Free Troubles and Treats by Tara Sivec Page A

party on our back deck. 
     The wife had been outside tending to her garden and saw thirty women waving vibrators
     around and trying to pop blown up condoms by grabbing a partner, putting the condom
     between them, and hugging each other as tightly as they could to get the condom to
     explode.  The condoms had been full of lotion and everyone was screaming and throwing
     vibrators at each other. 
    I’m pretty sure that’s why every time I see her out in the yard, she turns and runs
     back into her house.
    Getting an invite from her for a cookout had been a shock but I figure it couldn’t
     hurt.  If anything, maybe this couple could help Drew and I learn to communicate better. 
     I mean, they are religious people.  They must know how to talk to each other and how
     to make a marriage work.  I bet I can get some really good advice from them.
    “The freaks invited us to their house?”
    “Will you stop calling them that?” I complain as I put a pink bow clip in Veronica’s
     hair.
    “What’s a fweak?” Veronica asks.
    “The crazy people who live next door,” Drew replies as he pulls a onesie out of Billy’s drawer that reads: Screw the ti tties and milk. Give me a beer.
    “No.  Absolutely not.  You are not putting him in that shirt.”
    I walk over and snatch the onesie out of his hand and put it back in the drawer, searching
     through Billy’s clothes for something appropriate.
    “How do we not have one good shirt for our son to wear?”
    “What are you talking about?  These are ALL good shirts,” Drew argues as he pulls
     out a red onesie that says, “I shit my pants when ugly people hold me.”
    “These are nice people who invited us over for a nice dinner.  He needs to wear something
     nice,” I state as I keep digging through the drawer.
    “Boooo. Nice is lame,” Drew states.
    “Fweaks are lame,” Veronica pipes up.
    “Yeah they are!  High five sister!” Drew exclaims as he puts his hand in the air for
     Veronica to smack.
    At the very bottom of the drawer I find a shirt that says, “Pooping in progress” with
     a percentage line under it showing forty-five percent.
    “This will have to do.  Can you get Billy dressed so I can do my hair?” I ask as I
     lay out the shirt and a pair of tiny little jeans to go with it.  “Also, you need
     to change your shirt.  You are not wearing the shirt with a picture of Jesus and a
     crying Virgin Mary that says: Bitches be trippin’.
    “I just want to state that for the record, I do not think this is a good idea,” Drew
     yells as I walk out of the room.
    “Doodly noted,” I yell back.
     
    ~
     
    “Okay, everyone, it’s game time!”
    Seven seconds after walking across our yard and stepping foot onto the neighbor’s
     back deck I realize I’ve made a mistake.  This isn’t just a fun get-together with
     our neighbors and a way to make new friends and hopefully learn from them about how
     to make a marriage work.  This is the Twilight Zone and we are never going to escape. 
     We are surrounded by women wearing ankle-length jean skirts and their hair in braids
     down to their asses.  They pray before dinner, they pray in the middle of dinner,
     and they pray after dinner.  They pray so much I can almost imagine Jesus himself
     sitting up there on a white puffy cloud saying, “Oh for the love of my dad, shut the
     fuck up already.  I heard you the first eleven times.”
    Drew keeps poking me in the side and snorts every time someone says, “Let’s bow our
     heads and give thanks.”
    “If they ask us to drink the Kool-Aid, grab the kids and run,” Drew whispers as everyone
     pulls their chairs into a circle in the middle of the deck.
    “But I like Kool-Aid.  Grape is my favorite,” I whisper back in confusion.
    “We’re going to go around the circle and everyone has to tell an embarrassing story!”
     the hostess announces.
    “Oh this cannot end well,” Drew says quietly.
    I elbow him in the side as one of the jean