Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Much Ado about Nothing (not about the play) (07/28/11)
- TITLE: Wobbly Stilettos and Swag
By Jenna Dawn
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It’s 4:56 p.m. on my husband’s birthday and I completely forgot. AGAIN.
I flopped onto the couch and glared at the ceiling. Then I proceeded to flail about like a fish out of water.
Oh, he is so loving this right now. My husband actually relishes in the annual amusement of it all. Will she remember? How long will it take? I rarely do remember, of course, and then I feel like the most unworthy wretched worm of a woman ever betrothed.
Clearly he knows I didn’t remember this morning. He kissed me on the cheek and slyly left for work like any other day. But this time my Soar to Success Daily Flip Calendar ogled me. This time I had … what … forty-minutes to work up something stupendous!
And then it came to me. An idea so extraordinary it would surely redeem me from all the forgotten birthdays of yesteryear. Tommy had always said if I “really” loved him ... nudge, nudge ... I would sing for him. In front of other people. Like Karaoke style.
Well, a singer I am not. This he knows, of course. All the more reason this would be the perfectly unexpected display of love and devotion … a ludicrous, yet priceless gift for him. This would be the best birthday I ever forgot!
Before I could talk myself out of it, I got all gussied up. Slithering into Tommy’s favorite dress and strapping on killer stilettos, I was spritzing on my Britney Spears perfume when his truck rumbled into the driveway. Shuffling into the living room attempting not to break an ankle, I stood all seductive like with one hand stretched high against the wall and the other on my hip.
Tommy stepped in, took a gander at me, raised his eyebrows and smothered a chuckle.
Sauntering over, I grabbed his shirt and yanked him toward me. I gave him a passionate kiss, plastering red lipstick on his mouth.
“Come on, Baby Cakes. We’re goin’ out.”
I drug my blindfolded husband into the Karaoke club and plopped him down at a table. A trio of middle-aged folk were on stage shamelessly blaring out YMCA, complete with choreography.
I pulled off his blindfold. “Not one word”, I said in an effort to avert his wisecracks. “Order me something sugary, like you”, I instructed as I walked away, leaving him to deduce his whereabouts.
I sought out a songbook and perused the list. Handing my song info to the D.J., I slipped him a twenty endeavoring to bribe him into bumping me to the top of the list. Let’s get this humiliation over with.
Sitting back down with hubby, I gulped down a Shirley Temple.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for Christina Santos!”
My pulse spiked. My mouth went dry. Something was stuck in my throat. Oh yeah, my pride.
The music started as I wobbled up to the stage in my stilettos. Clutching the microphone with sweaty hands, I opened my mouth … and nothing came out.
Shouts came from the crowd, cheering me on.
Thoughts of atrocious karaoke singers, those who had paved the way, proudly belching out songs flashed through my mind.
From somewhere deep within, audacity sprang forth. My voice started to come alive. I was loud. I was confident … sort of. And I was totally off pitch.
“And I-----ee--I------ will always love yooooouuuuuuu …,“ I bellowed with the best Whitney Houston swag I could muster.
It was mortifying. It was exhilarating. And it was finally over.
I finished my song to the roar of the crowd and a handful of standing ovations. I peered at my husband, who had tears in his eyes from the gut wrenching laughter I had unleashed upon him. Speaking into the mic, I said, “Happy Birthday, Baby Cakes. That was for you.”
I ambled back, bent over and gave Tommy a kiss and then flopped down in my chair.
“Honey?” Tommy said, wiping a tear from his eye and stifling a laugh.
“Yes, Baby Cakes?”
“It’s not my birthday.”
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