LJI Week 5: "I know my enemies. I used to call them friends"
It never did sit quite right with me, being friends with his ex. Especially when she hooked up with his best friend from high school, with whom I had a brief fling...that lasted about seven years, well after we'd all paired off and married.
It's all okay. Open marriages and all that. But it did make for some awkward dinner parties.
It's funny how you can be so close, some say like sisters. We roll our eyes when the guys obsess over Doom and spend hours playing, leaving us to our own devices. We sneak clove cigarettesl on the back porch like teenagers and pretend we were burning incense. I crochet; she knits...and we both lie about how much yarn we just bought for no particular reason. We both go wildcrafting, taking our increasingly growing brood on long walks through the woods. I stand up for her at her wedding, the rain filling my shoes as she waltzes down the aisle to the song that I confided I'd wanted at my wedding but wasn't allowed, because there is no music at Quaker ceremonies.
What she doesn't know is that, hours before, when she sent me to find the groom, the fact that my hair was messed up couldn't be blamed entirely on the rain. But Mother Nature has a way of fixing things, doesn't she?
So there we are. Two storybook couples. Perfect on the outside. My husband and I are in grad school (although I'm writing his papers so he passes). They've bought their first house (which his parents paid for). Our children play together. We sit up late, drink wine, and things happen.
Then it starts.
The dinner parties.
She believes that any meal can be improved by 28 more ingredients (strawberry kiwi salsa on hickory smoked cod, anyone?). I have one toddler tugging at my skirt and a baby at the bresat while I am trying to throw together white bean chili and Jiffy corn bread, praying I can find a way to make a salad and hoping that tomorrow's headlines do NOT include "Small child suffers double concussion when mom drops baby brother and a head of iceburg lettuce on his head."
I'm a bit smug that my food is always a hit, rather than chewed in polite silence. I also shove her husband's hand away when he starts running it up under my skirt under the table, telling me how wonderful everything tastes. And I ignore where my husband's hand is while she giggles and blushes her way through her fourth piece of cornbread dripping with honey.
Then there is dessert.
She can make a three layer Italian cream cake out of thin air and not break a sweat. I make a damn fine Jello mold with canned fruit, and pretend I am cheeky, retro girl before that was even a thing.
His hand slides further up my thigh, a wolfish grin on his face. "This reminds me of all the best parts of childhood."
I'm fairly certain that everyone at the table can hear me slap his hand.
"Well, it's a good thing you didn't try to bake. But you CAN make anything out of a box, which I can't. I'll give you that."
I smile sweetly amd clear the dishes, cheeks flaming and my pulse pounding in my ears. The kids are all in bed. The wine is poured and the grownups move to the porch. I seethe over the suds. I can hear her giggling with my husband. "Remember that chocolate brick she tried to make last year for your birthday? Seriously, she should stick to boxes."
His hand is on my hip, his breath quieting the drum beat in my ear. "I'm sorry. I think everything you do is wonderful."
When we join everyone on the porch, I can't blame Mother Nature for the state of my hair.
It's all okay. Open marriages and all that. But it did make for some awkward dinner parties.
It's funny how you can be so close, some say like sisters. We roll our eyes when the guys obsess over Doom and spend hours playing, leaving us to our own devices. We sneak clove cigarettesl on the back porch like teenagers and pretend we were burning incense. I crochet; she knits...and we both lie about how much yarn we just bought for no particular reason. We both go wildcrafting, taking our increasingly growing brood on long walks through the woods. I stand up for her at her wedding, the rain filling my shoes as she waltzes down the aisle to the song that I confided I'd wanted at my wedding but wasn't allowed, because there is no music at Quaker ceremonies.
What she doesn't know is that, hours before, when she sent me to find the groom, the fact that my hair was messed up couldn't be blamed entirely on the rain. But Mother Nature has a way of fixing things, doesn't she?
So there we are. Two storybook couples. Perfect on the outside. My husband and I are in grad school (although I'm writing his papers so he passes). They've bought their first house (which his parents paid for). Our children play together. We sit up late, drink wine, and things happen.
Then it starts.
The dinner parties.
She believes that any meal can be improved by 28 more ingredients (strawberry kiwi salsa on hickory smoked cod, anyone?). I have one toddler tugging at my skirt and a baby at the bresat while I am trying to throw together white bean chili and Jiffy corn bread, praying I can find a way to make a salad and hoping that tomorrow's headlines do NOT include "Small child suffers double concussion when mom drops baby brother and a head of iceburg lettuce on his head."
I'm a bit smug that my food is always a hit, rather than chewed in polite silence. I also shove her husband's hand away when he starts running it up under my skirt under the table, telling me how wonderful everything tastes. And I ignore where my husband's hand is while she giggles and blushes her way through her fourth piece of cornbread dripping with honey.
Then there is dessert.
She can make a three layer Italian cream cake out of thin air and not break a sweat. I make a damn fine Jello mold with canned fruit, and pretend I am cheeky, retro girl before that was even a thing.
His hand slides further up my thigh, a wolfish grin on his face. "This reminds me of all the best parts of childhood."
I'm fairly certain that everyone at the table can hear me slap his hand.
"Well, it's a good thing you didn't try to bake. But you CAN make anything out of a box, which I can't. I'll give you that."
I smile sweetly amd clear the dishes, cheeks flaming and my pulse pounding in my ears. The kids are all in bed. The wine is poured and the grownups move to the porch. I seethe over the suds. I can hear her giggling with my husband. "Remember that chocolate brick she tried to make last year for your birthday? Seriously, she should stick to boxes."
His hand is on my hip, his breath quieting the drum beat in my ear. "I'm sorry. I think everything you do is wonderful."
When we join everyone on the porch, I can't blame Mother Nature for the state of my hair.