Read Straight Up and Dirty: A Memoir for Free Online Page B

egg yolk.
     
    Lea and I stood side by side, staring at our reflections.

    “Oh, Steph, this is bad.” She turned to the side and extended her stomach. “So bad. I look like a knocked-up Perdue roaster.”

    “I have two words for you Lea: Open. Bar.”

     

    THE GROOM’S MOTHER WAS GREETING GUESTS BY THEIR first and last names, as if she’d studied the seating chart for months. She was heavier than I’d expected a mother of a III to be. From across the church, she looked like a shrub of a woman, the kind with a meaty laugh who, if given the opportunity, would lift Bob Barker upon meeting him. She’d win the brand-new car and make it to the showcase showdown. Everyone would want her to win. As I got closer, she looked more like a woman who had a one-night stand with a disco ball. Was that glitter eye shadow?

    “Oh my, Stephanie Klein, your hair is just Love. Ly.” She sounded like she’d swallowed a southerner. “Where ever did you get these magnificent curls?” She gripped one and pulled it toward her nose, inhaling deeply. “Just Love. Ly.” She had puppet mouth when she spoke, moving her face only by way of her enormous mouth. It seemed like a hinge that kept her head together. “You know, I just love Electra’s curls too. You girls have great genes. I can’t wait for those two to give me some grandbabies. My husband and I just love Electra.”

    I didn’t know what to say, only that I suddenly wanted to squeeze her. Maybe it was her voice or her disarming casual manner, but I loved Electra’s motherin-law to be. “It’s true honey. Did you know we were never close to our William until Electra came into his life?” I wanted to borrow her eye shadow. I wanted anything this woman had to give. “She’s a blessing I tell you, a God’s honest blessing. He is lucky to have found her. We all are, you know.” I didn’t know. I didn’t know women like this existed.
     
    I thought all mothers-in-law lived up to their dreaded clichés. Mine was certainly no exception. Accustomed to one-upmanship, Gabe’s mother, Romina Rosen, was a cliché and a half. On the whole, a woman isn’t keen on her motherin-law if she’s controll ing , disapprov ing , or interfer ing . Romina was a triple major in the ing s and took extra night classes in calculat ing just for kicks. The woman was a hate nerd.

    Everyone called Romina “Rome” because she told them to. “Just call me Rome.” She’d say it the same way each time, with her head tilted. Then came the haughty laugh, open-mouthed, without the slightest hint of hand raised in a modest reaction. She gave it up too easily, laughing at everything without investment. “Yes, that’s right. ROME, ” she’d say loudly as if speaking to a foreigner. “ Rome, like the city. You know, in Italy.” Okay, Rome, ’cause no one but you knows where Rome is. And as far as insults went, she coated hers in sugar and hoped I’d swallow them by the spoonful.
     
    Suggesting I “play house for a while longer instead of getting married” was her way of curing the hiccups between us. “I mean, what’s the rush, Stephanie?” Rush? Gabe and I had been engaged and living together for a year and a half at that point. “I’m just saying, it’s very lonesome being a doctor’s wife. He can’t even support you.” I try to see it as independent, not lonesome. Oh, and by the way, “playing house” is something I did when I was four, you crotch rot.

    Did I ever wonder how I’d put up with her for the rest of my life? God, yes. But I loved Gabe, so I became an actress, sucked it up, bit my tongue, and smiled. For his sake. “I’m not marrying Rome,” I told myself. When she became particularly infuriating, I’d invoke a loving memory with Gabe, hold it in my mind, and remind myself that we were in love, and that love would transcend all, even Rome.
     
    In regard to our upcoming wedding, once Rome heard Gabe utter “not ready yet,” she threw the dreaded