Mini Skirts, Vodka, and Bad Decisions
GWEN
It’s official. I’m depressed. Say what you want, but turning thirty-five is painful. You can say I’m being a big baby, and maybe you’re right. I don’t care. I still just want to curl up in a ball on my bed with a carton of Cherry Garcia ice cream and cry—preferably while watching those horrible Christmas movies. You know the ones I’m talking about. Where a character who is entrenched in the big-city corporate world returns home for Christmas to nurse a broken heart. They’ll get involved in some kind of local Christmas event or try to save the family business or farm and in the process learn an important life lesson and find a once-in-a-lifetime love. They’re predictable, boring, and always have a happy ending.
Right now, I really,reallyneed to believe in happy endings.
It’s a moot point, though. I’m not at home. I’m at a birthday party—mybirthday party. My gaze goes to my watch. I’ve been here for three hours. I’m not sure if that’s long enough to justify leaving. Mal will probably throw a shit fit. If she doesn’t, then I’m sure Kimber, Patty, and Mary would. I have the best friends and coworkers there are. That said, nights like tonight make them very annoying.
“Do you think you could fake being sick to your tum-tum and get us out of here, Baby?” I plead with the love of my life. Unfortunately, he looks at me as if I’m insane. “I thought you loved me,” I mutter. In return, he licks my face. I cuddle him gently and breathe him in. Baby is my miniature white poodle that I love with my whole heart. Mal is throwing what she likes to call a Costume-Christmas-Birthday-Extravaganza. So, I’m wearing a made-for-sin red velvet trimmed in white fur top and matching miniskirt. There’s a Santa hat on my head complete with the white pom-pom at the end. I look hot. I don’t think that’s being vain or even being full of myself. I do look hot. I’ve always known that I’m appealing to the eye. Getting the attention of the opposite sex—and girls too, for that matter—has never been an issue. Finding a good man is the problem. I run my fingers through the poofy hair on Baby’s head. “I’m starting to think good men don’t exist anymore,” I murmur, adjusting Baby’s matching red velvet and white fur outfit.
Okay, yes, Ididdress my dog to match me. Baby is my … well, he’s my baby—hence the name. This dog is my best friend—don’t tell Mal that, though. He has seen me through all of life’s throat punches through the years. Every night he sleeps with his head on my shoulder, and because of that, I fall asleep with a smile on my lips.
“What are you doing standing over here by yourself? You’re the birthday girl! You should be over there dancing!” Mal yells over the music, bringing her lemon drop filled glass to her lips. She’s going to have a heck of a hangover in the morning. She’s had so many lemon drops that even I’ve lost count—and I usually keep a close watch because I’m the designated driver for these outings. I’m not tonight—thank God. I’m worn out, and tomorrow is mine and Baby’s volunteer day. That means I’m going to sneak away.
“Hey Mal? I’m going to get.”
“What? No! You can’t! It’syourparty, Gwennie!”
“I know,” I respond with a smile. I may be annoyed about this party, but I love Mal, and I appreciate her throwing this party. I know she’s trying to cheer me up. It’s just that she’s only thirty. She has no idea what a difference five years is going to do to her psyche.
Don’t get me wrong. I know in the grand scheme of things, I’m young. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to have kids, and even if I meet someone tomorrow that Imightcould fall in love with, it’d take years to get to the point where we’d be ready to have kids. Being older, it might even take me years to get pregnant. I’m never going to get my house full of kids and the picket fence with the love of my life—no offense to Baby-dog. That’s what I’m coming to terms with—which, for lack of a better word, sucks. It doesn’t help that my perfect younger sister, Cora—with her plastic surgeon husband—is living my dream life and popping out kids left and right. Seriously, she has six kids.Six!Who in the world needs that many kids? I guess she doesn’t mind. I mean, she has a live-in nanny, and her hubby makes sure her boobs and ass still look like she’s twenty instead of thirty-one.
“Earth to Gwennie!”
I look up at Mal. “I’m sorry. I have another stupid migraine,” I murmur.
“You’re getting too many of those,” she says, looking at me with her face full of concern.
“Work has been stressful,” I admit—not that I would ever tell her everything that has been going on.
“Doctor Dickhead bothering you more than normal?” she asks.
“Always,” I say with a forced smile, playing it off like I always do. If I told Mal all the shit I must wade through because of the man we coined Doctor Dickhead two years ago, she would mostlikely lose her mind on me. Most days, it’s all I can do to control myself. I don’t need to worry about Mal, too. I need my job—at least for now. “I really just want to go home. Please don’t be mad. I appreciate the party, I swear. I just … need to go home, take something for this headache, and sleep.”
“You’re going to go home at ten p.m. on a Saturday night—not to mention leave your own party to do it,” Mal huffs.
“Mal,” I sigh, because when she puts it like that, I do sound lame.
“Don’t Mal me. We’re going to party, and damn it, you’re going to enjoy yourself?—”
“But—”
“No, Gwennie. Not another word. You’re going to enjoy yourself even if it kills you.” She reaches around to the bar behind me as she talks. We’re at Mal’s house, but she totally has this place decked out like a speakeasy. It’s cool. I know she put a ton of effort into the party. The music is blaring, and she’d probably catch hell from her neighbors, except I’m pretty sure they’re all here. I watch as she pours vodka into a glass—a lot of it—then adds in cranberry juice and a couple of ice cubes. She does this seamlessly—she’s a bartender, so seriously, the woman makes it look simple. “Here,” she huffs. “Vodka Cranberry just for you. Drink it up. It will loosen you up.”
“Mal—”
“Don’t you Mal me. Drink that up. You’re going to need the liquid courage.”
“Say what?” I ask, holding the glass tightly in my hand.
“We’re going to do karaoke,” she says with a saccharine-sweet smile.
“Nu-uh, no way, Mal.”
I stare at the woman who is freaking gorgeous. She looks like a cross between Sanaa Lathan and Kylie Bunbury. I’ve always been envious of how gorgeous and self-assured she is. I mightknow I look good, but I don’t have the badass vibe that Mal has. I get in my head and worry about what others think about me. Mal doesnothave that problem. I wish I could have that trait.
“Yes way. So, drink up, bitch. I’m thinking we’ll start this part of the party with a little Funkytown,” she says as she walks away. I watch her go, wondering if Mal is ever going to get over her love of one-hit wonders from the eighties. My eyes go big as I think about trying to sing Funkytown. I take a drink, and then a much larger one. If I’m going to make a fool of myself, I need to be as drunk as possible. I hope Mal has her spare room ready, because I’m not finding my way back home tonight. As strong as this drink is, I’ll be lucky if I can find the spare room.
