Prologue: Once upon a time…
“Feel my ass!”
Bernadette looked at her step-mom incredulously.
“Come on!” her step-mom said, leaning over in her chair in the middle of a hotel lobby and smacking one cheek,
“Feel it!”
A mild panic brewed inside Bernie as she realised her step-mom had a genuine desire for her to touch her buttock.
Her step-mom stood and turned her skinny, muscular frame around to present her backside.
“Ah, thanks,” Bernie said, “but um…”
“Ah, come on! Feel it – I swear!”
Bernie reached forward with caution. “Very firm,” she noted.
“You know what the girl in the Junior’s Department at Jacobson’s told me?”
Bernie shook her head.
“She said I have the ass of a fourteen-year old.”
“Wow, that’s great,” said Bernadette.
Her step-mom nodded her head in agreement all the while grabbing her own cheeks. “And have you seen these?”
she said whipping around to face Bernie. She leaned forward and slid her shirt over her well-defined shoulders.
“Yes,” Bernie nodded, “very defined.”
Bernie vowed silently that when she turned 58-years old she would be satisfied with sagging cheeks.
“Now feel my arm!”
* * *
A long time ago... in a kitchen far, far away…with an altogether different woman, Bernadette stands in front of the
sink about to pour a bottle of rum down the drain. Though, in our story to follow, she is aged 27, in this American
kitchen, she is only nineteen.
“Can I at least keep the bottle?” she asks, stupidly. The bottle is inlayed with gold paint and drunken, wavy lines of
glass. It has a shimmering gold-label that says, “100 year-old recipe”. What a shame, she thinks.
Her mother rolls her eyes. “Bernadette – the bottle or the police.”
Bernie relents and tips the bottle into the sink. “A gift of death,” her mother says behind her, impressing on her the
shamefulness of the situation. “You were going to give your best friend the gift of death for Christmas.”
“She likes rum,” Bernie said.
“Then she will die.”
There was a very matter-of-fact tone to that statement; one that kept her quiet while she finished draining death
from the (beautiful) bottle and carried it out to the garbage bin. Her mother kept watch.
“Mom? How did you find it?”
“How?” Her mom sounded confused. She looked at Bernie as if she had simply left the bottle out on her dresser with
a big note attached to it saying, “Underage drinker about to drink this,” as opposed to wrapped in shirts, inside a
box, stuffed in her luggage, packed to go back to college the next day.
“Well Bernadette, I just sensed evil in your closet and sure enough it was there.”
* * *
This is what Bernie and her fiancée Sam are up against. Two women. Both alike in dignity (or lack thereof). In fair
Detroit, where we lay our scene.
But this is no Romeo and Juliet tale. No, it is far worse. This young couple doesn’t have the guts to end it all. They
don’t even have the chutzpah to elope.
Oblivious to impending doom, Sam and Bernie are much like any young couple in love about to embark on the
adventure of a lifetime. Before long -- day three of the engagement to be exact -- reality will come crashing down.
If only Bernie had known that weddings are like the blackholes of the emotional universe. Until the planning
started, years of resentment and insecurities disappeared into this blackhole, only to resurface when she was thrust
inside and unable to escape. There are worse things than planning a wedding, but over the coming months Bernie
felt she earned the right to use the phrases “poverty-stricken” and “war-torn”.
Of course there is something to be said for aspiring for a dream wedding. A wonderful man – her best friend. An
elaborately set-up and romantic proposal. A tearful ceremony surrounded by family and friends who adore her (and
him!). A fabulous party with all the trimmings. This is what weddings are all about – right?
If only it were so.
Weddings are all about the Fs: Feuds, Family, and Frustration. Then multiply these by fickle and finicky.
The worst by far is family. Bernie was contending with her family’s two matriarchs in particular. Extreme women in
every sense, sometimes manic, sometimes loving, sometimes enemies. Two women, who, though sharing similar
tastes (in clothes, flowers, art), pretended they despised everything the other stood for. Worst of all, they pretended
they weren’t pretending and told whoever would listen that they liked the other. Each woman claimed she was the
unfortunate victim of the other’s wrath. A difficult situation to negotiate. Combine these attributes with Bernie’s
upcoming wedding and disaster awaits.
And yet for all their insane qualities, for all the times her friends suggested she not return their calls, for all they
were about to do to her, she still loved her mother and stepmother. And she knew they loved her. And so it goes.
A sad state of affairs under which to start. But the real story has more drama even than one would think from such
an opening. Before this story is out, Bernie will be questioning the state of her family, her future and her sanity.
And she will be drunk. Very drunk.
Copyright © 2007 Stacie Lewis
“Feel my ass!”
Bernadette looked at her step-mom incredulously.
“Come on!” her step-mom said, leaning over in her chair in the middle of a hotel lobby and smacking one cheek,
“Feel it!”
A mild panic brewed inside Bernie as she realised her step-mom had a genuine desire for her to touch her buttock.
Her step-mom stood and turned her skinny, muscular frame around to present her backside.
“Ah, thanks,” Bernie said, “but um…”
“Ah, come on! Feel it – I swear!”
Bernie reached forward with caution. “Very firm,” she noted.
“You know what the girl in the Junior’s Department at Jacobson’s told me?”
Bernie shook her head.
“She said I have the ass of a fourteen-year old.”
“Wow, that’s great,” said Bernadette.
Her step-mom nodded her head in agreement all the while grabbing her own cheeks. “And have you seen these?”
she said whipping around to face Bernie. She leaned forward and slid her shirt over her well-defined shoulders.
“Yes,” Bernie nodded, “very defined.”
Bernie vowed silently that when she turned 58-years old she would be satisfied with sagging cheeks.
“Now feel my arm!”
* * *
A long time ago... in a kitchen far, far away…with an altogether different woman, Bernadette stands in front of the
sink about to pour a bottle of rum down the drain. Though, in our story to follow, she is aged 27, in this American
kitchen, she is only nineteen.
“Can I at least keep the bottle?” she asks, stupidly. The bottle is inlayed with gold paint and drunken, wavy lines of
glass. It has a shimmering gold-label that says, “100 year-old recipe”. What a shame, she thinks.
Her mother rolls her eyes. “Bernadette – the bottle or the police.”
Bernie relents and tips the bottle into the sink. “A gift of death,” her mother says behind her, impressing on her the
shamefulness of the situation. “You were going to give your best friend the gift of death for Christmas.”
“She likes rum,” Bernie said.
“Then she will die.”
There was a very matter-of-fact tone to that statement; one that kept her quiet while she finished draining death
from the (beautiful) bottle and carried it out to the garbage bin. Her mother kept watch.
“Mom? How did you find it?”
“How?” Her mom sounded confused. She looked at Bernie as if she had simply left the bottle out on her dresser with
a big note attached to it saying, “Underage drinker about to drink this,” as opposed to wrapped in shirts, inside a
box, stuffed in her luggage, packed to go back to college the next day.
“Well Bernadette, I just sensed evil in your closet and sure enough it was there.”
* * *
This is what Bernie and her fiancée Sam are up against. Two women. Both alike in dignity (or lack thereof). In fair
Detroit, where we lay our scene.
But this is no Romeo and Juliet tale. No, it is far worse. This young couple doesn’t have the guts to end it all. They
don’t even have the chutzpah to elope.
Oblivious to impending doom, Sam and Bernie are much like any young couple in love about to embark on the
adventure of a lifetime. Before long -- day three of the engagement to be exact -- reality will come crashing down.
If only Bernie had known that weddings are like the blackholes of the emotional universe. Until the planning
started, years of resentment and insecurities disappeared into this blackhole, only to resurface when she was thrust
inside and unable to escape. There are worse things than planning a wedding, but over the coming months Bernie
felt she earned the right to use the phrases “poverty-stricken” and “war-torn”.
Of course there is something to be said for aspiring for a dream wedding. A wonderful man – her best friend. An
elaborately set-up and romantic proposal. A tearful ceremony surrounded by family and friends who adore her (and
him!). A fabulous party with all the trimmings. This is what weddings are all about – right?
If only it were so.
Weddings are all about the Fs: Feuds, Family, and Frustration. Then multiply these by fickle and finicky.
The worst by far is family. Bernie was contending with her family’s two matriarchs in particular. Extreme women in
every sense, sometimes manic, sometimes loving, sometimes enemies. Two women, who, though sharing similar
tastes (in clothes, flowers, art), pretended they despised everything the other stood for. Worst of all, they pretended
they weren’t pretending and told whoever would listen that they liked the other. Each woman claimed she was the
unfortunate victim of the other’s wrath. A difficult situation to negotiate. Combine these attributes with Bernie’s
upcoming wedding and disaster awaits.
And yet for all their insane qualities, for all the times her friends suggested she not return their calls, for all they
were about to do to her, she still loved her mother and stepmother. And she knew they loved her. And so it goes.
A sad state of affairs under which to start. But the real story has more drama even than one would think from such
an opening. Before this story is out, Bernie will be questioning the state of her family, her future and her sanity.
And she will be drunk. Very drunk.
Copyright © 2007 Stacie Lewis
