HAPPILY EVER BEFORE by Aimee Pitta, Melissa Peterman

population. And, she’s never drunk. To be truly drunk she’d have to loosen up and be open to change. And, for the record, the only time I’d ever seen her drunk was at our wedding and even then, well, I thought she was faking.”
    Clair pulled away and Henry followed his wife as she strolled past the cars and onto the club grounds. “How did you come from them?”
    “My father’s side--normal people; they always blew a hole in my mother’s hypocrisy. That’s why she loves them and you--she loves you Clair. She’s just testing you.”
    “For what? For Malaria, or allergies, or to see if my bitch levels are elevated? I don’t want to be the type of parents who test their kids. If we do this at the end of nine months we’re going to be parents. We have to make sure we’re on the same page when it comes to child rearing.”
    Henry grabbed his wife’s hand. It sometimes surprised him just how much he loved her. As they passed the stone fountain in the middle of the club’s driveway he used his Grandfather Al’s stern lecturing voice. “You’re right. And, I strongly believe there will be no running with scissors, glue sniffing, or nose picking and definitely no tattoos, belly rings, or piercing of any kind. They must color within the lines and call me father. I will not stand for dad, daddy or the dreaded pops.”
    Clair punched him. “Idiot.”
    “And, no name calling.” Henry pulled his wife behind one of the oak trees, kissed her, and started fiddling with the buttons on her starched white shirt.
    “This conversation is far from over.” Clair whispered as she pulled Henry further from view and started undoing his belt buckle.
     
     

Chapter 5
     
    Big decisions are hard. Big decisions that involve your uterus are even harder. To make such a decision you must be armed with a few things: your best friend, a never ending flow of alcohol, a pen or number two pencil , some paper, fried calamari, spinach and artichoke heart dip, and a booth in Piazza Bella, a fabulous Italian restaurant deep in the heart of Chicago ’s Roscoe Village . At this moment, Grace was in such a booth. To her right sat George with an almost empty bottle of red wine; to her left was her own almost empty bottle of white wine and with all of these tools available big decisions should be as easy as one, two, three. Unless one, two, three referred to how many bottles of wine you drank and how quickly you tossed them back. Grace leaned into the table and poured herself another glass of wine. “Ooh, I should put down being the mother of my own niece or nephew as a pro. No, no as a con.”
    George picked up a breadstick and pretended to smoke it.  “Face it. There are no pros to being artificially impreganated , damn that’s hard to say.”
    “Yes thherre are!” Grace picked up the smudged cocktail napkin, “There’s helwping Clair be an aunt, a grandmamama , a daddy, oops, not Clairrrr , but you know people, and there’s something about a perm, I’d have a perm. I looked good in a perm, didn’t I?”
    “Not perm, it’s sssperm , you wrote it on the wrong side.”
    Grace put her head down on the table. “I’d have sppperm in my hair. I don’t want sppperm in my hair, but, I looked good in a perm right?”
    George bit her breadstick. “You looked awwwful . You were on the sweam team-- your hair was fried like a wooonton . Woonton , woonton , wontonwontonwontonwonton . That’s fun, you try it.”
    Grace pushed herself off the table. “ Wontonwontonwonton -- I don’t get it.” She tried to sit up straight. “I looked good in a perm, I did.”
    “ Okawy , you looked good in a perm. No, I can’t. You looked like a dead French poodle.”
    “Least I didn’t put Sun- Innnnn in my hair and turned it orange!”
    George laughed. “We were quite the pair, the dead poodle and the orange haired Amazonian.” They shared a look, giggled, and then fell into uncontrollable laughter.
    Grace munched happily away on a handful of