my first bra (I was a late bloomer, very self-conscious back then).
“Seriously Em, now that you’re painting and with us doing the big marriage thing, it’s time we stopped living like VW Vanagon drifters. L.A. one month, my post-grad apartment a few months. We need to put down our roots. Get a warm, sunny place that we can grow with.”
“You sound like a tour guide at the Botanical Gardens.”
“I was thinking SoHo or TriBeCa—a loft perhaps. So I’ve made some appointments for us, tomorrow at four.”
“Four?”
“Four.”
I began to think of the day I had planned—buying new canvases, brushes, and supplies with no place to put them. The calls to potential wedding locations, planners, and did I want ecru invitations with a Palatino typeface or white with Caslon Open face? Should I get a personal trainer or just do an added workout from my Buns of Steel tape?
“Emily—no buts. And no butts!”
But?
3
A rising a few hours earlier than usual, I headed straight for my newly purchased box of Frosted Flakes. I was very excited about this, getting up a few times last night hoping it would be morning so I could have breakfast, only to notice that, while it was still dark outside and not because we were still in March, there were hours to go before I’d break open that new box.
I’ve been going through a sugary cereal phase, with kid-tested mother-approved choices so that my breakfast would not be completely deficient of the essential vitamins and nutrients I needed for a balanced day. Choosing cereals like Kix and Frosted Flakes over Fruit Loops and Lucky Charms. (I am also an avid reader of cereal boxes.)
As a kid, my mother had acted as Lady Capulet to my love affair with Cap’n Crunch, not allowing me to have him because she put this in the “junk” category. Now that I’ve broken through the bondage of eating based on parental consent, perhaps I’d reacquaint myself with this unrequited love. Do they still even make Cap’n Crunch? Panic. Could it be—Cap’n Crunch was no more? Completely tragic. Considering that I’d most likely be seen in the comedy section of a video store over tragedy, I quickly laid to rest any remorse over Cap’n Crunch’s untimely demise and reminded myself how lucky I was to have Tony.
Tony the Tiger had always been in such good spirits—possibly from all of those fortified vitamins and minerals. And after all these years, he hasn’t gone through the protean transformations as other noted spokespersons. He must have had the same fitness trainer as Dick Clark. Tony was the kind of cover model that I found especially welcoming in my current mood.
I poured myself a bowl, sliced up some bananas, added the milk, and began inhaling my breakfast. Twirling the box around for something to read besides another bridal magazine that would only underline how unprepared and ineffective I was in my wedding duties, I became thrilled upon finding a game of logic—promoted as an intelligence test used from the days of Mesopotamia.
The questions were written in grape over a golden pyramid with two sphinxes bordering the edges; the geometric puzzles gave it a hieroglyphic feel. Now this was why I really loved kid cereal, for the fun games that I could ace, giving me a strong dose of self-confidence before I began my day. Clever marketing from the team at Kellogg’s. I should really send them a note.
My preoccupation with the game eclipsed my former bliss of eating my cereal. The first question showed numbers that clung to the sides of differently colored triangular peaks like clouds to a mountain. I had to figure the missing number on the last one. Moving to the next problem, as these games always began with a harder question to show it involved some mental exercise, this question had a few boxes with various lines crossed in them where I needed to choose the shape that didn’t belong. Figuring that they were all in the same color, I picked the one with too many lines, as that did not appear to be as symmetrical and harmonious in that Mondrian way. Mondrian would have chosen box “D.” The next question, I had to apply the same logic but with triangles—very simple, almost too easy, as it had the same properties as the earlier question. Lazy people, these Mesopotamians, the messy one naturally got my nix.
Then I read the answers and tallied my score so I could be reminded of how brilliant I was.
Okay. But perhaps if I just retook the exam now that I understood the questions. I mean they really weren’t written all that clearly.
This game was purely ridiculous.
Okay. I am stupid and have a giant butt.
Hearing the phone, I glanced at the microwave clock illuminated in neon—8:36 AM. The caller was my mother, as warned by the brilliant invention of caller ID, ranking right below the electric toothbrush and Dustbuster. Considering that calls this early have familial latitude, I resolved to remove all bad karma at once and picked up the phone rather than have the machine be victimized by the rant of her voice-mail therapy.
“Emily, darling,” she said, her tone more in sync with an alpha wife than a submissive homemaker, which caused me to fumble the phone out of nervousness until the droop of Henry’s pajama sleeve skimmed my coffee, the stain creeping up the cotton fibers igniting an alternate anxiety.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” I shrieked, turning on the faucet to soak the sleeve under the running water.
“Emily, you really should control your anger. Here I am, calling you in the most cheerful manner with the most divine news. Perhaps I should just catch up with you at another time after you’ve dealt with your repressed issues.”
“Sorry, Mom. It’s just that I spilled coffee on Henry’s pajamas.”
“My goodness, is he all right? You know about that woman who sued McDonald’s because the coffee was so hot it burned her. She should be embarrassed for herself.”
“McDonald’s coffee? Lawsuits? What are you talking about?”
“Well, Emily, dear, it really isn’t polite to spill coffee on your fiancé.”
As opposed to someone else?
“Mom, I’m wearing Henry’s pajamas.”
“Excuse me!”
I could just picture her horrified expression—think eyes popping out of their sockets on bouncy coils, tongue sticking out, and flecks of sweat popping from her head—after imagining that Henry and I do indeed sleep together.
“And you really should attend to the stain before it sets in. There was this program on that home and garden channel with this crafty lady who used vinegar water. A Portuguese woman, from…” She paused, and I heard the snap of her fingers so she could jog her memory.
“From Portugal?”
“Precisely!
“And you should check out the Intimates Section at Barney’s. They have the most lovely nightgowns. Proper sleepwear. Especially important now that you will be a married woman. No more pajamas. Lingerie, darling. That’s how you keep your man from straying. And if he does stray, at least you’ll find out from the relationships you will cultivate with the lingerie shops. That’s how Mrs. Coleman found out Charles was cheating. The sales help at LaPerla ratted on him after selling him a thong that wasn’t in her size. Mrs.
