On Wednesday I am going to get a chemical peel on my face. I like to do this periodically so I can really appreciate how much my face doesn’t hurt on an average day. The Russian woman that does my peels has that disease where you don’t feel pain because she always tells me “this not hurt and then you pretty in one week.” The very first time I paid to have acid put on my face I decided not to tell Mike because I wanted him to think I just turned naturally beautiful. Unfortunately I looked like a leper that made out with a sidewalk so I confessed and he started laughing and called me a “dumbass.” And I was like “Oh puh-leeeeeze Mike, you know as well as I do that we all want to look good. I suppose now you are going to tell me you exercise for your health.” Whatever.
So in addition to having my face removed, my grandmother wants me to go to Las Vegas with her next month because she wants to gamble and see that “Thunder Show.” My grandfather passed away recently and I was initially reluctant to take her to see The Thunder Down Under since it could bring back memories of grandpa but ultimately decided a change of scenery might be just what she needs. I called Mike and explained that my grandmother needs me right now and even though I have absolutely no desire whatsoever, none at all, not even a little bit to see a bunch of sexy, naked, ripped men covered in oil, gyrating in front of me that I simply cannot find it in my heart to tell my poor, grieving grandma no.”
I told my mom about my vacay with grandma. “I have it all figured out Mamacita. I am going to just plop her in front of a slot machine with $500 worth of quarters and a carton of cigarettes. I will bring a book and a latte so I can keep an eye on her and then I will tuck her in for night-night at 8:30ish.” My mom started laughing “Ooooh-nooooooo, you have it so wrong. The last time I went to Las Vegas with grandma, she kept me up until four in the morning. She gets really hyper there and likes to go from casino to casino all.night.long. It’s like releasing a caged animal into the wild.”
Visions of my lit grandmother standing on top of a bar swaying seductively while belting out Frank Sinatra tunes with a deep, raspy voice in a depilated nightclub off the strip at two in the morning while an elderly gentleman who had been sitting at the same upholstered red vinyl table since 1960 would stand up and robustly clap after each number while periodically motioning for the haggard cocktail waitress to bring him another bourbon, never taking his eyes off grandma, entirely entranced by the alluring spell she had cast……until she started coughing and wheezing halfway through “Fly Me to the Moon” and climbed down off the bar, sauntered over to him, opened her cigarette case, leaned over, stroked his bald head and said to him “Well hello there handsome, you got a light?” Nope. There was noooooooo fucking way I was going to miss this.
Next subject of business, for those of you who are not already aware, Mike did not murder me after all when he came home from his golf trip and discovered that I painted his office bathroom bright pink. He thought it was “hysterically funny” and was happy I “gave it a woman’s touch” and insisted that I “leave it!” At first Mike’s highly unanticipated response was super sexy but then the longer I thought about it I realized:
1) He is using reverse psychology on me by acting as though he prefers having a bright pink bathroom and consequently my penance is either living with the oozing eye sore I created or repainting everything myself since I am the only one who doesn’t like it;
2) He cheated on me and was so wrought with guilt when he returned home to his innocent, adoring, trusting wife that he had no other choice but to pretend to be happy about his ghastly bathroom because he knows what he did was way, way, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay unforgivably worse than my silly, little, fixable prank and his conscious is going to slowly and painfully gnaw at him each time he looks at me or our darling children for.the.rest.of.his.life; and/or
3) He’s gay.