It had been perfect, if I do say so myself. I don’t get why Drew is still acting weird though. You would think that since he got off he would be in a better mood. I mean, he came without even having sex. That’s got to be a good thing. And since he thinks he got me off too, he should be feeling pretty good about himself. But he’s been moody and sad and hasn’t even made any comments about bending me over the table in days. Something definitely isn’t right with him.
Our neighbors call to invite us over for a cookout this evening, and I take them up on their offer. In the few years we’ve lived in this house, we’ve never done anything with our neighbors. They are a very strict, religious couple, and we obviously aren’t.
Before I had got pregnant with Billy, Liz hosted a sex toy party on our back deck. The wife had been outside tending to her garden and saw thirty women waving vibrators around and trying to pop blown up condoms by grabbing a partner, putting the condom between them, and hugging each other as tightly as they could to get the condom to explode. The condoms had been full of lotion and everyone was screaming and throwing vibrators at each other.
I’m pretty sure that’s why every time I see her out in the yard, she turns and runs back into her house.
Getting an invite from her for a cookout had been a shock but I figure it couldn’t hurt. If anything, maybe this couple could help Drew and I learn to communicate better. I mean, they are religious people. They must know how to talk to each other and how to make a marriage work. I bet I can get some really good advice from them.
“The freaks invited us to their house?”
“Will you stop calling them that?” I complain as I put a pink bow clip in Veronica’s hair.
“What’s a fweak?” Veronica asks.
“The crazy people who live next door,” Drew replies as he pulls a onesie out of Billy’s drawer that reads: Screw the titties and milk. Give me a beer.
“No. Absolutely not. You are not putting him in that shirt.”
I walk over and snatch the onesie out of his hand and put it back in the drawer, searching through Billy’s clothes for something appropriate.
“How do we not have one good shirt for our son to wear?”
“What are you talking about? These are ALL good shirts,” Drew argues as he pulls out a red onesie that says, “I shit my pants when ugly people hold me.”
“These are nice people who invited us over for a nice dinner. He needs to wear something nice,” I state as I keep digging through the drawer.
“Boooo. Nice is lame,” Drew states.
“Fweaks are lame,” Veronica pipes up.
“Yeah they are! High five sister!” Drew exclaims as he puts his hand in the air for Veronica to smack.
At the very bottom of the drawer I find a shirt that says, “Pooping in progress” with a percentage line under it showing forty-five percent.
“This will have to do. Can you get Billy dressed so I can do my hair?” I ask as I lay out the shirt and a pair of tiny little jeans to go with it. “Also, you need to change your shirt. You are not wearing the shirt with a picture of Jesus and a crying Virgin Mary that says: Bitches be trippin’.
“I just want to state that for the record, I do not think this is a good idea,” Drew yells as I walk out of the room.
“Doodly noted,” I yell back.
~
“Okay, everyone, it’s game time!”
Seven seconds after walking across our yard and stepping foot onto the neighbor’s back deck I realize I’ve made a mistake. This isn’t just a fun get-together with our neighbors and a way to make new friends and hopefully learn from them about how to make a marriage work. This is the Twilight Zone and we are never going to escape. We are surrounded by women wearing ankle-length jean skirts and their hair in braids down to their asses. They pray before dinner, they pray in the middle of dinner, and they pray after dinner. They pray so much I can almost imagine Jesus himself sitting up there on a white puffy cloud saying, “Oh for the love of my dad, shut the fuck up already. I heard you the first eleven times.”
Drew keeps poking me in the side and snorts every time someone says, “Let’s bow our heads and give thanks.”
“If they ask us to drink the Kool-Aid, grab the kids and run,” Drew whispers as everyone pulls their chairs into a circle in the middle of the deck.
“But I like Kool-Aid. Grape is my favorite,” I whisper back in confusion.
“We’re going to go around the circle and everyone has to tell an embarrassing story!” the hostess announces.
“Oh this cannot end well,” Drew says quietly.
I elbow him in the side as one of the jean skirt women starts to tell her story about her husband playing a trick on her. When she had asked him to get her a glass of grape juice, he had handed her a glass of prune juice instead.
“Oh my fu-fart!” Drew states loudly as everyone around us laughs.