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but disdain for “the heterosexual trap of marriage,” this was a strange thing.
    “Oh, Blanche, I really want that double-banded Cartier ring, you know the one…”
    “I’ve seen it,” I said—on every gay man in the greater West Hollywood metropolis.
    “But James said we don’t need to because we’re already committed.”
    “A pity,” I said.
    “Yeah,” said Stefan, “especially since I was having so much fun planning our wedding.”
    Not two weeks after I broke up with Frank, Marcie came over for some coffee. After I made her some of my famous homebrew, she sat down.
    “Uhh. Strong coffee. Can you put some more milk in?”
    I gave her the milk. She put in half a cup.
    “That’s better,” she said, “but your coffee cups don’t match.”
    “I have matching ones.”
    “Then why aren’t you using them? And that yellow sweater—why are you wearing yellow?”
    “I like yellow.”
    “It doesn’t like you. It makes you look… too yellow,” said Marcie while looking over my sweater.
    “What’s up?” I said, hoping to change the subject. “How’s the wedding going?”
    “OK. Ahh, do you think that there’s any chance that you and Frank will get back together?”
    “I don’t know. Probably not. I think we’re almost definitely completely broken up.”
    “Because I’ve decided to have a joint bridal and bachelor party. And I’m going to do ‘a couples only’ party. But since you’re almost definitely not in a relationship, you can’t come. You get it, right?” said Marcie.
    “Not really,” I said while looking away and attempting to sound nonchalant.
    “Look,” said Marcie as she inspected the coffee cup in her hand. “I know you introduced me to my fiancé. But I want to have a couples’ party. And you aren’t a couple. So you can’t come.”
    “Uh huh…” I said while looking out the window.
    “But I am going to give you some advice,” said Marcie. You should
never
wear yellow. So give me that sweater. I think it’s right for me.”
    “I’m keeping it.”
    “I’m just trying to help you.”
    “Still keeping it,” I said.
    Marcie stood up and walked over to the door. “Well I have to go because I have a lot of planning to do. So—remember—I’m
not
going to invite you to my couples’ party. But don’t worry, I’ll find some way for you to be part of my wedding,” she said as she walked out the door.
    I called Marcie’s maid of honor, Bettina, for an explanation.
    “What’s to explain?” said Bettina. “You’re not in a relationship, and you’re kinda… stale.”
    “How can I be stale?” I said. “I just got out of a relationship that I ended.”
    “You aren’t married… and you know… you’re kinda running out of time.”
    “I’m in my 30s.”
    “For now… but you know, you didn’t close the deal. Again,” said Bettina with a slight under-tone of disgust.
    “So let me get this right,” I said. “Because I didn’t get Frank to marry me…”
    “You have to wonder…” said Bettina. “Why is that? I mean, is there something wrong with you… like you’re weird or going into the pile of the unwanted. What do they call that?”
    I knew what they called that: an outcast.
    “Oh really,” I said. “You know, I’ll find someone, I always do.”
    “I don’t know, Courtney. I’m beginning to think that you might need some retooling… maybe a little help.”
    “And you, Bettina—a lesbian—are going to give it to me?”
    “At least I got married,” said Bettina.
    “Yes you did,” I said, “to a gay man. How’s that working out for you?”
    “You haven’t told Marcie, have you?” asked Bettina. Before I could respond, I heard a crash, a screaming child, and Bettina say “kid emergency” as she hung up her cell.
    Interesting.
    Or not.
    More like typical female Schadenfreude—joy at someone else’s misery. It was part of the drill, part of the unsaid Female Scorecard that we kept with our female friends since age 12 or