One day, I want to get my Wonder Woman Bracelet thingies and the magical lasso. Actually, the Wonder Woman invisible plane was the thing most on my list for Santa in the next year. If I had it the day of the wedding, I would have gladly flown somewhere, anywhere away from my father's wedding. At the moment, my best shot would have been a carousel horse, not that they would go anywhere - it is the illusion that something is changing. And right now an illusion is better than reality.
Marcella thought my dad was handling the catering. He thought she did. She decided to have no less than six bridesmaids but there were only two men who were willing to stand up for my father. Each bridesmaid decided to wear something she liked, so there was not only no theme, but it looked like a limbo line going down the aisle. The baker developed an allergy to flour and sugar and wound up with anaphalaxys(sp) and in the emergency room when he couldn't breathe. To make matters worse, he always worked alone so he knew no one who could come in and finish it. My father forgot which ring he planned to give Marcella and accidentally tried to slip my mother's wedding ring on her finger. Freudian anyone?
I found an old cookbook at a second hand store (yes, I know these words are compound, but we're here for the word count, baby). Most of the time it wouldn't be considered significant, but it was a military cookbook from world war II, and every recipe was factored to feed one hundred hungry, hot, sweaty, anxious, and growing men (see, I can stretch out a sentence). When a recipe talks about the number of pounds of flour or sugar, you aren't playing for the minor leagues anymore either.
When I showed it to my father, he was able to find a caterer who would handle a bbq at a park and do it on short notice. Provided I bought and delivered the food to the site. It gave me a reason not to be a bridesmaid, a huge benefit to me, but it ensured I'd have to be part and parcel of the reception. It was feeling more like an employee party than a wedding reception, and I kept waiting for an email about wearing my uniform shirt and a new pair of khaki's to the service.
I met my date, Bernard of the cute little hair cut, at the shop. If he needed to repair me, he would have all of his tools and realistic lighting. Or so he promised.
The door jingled as I opened it. I called, "Anybody home?"
Bernard came from the backroom looking more or less like my twin. I found a nice creme pants suit with a beautiful burgundy silk shell to wear beneath. Turned out so did Bernard. He also had a new hair cut and color. Gone were the cute, long, blond tresses. He'd gone short, dark, and spiky. the biggest difference between us was the shoes: one pair of practical shoes and one pair of pumps. I'll let you guess which one of us needed help navigating the soft ground at the park and it wasn't me. At least he was taller than me and he found someone to pup sit.
He yelled, "In the back. Make yourself at home, Bern."
I lowered myself into a chair near the reception desk and looked for an old magazine. Bernard read all of the trashy magazines at home and brought them to work when he was done with them.
I kept hearing snatches of conversation that didn't sound good. Bits and pieces about "But I really wanted to see you after," and "I really miss you." I slid my sleeve back and glanced at my watch, if we left now, we'd still get to the venue with time to spare. I've been on the wrong side of the 'where are you now' conversation enough times to know someone wasn't going to get any when the night was over. Okay two somebodies, but you get my meaning.
Ten minutes passed and I wandered to the back of the salon and used the ladies' room. I went to the makeup chair, checked the Spackle on my face hiding the zits that broke out only last night, and that my hair was still cute. Hey, when you go from years of not paying any attention to it to suddenly noticing it in a mirror or any other reflective surface (see, stretching out the word count again),
Fifteen minutes passed and I was current on all the news that doesn't really make any difference in the world. My phone buzzed. Where was I?
"I'm on the road," I said. I crossed my fingers hoping it would be truer than not soon. "I'll be there soon. Promise." I disconnected the call and yelled, "Bernie, we need to get a move on. Ready or not, here I come."
Bernard was applying a little loose powder on his nose. "Sorry. I'm pulling myself back together."
I nodded. "It was him, wasn't it?"
We both knew I meant the Mr. Perfect. Seemed that they got rendezvous on a sporadic basis and this was supposed to be one of those events.
He nodded. "It's the third time in two months he's had something come up at the last minute. Nothing to do but go forward and have a fabulous time tonight."
"Exactly, darling," I said. I slipped my hand over his shoulder. "It will be wonderful. and if it isn't, we'll lie to everyone who asks."We got there with less than three minutes to spare. The bride and the mambo line hadn't started down the aisle yet and my dad had found four more men to stand up for him. That he paid them to do it and not tell Marcella, well, that's a horse of a different color - purple I think.
I signed the guest book for the two of us.
"You two look like you should be wedding toppers for a lesbian couple," xyz has always been a snarky bastard. "Or a gay one."
"Well, I thank you for the compliment," I said. "It takes a special something to garner that kind of attention."
"Explains a lot about you, Bernie," xyz said. "There've been whispers about you for years."
Bernard put his hand on my arm. "Ignore him. He's just jealous."
Jealous or not. The man had a point.
~~~
tbc
word count 1092
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