Shut Up. I Wear Heels Bigger Than Your Dick

Jasmine’s fabrication of some secret affair Gino had with some co-worker, which even if true, could only have resulted in a disappointed lover induced to sleep quicker than climaxing, is as potentially frightening as the Cuban Missile Crisis was during the Cold War when two superpowers edged each other closer to the brink of civil war. She is episodic with her abandonment and jealousy issues and should be compelled, even under threat of gunpoint, to attend individual counseling or else pony up a ticket to Panama before the day’s end. She’s as plumped up with hysterics as a Coney Island Nathan’s hot dog. Literally, stick a fork in her.

While poor unsuspecting Gino is taking care of errands, Jaz’ therapeutic housecleaning nets her ephemera that necessitates chambering her firearm, yet again. An old napkin from his ex on his 40th birthday, a card thanking Gino for turning her on (instead of Jasmine), a Kama Sutra book on positions illustrating all of the 99 out of 100 positions they haven’t tried, unused lubricant (that might smooth over this interval), a self-study Portuguese book (for work in Brazil) and accompanying notebook only showing the Spanish translation of bitches instead of, say, ¡Qué perro tan bonito for this ex even has the cojones to get a Coco lookalike.

Gino proudly but heedlessly describes his thoughtful presents for Jaz’s favorite thing in the world – her rheumy-eyed dog, who ironically is offered therapy first. She lets rip her opening salvo with a preternatural calm. “You’re always the giver and so generous and kind.” Now Gino becomes wary. “Sit there, we need to talk,” she commands. “What is it”? he questions warily. “Exactly my question. What is it doing in our house and why are you keeping it”? “Not keeping it. I probably forgot to throw it out. So what? I had a life before I met you.” Dispassionately, Jaz rips up the napkin to show it’s non-importance, but now Gino says she’s “stepping over the line.”

In typical Jasmine fashion, she will treat herself to something for which she will not pay since her emotional trauma entitles her to countless indulgences and opportunities to walk all over people with the shoes they bought her. She will have a spa day with Michelle, Dana’s wife and the only family member she can abide by, who will at least pretend to listen. Michelle makes more headway in 2 minutes than Gino has in 2 years. “People save love letters.” Dana has and Michelle isn’t bothered. “You have to believe him more.” Smacking herself in the head, she admits, “I’m over the top.” And that’s where it should have ended, but this is TLC, and Michelle perkily suggests a Girl’s Night Out and a Bachelorette Party – like the one Gino had THE DAY BEFORE SHE CAME. In a strip club where he got TOUCHED?! And down the rabbit hole Jaz’ slides again. Keep Your Head High, and Your Middle Finger Higher.

Hungry Woman From America

The Istanbul Bazaar’s simple samples of baby doll dresses and mother-in-law-of-the-bride gowns don’t have that sexy vibe for that “figure from cartoon. Big butt, thin abs and some big boots,” as drolly and unconsciously spoken by Justin, mercifully out of Nikki’s earshot. Pick after pick, Nikki nixes Justin’s choices for that second meeting with his parents. “I think he’ll be happy having me wear a straitjacket.” Nikki hates the ‘C” word compromise and conservative, but his discomfort affects a choice, and now all that’s left to do is curl those impossibly long strands of blonde hair while still half undressed so you can keep up your running-late streak. Justin uses the time well. “I start to learning the English app so I will be ready for anything because when she yells on me, I don’t understand anything; if it nasty, now I know. Finally, you look more like regular woman.”

Uncomfortably garbed in a gauzy nearly translucent white polka dot dress with asymmetric ruffles and flapping short sleeves topped off by a pair of blush ankle strap wrap cut-outs, pulled together by a multi-strand necklace jeweled concoction prized in the Austro-Hungarian era, Nikki is predictably unhappy while an oblivious Justin compliments his woman on her natural style, and the more he does, the further down in the passenger seat she slumps. Her eye rolls and palpable discontent are replacing the oxygen in the car. “Whatever look I rock, I look like a natural woman. Maybe, I’m not his cup of tea,” she muses, “because it damn sure just ain’t about the makeup.” “Honestly, sometimes I don’t feel you’re sexually attracted to me; if it’s because of me or you’re asexual; I can’t figure it out.” Justin responds, “This is going from inside my head – my attraction to you. When you kills my minds, it’s not working . . . physically, only physically it’s very hard. But your touches is so wild. Be more quiet, how it’s say? Wild like you eat me. I’m scared of you sometimes. This is why I go and make the breakfast.” I guess that’s the preferred burn. “I was just touching your chest. You can’t handle me; that’s what it is. Can’t handle me. Can’t handle me. We’re not meant for each other; let’s leave it like that.” “Sex. It’s always what I’m hearing every day.” It’s what’s for dinner. “For me, it’s very difficult when I feel the pressure every day, every time about sex. I can’t listening her yell anymore.” Nikki is the picture of despondence. “Is he gaslighting me? He really goes there with what he says to me to put me down. You need a simple woman? I am not her and I’ll never be her! Do you understand this”? Oh no, Justin isn’t through. “And you need what? Robot ****** every time? Robot ****** 24 hours and 7 days. The Nikki I can’t love at the moment, she only thinking about what she did for me. Like material stuff. Not all I did to accept her, my friends and family. Where the button eject? (Calling James Bond.) Now leaving.” Everything is a joke.” “Everything is a joke because have only with jokes you can survive. Life is not easy.”

“If You Pressure Me, I Won’t Do It

“The lack of intimacy is a little concerning. Something’s different. What is it? His apartment is paper thin, and I don’t want to do anything.” How paper thin? Well, Mom can you hear your paper rustling when you turn the page. So, let’s go out and celebrate your first day with Kentucky’s finest - horses and bourbon. At Steppingstone Ranch, Clayton manages to mount something and then he and Anali are led around the corral. It’s like bypassing the Giga Coaster for the merry-go-round in terms of excitement and they retire to a park bench so Clayton can discuss, “Why you don’t post anything about us on social media in general? What’s the problem”? May your life someday be as awesome as you pretend it is on FB. “How can I tell my dad that after a whirlwind romance, we got engaged 4 days after meeting? It got out of control.” Like the snowball you rolled down the hill never expecting it would avalanche and destroy the town at the foot of the mountain? “You look like a Gringo – a lot different from a Peruvian. My dad has an old-fashioned perspective.” “He doesn’t know though, that we only have 90 days; another lie. Imagine if we waited 3 months and then sprang it on him that your boyfriend is really your husband. Will that take another year? “But then it will be as if I met you here and not before. “But I’ve been asking for four years!” “But, I don’t want to talk about.”

Time to intro Clayton’s overprotective sister, Brandi. Overprotective being the fig leaf to cover a demanding, risk-averse, controlling perfectionist. Take a shot of bourbon, Brandi. Get loose Miss-You-Can-Go-From-40-To-100 like Nice can go to Naughty with a flick of a whip. Emotionally unavailable Brandi clenches, “Cute,” the way southerners deploy “Bless your heart” with that good-natured razor-sharp edge that pats the mentally challenged on the head in lieu of uttering one’s true feelings. Clayton admits to holding back about his fiancee because of Brandi’s prior behavior. Anali explains that her dad has let her go to America for work; it would be a different story if the end goal was to meet Clayton. And that shows she’s not here just for a green card because if she was, leaving her family wouldn’t have been so hard. “She couldn’t have faked it for 2 12 years, could she”? “Oh, yes she could.” What concerns you most sis? Too disgusted to discuss it further, she peppers the audience. “I’m just over it. Fine. Get married. A little bit of me doesn’t give a fuck that Clayton is pissed off at me,” she reveals. And from far away comes something that sounds like a plaintive, “I don’t think she likes me.” Well, aren’t you a little ray of pitch black?

Dislike is Better than Hate; We’re Getting Somewhere

“It’s a rilly nice place,” says Rob as he sardonically eyeballs Sophie’s temporary capacious digs carrying his token one red rose as if it were the sovereign’s 1661 golden Orb. Keeping his distance on the sofa, while Sophie doesn’t stop playing with her hair, he begins his ad-libbed mea culpa. “It’s just bullshit online like junk mail; it means nothing.” “The thing is you did it before, and you knew if you did it again, I’d leave you. And you know how much you hurt me the first time. I’m not asking for material things; all I asked you for was your loyalty. Someone loyal doesn’t do this; they just don’t.” The sorry, I’m not sorry begins. “Oh, but a long-distance relationship is hard, and I never cheated on you.” “It’s not the actual cheating; it’s the hurting me.” “I don’t know how to make you feel better right now; all I know is what I can do – not do anything like that again. If you give me a chance, I’ll make it up to you.” “Okay, but only because I have no other place to go to.” I’ll spend the rest of my life showing you that you can trust me.” She acknowledges that she has to get over the hurt and trust him this time because they only have so much time this time. Rob looks impatient. “Don’t look at the bad. Look at the good. It was wrong. It was . . . but it could have been a lot worse. I will never ever be THAT WRONG again. I’ll try every day. Don’t hate me.” Don’t trust what you see. Even salt looks like sugar.

Your Therapist Is a Clown

“I feel on the outside of his family. I feel like a secret. I haven’t met his children yet like I was the one who took him away from them and we’re getting married. It’s putting me in the shittiest position ever,” Ashley tells the therapist. “There’ll be time,” coos Manuel, "it’s not like I’ll never introduce her. Ashley is like a matchstick; you just scratch her head and she fires up. My kids are only 12 and 14 and I still have to protect their well-being. The therapist tells Manuel he owes Ashley a chance. She doesn’t want to control him; she wants to love him. Manuel looks as convinced of that as we are of the Supreme Court justices self-monitoring their ethics. He has two facial expressions as tilts his head to the side and half-closes his eyes while his mouth tries to contain a full-out laugh: I’m Not So Secretly Laughing At You and Keep Underestimating Me Idiota. Love is never having to remind someone they have the obligation to send $250 measly dollars to your lover’s family monthly. “Ashley is reactionary at times; no? My life is private,” he concludes the session.

The truth comes out at the cafe much more than at the session. “Do you think the therapist helped us”? “Look, if she helped you good. I’ve always felt fine. I came to the therapist because of your nagging, but I’m not going back. We’re not children or babies. We can find solutions for our problems in our own minds; we don’t need someone else to fix them for us. Do you understand me”? “Oh, G-d,” moans Ashley having just discovered the man of her dreams is really Pedro Lopez, The Monster of the Andes. She has trust issues. “Do you trust me? Is that the problem? If you want trust, give me trust. Simple. Easy. I can’t hear you.” “Oh, G-d. I do not like your attitude right now. You are being disrespectful to me.” “Speak to me in Spanish,” he taunts. “You need a siesta because you are at a 12 and I need you at a 2.” They each accuse the other of selfishly wanting things their own way. “We have bumped over my career and me sending money back and me spending money over all sorts of things.” “Okay. Bye. Go bye. Don’t count on me. That’s it. No, I’ll walk home.” She’s so tempted but after working so hard for 2 years to give up in 2 days - "It just can’t happen. Hold on and let me overthink this.

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