So after Sherrie spent three hours coloring and styling my hair I though I would take a picture. Fascinated by the technology Sherrie wanted to get into the action After a few blurry pics we deleted she got the hang of it. I think she did a great job.
Then of course, I wanted a picture of her, so here she is, my all time favorite hairdresser, a bright and loving woman, an artist, and someone I am proud to call my friend.
So, this was what my kitchen looked like Thursday night after my daughter got through cooking for her dinner party. My job was to make cakes for she and Marc's joint birthday part on Saturday. Since I was off Friday she saw no reason I could not accomplish that small task. Facing the kitchen on Friday morning I nearly swooned, but instead I headed for the gym to fortify myself before taking it on. Oh and I had a hair appointment after that, but I assumed it would keep me occupied for maybe an hour. As much as I hate to admit that staying this beautiful requires a bit of effort, I did not emerge until an unexpected 2:30. The kitchen had not cleaned itself in my absence. I sat down to eat the sushi I bought on the way home, my first meal of the day. When the girl arrived breathless at 5:15 I had almost finished cleaning and had started on the complicated cake recipes. I had two oranges boiling on the stove for the flourless chocolate orange cake and was creaming butter for the coconut rum bundt cake. She demanded to know what I had done with my day and why her cakes were not ready. She's been a bit on edge lately so instead of starting a fight I apologized and told her I would finish them tonight. That's when I learned she had changed her mind about running the 10 K on Saturday because of her shaky health issues and instead was off for northern Virginia as soon as she could collect the food. 
She was reared in Pennsylvania and I still have her recipe for a wonderful blueberry coffeecake. She made it and invited two other ladies and myself over one Sunday morning while our respective husbands studied at the library. It was a rare indulgence in those lean times to be able to entertain or just to be able to sit and chat idly. The tiny railroad flats we lived in had been built for married students returning from WWII and the university saw no reason to encourage boomers to marry by replacing it. The housing was just a step above living in a cardboard box. Snow blew in through the cracks near the baseboard and the walls were so thin that everyone knew more about their neighbor’s marital relationships than they wanted to.
My host’s name was Caroline, a tiny dark haired beauty, practical and hard working; she kept her little shanty immaculate and made the most of every penny. Her husband was tall, thin, and angular and her high school sweetheart. This morning the conversation moved unexpectedly from the kitchen to the bedroom and true confessions about our wedding nights. I had been pretty sure mine was the worse imaginable but that was before Caroline laughingly told me of her first intimate moment.
She was a virgin bride, as most of us said we were in those days, and although she dated her husband all through her childhood, she only had anecdotal information about sex. They were both exhausted after a long day of wedding festivities but neither she nor her young groom were amenable to waiting for another day to consummate the love they had both held dear for so long. Caroline had talked in whispers to her friends and in her words, “was expecting the gates of heaven to open”. The raw-boned nervous groom had instructions from older brothers and friends as ignorant as he, and of course at 19 was more than ready for the grand opening.
Caroline face took on a pinched look. “He started to try to, you know,” she said as we were more into euphemisms in those days, “and it wasn’t feeling good at all.” She raised her arms in the air and opening her palms upward to the sky said, “This was definitely not the gates of heaven. I told him, Honey, do you think you could use something?” Her husband Bill heads off for the bathroom and comes back shortly to try again. “It really didn’t feel any better” Caroline grimaced, “but I didn’t stop him.” We all shook heads in understanding about young and inexperienced lovers. Caroline continued, encouraged by our empathy.
“The next morning when I headed into the bathroom I saw an open tube of Head and Shoulders sitting on the sink. Honey, “ she called to him as he lay in the hotel bed half asleep, “What did you use last night when you came in here?”
A masculine voice responds innocently “I don’t know, whatever was in that tube.” When her husband returned from the library a few hours later we were all still sitting around the table cackling with raucous laughter. “What’s so funny,” says Bill as he leaned down to kiss his bride
“Oh nothing honey,” Caroline responds with giggles, “just girl talk.”
When my doorbell rang this morning at 11 I was startled to say the least. My house is at the end of the neighborhood and so few people go door to door now days. I thought it might be one of my rich redneck neighbors wanting me to pay my civic association dues or get me to come out and help with a spring clean up. I should mention that I am not a good neighbor. I was once, but after several fiascos at the monthly meetings both my husband and I have kept a low profile. Really, I was more than a little annoyed when an asshole from around the corner took it upon himself to cut all the trees along the road (which also happened to be my front yard). It’s odd to me that no one saw the irony when another neighbor wanted to hire someone to kill the beaver that was living in our lake because it was, you know, cutting down trees. The final straw was the installation of a high wattage light right across the street because we refused to have it in our yard. With all of our trees gone there was nothing to block the glaring light, so our telescope was relegated to the basement storage forever and we quit going to civic association meetings.
Since we have eliminated all but the most persistent of local yokels, I was braced for the worst. When I saw the ten year old with the older lady behind her I immediately thought oh, it must be Girl Scout cookie time again. Imagine my surprise when in a childish lisp she said, “Hello, my name is Amy and this is my friend Michelle. I want to invite you to attend a celebration of the death of Jesus Christ.” I wish I was quicker on my feet, really I do, but it’s times like this that I almost believe in God. One that is watching over me like Santa Clause and knew what I was doing in front of the computer when the buzz of the doorbell caught me off guard. I know TMI Thursday has passed so please don’t ask just use your imagination.
Now that a few hours have elapsed I have come up with so many things I could have said or done. I could have taken a picture. I could have accepted the proffered brochure and know what cult had captured this child and report them. I could have invited them in and called the police like I did when the asshole cut the trees in my yard. I didn’t do any of that however. I said, “I’m quite sure I don’t want to celebrate the death of Jesus Christ” and I shut the door. Damn, damn, my Southern Baptist kicks in at the worst times. I was horrified at the thought of celebrating the death of Jesus, especially when it came from the mouth of this innocent. On top of everything else wrong with my encounter, when I sit back down in front of the computer I realized something else was, if not dead, gasping for air. Nothing like a child talking about religion and death to get you out of a mood. Damn I wish she’d been selling Girl Scout cookies. I could go for some Thin Mints right now.
I think I left the last of my modesty on the operating table where I had my first c-section. It was only after the emergency procedure was over and twenty people were scurrying about the room cleaning up that I looked up into the overhead mirror and discovered that I was naked. When I realized I had been that way for hours and everyone in the room had ample opportunity to count every freckle on my ass, I just thought WTF.
Now days when I go to the gym, or the doctor, or the spa, I just strip off my clothing without a second thought. After all there are social rules that govern these naked moment, unwritten and subtle but clearly understood by everyone over the age of 7. These rules are different for men than for women and vary from culture to culture, but basically they tell us that while we are allowed sidelong glances to check out the competition, we do not stare openly and we do not flaunt our personal nakedness among strangers. Evidently not everyone got that memo this week.
So I was standing in front of the sink at the gym putting my hair into a ponytail when an extremely obese and naked lady came and stood beside me. Her breasts were enormous, and as she was no longer young, they hung down to her navel, almost to her very hairy nether regions. I was stunned when she casually plugged in a hair dryer and proceeded to blow dry her wet hair, top and bottom, and the underside of said pendulant bosoms. I knew the rules, so I tried not to stare directly as she made her melons dance a jig with every movement of her arm. It was not a sight for the faint of heart.
One little girl around age five came into the venue and stopped, open mouthed and staring. Her horrified mother quickly redirected her to the toilet with a push of her hand and a please don’t say a word look. I collected my brush and ipod and moved quickly and calmly toward the door. I was most fortunate not to get trampled in the exodus.
Mother grudgingly agreed to the marriage and even offered to pay for it if I would listen to her lecture. I knew the price of things, so I folded my hands and listened. “You will never have what your father and I have.” I said nothing although I thought my head would explode. We had not yet gotten to the part where I could not wear white, could not invite any of my friends, and could not have the ceremony in my home church. I was after all a fallen woman and this was only what I deserved. My future husband wanted a grand occasion, something to remember. I wanted to go to the park and stand in the sunshine barefooted with my friends and say the words. I compromised and we certainly had something neither of us will ever forget.
Such was my consuming desire for my mother’s approval that I accepted all of her terms. I had survived for one year in fear of her finding out that my boyfriend and I were living together, holding my tongue, biding my time. I knew she would take my son from me in a heartbeat if she knew I was “living in sin”. It is hard to explain how things were in that day but perhaps you will understand if I tell you that several of my husband’s friends hit on me after we moved in together, assuming I was easy.
I have no idea why I picked yellow for my dress, perhaps because it was the worst color I could think of, or maybe I still wanted my day in the sunshine. I thought I would do the sewing myself, but my mother insisted I hire a dressmaker. I found a little Japanese lady who lived in a trailer park. Her hands were nimble and she did not question my horrible taste in wedding dresses. One problem with a bride wearing a color instead of white is what to put on the bridesmaid. I am quite certain my sister was horrified by my choice of a yellow paisley design, but the rule is that no one can have a dress prettier than the bride, right? Besides, it was the seventies and our standards were lower.
It was an unusual spring in the way of Virginia weather, the world exploded with bloom on every tree, bush, and pathway. North Carolina was the chosen location to accommodate my man’s elderly grandmother and to marry in the magnificent Gothic church her husband built with his own hands. I slipped away from Grandmother’s colonial mansion at dawn while his family slept, and went to the hotel where my parents were staying. I had made my mother a hair appointment that morning at her request, but entirely forgot to make any plans for my own hair or nails. Hours later when we arrived at the church to dress I had yet to think about my appearance. My hair took care of itself in those days, shinning with gold and auburn highlights and hanging almost to my waist. It was the kind of hair my mother called “stringy” and men longed to touch.
Even with only 14 people in attendance we had an amazing degree of family tension. My parents had never met any of the new in laws and I can’t say it went well. My mother was wearing her slip when my excuse for a mother in law arrived. “How do you do,” she says to my embarrassed mother, “I’m Margaret Haley. Could you help me with my hat?” I raced to the rescue, directing mother to go ahead and get ready and telling Margaret that her hat looked perfect. I tried not to think about how things were going in the church. I knew grandmother would use this opportunity to lecture her former son in law on how he should have done things after her daughter, his wife, died. I worried about my son back in Richmond with my friend Gertrude. He should be here but I was so fearful he would innocently spill the beans as he was telling everyone that his mommy and daddy were getting married. Margaret decided she had done enough damage and headed to the sanctuary.
Somehow we managed to get everyone sorted into seats too distant from each other to actually fight. The organ played selections of my husband’s choice, none of which anyone but he and the organist had ever heard before. My dad stood with me in the back of the church holding tightly to my arm, a moment I had dreamed of all my life. The minister looked at us, twenty-eight eyes turned to stare. “Daddy,” I said, “it’s time to go.” My father shook his head no.
“We’re not going until they play Here Comes the Bride” he stated in his stage whisper. I know the assembled crowd was getting nervous and I was in a near panic. My very conventional father knew his role well. I looked at my future husband standing waiting down that long aisle. I pulled on my dad’s arm again, “Daddy, they are not going to play Here Comes the Bride. We have to go.”
In the pictures the church looks empty at first glance, and my husband and I are standing just to the left of center facing the minister. My father’s expression is his stage face in every one of them except for the two of us outside with the wind blowing my skirt and our nervous laughter about. The reception is simple in the extreme with the 14 of us milling about eating cake and drinking punch in the church social hall. Margaret amuses herself by telling the organist with the PhD in music all the things he did wrong when he played. My mother pulls my new husband aside and tells him to “be gentle” with me because I am frightened. My sister in law cries crocodile tears and sneaks out to decorate my car for the get away.
Finally alone on the road we laugh hysterically about the events of the day, but we are young and resilient, ready for any challenge, but first, we need food. Neither of us had eaten anything but cake all day so we determine to stop in Morehead City for a nice seafood dinner. That was about that time it started sleeting. When we found a place to eat hail and snow was falling at an alarmingly rate and it was hard to see the road. The only thing I can say about our meal that evening is that I have never had a worse one in all the years we have been married. Slightly nauseous, tired and concerned about the weather, we looked for a hotel room. No we did not plan this thing well, but you know, not many people go to the beach in a snowstorm so we had no trouble finding a place.
Now it’s time to close the door, like in the 1950’s movies, but I’m not that girl. However if you’re waiting to hear how the windows of heaven opened, well, not exactly. I pulled on my beautiful white nightgown, the one grandmother had given me with the admonition that she was not trying to make me out a virgin but every girl needed a pretty gown. I came out of the bathroom shyly to make love for the first time in our married life. As my husband glances up and down with a strange look on his face. I followed his eyes downward to see a crimson stain on my pristine white silk. Damn and double damn. The mother in law from hell, the ugly yellow dress, hail, sleet and snow, food poisoning, and now the visitor that I had never named “the curse” until this minute. “Well,” I said with more than a touch of irony, “I guess we didn’t have to get married after all. “
Remember last week when my world was covered with ice and snow? I just got back from a jog around the neighborhood in shorts and a tee shirt, proving that if there is a god she has a sense of humor. It seems that the week has been a microcosm version of the winter of my discontent made glorious summer. My husband had angry words for me, undeserved for a change, and they fell like winter over our hearts. We were forced to actually communicate for a change, as this was not something that could be sucked inside with a pretended forgiveness and left there to fester. So after much conversation we had a thaw, a long warm breath that touched us both. He said the word, “sorry”, and while I have not kept count of the times it has been spoken by him during our relationship, I know I would not need more than one hand to keep track. The weatherman says this false spring cannot last, but do not tell the daffodils. Like me, they know sometimes it is best to ignore the brown and grey world and just toss their lovely yellow heads about in the sunshine for an hour.
