Champagne & Jet

"So let me get this right. You spewed on Dmitri Branimir when he got on bended knee? Puked on him at such a crucial moment in his life-- you know, the moment where he opens himself up to the woman he adores. And you fucking puke on him? In front of a whole dining room. Sweet Jumping Jesus, Kaykay, are you trying to drive that man away? Or is this some form of freakish Croatian courtship I want to know nothing about?"

Jet never, ever, ever sugarcoats anything. It's why I consider her my closest friend. Librarian by day, tattooed model by night; she's my dose of cold water in the face for dealing with reality. I'm positive that her brain lacks a central censoring system to moderate that which plops out of her mouth. She is also always seemingly equipped with mimosa fixings, which at this moment, during this conversation-- not even an hour after dealing with my maternal unit's irritating coercing-- is a very good thing. Safely ensconced at home while Dmitri finished his gardening, I was eager to get into the verbal free-for-all with my best friend.

Let the drinking commence, courtesy of Jetnia Akbari. Half American mutt, half Balinese, pure attitude. At a stately height of five foot nine when barefoot, in her perpetual heels, she towers over my five foot nine-and-a-half frame. Her long, black hair possessed a smattering of bright green streaks which were a new addition since I saw her three days ago. They matched her personality; bright, obvious and somewhat obnoxious.

We sat in the living room as she continued on her tirade. "The man who has stuck by you in the shittiest of shitty years of your life, the guy who pretty much worships the ground you tread and the air you breathe, this same paragon of manly virtue who took you to the most expensive place in Chico so he could ask you to marry him was puked upon? I can't even wrap my brain around it. What the fuck were you thinking?" She wasn't watching as she poured the champagne into her glass. She left just enough room for splash of orange juice. I'm certain it was there for coloring, not flavor.

"You know, when you put it that way, it doesn't make me feel as bad as when I spewed on him. So, yeah. Thanks for driving the point home. I already feel horrible."

"That's a given. But why?"

"I don't know. Felt scared shitless when I realized this was it, the proposal. Went from Oh My God to Pukey Brewster." The look in his eyes the moment afterward it registered in his brain... I can never wipe that from my mind – and I've tried. "I can't believe I'll tell the kids we'll adopt that when Daddy asked Mommy to marry him, Mommy upchucked on him like a drunken sorority girl at her first frat party." I didn't sip my mimosa. I downed it like a man dying of thirst and poured myself another. "Maybe I'll tell my kids that he proposed during Rocky Horror Picture Show. That's less embarrassing, right?" A shred of hope lingered in my voice.

"Only if you didn't have a red V lipsticked to your head when he proposed at the Rocky show last night. By the by, you are aware that you've given up your right to wear white at your wedding, right? You threw that out the window when you two got this place together." Jet waved her hand airily about as she reclined on the most comfy couch ever conceived by man.

I love my home. Dmitri designed and built it, and his work ethic is such that only the best would do. The walls were a mellow sage green with a white washed oak wainscoting that complimented the polished bamboo floor. Large bay windows provided light for all manner of plants clustered around. There was a definite wild feel to the room. It had the open feeling of a loft with light shining through the large skylight situated over the living area. Another skylight illuminated the kitchen, which took up two-thirds of the back wall. Textile art that I created hung upon the walls, and out back Dmitri built me a small workshop as my very own castle of crafting. The garage was his manly kingdom of beer and shiny tools.

I cringed at the mention of the color white. "I don't want a traditional wedding. White is too chipper a color, anyhow. Besides, Dmitri agreed to my stipulation. It'll be a while before I'll submit a novel, let alone finish one." We sat in the living room as we enjoyed our discourse.

"Just keep singing Dear Prudence to yourself while pounding those keys. You'll finish it, edit it, sell it, and then take me to The French Laundry with your advance. We'll be pretentious together. It'll be fun."

I shot her a dirty look at the mention of that song which helped to give me my middle name. I dislike her reminding me that I lacked a normal middle name like Marie or Elizabeth or Catherine. Instead, I was blessed with Prudence from my Beatles-worshiping mother. My consolation is the Souxie and the Banshees cover of said song. I chose not to acknowledge her faux pas, and responded to her choice of eatery. "You're gonna want wine with your decadent meal, aren't you?"

"Why, how nice of you to offer! Wonder what is the priciest bottle in their collection happens to be? You can consider it my birthday and Christmas present for the next ten years all rolled into one."

"You must have some misbegotten notion that I hold you in that high of esteem. If I do that, then I won't be able to afford my wedding." I sighed. Witty banter could only go so far to make me feel better. Dear, observant, Jet, picked up on my discontent. I've been writing for over ten years. But between life, work and a short attention span, I have yet to finish one of my many novels. Good starts, all of them, but I either lose interest in the project or I get dissatisfied with where the story is going. My latest attempt was off to a good start, I'm just hoping I can finish it before I get bored or irritated.

"So, speaking of your attempt to join the hallowed ranks of Hemingway, King and Rice, how goes the bodice ripper?" She leaned forward; chin supported by hands held up by elbows propped on knees.

"I hate that you call it that. My project is a historical romance." Not my first choice when writing. The theory is that I won't get as bored because it'll be more of a challenge, with research and stuff. That was Jet's idea. Under my breath, I added, "And they didn't write romance."

Her no-nonsense voice dripped sarcasm. "Bodice ripper-- don't kid yourself, hun. Hanky-panky back in the day, and all the wenches wore bodices. Oh, and Rice wrote erotica which means romance got bent over a log with the benefit of lube.... so stuff it. Does your adventure have pirates pillaging the high seas?" Her green eyes were wide in anticipation.

"No."

"Highlanders or others of Celtic descent?" Her eyebrows rose in hopeful eagerness of a more eloquent answer.

"Ummm..."

"Are you going to let me read it?" Her frustration was very evident.

"No."

Something I thought impossible happened. Jet actually sounded miffed as she replied, "Why not? And that's a question that requires more than a monosyllabic answer."

I took a moment to phrase it so she could understand and not be butthurt by my reply. This latest novel attempt wasn't something I was comfortable letting her read, partially because of her own slightly bitter and jaded view on life. That, and I really didn't want her feedback on the intimate scenes, which would certainly be forthcoming. Fact is, I didn't want her reading anything I wrote because she used the one opportunity I gave her to rip the work apart and play critic from hell... and grade school teacher with the ever-flowing red pen of correction. "Because you'll devour it and give me an honest opinion. And sometimes I'd like a more tactful sort of honesty than the brutal reaming you mastered."

I hate red pens. Seriously. That is not red ink, but the blood of correction seeping from a thousand wounds. One can take the hint when there's more red than white when one gets their manuscript back. One can learn many a splendid lesson from such character-building events as Jet giving an unabashed opinion on one's work.

"I can be nice. I won't even mention you barfing onto Dimi like a kid fresh off the Tilt-a-Whirl." She smiled. "Besides when you get published, you'll be in my realm. I'm sure you've heard of my friend, Mr. Dewey Decimal. Failing that, I will get my hands on one of your manuscripts to tear apart somehow, Kaylis. Don't doubt me, or my literary pimp, Dewey D. You won't even see it coming, so consider yourself warned." She cocked an ebony eyebrow in a silent challenge.

"Okay, good point. You and your literary pimp can read it once it crosses the border into your realm because I won't give you a rough. So, change of topic. Dmitri told Willow what happened and now she wants me to go to her past-life-regression-therapist-psycho-voodoo-doctor-shyster-man to find out why I did what I did. In exchange, she'll keep out of the wedding planning."

"Wow, biased much? Look at it this way: an awesome deal. Go for it. Pay this guy however much he charges for an hour just to keep your mom out of her non-hostile takeover of one of the most important days of your life. It'll be like cents a day to keep your mom from hippiefying the whole shindig. Speaking of which... nontraditional, like how and are you open to suggestions?"

"You'll love this idea-- a non-white wedding. The only white will be the flowers. I'm thinking 'Moroccan Nights' as a theme. Dmitri wasn't really feeling 'Ottoman Harem'-- which by the way, isn't as gaudy as it sounds. Couldn't convince him of it though. Maybe he was afraid I'd have the groomsmen and the best man look like eunuchs."

"Well, that would be unique." A giggle escaped at her pun. "And you should read more world history. The Ottomans invaded Croatia. So throwing an invader's culture into the face of someone could understandably lead to rejection. But Morocco... spices, silks, olives... sand. Lots of sand. So, what colors were you thinking of for your nuptial festivities?"

"Indigo blue, silver and purple. White flowers... I'm thinking roses, gardenia and lily. Maybe some hydrangea. I'd be in the Indigo. Dmitri would wear a dark colored suit...maybe charcoal gray. I want the kiss to happen at midnight. That way, we'd start the day as man and wife." My bad for not researching my ideas better. At least Dmitri liked my Moroccan backup.

"For as bitter and cynical as you happen to be, you are such a hopeless romantic. You do know that, don't you? And I like purple. I can rock purple. You should play 'Underneath the Stars' by the Cure. It'd be perfect for your non-emo psudo-gothy wedding."

"I'm a hopeful romantic, and I just know I found my prince." To go with my prince, my finger possessed a new sparkly tiara...It was hard to not hold my hand out to admire Dmitri's great taste in jewelry. It always irked me when I would witness some newly engaged gal staring aimlessly at her finger-bling, hand splayed as if ready to fan wet nails dry... but now I understood.

"You are a sap, Kaylis. A sap who believes in fairy tales still. Dmitri is aware of this character defect, right? Or should I remind him?"

"He's known me for fifteen years. I'm fairly positive that he's well acquainted with my flaws." I looked at Jet with a small smile pasted to my face.

"No, no, no, my friend. You guys dated one summer in high school, parted ways for years because of Lorryn and then make contact after life had shat down both your necks. So, more like you've known each other seven years and still manage to be civil to each other. Off the record, I'm mildly envious. All the guys I dated in high school turned out to be prison fodder."

"Fine, seven years. However, as you have pointed out, he's seen me at my worst. He supported me through my crisis period. There is no doubt on my mind that he is aware more than most of my character defects." And yet, despite what I had been through and dragging him along for the roller coaster ride, he wanted to be with me. It looked like I managed to cash in my karma points and get the coolest prize ever. Yay!

"He's masochistic, obviously. That you missed his grill totally when playing uber ookie-mouth during a public moment doesn't matter to him... or he woulda kicked you out. I know I would have." Jet finished the last of her orange-tinted champagne and contemplated the empty glass for a second with a frown upon her face. It didn't take her long to refill it with a touch more orange juice than last time.

"Thanks." It might be true, but dammit, sometimes the truth really hurts. I didn't hide it in my voice. Apparently, my downtrodden expression triggered a kinder, gentler Jet.

"Geez, didn't mean to get your knickers in a twist. I was jesting. See? Ha ha. He's with you because he loves you, and you're with him for the same reason. The fact that the gods smiled down upon him while he served those two tours overseas and gave him the opportunity to find you again after almost a decade should prove that to you." She leaned back upon the butter-soft leather and put her feet on the armrest, crossing her narrow feet. Her green toenails made me wonder if she was hiding some sort of fungus or other blight since it was such an ugly shade of nail polish. Almost olive but nearly lime, it was an eyesore regardless.

"I puked on him. In public. When he asked me to be mischief to his mayhem. That's kinda major. I don't think he was really contemplating the possibility of vomit covering him when he and I reconnected."

"That's his fault for not considering all the possibilities and repercussions of asking you to marry him. Sure, he probably gave thought to the holdover hippie and the flock of black sheep in your family tree, but that was probably the extent of his thought process."

I smirked over my glass. "You are such a ray of sunshine on an otherwise dreary day."

Laughter broke free and she agreed with her usual self-confidence. "Oh, I know. So are you going to do it? Gonna go head-tripping and discover you were Elizabeth Tudor in a past life?" She licked her cherry red lips then sipped her mimosa.

A look of contemplation graced my face as I thought about it. "Yeah. Why not? I bet Dmitri was Robert Dudley. If not, I can always pretend." I saluted her with my champagne flute.

"You do know Lizzie and Dudster didn't marry, right? She became an old, embittered harridan and he married her cousin."

"Jet," I replied as patiently as I could, "please just stop while you're ahead. You're harshing my buzz."

She laughed. "Whatever. You're gonna take my advice and go see the head tripper. You know you are. It's that or some pagan and scifi influenced shindig that will incorporate things you never knew existed."

"You're probably right. A hundred bucks and an hour of my time versus Willow picking out something a Klingon bride would be proud to wear. Such a hard choice." I mocked a sigh, Jet laughed and we got giggly drunk before noon.