44 Chapters About 4 Men - BB Easton Page 0,75

time I get after my kids go to bed to finally edit some photos that had been festering on my hard drive for months, when Ken glances over from his designated side of the couch and sees this:

This photo is one of my favoritest, proudest, most prized photos, which I snapped in Venice Beach while visiting my ladyfriend Sara Snow.

Rather than take advantage of the opportunity to praise his wife, Ken simply said, “Huh. A skater pic.” then GOT UP AND LEFT THE ROOM.

I would have accepted anything, Journal.

Oh, look at that. You didn’t fuck it up, or even a condescending, Looky-wook at the pwetty-wetty picture, with a matching pat on the head.

Anything.

So, when Ken passed back through the living room on his way to bed and told me good night, I chose to respond by flipping (or flicking, whichever you prefer) him the fuck off.

Take that, asshole!

I think the desired outcome of that gesture was, in my head, for Ken to be immediately struck down by the same hurt his apathy had caused me, like my middle finger was Harry Potter’s magic wand of feelings and effeminacy and boners and unicorn tears. Then, he would rush to my side to apologize and coo over my art and make it up to me with a foot massage, followed by some gentle well-lubricated anal with a vibrator reach-around.

(Yes, yes, I am that drunk.)

Instead he just looked puzzled. Not even surprised yet amused, like, Oh, Brooke (because that’s what he calls me, fucking Brooke) you’re so cheeky. Put that finger away, you silly girl!

He was more like disappointed and judgy, like, Really, Brooke? Grow up. Who gives people the finger anymore? Seriously.

I’ll tell you who!

I totally just flashed back to one of my fondest childhood memories. My mother’s parents were hard-core Irish Catholics. They’d sent all four of their redheaded, green-eyed freckle-faced daughters to Catholic school. Every Sunday, my grandmother would play the organ, and my grandfather would volunteer to be an usher at church. Every St. Patrick’s Day, my grandfather would organize a parade downtown and surreptitiously dye the city fountain green even though the city would threaten to arrest and fine him for vandalism.

Before every meal, my grandfather would toast, “If I had a ticket to heaven and you didn’t have one, too, I’d tear my ticket to pieces and go to hell with you.”

They were like real live leprechauns. Full of mischief and whimsy, those two.

Well, I remember once, when I was visiting for the summer, my grandmother had yelled into the living room where my grandfather was watching Murder, She Wrote (with the volume at full blast) that she was going to have a beer and scream-asked if he wanted to split it with her.

Seriously, these little elfin lightweights split beers. Maybe that’s why I’m so drunk off one topped-off thimbleful of Clos du Bois. It’s genetic!

After at least fourteen back-and-forths about how he couldn’t hear her and the TV was too loud and how she was going deaf—no, he was going deaf—my grandmother, with a flourish of badassery, thrust her brittle, translucent knobby-twig-like middle finger into the air and stuck out her tongue before sashaying right back into the kitchen where she immediately cracked open a can of Coors Light and proceeded to drink the whole damn thing.

Those two were married for almost sixty years. I can only pray that my inability to metabolize cheap alcohol, love of limericks, and penchant for giving the finger are signs that, I—like my fiery, impish grandmother—also have what it takes to keep a marriage intact for the better part of a century. And given that she’d emerged from the baby-booming 1950s a Catholic housewife with only four kids suggests that her secret probably involved lots and lots of anal.

You do the math, Journal.

Guess I’d better stock up on pinot G ’cause it’s going to be a long sixty years.

I Put the Ass in Passive-Aggressive

March 3

Dear Journal,

So, a few nights ago, I miiiiiight have gotten a little drunk…and I miiiiiight have written a journal entry about anal sex…and I miiiiiight have decided it would be a great idea to save it in my Super Private Journal That Ken Is Never, Never Allowed to Read Ever because (A) drunk and (B) it seemed like a nice passive-aggressive way to apologize for flipping him off without having to actually have a conversation about my juvenile behavior.

Well, Ken must be checking my Super Private Journal for new entries fucking hourly because, the next night,