from work a few hours later.

“Hey,” I say groggily when he wakes me up. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” he says, tousling my hair. “How are you, sleeping beauty?”

I sit up on the sofa, and he goes into the kitchen and fixes us each a drink. Buster Loo hops down on the floor and stretches.

“Well, how was the Nut Fest?”

“Let me just tell you, baby, boiled peanuts are the nastiest damn thing I’ve ever tried to eat.”

“What? I love those things!” he says.

“Seriously?” I ask. “I would’ve brought you some—”

“Tell you what,” he says, rubbing my leg. “Go out and eat with me tonight and you’re off the hook for not bringing me any squishy nuts.”

“Good deal!” I say. “Where are we going?”

“Let’s ride over to Gulf Shores and go to Lulu’s. I could really use a fried green tomato BLT.”

“Double good deal!”

We get to Lulu’s well after the rush, and I have a cheeseburger while Mason enjoys his FGTBLT. After sharing a Brownie in Paradise, we head back home, talking on the way about our plans for Sunday.

“Hey, baby,” he says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you want to start going to the gym with me now that you’ve got the gallery up and running?”

“Mason, sweetheart,” I tease. “Don’t ever start a conversation with a line like ‘don’t take this the wrong way’ because there’s not but one way to take whatever you say next, and that’s the wrong way.”

“Okay, let’s try this again,” he says, grinning. “Ace, I think you are a sexy vixen. I am going to the gym tomorrow and would like for you to go. Not because I think you need to exercise, but because I’d like to hang out with you. I never asked you to go before because you were working all the time. Now you’re not working all the time.” He looks at me. “Do you want to go?”

I think about the Bratz Pack ladies I used to see at the gym in Bugtussle. They were always piled up on those megamonster treadmills, speed-walking in their skintight short-shorts and flopping their long, sleek ponytails all over the place. I can only imagine what the workout women of Pelican Cove, Florida, must look like, and I imagine I’d feel less welcome at the gym here than I did back home, where I didn’t feel welcome at all.

“Nah,” I say finally. “But thanks for asking.”

“Okay, baby,” he says, then starts singing along to an old George Jones song, and I ride the rest of the way home wishing I were deaf.