Cal: “You put that conversation in there, too? Holly and Mark are going to read that!”

Me: “Er. Yeah. Maybe. Stop trying to change the subject. Do you really believe that? That human beings are incapable of monogamy? Because I can cite a lot of examples of marriages in which neither partner strayed—”

Cal: “How do you know?”

Me: “I think I’d know if my own parents were cheating on each other.”

Cal: “How? Unless they told you. You wouldn’t know. You’d have no idea.”

Me: “Well, what about Rhonda’s parents?”

Cal: “Who the hell is Rhonda?”

Me: “Rhonda. Of Rhonda and Paolo. Her parents were celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.”

Cal: “You have no possible way of knowing whether or not Rhonda’s parents have been monogamous for those thirty-five years.”

Me: “True. Still. I’ll bet you twenty bucks they have been. Nobody goes on a cruise with a cheating spouse.”

Cal: “You are unbelievable.”

Me: “No, you are. Just because your ex-wife cheated on you, you think all women are incapable of being faithful. Admit it.”

Cal: “I never said any such thing.”

Me: “You didn’t have to. It’s totally obvious. When you say you think humans are incapable of monogamy, you mean women.”

Cal: “No, I don’t.”

Me: “Did you cheat on her?”

Cal: “Who?”

Me: “Valerie.”

Cal: “HOW DO YOU EVEN KNOW HER NAME?”

Me: “Holly told me. Did you?”

Cal: “Of course not.”

Me: “See? I rest my case.”

Cal: “HOW? I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!”

Me: “You distrust all women because of what one of them did to you. And that’s made you take this anti-marriage stance. But it’s not marriage that’s the problem. It’s ditzes like your ex who don’t take it seriously or get hitched for the wrong reasons or whatever. Don’t blame the institution of marriage for Valerie cheating on you. It wasn’t marriage that made her cheat. She was just a ho.”

Cal: “Oh my God. You are unbelievable.”

Me: “Yes. But I’m right, too. There’s the exit. Don’t miss it.”

He’s acting like he’s all shocked now that I would bring up this very private thing from his past.

And I guess it IS kind of rude to call someone’s ex a ho. But really, that’s what she is. Just like Dave is a male ho. But I haven’t let Dave’s predilection for humping soul-sucking Human Resource reps behind my back sour me on the idea of matrimonial bliss, or of someday finding that perfect someone, now, have I?

And really, I know that, technically, there’s no such thing as matrimonial bliss… marriage is work, and there are no soul mates. You just have to find the person who annoys you the least (at least according to Dr. Phil), or rather, annoys you in ways you can stand.

Really, I bet there’d be a lot less divorce if people realized this. A lot less marriages, too. But that might not be such a bad thing.

Oooooh, I smell horse! The Centro Ippico! We’re almost home!

___________________________________________


To: Listserv <Wundercat@wundercatlives.com>

Fr: Peter Schumacher <webmaster@wundercatlives.com>

Re: JANE HARRIS


FANTASTIC NEWS, KIDS!!!! There is going to be a wedding after all!

This just in:

JANE HARRIS has driven all the way to Roma to get the APOSTILLE that her friends need to have the marriage! YES! She walked in at approximately 21:00 hours, while my grandmother and I were sitting at the banquet table in the villa, trying to get JANE HARRIS’s friends, who ate of the bad oysters but were finally starting to feel better, to drink some soup.

In walks JANE HARRIS holding up the APOSTILLE! The wedding will go on tomorrow morning as planned! The friends of JANE HARRIS, even though they are both still sickly, jump up and shout for joy! And JANE HARRIS says, “This is my wedding present to you!”

It is the best wedding present anyone has ever given to anyone, declares JANE HARRIS’s friend Holly.

My grandmother opens the bottle of champagne to celebrate.

So come one, come all, to the Ufficio of the Secretario of Castelfidardo tomorrow morning at 9:00!

This is Peter, #1 Fan of Wundercat, saying GOOD NIGHT!

Wundercat lives—4eva!

Peter

___________________________________________


To: Holly Caputo <holly.caputo@thenyjournal.com >

Fr: Darrin Caputo <darrin.caputo@caputographics.com >

Re: Hello, it is your mother


Holly, this is your mother. Something horrible has happened. Your brother Darrin is going to get married. To a man. On the steps of City Hall. Where everyone will see.

You must come home at once. You know your brother has never listened to me or anyone else in this family. You must stop him from doing this. I cannot allow a child of mine to disgrace himself in this way.

I am begging you to talk your brother out of this crazy scheme. Perhaps Mark can help, as well. He’s a doctor, surely he must know how wrong it is to flagrantly defy the law in this way.

Counting on you to come home and do the right thing by your poor, confused brother,  

Your mother

PDA of Cal Langdon

PDA of Cal Langdon

I was right from the beginning. From the moment I first laid eyes on her—holding all those water bottles in the duty free shop back at JFK— I thought to myself, “There’s a nut case.”

I called it.

And yet… she made some very miserable people very happy tonight. I never saw a bigger pair of sad sacks than Holly and Mark, slumped at that giant dining table, when we walked through the door tonight. Mark, of course, looked particularly lost, since he’s blind as a bat without his glasses. I walked in and handed them to him — I actually had to put them on his head, since he couldn’t even see me holding them out to him — and then Jane slapped that form onto the table with a big, “Here’s your wedding present.”

I actually thought Frau Schumacher might have a heart attack, she was so excited.

And to tell you the truth, it was a little upsetting, because I could picture myself, having to give her mouth-to-mouth to revive her, while Mark pounded on her chest. And I have the disturbing idea— maybe from the way the woman hangs on my every word (though surely this is because I’m the only one here who speaks German?)—that if she came to and found my lips on hers, even giving her the breath of life, she might actually… well, sort of enjoy it. Maybe even slip me the tongue.

Could it be that Jane is right? Could there possibly be something to her theory that marriage is all right for some people—that it didn’t work out for Valerie and me because Valerie was… well, a “ho”?

This seems an oversimplification of the problems Valerie and I had.

And yet…

Well, marriage certainly seems like it might be all right for Mark and Holly. They’re happy enough about it, jumping around as much as they can, considering their still queasy stomachs. I have to say, I can’t understand how anybody could be as delighted as they are at the prospect of being married by the socialist mayor of a town devoted to accordion construction, thousands of miles from their families.

But maybe there’s something romantic about it that I’m missing. Valerie always accused me of not being romantic enough. The sewing machine I got her for Valentine’s Day was always a bone of contention. She said she’d have preferred a diamond tennis bracelet.

But I thought a sewing machine was a much more practical gift, considering how much she was spending on clothes…

Now Holly’s grabbed Jane and the two of them—followed closely by Frau Schumacher, who seems fairly spry for her age and apparently doesn’t like to be left out of anything—have disappeared, apparently in a panicked quest to ease the wrinkles out of the wedding gown none of the rest of us is allowed to see.

With the girls otherwise occupied, Peter and I attempted to throw perhaps the lamest, most pathetic bachelor party in the history of time for Mark. Lame because of course the groom is so weak from food poisoning he can barely lift his glass to his lips. Pathetic because the only entertainment are the stray cats from last night, back for another helping of fish.

That’s right. No lap dances or kamikazes for Mark.

But perhaps this is fitting for a man who has chosen such a perverse—and yet strangely right—place to wed.

Now Mark’s staggered back upstairs to bed—interrupting the girls while Holly was trying on the wedding gown, judging from the indignant screams I just heard floating down from the window—leaving me alone with young Peter, who just asked me if I thought Jane Harris would be back down, or if I thought she’d go straight to bed.

How touching that this young man believes I am in any way privy to Ms. Harris’s private thoughts or intentions. As this is an entirely erroneous assumption, however, I was forced to inform him that I did not, in fact, know.

Then the little malcontent had the nerve to look in my eye and ask me just what, precisely, were my intentions toward the lady in question.

Not in so many words, of course. His exact phrasing, uttered in a highly disapproving tone, was, “Are you and Jane Harris lowers?” by which I am assuming he meant lovers. I can’t say I cared for the smug look that crept over the kid’s face when I told him that we most certainly were not.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so adamant?