HOLIDAY

I have just confirmed that I will be in seat 51 A on Virgin Atlantic flight 22 from Dulles tomorrow at 18:40 hours. I am surprised they let me on without quibbling about the virgin thing, but what they don’t know won’t hurt me. I am in the midst of a restrained wild enthusiasm about the trip, but my husband is in a funk. He just found out his attempt to fool the insurance company into filling two prescriptions for the little blue pill has failed. My cheerful, “But I’ll be gone for 10 days baby” doesn’t seem to be any consolation. When I said goodbye to my boss he told me to drink a lot of orange juice on the plane. I laughed right in his face and told him I would stick to water and alcohol. He’s become a bit more distant since I showed up with the ring, just the occasional suggestive remark, but he did ask if my husband was going along. When I told him no, he said to call him if I needed bail money. Surely he knows I can talk my way out of just about anything.

When I mentioned to my mother in law I was leaving on Wednesday she immediately advised me not to take any knives or swords along. I wanted to tell her that I would make do with my concealed handgun, but I restrained myself. She’s old, and they just moved her down to the more assisted section of the retirement home causing her great consternation. I am concerned about one thing. My passport picture doesn’t look a thing like me now that I am svelte, redheaded, and have an attitude. I have never been pulled out of the line for a search like my daughter seems to every time, and I am a bit nervous about proving I am the woman in the picture. I mean I don’t want to undergo a full body cavity search unless he’s really cute. No, I didn’t mean that. Under no circumstances do I want to draw the attention of airport security. My liquids and gels are all packed in my check on bag and I am not putting so much as a lipstick in my carry on. I have no one to impress on the flight and am hoping 51 B remains empty so I can sleep. Knowing Virgin’s propensity to keep the attendants busy with all night food service, I think I’ll fashion a sign to wear around my neck, “Do not feed the bitch.” I know, I’m sweet as pie, but they won’t know, and maybe I won’t be awakened from a sound sleep to be asked if I want another ice lollie when my watch says 1 AM.

Before I go, I want to tell you all about a scare I had last week that I didn’t want to share until now. I felt a sharp pain in my left breast Thursday the 12th. I did an exam, the same kind I do each month, and found what seemed to be a lump, but said nothing to my husband except about the pain. I went to the doctor on Monday, knowing he would tell me it was my imagination, but he told the nurse to mark the mass at “1 o’clock”. I sat stunned, thinking of bogies coming suddenly from the sky. He scheduled an appointment for Thursday the 19th. The x-ray tech felt the spot and said, “Oh, right there, okay” and sent me on to the ultra sound expert. She kept her face a mask, but finished after four quick snaps I could not see. She left the room abruptly, and I sat there in the semi darkness planning how I would tell my husband whose Mom died from breast cancer, how I would break the news to my sister who had a breast removed at age 31, how I would explain to my girl that I couldn’t come to see her, and yes, thinking a bit about funeral arrangements. After what seemed like a half hour she came back and said, “The radiologist doesn’t see anything different from your mammogram that was done in June. Suddenly it was good to be too stupid to remember what my boobs felt like from month to month. I called my husband on the way out and he confessed he had been encompassed by irrational fear since I mentioned the pain casually on Thursday.

So there you go, tempest in a teapot, imaginary crisis adverted, life returns to its normal peaceful chaos. I know this is a bit maudlin, but since life holds no guarantees for any of us, and tomorrow I’m getting in a steel box that is held 5000 feet in the air by what can only be magical spells, no matter how often I read Bernoulli’s principals, I do want to tell my readers and coconspirators how much I appreciate the support you have given me over the past year. You are all essentially strangers I met on this bus, but you have become my friends, cheered me on, critiqued me, made me think, and kept me honest. It’s only a whisper compared to how dear you have all become, but ladies and gentlemen, my sincere thanks to you all. With a bit of luck, dawn on Thursday will find me at Heathrow and my baby girl will take me directly to Covent Gardens to “The Sanctuary Spa”. A day there should get me over the hump of jet lag and off to a glorious round of fun in a very exciting city. I will be in touch, as I will be wired and posting by Friday unless I’m in whatever they call the lock up across the pond.

Better Living Through Chemistry

For some reason I feel strange talking about the sex my husband and I are having, perhaps because I had nothing to talk about for so very long. Truthfully, even in the early days there was more enthusiasm than craft on his part, but I take some responsibility for that. He is not a man who takes to change easily, the original immovable object at times, and I finally just accepted the fact that he had other good qualities and gave up asking for what I wanted. Through the years when we were trying to get pregnant, he seemed to get annoyed with me that we had to do it once a month whether he wanted to or not. After our last child he seemed relieved that he no longer was required to perform, and that’s when the serious drinking started. After a few years of trying to roust his comatose body from various locations throughout the house, I just gave up and drowned my own frustrations in sugar. For those of you who have been following this soap, that’s the short version of how I got to the beginning of this blog more than a year ago. My, my, how things have changed.

He’s determined that he’s going to get me to turn him down at least once, and I guess I should be nice and say uncle, but not yet. I have a lot of years to make up for and he is finally willing to listen and learn. I visited the doctor we both see this week and had a chat with him about my sex life. He’s about 35 and I’m pretty sure I embarrassed him a bit, but he seemed delighted. He told me my husband and I sounded like an advertisement for the little blue pill. Oh, did I mention the pill? All jokes aside, I am ready to kiss the feet, or any other part of the anatomy of the inventor. I know in the past my husband had some strictly physical problems related to the diabetes, but I really think the issue might be more psychological now that he has lost the weight, stopped the drinking, and gotten off a lot of the other meds he was taking. All I can say is damn; this is so much better than our honeymoon.

Perhaps it was the fright of the near death experience of our relationship, but he is very open to suggestions. I have shocked him more than a few times, but even if I do hear a big gulp, he really tries to accommodate me. Sometimes I am very wicked and suggest things even I don’t want to do just to see how far I can push this, but then I tell him I’m teasing. I am having a lot of fun and it’s plain that he is too. There is a spark in our relationship that is obvious to all our friends and we have totally grossed out at least two of our children. I will not remind them of all the things they have done to embarrass us, including bailing the same two of them out of jail. The good news is I think we may have finally motivated our middle child to move out of the basement. The bad news, well, none as far as I can tell, except did I mention we are very noisy?

Why I Will Never Ride With You On Your Motorcycle

Most men are transparent as glass to me in my wise old age, but that wisdom was won slowly and most painfully over many years. I even remember thinking that no one could fool me anymore, then stepping neck deep into quicksand the very next minute. Although I expect no one to learn by my example, I know my stories have a certain entertainment value, and no one give a tinker’s damn about morality tales anyway, so let me tell you about a character I met worthy of a John Updike novel. In fact, I think “Rabbit” would be the perfect pseudonym.

I literally ran into him in Monroe Park in Richmond, because I wasn’t watching where I was going. Thinking back on it I even wonder if it was really an accident on his part, but if it wasn’t, it was the least of his character flaws. We both apologized profusely, and his hand lingered a bit too long on my arm as he was trying to put me to rights again. The eyes got me, caramel brown and soulful, staring into mine with a delightful wicked twinkle. He was emboldened by the presence of his friend who chatted up my buxom housemate while he tried to make time with me. I found out he was also a college student, but from U of R, down slumming at the more affordable state school I was attending. He told me he ran track, I told him I was divorced with a child. He was only about 5 inches taller than me and built more like a boxer than a runner, so naturally I was as surprised at his revelation as he was at mine. He said he loved kids and invited himself to my place. Well, I’d heard that line before, but somehow he impressed me with his humor, intelligence, and good looks, so I told him he could drop by if he liked.

He showed up that very night on the back of a Harley Davison. I mean, who knew? He was a total preppie down to his Izod shirt and khaki trousers, but he covered them with a tasteful, very expensive, black leather jacket. He asked me if I had ever been on a bike before and I admitted it would be a new experience. My buxom housemate looked on disapprovingly as we roared off into the evening, my arms wrapped tightly around him, hiding a terror I would not admit. The evening was warm and clear with a lover’s moon in the sky. I have no idea where we went, because I had my eyes tightly shut and my face buried in his shoulder. I could certainly see why guys liked this mode of transportation with the forced intimacy and body contact, but I remember only tolerating the trip to be with him. When he took me home later he made his move, and I resisted, both of us knowing how the game was played. The next night he upped the ante and showed up in a sports car of some sort, an MG as I recall. He took me to dinner and a movie, shyly taking my hand in the theater, and then kissing me quite soundly on my doorstep. The next night he was back with a serious look, a bouquet of red roses, and a tentative declaration of, yes, he said it, the “L” word. So, rich guy, really cute, hot body, kisses like thunder, and the love card. His Harley sat in front of my house all that night and the next day, and the next, and the next. Friday night he told me he had to go home for a while and get some clean clothes, but he would be back on Saturday around 2 PM. He didn’t even have the hutzba to call me himself; he had his friend come by on Sunday to tell me the truth. The jerk had gotten married on Saturday at 2 PM and was on his honeymoon in the Bahamas. I was the last fling, or at least the one he promised would be the last, but you know it most likely wasn’t.

When my husband started talking about buying a motorcycle the memory of “Rabbit” came flooding back. I told him I had no interest in riding with him. He bought the bike anyway, and he bought me a helmet in red, my favorite color. I put the helmet on the top shelf in the utility room behind some half used cans of paint. The bike was a vintage Honda Nighthawk in need of much mechanical intervention. He worked on it tirelessly on the weekends, but it never ran worth a hoot. I saw the discouraged look on his face and the longing he had for the fool thing and my heart began to melt. When my father died and left me a little money, I told him I would buy him a new one, one that would actually work, but not to get any ideas, because hell would freeze over before I got on the back of it with him. He got a shiny black 1999 Honda Magna, used, but in wonderful shape, and for a while he was out of the house a lot, sober and enthusiastic about life. One day last summer he turned it over in slow motion on a patch of gravel, and fortunately walked away uninjured. The bike was not so lucky however, and for long months it has languished in the garage beside the Nighthawk and all the lawn mowers that won’t start. Okay, I said he worked on them, I never said he was any good at doing so. Last month, when we fell in love again, I made a rash statement. I told him I would ride the damn thing if he got it fixed. Knowing his propensity for procrastination, I took the same attitude about the bike working again as our administration takes on global warming. I just didn’t think about it and hoped it would go away. Well folks, the shit has hit the fan. He took it to the shop last week and it should be ready to roll after I come back from England the first of May. I know the people in hell are going to be grateful that ice water is now available.

You all know I'm happy, but...

There is sometimes a strange peaceful interlude between a significant event and the reality of the import hitting you squarely between the eyes. Often we only live in this oddly skewed alternate universe for a second or a millisecond, but sometimes it lasts for hours or weeks. Mine lasted 97 hours, give or take a few minutes. It started when my husband and I had "the talk", and ended when he seemed to have accidentally turned around in the hotel parking lot on Friday night. Yes, it was that hotel. We haven't said a word about the affair since last Monday when he confronted me, but it's going to be a long time before this is over for either of us. He had to know that was the one, didn't he? He had even mentioned the name to me during the confrontation. It all seemed so random, but why did he pick that particular spot to decide to make a u-turn? Paranoia suddenly got me in its grip and will not let go.

My friend and I had our last email conversation that very morning, the one where we agreed that it would be best not to continue to write to each other. We both know that continuing to talk to each, even by email, would be an indulgence we cannot afford. Better to have a clean break now that the truth is on the table. Privately I told him how I felt, how I feel, and had the immediate urge to share the emotions on my blog. I spent all of Sunday writing and deleting the words, finally realizing I was just afraid to say them in case my husband had found his way to my hiding place. If he has however, he has read far worst already. Perhaps there are things better left alone, but my onus in this place has been to say it true. I will temper this, but I will say it.

The words we spoke in private will remain between the two of us alone, but I need to tell this part to all those who have become captivated by our intrigue and do not know your side of the story. Rarely in my life have I been so lucky in choosing lovers. The physical aside, you were first a friend who understood the pain I felt, knew it because it was so much like your own. You never pushed me, and you spoke only the truth from the moment we met. I credit my blog friends, especially one in particular, with saying the words that freed me to make the changes I needed to make in my own life. You however were the catalyst that made the change in my husband, and without you…well, I don't even want to speculate. I do know that my life is better because you were part of it for this brief space. You have been as much a gentleman at the denouement as you were at the commencement, as you were every step along the way. If I had a parting gift I could give you, it would be for you to see yourself as I do. If you did, you would not hesitate to ask for all the good things from life that you so richly deserve. I am aware that I am luckier than most, and I am determined to be content with the hand I have been dealt. I know you will try to do the same, but as I look back across the hundreds of letter we have written, I dread the silence between us in the future. I leave you all with one puzzle. Why did doing the wrong things we did feel so right, and now, why does doing the right thing seem so poignant?

Homeward Bound

It started under a cold February moon at the University of Aberystwyth in Wales, an unlikely location for romance. There were flashes of lightening and explosions of thunder that evening in early 2002, but the promise of that brilliant union was not kept. It is hard for my girl to admit defeat, but she will be coming back to America to live for a while, to my great joy and sorrow. There will be no divorce for now, but my husband said last night that it is hard to realize that Nick is no longer a part of our family circle. The love we feel for him has not diminished any more than the love our girl has for him, but romantic love requires that both people believe in its existence. My brilliant son in law is a professional skeptic, but I think in time he will realize what he has foolishly let slip through his fingers. She says she wants no one else, but time will ease the aching empty feeling. Her pain will be easier to bear here at home with the ones who love her always, and the summer will be filled with adventure; hikes, camping, beach trips, late evenings, and all the fun she generates for everyone around her.

She will hit here like a tidal wave around July, time enough to have all of her goodbye parties in UK before she has her welcome home parties here. Sometime around September she is leaving for a Peace Corps assignment in Southeast Asia, but before that she wants to take a trip to South America. I listen to her excited voice on the phone as she tells me about her plans. Her brother will be trailing along behind her, no doubt watching for poison darts fired from the banks of the Amazon. The adrenalin she produces will protect her from most any danger, but her sibling has no such shield. He learned long ago that trying to stop his sister’s spirit of adventure is like throwing your body into the path of a speeding locomotive. No future in that, so it’s better to just to hold on for dear life, enjoy it while you can, and hope for the best.

They started their escapades together when she was 13 and he 16, traveling to France to stay with a family that had children the same age. On that trip, under the protective care of a wonderful French American family, my girl sunbathed topless on the beach, drank her first champagne, dropped her passport down a crevasse of a glacier on Mt Blanche, and almost started an international incident in a German airport. The next trip they took to foreign soil was to Cancun, where she danced on top of the bar, got her brother to wear a grass skirt and coconut shells and spin around to “Dancing Queen”, and then posted the pictures on virtual tourist. In the summer before she graduated from U of F she went to St Petersburg on her own, purportedly to learn Russian. While there, she witnessed a murder, got chased by the Russian mafia, robbed by the police, fell in love with a Russian boy who was later killed, possibly by said mafia, and barely escaped with her life. That just gets her up to age 21 when the real excitement began. I’m exhausted just telling the story, so I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.

The logistics of her daring-do are often left up to me and usually involve money. This time she says she will pay her own way, but would I please bring an empty suitcase to London so I can take some of her things home. The “home” part of the sentence was all I really needed to hear. No matter how far she goes, the ties of family will always draw her back. We are not near exciting enough to hold her for long, but this is her soft place to fall as long as I have breath in my body.

And incidentally, I would just to give an advance warning to Venezuela, Columbia, Brazil, and whatever banana republics are currently only worrying about minor issues, like civil war, drug trafficking, and the vanishing rain forest. Brace yourselves; she’s on her way.

Who watches in the shadows?

I woke up lying against his chest, his strong arm trembling across my shoulder. I had dozed off there on the sofa, exhausted from lack of sleep over the weekend. It was strangely quite, no TV, no lights, only the sound of the air moving raggedly in and out of his lungs. There was a storm approaching, that was clear, and it was too late to seek shelter. I listened to his words without speaking, already knowing what he would say. Inside my head alarm bells were clanging wildly in a hurricane force wind, while I sat still as a mouse trapped under a teacup. When he let me speak I told him the affair was over, that I had fallen in love with him again. We talked for a long time, but what we said could be reduced to three words, “I love you”. He had known since December, and had already gone through the array of emotions; anger, sorrow, fear, panic, and I can’t imagine what else. Instead of raging at me when he found out, he set out to win me back, and he succeeded most admirably. I am overwhelmed with the class he exhibited, floored that I had underestimated the person that I have slept beside for over 30 years. This is the man I had thought lost forever in a vat of alcohol, the man I felt was not strong enough to deal with me, the man I believed could not change. I put his fears of losing me to rest, and that is all he asked. He loves me so much he accepts the blame for what I did. He said he wasn’t paying attention, had made no effort to see that I was happy, and had taken for granted that I would always be there. He said he wonders that I didn’t do it sooner.

When I started the affair I was ready to walk, to run really. I remember very clearly dreading the end of each day when I would have to come home. Now every time I arrive at the door he is there to greet me with a kiss, a bear hug, and words of sweet affection. I find now that I am rushing to get home just to see him again. In describing myself I tell people that I am not a gambler, but I am a risk taker. I have always been willing to take the consequences for my actions, but this time I can’t decide if I got what I deserved or not. I jumped off a very high cliff and I landed pretty well. The bruises will heal with time, and he will never have a reason to doubt me again. He told me if he ever got distracted and quit taking care of his home life, I only need say the man’s name to get his attention. I am telling this to you all not knowing who might be reading my words, and I am feeling very exposed. He says someone called him and told him, but he will not say who. He had names and places, which frightens me, because I was not the only one who was taking a risk. This has been my place to come and scream when life was too difficult to bear. Now I wonder who listens and judges me, even in this small refuge. He told me I had been discrete, but that Richmond is really a small town in a small world. Before today it was a city where no enemies lived.

Southern Comfort, No Fooling

I like men, I really do. I state that first because from talking to other women, regardless of their sexual orientation, a lot of them just don’t. They find them smelly and messy and disruptive, and they are distressed that many of them just never seem to grow up. As the mother of two adult sons, and wife, lover, and friend to many others in my lifetime, I am not blind to these characteristics, but for some reason I find them endearing rather than aggravating. All things considered, I would much rather spend an afternoon chasing pirates with Peter Pan than having tea with the royal family. It should surprise no one to find that the first man I ever had a relationship with, my Dad, was the epitome of all the things I find delightful about males. He was intelligent, funny, humble, gracious, hard working, strong both in body and force of personality, and best of all, he was Southern. A man of his time, and ever polite, he occasionally made little witty but derogatory remarks about “Yankees” behind their backs. He had a pretty juicy past as far as I could discern between the lines, but he was a pillar of the community in his adult life. I always wanted to know more about his days working in a roadhouse as a bouncer, riding the rails to Louisville looking for work during the depression, and the other adventures he spoke of in whispers when Mother left the room. I was never to know the whole truth, but I do know that despite the bad boy past, my father was a southern gentleman, the kind that made the ladies blush when he winked at them, the kind I still find so charming today when I’m lucky enough to run across one.

Now I’m not saying that this type of man is only found in the south, because I have run across more than a few “Yankees”, Scots, Irishmen, and, yes Matt, even Canadians who have these same qualities, but there is something unique about the sweet and sometimes salty blend of the Southern male that can melt even my most determined sulk. For those ladies who have not had the pleasure of their company let me elucidate. They call you darlin’ with a soft southern drawl, even when they’ve just met you. They open your door, help you on with your coat, and take your arm if the path looks rough. Even though they may curse a blue streak, they then turn and say “Oh, excuse me mam’, I didn’t see you standing there”. In fact they are great apologizers in general, and they need to be, because no matter how sophisticated they may appear, they all seem to retain a bit of the “bubba factor” deep down in their soul. Just because they don’t interrupt when you’re speaking, don’t think they are shy; it’s only that their mama taught them manners. Finally, for goodness sake, don’t let all that charm and politeness make you think you can easily control them, and never believe that just because they aren’t yelling, they aren’t angry. They are the most amiable and delightful of companions, but you don’t want to go getting them all riled up now. You do remember that little unpleasantness back in 1861, right? Okay, I know they lost, but they did it with style and pinash. The defeat shaped the character of every child born below the Mason Dixon line from that day forward. Although we’ll never know for sure, I think that’s what made the temperament and spirit of this most pleasing of male stereotypes, strong and unassuming, protective of their womenfolk, a diligent worker, ever gracious in their demeanor, and most of all, a man who genuinely likes women, especially Southern women. I delight in that quality, because regardless of my liberalism, my education, and my ambition, I am most sincerely a southern lady, born and bred. We’ll talk about what that means another day.