“Reason Number 2,349 Why Ken Is an Asshole.”
I’m afraid it’s time to bring out the big guns. If subliminal spousal bibliotherapy, ex-boyfriend erotica, direct suggestion, and the majesty of poetry don’t inspire Ken to get inked, then he’s left me no choice. I’m going to have to employ the oldest and most potent influencer of bad decisions known to man (next to PCP, of course) —the power of peer pressure.
Cue the Alexander brothers.
What’s Your Beef with Breakfast, Ken?
Ken has been friends with Devon and Ethan Alexander (the same brothers who were the life of Jason’s “Big Game” party) since high school. The three of them have been negatively influencing each other for at least twenty years, so I figured if anyone could get Ken to make a terrible decision, it would be those two.
A few years ago, the Alexanders, who had always been pretty enamored with themselves, moved to California to pursue acting. Ethan, the younger one, morphed into LA Alexander. He was fitter, tanner, and owned way more tank tops and plastic-framed non-prescription glasses than ever before. While Devon, who is Ken’s age, became the Hollywood version—five foot six and full of shit.
Whenever the Alexanders are around—which isn’t much now that they are big shot “producers” (underemployed pyramid scheme–hustlers who live rent-free by always having some teenaged wannabe actress with her own apartment thinking that they are going to make her a star) out in California—Ken tends to let loose a little bit. I mean, he still won’t drink or smoke or have fun or anything, but he will stay up way past his bedtime.
So, last Wednesday, Ken called me on his way home from work to tell me that the Alexanders were in town for Ethan’s thirtieth birthday, so he and the guys were going to meet up at Wild Wing to celebrate and catch up.
“Sure,” I said. “You guys have fun,” I said.
I’ll just stay here and make dinner and do the dishes and bathe your children and put them to bed and drink by myself, I said, in my head.
It was so unfair. Ken going to hang out with a group of our friends at a bar was the equivalent of him showing up at my annual Pap smear appointment.
Hello?! I’m the extroverted social drinker in this couple! Over here, asshole! I want to go pound some Jameson shots and talk shit about all the “beat-downs” that Ethan and Devon have been “slaying” in LA!
But, alas, it was too late to find a babysitter, and Ken was almost to the bar when he called. Per my usual, I was marooned on Two Small Children Island without so much as a dinghy.
Then, as soon as I was elbow-deep in dishwater and acrimony, my cell phone chimed.
Ken: I think I’m going to be out pretty late.
Me: K.
Ken: This is so funny.
Me: I’m sure it is.
Me: I hope you fuckers choke on your chicken wings (typed, then deleted)
In an attempt to eradicate my envious energy and get back to Zen, I threw the kids in bed, lit a lavender-scented candle, and dived headfirst into one of my favorite Deepak Chopra guided meditations.
Manifesting abundance through the systematic activation of the third-eye chakra? Yes, please!
Most of it was in Sanskrit, so I could have been summoning Lucifer for all I knew, but whatever mantra Deepak had me chanting, that shit worked.
No sooner had my man Deepak said his final, “Namaste,” than Ken was texting me to announce that the entire party was headed to our house!
Woop, woop! People! Alcohol! Kids asleep! Abundance!
I scurried around, alternating between giddily clapping and trying to machete my way through the plastic jungle that was once my sleek, contemporary adult living room. Once the mountain of toys had been successfully mashed into every available closet, cabinet, corner, and stove I could find, I began pulling vats of alcohol out of the liquor cabinet, hoping to aid in the social lubrication of my guests.
The thing about being married to an accountant who doesn’t drink is that, when you ask him to pick up “a tiny little bottle of Peppermint Schnapps” for your signature holiday candy-cane martini, he will inevitably show up with a two-liter jug of Peppermint Schnapps because, “It was a better price per ounce.”
There are bottles of alcohol in this house that will outlive us all, Journal.
As soon as the final gallon of Triple Sec had been removed from the cabinet, my guests arrived. And it…was…glorious. Birthday boy Ethan, true to form, was tan, buff,