By special reader request, here is the melon baller story. Once again, we mine the fertile, sanity-hanging-by-a-thread period of a decade ago.
I was standing in the glacial returns line at Target. Bored, irritated, I scanned my environment for a means of entertaining myself. The wedding/baby registry machine was to my right. "Hmmm," I thought. "Let's do the math. Fucking Amy broke off our engagement 29 months ago. Six months off for appearances, four months of searching for a man exactly like her father, 19 months of stalling to get to the magical, round we've known each other for two years mark....this is about the bare minimum time she'd need to get re-engaged. Let's see."
BOOP-BOOP-BEEP-BEEP-BOOP
"Ho-ly crap." The wedding was in a few months.
My mind reeled. My math was right, or at least it wasn't wrong. But who really expected a hit? And who registers at Target? I have no recollection of returning my item. I printed the registry and went home to reel some more.
For the next couple of months, I had an engrossing new hobby: fantasizing about crashing the wedding. It's not like I didn't know where it'd be: the very church we hadn't wanted to use for our wedding and that her parents had strenuously insisted upon. ("With all due respect, Ken, it's not your wedding. It's ours," I'd said. "No, John, you're wrong. It's ours," came the reply.) But what to do? Pipe up when the minister asks for objections? Perhaps I could sit in the congregation, let my cell phone ring about 20 times, answer it, stand up, and drolly announce "Amy, it's Jesus. He wants to know why you're wearing white." Or should I ask to dance with the bride? Catch the bouquet with a flourish? I had many discussions with fellow jiltee Elizabeth, who was game to help with the cell phone or parking lot fliers or whatever I decided to do. As satisfying as revenge would have been, though, there was one undeniable truth: seeing Amy and her family would punish me more than it would them. I just didn't want to get slimed again. Yet the serendipity of it all compelled me to use this info somehow, didn't it? And thus I decided to amp it down to a sterile little mindfuck that would constitute no burden on me whatsoever. Perhaps if I simply sent a gift. Yes. That was the right tone. But not months ahead of time—two weeks before the wedding would suffice, right during the highest-anxiety period. With any luck, that would be two weeks they spent dreading the thud of my other shoe. Another shoe that would never come. Perfect.
I perused the registry for something appropriate. "Maybe I can send the groom knives," I thought. And then I saw it. The I-can't-even-believe-this answer to my prayers: they actually registered for a four dollar mellon baller. (I pause to let the spectacular white-trashedness of it all sink in. Ready? Resume.) And thus did I etch "Happy Balling!" on its handle and ship it to the groom two weeks before the ceremony. There would no thank you note. Ingrates.
Three years later, I was waiting in line at the same Target. "Well, my math was right the first time, and according to Hoyle you start procreating at the two year mark, so..."
BOOP-BOOP-BEEP-BEEP-BOOP
"Ho-ly crap." The baby was due in a few months. But no, I didn't send them the First Christening doll for which they registered.