I got the story here, it's hot off the press

My husband and I have a running gag about the Bob Seger song “Betty Lou”. I know if you’re under 35 you probably have no idea what I’m talking about which would put you in company with all of the bands at the places where we go to dance. Now these are mostly old guys from my generation, but they get a blank look across their face and ask me how the song goes. I sing a few lines and they all say, Yeah, I know what you mean, but we don’t play that one. Occasionally they ask me if I’m Betty Lou and I tell them no, but I know her real well. I’m mostly lying when I say that because I never really knew a Betty Lou and only pretended that I was one. She was the bad girl that turned all the boys into hound dogs and all the girls into green-eyed monsters. I’m not sure what she would look like but I always imagined her as being all the things I wanted to be in eighth grade. Even though I’m not especially tall by today’s standards, I have been this same height since I was 12, somewhere between 5’6’ and 5’7”. My hair was a golden brown without the hint of a natural curl and I had a woman’s curves very early on. Back in the day clothing manufactures were slow to respond to women wearing jeans and my friends solved this problem by shopping in the men’s department. I tried that, but those that fit in the hips gapped like a feed sack around my waist, and I could not pull the ones that fit my waist up over my hips. Then there was the boob division, where I was fairly average, but without the modern technology of a push up bra, certainly not spectacular. Betty Lou on the other hand was never over five feet two; she had breast like Dolly Parton, blond curly hair, and hips like an Italian boy. I hated her and I wanted to be her.

The down side of being Betty Lou didn’t hit me until some years later. I left home to go to college, but BL got married right after graduation because she “had to”. That’s what they used to say about girls that got pregnant before the ring was on their finger. My how the world has changed. Style changes too, and in my college years the girls with the curly hair were getting their roommates to iron their hair to make it look like mine. Keeping my hair hanging to my waist so it “rolled and flowed all down my breast” in the best Dylan song fashion was my solution to the less than gigantic boob issue. My long legs looked a lot better in the popular mini skirts than BL’s short ones and there seemed to be more men who liked shapely legs and rounded bottoms in college than in high school. Now that the boys had caught up with me in height, I quit slouching and walked tall and straight, projecting a confidence I still didn’t quite feel inside. I forgot about Betty Lou for a long time, but finally realized that I could have been her if I had wanted. A man asked me a question once and I took too long to answer. “Would you rather be beautiful to one man or merely pretty to hundreds?” It was the wrong question of course, because I was beautiful by most any standard at that time. Now that I’m older and wiser, I know what true beauty is and it has nothing to do with legs or boobs or hair. The one man who finds me beautiful above all other women on earth has taught me that, and I can answer the old question easily. I’d rather be smart, fun to be around, loved and loving, and I won’t settle for being merely beautiful or pretty.

So what’s this got to do with Betty Lou? Well, you all know I’m taking my boy to the AA meetings. He was supposed to go to eight and he put it off until the last minute, so we’re trying to cram them all into one week. He went to three yesterday. We both agreed that the one in downtown Richmond was the most moving and least like a revival meeting. The one at in the Presbyterian Church basement was my favorite though. Two people from the downtown location showed up there, and I think one of them was a fellow procrastinator. Most of the people in the room looked like they just strolled in from the Sunday school classrooms upstairs, and I began to wonder if they were posers. The women were white, overweight and in their 60’s, but there was one little middle age skinny curly headed blond in the back of the room. I listened carefully to them all and was genuinely moved by what most of them had to say. Then the blond opened her mouth. “My name is Betty Lou, and I’m an alcoholic.” I bit my tongue to stop from bursting out laughing. She spoke from her heart about an early marriage, putting her children through hell, but all I could hear going though my head was the song, and all I could think about was that this was how Betty Lou ended up, if she was lucky. I realized how fortunate I was not to be Betty Lou and not to be caught in the grip of addiction. Then I feel the presence of my boy, defiant by my side, and realized that for better or worse, I am trapped here with him, bound fast with the madding chains of love. The song will never be the same.

A safe place to sleep

Let me tell you about my friend Ann. I first got to know her around Christmas this past year, although she had been working in my office for some time. She seemed phony to me at a distance, artificially cheerful and embarrassingly enthusiastic. When her seat was moved right next to mine, I was polite, but cautious. Gradually Ann grew on me, and I realized that she was the genuine article, a true optimist whose idealism was sincere and passionate. For a long time I had no idea what enormous burdens she had to shift upon her small back each day while still maintaining that bright smile and happy chatter. We talked about safe topics for a while, shared joys like writing and reading, a disciplined lifestyle of healthy eating and exercise, and the old standby, motherhood. That day before Christmas when I offered a ride to the annual party at a nearby restaurant, I gave her one of my stories to read. She had been borrowing my copy of The Sun for months and enjoying it as much as I. She read my short story on the way, gushing with excitement, and telling me I must try for publication. I knew she had been a newspaper writer and editor in one of her former jobs, and I thanked her sincerely for her praise. Because the narrative was deeply personal, Ann felt she could share her own story with me, one so painful that she had never written it down.

Some thirty years ago when she had lived in New Jersey with her family, she found herself pregnant and left in the lurch by the man she thought loved her. She struggled to make a living for herself and her baby girl, but the business ventures she went into failed. In deep debt, so she asked her parents to support her for a while until she could get on her feet. They told her no, even though they could have well afforded it, and with no other options, Ann and her baby lived in her car in the streets of New Jersey for a year. When she finally struggled to her feet, she moved to Virginia, got a good job, bought an old house and renovated it in her spare time. She raised her child always living on short money, wearing Salvation Army thrift store clothing, and believing that tomorrow would be better. About five years ago, her parents, now elderly and with no one to turn to for the physical and financial help they needed, called on Ann for help. She moved them lock, stock, and barrel into her home, took a job where she could work nights and be with them during the day, and dedicated herself to making their life easier. I asked her how she could do that after the way they had treated her. Ann looked at me in amazement. “They’re my parents, Elaine,” she said without a trace of irony. She shared many things with me that day and all of them made me realize that with all the reason in the world to take a grim view of the her lot, Ann was one of those rare breed that just keeps getting up with a smile every time life knocks her down. She only allows love to have purchase in her heart and just does not entertain vengeance, malice, anger, or resentment.

Ann has been off work since the end of April with what the doctors first thought was a heart problem, then COPD. When both of those diagnoses proved wrong, they scratched their heads and said they would run more tests. I have talked with her a few times over the past weeks and could tell she felt bad, but she remained upbeat. She called me Monday night with the grim news. The doctors have finally told her she has cancer and they believe it is in her pancreas. She says it is at 49 out of a possible 100, not the usual stage 1, 2, 3, 4 markers with which I am familiar, so I’m not sure how bad, but evidently there is no good pancreatic cancer. The survival rate is 5 percent and life expectancy 3 to 6 months after diagnosis. Ann lives 80 miles from town and normally commutes each day, and she is that far from the best treatment centers too. She had a request of me, one she really didn’t want to make. She had to have chemo and the doctor told her she could not make the drive home after treatment. “Elaine,” she said, “could I bring my sleeping bag and sleep on your floor after my treatments? I won’t be any trouble.” Tears came to my eyes immediately and I told her I live in a 4000 square foot house with 5 bedrooms, 3 of which are not being used at the moment. I joked and told her she could have the “Lincoln” bedroom with clean sheets and breakfast included. She repeated she didn’t want to be any bother and I repeated she would not be. It was settled.

Monday night I dreamed my Mother’s clothing was in a yard sale I attended. Her beautiful pink pleated skirt, all the elegant high heel shoes in a 7 double A, that green silk blouse she looked so lovely in, even the navy blue suit we buried her in after she died of colon cancer. The horror I felt in the dream was not unlike the scene in the Christmas Carol when scrooge sees the people tearing down the drapes from his bed and taking every movable fixture from his room. I tried to pick up and fold the items, but people kept snatching them out of my hands. I woke in a cold sweat with my husband snoring by my side and the steady woof-woof of the dog next door as background noise. Tuesday night I dreamed the bedroom door opened and it was my first born, five years old with his Mickey Mouse hat on his head, dressed in his PJ’s, crying from a nightmare that had awakened him. He climbed into my bed and I pulled him close to me, covered him with the warm blanket, talked to him soothingly, and we fell back to sleep together. This morning I am up at three with no remembered dreams and no way of getting back to the arms of Morpheus to hear his soothing tones. I sat writing this in the dark before the dawn, feeling selfish in my heart of hearts, knowing I have been not been picked at random for this deceptively simple favor. If I could turn my face away I swear I would, but even if it means, as I think it does, that I must watch her die, my hand will be the one she is holding when her spirit leaves her body.

No such thing as bad publicity

Evidently I should start using fake names for everyone and everything I talk about to prevent lawsuits. The lovely restaurant my husband and I delight in has taken exception to the piece I wrote about them, believing that I was writing history, when actually I take a bit of poetic license with my stories now and again. The facts on that particular story are however very close to accurate, and although I did not see a blow landed, I do know there was a circle of men and at least one of them was on the ground. So maybe that was not a fight, like Vietnam was not a war, but there was definitely a lot of police action after the scuffle. I removed the name of the restaurant from my loo story, just in case they ever figure out who I am and decide to litigate. Now as far as the washroom is concerned, I will acknowledge that I was not an eyewitness to events behind closed doors, but my hearing is quite good. I am willing to concede that it could have been some sort of religious ritual to placate the sober upright church going patrons of the establishment. Now unless you happen to be one of those, tell me honestly, wouldn’t the things I said about the unnamed restaurant make you want to get your dancing slippers on and head out there on a Saturday night? I thought so. Even though I’m not naming names, it’s still the best place to eat we have found, with the best prices and ambiance, and I recommend it to all my friends. BTW, my story did not come up on the first 20 pages of google even before I removed the restaurant name.

To my friend and fellow writer to whom I seem to have given this blog address, I swear I will not reveal your name although I doubt that I’m protecting the innocent. Although I would have not punctuated the statement you made quite the way you did, yes, I am a flirt. I spent many dreary years so beaten back by circumstance that I never lifted my eyes from the narrow rut I thought was my lot in life. The blog name says it all. A year and a half ago, when my father died, I awoke to the realization that my life was not going to get any better for me unless I made some changes. I shifted my priorities so that my own needs and wants were not at the bottom of the list. I started making demands of others around me, especially my family. The universe shifted and I found myself again. I may be trying a little too hard to make up for those lost years right now, but I am having fun. My husband is happy to have the girl he married back and he is determined not to screw up and lose her again. I’m not going to let that happen either, and no matter how much I flirt, I dance with the one that brought me and we both know who’s taking me home at the end of the evening.

Smoke if you've got um.

The rug had been truly hideous when it was new in the 1970’s, but footsteps, dirt, and cigarette ash had dulled the original bright orange, yellow, and brown crazy quilt pattern to a almost uniform boring grey. My son and I sat in a sketchy booth, in a sketchy part of town, with a lot of very sketchy people. It is dark and dreary in the cave like room, with overhead ceiling fans moving the thick smoke in lazy circles that gradually lose their gravity and pour onto the thick wooden table top and the sticky naulgahyde covered benches on their journey to that rug. People that look like they had slept beside dumpsters last night and people dressed in business casual all tried to hug us when we came in the door. I realize that what is missing to make this the perfect rat hole of a beer joint is the alcohol. Even though it was 7:30 in the morning, I had a terrible urge for a drink, a desire so unlike me I have to believe I am an empath who channels the yearnings of those around me. Of all the fifty or so people in the room, we were the most interesting evidently, because all eyes were focused on us the majority of the time, fresh meat, I think. They are missionaries for a cause and the woman in the booth in front of me could only hold out for five minutes before she was on her feet, leaning over to whisper in my ear. I stopped her cold when I stated, “I am not an alcoholic.”

“Oh”, she said, lying and trying not to sound disappointed, “I just knew you weren’t one.” I volunteer something that makes her perk up immediately.

“I’m probably an enabler.” She smiles, sits back down at her booth, and starts writing frantically. In a few minutes she is back with a full page note containing her testimony, her first and last name, and her phone number. I thank her and tuck it into my handbag. She has added a star to her crown by finding a place for me in this club.

Soon the meeting starts and people are witnessing, just like in the old time revival meeting of my childhood. Men still in the full flush of youth, women from 18 to 80, and finally Old Blevins himself, they all tell their stories. For some this is a starting point, for others it is the end of the road, but everyone who spoke had the same message, this is your salvation. It is democracy in action, a cross section of the world leveled to one commonality, addiction. The faces that are speaking have eyes turned only on my boy, believing they are reaching out, but only pushing him into a far corner of his mind to escape. I don’t know what either of us expected from the AA meeting. He came because it was a dictate of the court to attend at least 8 of them, and I came because his license is restricted and he cannot drive about town at will. There is nothing here for him, of that I am sure. The meeting is endless, but the clock on the wall says only an hour has passed. A collection plate is passed and I fumble for a few dollars in my bag and am rewarded with another grasping of the flesh. We have one last horror, holding hands in a group and repeating the Lord’s Prayer together. I think about it, and rather than let them think I do not know it, I play hypocrite and mouth the words. The boy stands silent and defiant, but no one knows why but me.

Their hands are all over us as we try to exit, an Old Blevins blocking the doorway to testify again and a black man in a straw hat grabbing my son’s arm and lecturing him on his inability to admit guilt. We are both joyous to finally reach the car and exhilarated to leave the parking lot. My boy has been so much better since his sister’s visit, rarely drinking, joining us for meals, engaging in conversation, and up at dawn every day to run. I do not want to believe he has any commonality with the people in that dank room, but a wisp of a doubt is sitting in my brain like the smell of smoke that lingers in my hair and clothing. I roll down the car window, take a deep breath of fresh air, and sweep it away with my practiced enabler’s hand.

Not Faking It

Since my husband has started smoking again and hanging out in the back alley where all the other career professionals go to indulge their vices, he’s been bringing home a lot more interesting stories. He’s the sort of man women feel comfortable around, which may or may not be a compliment, you decide. He is the least judgmental of men, and he genuinely likes women as human beings, so they share things with him that they might hesitate to tell their significant other. While chatting with a fellow nicotine addict in the aforementioned alley, the conversation turned to an absent coworker. His friend, whom I will call Shelia not only out of respect for her privacy, but because I just can’t remember her real name. Hell, maybe it’s Shelia, I don’t know. Anyway, the night before there had been a mighty toad choker of a storm in an outlying county where one of their mutual acquaintances lives. Shelia asked if their friend, I’ll call her Betty Lou, which I am quite certain is not her real name. Anyhow, Shelia asked how Betty Lou had fared in the terrible deluge. My husband stated that Betty had missed it altogether, because instead of going home, she had stayed in town last night. The slightly past middle age Shelia made a disapproving noise.

“I bet she got laid,” was her blunt remark. I’m sure my husband gave one of his hearty laughs and said something like, “Good for her.” As the talk progressed from puff to puff, it got a bit more personal.

“Women my age don’t care for sex,” she told him authoritatively.

I can just see his smile when he proffered, “Well, not all of them feel that way.” He intonated that his wife was a definite exception, without going into detail. My man wanted to brag, I just know, because he’s been feeling like the cock of the walk lately. Still, he is a gently reared southern boy, and he held his tongue when she retorted.

“Some women are real good at faking it.”

He laughed for a long time, and I’m sure she got the implied message, but I’m equally sure she didn’t believe him. He couldn’t wait for me to get home so he could tell me the story and we could have a good laugh together.

I have mulled this conversation over for several days and have moved from finding it humorous, to realizing it’s just plain sad. It seems like Shelia and I are at opposite ends of some sexual response scale, but I wanted to know the facts. Google directed me to a great site that I think you all might enjoy, even though it’s not porn. Sorry, but you all look at plenty of that on your own just like I do. In case you don’t have time to read it all I will summarize in the interest of science.

One Elizabeth Lloyd states “males get nipples because females need them, and females get orgasms because males need them”. Her well-researched theory is that female fun is just an accidental byproduct of evolution and serves no biological purpose. She notes that only 25 percent of women have orgasm with intercourse and that includes those who self stimulate during the act. Shelia, on the other hand (snicker), is in all probability one of the thirty percent of women who never have orgasms with intercourse, because research indicates that women do NOT lose that ability with age (thanks mother nature). You doubtless all know by now that I am at the other end of the bell curve from Shelia, regardless of what she chooses to believe. Here’s the deal though—both Shelia and I have 3 children each, and there is no scientific evidence that the ability to have an orgasm has any relationship to reproductive capacity. I have no idea if the ability to have orgasms is inherited, but the research I did about sexual attitudes and response in other countries leads me to believe that it is not culturally but biologically determined. The mores of say, Sweden for instance, are about as far as you can get from the ones in rural western Kentucky where I spent my formative years, yet they seem to have the same percentage of orgasmic women, non orgasmic women, and the “sometimes” ones in between. I read a great quote in the Sun this month that could have been written about my hometown. It comes from Butch Hancock:

Life in Lubbock Texas taught me two things: One is that God love you and you’re going to burn in hell. The other is that sex is the most awful, filthy thing on earth and you should save it for someone you love.

Auspiciously, neither Mr. Hancock nor I seem to have learned the lessons our parents taught us, which is another point in favor of a nature over nurture. In other words, guilt did not stop me, or any of the other girls I grew up with (especially those in the 25 percent group), from doing what “comes naturally”. I first thought that maybe holding out until the ring is on your finger assured that the girls in the thirty percent category continue to reproduce and to turn out daughters with the same issues. However, this makes the assumption that without religious training, the non-orgasmic girls would try sex a few times, find it unfulfilling, and decided to remain single and childless, but neither delight nor reason seem to be factors in our reproductive decisions. Ms. Lloyd’s conclusion that sexual pleasure for women is just a happy accident may seem cold and logical, but it may well be true. She certainly has stirred up a pot of controversy for those unaccustomed to thinking scientifically. They seem to believe she is saying that orgasm has no cultural value just because she does not see it as necessary for evolutionary success. As for Shelia, Betty Lou, and myself, all this investigation just goes to prove what I already knew. Whether orgasm is a biological oops, a learned behavior, or a misunderstood essential for the survival of the human race, I’m willing to continue with the research as long as is necessary. It’s a dirty job but somebody’s got to do it.

Queue for the Loo

You know (restaurant name withdrawn) is really a pretty classy joint, lots of polished dark wood, waitresses who look like they live in houses instead of trailer parks, and a menu that includes things like Risotto del Giorno and Lumacha e Basilica, which would be rice and snails respectively for those of you who do not have the translation right there on the menu. It’s our favorite place of all we’ve tried since we started dating again. They have really good bands on Friday and Saturday, and dancing under the stars on warm summer evenings---well, the street lights anyway, but a lovely place none the less. The thing we like best though is the cliental, a combination of young and not so young, mostly affluent, but some just stretching their entertainment dollar with the relatively cheap draft beer. No matter where people find themselves on the social scale, when you come through the door at (unnamed restaurant) you are all at the same party. There are enough regulars to act as host and hostesses, and you can’t be a stranger for more than ten minutes, even if you just stumbled in by accident while looking for directions to the interstate. Like any party, either at your own home or your favorite local pub, when alcohol is involved there are certain risks, mostly centered around love and war, and sometimes those two are indistinguishable. Last night we were entertained by a bit of both. I know for a fact that it’s not the first time the well appointed toilets in the establishment have been used for a hasty and ill conceived dalliance, but it was the first actual fist fight I have ever seen in the bar. I don’t actually think one was related to the other, unless I missed something that happened earlier. A tangle of men was out on the patio circling the fisticuffs when the first police car pulled into the parking lot and I decided it would be a good time to head inside to the bathroom. There is a very narrow hallway with the men’s facilities on one side and the woman’s on the other. Three gentlemen were waiting in line and both doors were locked, and there were some very loud noises coming from the men’s room. The guys seemed to think they had to explain to me what was going on, but I let them know right away that I was pretty familiar with what sex sounds like, and in fact has been kept waiting outside the ladies room just a few weeks back while another couple had a quickie on the sofa. I really blame the management for the problem. I mean, they should have known better than to put a couch in the ladies room and a lock on the door. I guess the woman’s room was occupied when the couple got there, and impulse control not being their strong suit, they took the standing room only option of door number two. This morning I asked my husband if there was a condom machine in the men’s room. He seemed a bit taken aback by my question and said no. I told him I thought it might be a good idea to make a suggestion to the management.

To do today: Fix hole in ceiling

I started out yesterday with great ambition, up at 6 AM even though I had the day off, on the treadmill for my usual half hour, and onto the shower. Although this sounds relatively simple, it is not something I took for granted since the septic system in the house backed up on Wednesday and no one could either take a shower or flush the toilet. After the plumber came on Thursday and fished a washcloth out of the main drain, we still had issues with the downstairs ceiling. My son said it had dripped steadily all day and both the men in the house determined that we had a broken pipe caused by the backup. My sixth sense about water came in handy immediately, as I announced over dinner that I was certain the drip was being caused by a dam of water just on the other side of the drywall, and I would prove my theory. Fortified with food and spirit we trudged downstairs as a group and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then I went into action. I took the drill out of my rolling workbench, found the extension cord and while the men folks stood at a safe distance and waited for me to electrocute myself, I drilled a quick hole in the ceiling and ducked. A sigh of relief exploded from the men as water flowed like Niagara into the waiting bucket. Looking around at their shocked faces and hearing no congratulatory exclamation, I announced to one and all. “See, I am a genius.” What followed was mostly silence as they each though in their hearts that I was one lucky idiot. I am of course, but I choose to believe that luck favors those who do not consider failure an option. I have no excuse for the idiocy except I think it’s hereditary. Sorry kids.