trick-or-treaters on Halloween.
“But I will,” Jack is saying into the phone.
Pause.
Perusing my handful of candy corn, I discard a mutant one that’s missing its white tip. If I’m going to eat this stuff, it’s going to have white tips intact, dammit.
“I don’t know when, Mom. Soon…As soon as I have a chance.”
Pause.
I eat the candy in my hand, bored, wanting to get on with the show and see who gets the boot.
I bet it’s Didi, the annoying female bartender from Wichita.
Or Heidi Jane, the single mom from Los Angeles. I hope it’s her. I feel sorry for her little kids, left behind with some random relative while mommy and her enormously fake boobs go off in search of reality-TV stardom. Give me a break.
“I know, I will. I promise…No, she’s right here…Yes.”
At that, it’s all I can do not to leap off the couch, grab him around the neck and demand to know what he’s talking about.
Because it’s obviously about me. I can tell by his tone, the way he lowers his voice when he says, “No, she’s right here,” and his voice goes up for emphasis on the first part of here.
Okay, this is exciting.
My inner TiVo instantly rewinds everything Jack just said.
No, not yet…But I will…I don’t know when. Soon…As soon as I have a chance…I know, I will. I promise…No, she’s right here…Yes.
He is so talking about getting engaged!
I mean, what else can it be?
Especially when he says in obvious and irritated resignation, “Yes, I’ll ask her tonight, okay?…Yes, I’m serious…. Because I don’t want you to keep bugging me, that’s why…yes, I’ll let you know right away…. I know…. I will. Okay? Goodbye.”
He hangs up.
I flash him one of those big Snoopy smiles. If I were a cartoon, a glint would be pinging off my front tooth.
“So?” I ask.
“That was my mother.” He tosses the phone aside and picks up the remote again.
“How was she?”
“She’s fine.” He backs up the scene again, blip by blip, in obvious effort not to miss a word Ed is saying this time.
That’s odd.
Did he or did he not just promise his mother he’d propose tonight?
I know! He did!
Which in and of itself is bizarre enough, because don’t you think he’d have decided when and where to do it on his own? As opposed to spontaneously agreeing because his mom is imposing a deadline?
Then again, who am I to argue with any logic that will have a ring on my finger and a wedding in the works before midnight?
“There you go,” Jack says, and presses Play.
He presses Play.
I guess he’s waiting until after the show so that I won’t be distracted.
Okay, fair enough.
I did say earlier that I would be really pissed if, say, there were a terrorist attack before I got to find out who got booted off that caused such a watercooler stir.
But I wouldn’t be pissed if I got engaged before I found out. I guess I should have clarified that to Jack.
Too late now.
He’s all and now back to our regularly scheduled programming, watching television as though he hasn’t a care in the world. Good old calm, laid-back Jack.
Ed, the host, is talking, but I’m not hearing a word he’s saying. I’m thinking that I’ll always remember that I got engaged wearing these pink sweatpants with the bleach stain on the hip, and a mouthful of soggy Nicorette.
Didi the Wichita bartender gets voted off.
When Ed breaks the news, she kicks him in the cojones before storming off the set.
Okay, so that’s what all the hype was about.
Me, I barely notice. I’m busy trying to remember if the just-in-case bottle of champagne I stashed in the vegetable bin in the refrigerator a month ago is dry or sweet, because after all that candy corn I definitely can’t stomach sweet.
“That was great,” I say, stretching. “Why don’t we turn it off.”
“The TV?” he asks, looking shocked. “Don’t you want to see the scenes?”
I always want to see the scenes. He’ll be suspicious if I say no.
“Yes,” I
“But I will,” Jack is saying into the phone.
Pause.
Perusing my handful of candy corn, I discard a mutant one that’s missing its white tip. If I’m going to eat this stuff, it’s going to have white tips intact, dammit.
“I don’t know when, Mom. Soon…As soon as I have a chance.”
Pause.
I eat the candy in my hand, bored, wanting to get on with the show and see who gets the boot.
I bet it’s Didi, the annoying female bartender from Wichita.
Or Heidi Jane, the single mom from Los Angeles. I hope it’s her. I feel sorry for her little kids, left behind with some random relative while mommy and her enormously fake boobs go off in search of reality-TV stardom. Give me a break.
“I know, I will. I promise…No, she’s right here…Yes.”
At that, it’s all I can do not to leap off the couch, grab him around the neck and demand to know what he’s talking about.
Because it’s obviously about me. I can tell by his tone, the way he lowers his voice when he says, “No, she’s right here,” and his voice goes up for emphasis on the first part of here.
Okay, this is exciting.
My inner TiVo instantly rewinds everything Jack just said.
No, not yet…But I will…I don’t know when. Soon…As soon as I have a chance…I know, I will. I promise…No, she’s right here…Yes.
He is so talking about getting engaged!
I mean, what else can it be?
Especially when he says in obvious and irritated resignation, “Yes, I’ll ask her tonight, okay?…Yes, I’m serious…. Because I don’t want you to keep bugging me, that’s why…yes, I’ll let you know right away…. I know…. I will. Okay? Goodbye.”
He hangs up.
I flash him one of those big Snoopy smiles. If I were a cartoon, a glint would be pinging off my front tooth.
“So?” I ask.
“That was my mother.” He tosses the phone aside and picks up the remote again.
“How was she?”
“She’s fine.” He backs up the scene again, blip by blip, in obvious effort not to miss a word Ed is saying this time.
That’s odd.
Did he or did he not just promise his mother he’d propose tonight?
I know! He did!
Which in and of itself is bizarre enough, because don’t you think he’d have decided when and where to do it on his own? As opposed to spontaneously agreeing because his mom is imposing a deadline?
Then again, who am I to argue with any logic that will have a ring on my finger and a wedding in the works before midnight?
“There you go,” Jack says, and presses Play.
He presses Play.
I guess he’s waiting until after the show so that I won’t be distracted.
Okay, fair enough.
I did say earlier that I would be really pissed if, say, there were a terrorist attack before I got to find out who got booted off that caused such a watercooler stir.
But I wouldn’t be pissed if I got engaged before I found out. I guess I should have clarified that to Jack.
Too late now.
He’s all and now back to our regularly scheduled programming, watching television as though he hasn’t a care in the world. Good old calm, laid-back Jack.
Ed, the host, is talking, but I’m not hearing a word he’s saying. I’m thinking that I’ll always remember that I got engaged wearing these pink sweatpants with the bleach stain on the hip, and a mouthful of soggy Nicorette.
Didi the Wichita bartender gets voted off.
When Ed breaks the news, she kicks him in the cojones before storming off the set.
Okay, so that’s what all the hype was about.
Me, I barely notice. I’m busy trying to remember if the just-in-case bottle of champagne I stashed in the vegetable bin in the refrigerator a month ago is dry or sweet, because after all that candy corn I definitely can’t stomach sweet.
“That was great,” I say, stretching. “Why don’t we turn it off.”
“The TV?” he asks, looking shocked. “Don’t you want to see the scenes?”
I always want to see the scenes. He’ll be suspicious if I say no.
“Yes,” I
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