Talkin' Shop

This conversation was intercepted by Pakistani authorities (thanks to NPR for the transcript):

Maulvi Sahib: They were our men there.

Mehsud: Who were they?

Maulvi Sahib : There were Saeed, the second was Badarwala Bilal and Ikramullah was also there.

Mehsud: The three did it?

Maulvi Sahib: Ikramullah and Bilal did it.

Mehsud: Then congratulations to you again.

Maulvi: Where are you? I want to meet with you?

Mehsud: I am in Makin. Come I am at Anwar Shah's home.

Maulvi Sahib: OK I will come.

Mehsud: Do not inform their family presently.

Maulvi Sahib: Right.

Mehsud: It was a spectacular job. They were very brave boys who killed her.

Maulvi Sahib: Praise be to God.

Do these men truly believe what they're saying to one another? Aren't there tiny voices in their heads telling each of them that they're full of crap?

To me, there's a silver lining to Bhutto's death and it is this:

What pissed these murderers off more than anything else was that Benazir Bhutto was a woman.

God bless you, Benazir! You can rest easy knowing that you agitated these men daily with your brilliant mind, your courage, and most of all, your gender.

Sloth.

On a Discovery Channel special about these creatures, Ralph Fiennes memorably and beautifully pronounced the word "sloth" with a long o, rhyming with "both", rather than the nasal American pronounication of "sloth". When I am in the midst of bout of sloth, it should be pronounced the American way; ugly and short: "slaaaaaaaahth".

Sloth is a sin of omission, rather than a sin committed in action (see keying of mailbox below in Wrath). It's a state of being in which one is careless and lazy. The modern definition of sloth includes the possession of talent in any form and leaving that gift untapped and unused.

Sloth is a byproduct of melancholy and depression. Walk into a slothful person's living space (like The Hovel) and you'll see dirty dishes in the sink, overflowing trashcans, sticky floors, dirty laundry, dusty furniture and general disorder.

Day-to day duties are neglected. A slothful state creates piles of paper, like unanswered letters and unpaid bills. Phone calls aren't returned. Science projects flourish in the fridge.

Forget about completing an ambitious project, like filing a month's paperwork into personal files, balancing a checkbook or refinishing a cabinet. As long as one is slothful, these projects will never be completed. If they are, it's with sheer willpower.

I've a few talents-- singing, drawing, painting, and am an engaging conversationalist. Do I use these talents? No. I feel much worse about this aspect of sloth than any other.

Can you tell I'm well-acquainted with this deadly sin? I'm usually in sloth mode rather than out of it.

I am fully aware this is a result of clinical depression, and trust me, I fight it. I hate living in a dirty house. Usually I'll wait until it gets so bad that I cannot stand my surroundings any more, then I take a deep breath and dive in to complete whatever it is that needs to get done. Sometimes I'll experience a burst of inspiration and indulge myself with a creative pursuit, such as sketching an amateurish still-life or an even worse, a watercolor or pastel picture. Afterward, I look at the thing I've created and tell myself, "Well! You're not that talented after all!", then slide backward into creeping slothfulness.

Wrath.

There is a fine line between love and hate. I'm ashamed to say that a person whom I love very much and who was instrumental in shaping the woman I've become, is also the person with whom I was most angry in my life.

Michael and I met in the smoking section of our office building. We were the two loser-tobacco-addicted-holdouts in our tower, otherwise filled with healthy Southern Californians. We quickly fell in love, and I moved into his condo. After seven months of living together, I noticed a definite cooling of Michael towards me. What followed was something I didn't expect in the world of love between grown-ups where people are supposed to talk about their problems and solve them in a sane, civil, and adult manner.

One night, Michael and I went out with friends to hear some live music. It was a crowded bar, and we got separated. After awhile, I was tired, slightly drunk, and annoyed that he had disappeared. So I decided to punish Michael by leaving without him. That'll show him! I thought stupidly.

I went home and fell asleep. Waking up the next morning, I looked at Michael's pillow, which was devoid of his curly-haired head. I got up and walked through the house, thinking he'd fallen asleep in one of the other bedrooms. No Michael. I went into the garage; his car wasn't there.

Panic.

I ran upstairs and called some friends. "Is Michael there?" I asked embarrassed, realizing that I sounded like a dumbass for not knowing where my own boyfriend was. After exhausting that option, I started calling the hospitals, the police station. No Michael. So I sat down in the living room in my robe and waited for the phone to ring, watching some insipid Danny DeVito movie where he was playing a mentally-challenged guy. I got angrier and angrier as the minutes ticked by (not at the movie-- at Michael). What the fuck is going on?!?

The phone rang. It was Michael calling from the car. "Are you alright? Where are you?" I quizzed him, worried sick.

"We need to talk," he intoned.

Oh, here we go.

"Right now? On the phone?" I said sharply. "Ohhhhhhh no you don't. Come home and tell me to my face." I slammed the phone down and laid on the couch.

Ten minutes later, Michael came in, wearing his clothes from the night before and sporting his sunglasses. He slumped in a chair. I sat up, hyper-alert, and lit up my millionth cigarette of the day. "Well, Michael? Talk," I snipped.

"I'm not happy. I want you to move out."

God. The adrenaline that flooded through me!

"Is it because I left last night? I was tired, so Glen gave me a ride home. Is that why you're saying this?" I quavered.

"No." A stone.

"Do you have someone else, Michael? Where did you stay last night?"

"I was at a friend's house. No, there isn't anyone else."

"Bullshit, Michael," I said, chuffing smoke like a train. "I don't believe you."

He sat looking at me, without taking off his sunglasses.

"For God's sake. Take off your sunglasses!"

He didn't. There he sat, immobile, silent.

"What am I supposed to do, Michael?"

Nothing. Like the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, he was. All's he needed was a black hood.

I stubbed out my cigarette. "Okay. I'm going to take a shower. When I come out, I want you to be gone."

I got into the shower, scared, hurt, furious. Crying. Jesus Christ. Why won't he tell me what the fuck is going on? What did I do?

When I got out of the shower, robe on, hair in a towel, he was still sitting in the same spot, a fixture.

Michael said quietly, "I'll pay the deposit for your new apartment. I'm also going to pay your moving expenses. I'll give you the money when you figure out how much you need."

I stared at him. God, he really wants me to disappear. And he's giving me the money to do it. "Fine," I snapped. "I'll call you. But you're not staying here, Michael! You're staying with your 'friend' until I leave, whoever that is. You won't be here when I am. You aren't gonna just stop by to pick up some stuff. You'll call me beforehand and I'll make sure I'm not here when you come by." I kept staring at him, waiting for him to say why he was doing this.

"Okay," he answered. With that out of the way, he got up and left.

That was the moment I became certifiably insane. It lasted for the next four months.

Anticipating my future pharmaceutical needs, Michael tactfully left a full bottle of Xanax in the kitchen cupboard. I took two of them each night and washed them down with (at least) a six-pack of beer, just to get to sleep. I packed half-heartedly. I looked for an apartment. I listened to Van Morrison and Beatles CDs. I obsessed. I fumed.

When I drove deeper into the city limits of Crazytown, I became vengeful. With a key, I scratched out my recently-engraved name on our mailbox. I tried to make Michael's day-to-day life as miserable as I possibly could. I would see Michael out around town and glare at him, just to make him squirm. I accessed his personal voicemail account and erased "important" messages. I timed my smoke breaks to coincide with his so I could ride in the elevator with him to glare and say bitchy, crazy shit. I looked through all his clothes for clues as to why this was happening-- it's a girl, it's gotta be some slut he met, there's gotta be a phone number around here somewhere. I accused him of coming over and moving stuff around the apartment when I wasn't there: "Did you come over here today? The reason I ask is because I can't find the fucking T.V. remote. I know you were over here, Michael! Did you hide the remote?!?"

God, I was so awful. I hated myself for hating him. I hated him for not loving me any more. I hated how I felt. There was a typhoon of loathing and desperation that whirled around in my brain, unrelenting, unstoppable.

Finally, I realized I needed help quickly or something bad was going to happen. I made an appointment with a shrink and told him the whole sordid, messy tale.

"What do you need to make yourself feel better about all of this?" he asked gently.

"I need to have Michael dead. That would make me so happy. I would like to see him suffer." I remember saying this and noticing the shock in the shrink's eyes.

I was so blatant, heartless, and evil. I'd become a monster.

****
This was, thankfully, many years ago. He and I have both moved on. One night we talked about this whole mess. I told Michael everything I'd felt during those months, except the fact I wanted him dead. I've never told him that.

Michael, if you read this, sweetie, I'm so sorry.

Pride.

A bit of genealogical background on our old friend, Mimi Van Wyck, from the loathsome Harper's Bazaar "A Fashionable Life" issue:

Mimi, her mother, Mary Lynn, and her brother, Bronson, share an antique name dating all the way back to when New York was known as New Amsterdam.

Big deal. I've got it all over Mimi in the antique name department.

This is the Howard University standard. HU was founded by one of my ancestors, General Oliver O. Howard.

This is General Howard, looking suitably dignified and generally general-ish. O.O. graduated 4th in his class at West Point, lost his arm at Fair Oaks and had three horses shot out from under him during the Civil War. He went on to found Howard University, and was later appointed to spearhead the Freedman's Bureau, where he treated the Native Americans abominably, I'm sorry to report.

Here's O.O.'s monument at Gettysburg!

I'm guessing there aren't any Van Wyck memorials at Gettysburg, or anywhere else, for that matter. Heh heh!

This is Castle Howard, Suffolk, England.

Sadly, these particular Howards are somewhere in my tree, but certainly not on my branch. I'm just throwing it in here because let's face it-- that is one gorgeous castle.

Prior to their trip across the pond, the Howards populated England for many a century. The Howards landed on these shores around the same time the Van Wycks showed up. Maybe they were neighbors and had barbeques and stuff! Maybe not.

Another branch of my family, the Suttons, settled in England (via France) before the Howards. In fact, the Sutton crest bears the motto (translated from Latin) "Puttin' the 'Anglo' in 'Anglo-Saxon' since 1066".

That newbie Mimi Van Wyck may have an old name, but mine are older, thank you very much.

Envy.

I think envy is different from jealousy. Jealousy is when you want something someone else has which you used to have, like your otherwise awesome boyfriend you dumped because he called too much, or your beautiful house you had to give up because your mortgage rate went through the roof. Envy, on the other hand, is wanting that which another person has. Whatever it is they have, it is something you will never have, have never had in your life, nor could you ever hope to have.

Exhibit 1: Kelly Wearstler.

Kelly is featured on the cover of the Fall 2007 issue of Harper's Bazaar's "A Fashionable Life". Looking at her photo conjures a black wave of hateful envy through my brain; chestnut waves cascading around her shoulders, wide cheekbones, feline eyes, golden skin and Christian Louboutin pumps (one pair of "dozens" in her closet).

It only gets worse on page 47, where Kelly's story begins.

Kelly Wearstler, in a chocolate crepe Tracy Feith sundress, pancake-flat Chanel gladiator sandals, and oversize Marc Jacobs aviator specs, curls into one of the glossy black wrought-iron patio chairs between the pool and the pool house she has converted into a home office of her estate, on the Beverly Hills side of Sunset Boulevard (of course!- T.). Wearstler has flopped down out of not so much exhaustion as ease-- although this mother of two small boys, Elliott, age 4, and Oliver, 5, and the captain of a burgeoning global empire would be forgiven if it were the former.

I wouldn't forgive her. I would laugh at her.

Poor Kelly-- not only is she renovating her home, she's redoing her office space too. Stress! A nosy neighbor "caught" Kelly running her business out of the old bungalow space during the renovation of the new office on La Cienega. The City "totally came down on us" says Kelly, and adds: "What do you expect? This neighbor has metal exterior shutters." What a loser!

You want to design clothes too, Kelly? Along with your interiors business and your boutique on the 7th floor of Barney's on Wilshire?

"Why shouldn't I do clothes and anything else? I mean, look at all the inspiration I'm surrounded by*. We just got back from Uruguay and Argentina, and we're going to India and Japan this winter." How weird! Me too!

* Never end a sentence with a preposition, Kelly (T-Bone's Mom).

Exhibit 2: Mimi Van Wyck.

Mimi is an event planner, putting together weddings and parties for the rich and famous. When she and Ray Hamilton "Ham" Morrison III decided to get married, they wanted their day to be extra-special. The venue? Charleston, South Carolina. They thought it would be fun to have a Mardi-Gras themed wedding reception!

Zipped into a white sheath hung with chains by Alexander McQueen and sci-fi jewelry by Kara Ross, (Mimi) is a punk-rock Princess Leia. "Bronson has me changing at least fi-ii-ive times at the wedding," she says, sounding just like what a magnolia would sound like if a magnolia could talk. "It's cray-ay-zy."

Grrrrr.

Ham had been thinking of becoming a pro stock-car driver. (Mimi urged him to, well, think again.) Instead, Ham now restores Charleston's creaky historic residences...

I'm choking.

The wedding day!

Morning arrives, and Mimi climbs behind Ham on his British policeman's motorcycle, off to fetch croissants and orange juice.

The story goes on from there, but I'll spare you (and myself). Suffice to say the article concludes with a full-page photo of a radiant Mimi 'n' Ham at the airport, ready to jet off to the Grenadines for their honeymoon. Mimi's diamond glints as her hand clutches her Hermes briefcase. Ham, in a blue blazer, looks impossibly handsome.

************

Now folks-- that's envy.

The Seven Deadly Virtues

Before bursting into song, I will let you know, dear readers, that I dabbled in "diligence" this evening; I washed one-third of my bathroom floor.

Then I said to myself, "Aw, fuck it. This is boring."

Mordred:

Virtue and proper deeds, Your Majesty?
Like what? Courage, Milord?
Purity and Humility, my liege?
Diligence? Charity? Honesty? Fidelity?
The seven deadly virtues? No, thank you, Your Majesty.
The seven deadly virtues, those ghastly little traps,
Oh, no, Milord, they weren't meant for me.
Those seven deadly virtues, they're made for other chaps,
Who love a life of failure and ennui.
Take Courage! Now there's a sport.
An invitation to the state of rigor mort!
And Purity! А noble yen!
And very restful ev'ry now and then.
I find Humility means to be hurt;
It's not the earth the meek inherit, it's the dirt.
Honesty is fatal and should be taboo.
Diligence? A fate I would hate.
If Charity means giving, I give it to you,
And Fidelity is only for your mate.
You'd never find a virtue unstatusing my quo,
Or making my Beelzebubble burst.
Let others take the high road, I will take the low;
I cannot wait to rush in where angels fear to go.
With all those seven deadly virtues,
Free and happy little me has not been cursed.

- "The Seven Deadly Virtues" from "Camelot" by Lerner and Loewe

SJP Levitates.

Big Horn!

The worst thing a single woman can feel is have an overwhelming need for sex and no outlet. Sure, there are options-- but these options do not fulfill the need completely.

Last night at the hostessing job, knowing I'd leave work at approximately 9 pm to travel home to the cold of The Hovel, I felt the frustration rise inside of me. How nice it would be to take a hot shower with a lust object, fall into bed (or onto any available horizontal surface) and take care of bidness. For about five hours. With a bottle of wine and a few candles burning on my nightstand. Not that I've thought about this carefully or anything.

My frustration doesn't go away for days and days. It has the fucking half-life of plutonium.

Sure, I could go out and find someone to aid me with my problem. But if I do that, it makes me a ho. Don't wanna be a ho. Not even sure I'd be able to find someone suitable-- i.e., someone I know and am attracted to that would want to help me at this very moment. Folks are busy on the weekends.

A couple of years ago I had the perfect setup-- a "friend with benefits". We met on several happy occasions and had fun. But then he went and met some girl for whom he had "feelings" and we had to stop seeing each other. My carefully guarded and much-enjoyed arrangement flew out the window.

The men I know with whom I'd like to be friends with benefits are married, or have serious girlfriends, or they aren't particularly comfortable with an "arrangement". Therefore, the FWB option dissolves like an antacid in water.

Toys? I have some. Not the same though.

Crap.

Thanksgiving.

In my life, I have many things for which to be thankful.

However today I'm just thankful to have crawled out of my warm bed early enough to shove the turkey in the oven, chop most of the vegetables and arrange the table for ten with my Grandmother's china and my Great-Aunt's silverware.

I would have had a glass of wine to start the day off with a bang (it is 9:00 a.m.), but I'm waiting until 11:00 to imbibe. That's when The Brunette shows up with the booze.

What I love most about Thanksgiving, though, is this: my family celebrates this particular holiday together, every year, without variation. It's something I count on and it's something I cherish.

Readers, happy Thanksgiving to you and your families.

With love,

T-Bone

HAL-ACIOUS!

After attending the Episcopalian funeral mass of a friend this week, Dad (the non-practicing, non-denominationalist guy) asked me (a baptised Episcopalian), "So why do Episcopalians consider themselves Catholic?"

"Welllll... it's been a long time since my catechism classes. Let me see if I can explain it properly," I drawled, rolling my eyes to the ceiling. "First, we believe in the Holy Trinity-- the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. We also believe in the sacraments-- baptism, the communion--"


"No you don't," he interjected.


"We don't?" I asked.


"See, I've taken a catechism class myself," Dad pontificated, "And if you're a Catholic, they won't allow non-Catholics to take communion during their services."


"So what?"


"Well, today we took communion at the service."


"That's right. The Episcopalian Church allows people of other faiths to take communion with them."


"Yeah. So Episcopalians are not Catholic."

ALLLLLLLLLrighty then!

***********






Looking at my cat Layla, Dad asked, "What kind of kitty is Layla?"


"She's an Abyssinian," I answered.


"Purebred?"


"Yeah, I'm pretty sure she is," I said, gazing at Layla, who gazed back with her seemingly kohl-lined, emerald eyes.


"I don't think she is," said Dad with great certainty.


"No? Why not?" I asked.


"Well. I've seen pictures of Abyssinians and they're much more elongated than Layla is."

Okey dokey.

For Inky

My nephew G and his cat Inky, Halloween 2007

The cat went here and there
And the moon spun round like a top,
And the nearest kin of the moon,
The creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
For, wander and wail as he would,
The pure cold light in the sky
Troubled his animal blood.
Minnaloushe runs in the grass
Lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?

- Yeats

Interiors, Three.

Sunday brunch with Mom.


Pushing her wheelchair into the elevator, she mumbled over her shoulder:


"I'd like to see your father."


"Dad?!? Why?"


"I don't know," she answered. Then simply, "I just want to see him."


Speaking as a woman who has been around the block a couple of times, I can certainly understand being hopelessly in love with one man your entire life. Stuff like that doesn't change.


A few days later, I telephoned Dad in Texas.


"Look--I need to ask you something and I know you can't give me an answer right away, but I'd like you and Fiona to discuss this and get back to me," I said.


"Gosh! What is it? It sounds so serious," he joked.


"Well it kind of is, Dad. I saw Mom the other day and she said she wants to see you."


"Is she alright?" he asked solemnly.


"She's fine-- I mean, well... you know how she is. She's as tough as nails. Stiff upper lip. But Dad, I've gotta tell ya, she's getting worse and worse every day. Me and the Redhead-- when we talk we wonder, 'How much worse can this get?', but it always gets worse and worse." I paused, feeling tears coming. I took a breath and continued, "So she wants to see you, Dad. I think she just misses you. And I miss you. It'd be really good to see you and have a visit. How long has it been? Four, five years?"


"Yeah... the last time we saw all of you was when Fiona and I came up and put Mom's new flooring in the condo. That's about four years ago." He cleared his throat and said, "Let me talk to Fiona and I'll give you a call back-- okay, Boo?"


"'kay," I sniffled. "Thanks, Dad."


So my Father is coming to visit next week, the primary reason being Mom. Because he hasn't seen Mom since the Parkinson's began to accelerate, the Redhead has been trying to bring Dad up to speed, to prepare him for what he's going to see.


"So my mouth won't drop open?" he laughed.


The Redhead answered, "Yeah, Dad-- that's right."

Clearly nothing we've shared with him over the last several years regarding Mom's worsening condition has stuck. Dad hasn't grasped the enormity of what Mom is going through, or possibly he thought we were over-dramatizing.

Being a supremely confident person, I think Dad felt he had a good grasp of Mom's condition. He once read a memoir some guy wrote, who was charting his life and experiences as his Parkinson's-stricken spouse became more and more sick. Dad was moved by the book because he thought it foretold what my sisters and I were going to experience, and he knew it was going to be tough for us. He said to me, "It would behoove you and your sisters to read this book."

"Behoove us? That's so stupid," said the Redhead when I told her.

"I know. Like we need to read the fucking book to figure out what's going to happen. Jesus Christ. We're living it," I said bitterly.


After calling Mom one day, Dad phoned the Redhead and said, "You know, I could barely understand her. I think it was nerves."


"Nerves? Like being nervous about talking to you?"


"Yeah. I think I caught her when she was painting and I interrupted her..."

She heard the sound of my voice and lost her composure. Typical.


"No-- no, Dad. You could barely understand her because the nerves in her vocal chords are dying. Pretty soon she won't be able to talk at all. She wants to see you now because pretty soon, she won't be able to talk at all."


The normally jocular and breezy Dad said, "Oh."

I once asked Mom if she wished she still had Dad around to help her through her illness.

"No," she answered. "He wouldn't be able to handle it." Mom knows him and his faults better than anyone.



So. All the mysterious things which are contained in the Hal and Mary Safe Deposit Box, those things that are only between the two of them-- these two people who love each other so much and who suffered in different ways while married to one another-- those things are going to be spoken of in private for the last time. Whatever is in the safe deposit box hasn't seen the light of day for almost 25 years. Now it'll be taken out, laid in the sun and given fresh air.


Whatever they think of their visit together will only be known by them. Those regrets Dad may feel (if any), that longing Mom will most definitely feel, will be laid out. Those things will be examined together, or more likely, will be considered privately.

Then Mom and Dad will put those things back into their box, lock it, and put it back on the shelf.

Interiors, Two.

Like all couples, my parents' married life was made of good and bad-- good because they had common goals and interests, and bad because Mom and Dad were not suited for one another.


Those common goals, luckily for my sisters and me, included raising us well-- which Mom and Dad certainly did.

My parents were a united front. Never, ever, could you pit one against the other or manipulate one of them to arrive at a decision without the other's agreement. Example:


"Can I go over to Babs' tonight?" I would ask Mom.


"What does your father say?" she'd ask.


"He says no, because I got home after curfew the other night," I'd admit, scowling, because I knew my parents would not disagree with one another. Why am I trying? Stupid! I'd think to myself.


"I say 'no' too," answered Mom. "He's right. You were home past curfew," she'd say, sounding the subject's death knell.


All discussions about their life together, their money, and us girls must have taken place in their bedroom, as that was the only private place in our house, or well outside our earshot. I imagine Dad would have taken a hard line to arrive at a decision or mete out punishment for a child's wrongdoing. Mom would have agreed with him because her feelings on the subject would have been similar to his and yes, because it made life easier for her.


Dad was the deliverer of all bad news to us girls. Mom would only stand behind him and nod while he gave out a dose of punishment, tense-faced and laser-beam eyed. No wheeling or dealing. The "but.. I", "please, could you think about" were useless. The decision had been made and the lid was slammed shut on that particular discussion.


Dad was like that about everything, not just his girls. He would have been like that about neighbors, extended family, furniture arrangement, everything.


Mom and Dad had a very private relationship. Anything they displayed in public would have had to have been displayed on the largest scale imaginable-- like a movie theatre-- for them to show it to just us. To this day, I have no idea what they talked about, what they agreed upon.


They could be loving in "public", i.e., me sitting in the kitchen, when Dad came home from work and Mom would already be fixing dinner. They'd hug or kiss each other hello. However, I've never seen them just watching t.v. and holding hands. I've never seen Dad simply lay his head on Mom's lap. That kind of display between them was verboten.

Being mercurial, opinionated and obstinate, Dad would let days pass by without speaking to any of us. Our household revolved around his moods. Consequently, the other inmates of our home walked on eggshells, careful to leave his bubble of anger undisturbed. Mom made doubly sure she was always the same-- calm, relatively cheerful, and now I see, exhausted from the pressure of her husband who stalked around the house, silent and furious at some perceived slight or vague idea about something.

To make things even more confusing, Dad could snap out of his funk without warning. Inexplicably, he could transform into the most charming, gregarious and exciting person alive on the turn of a dime.


For Mom, this rollercoaster relationship could not have been easy. She worshiped my Father. She admired his intelligence, his creativity, his sense of humor. Any spontaneous affection and fun was largely withheld from her, until he popped out of his dark pit and showered her with laughter and smiles. I recall feeling a ridiculous sense of gratitude when the storm would once again pass us by.


In their late 40's and early 50's, Dad began to get antsy. He stopped smoking and starting running every day. He started his own business. He was happy and busy, and he looked amazing. Meanwhile, Mom was going through menopause, the weight gain, the flushing, all that stuff. She maintained her unruffled, calm exterior.


We would have friends and neighbors over to our house for Christmas Eve parties. During our last Christmas together as a family, Dad invited a ridiculous girl named Linda to the Christmas Eve party. He'd met Linda running in the park. She was young and tan, had long black hair, dressed inappropriately for the event and flirted with every man in the room. I nor anyone else liked her--except Dad, of course.


I soon realized Dad was planning to screw Linda five ways til Sunday. Now I'm fairly certain it hadn't happened at that point. It would soon, though.


A few months later, I came home from work and found Mom and Dad sitting in the living room watching T.V.

"What's up?" I asked them.


Dad didn't answer. Mom looked at Dad, and in an icy voice said, "Hal, are you going to tell her?"


"Tell me what?" I asked.


Long pause, then Dad mumbled, "I'm going on a trip."


"Oh!" I said. "To take pictures? Are you going camping?"


Silence from Dad. Then Mom:


"Hal, don't insult her intelligence. Tell her what you're doing."


I looked over at Dad, scared. He said, "I'm not coming back after this trip." Mom stared at him hard for a minute, then turned to me and said,


"T-Bone, your father is moving out. We're getting divorced."


The earth shifted under my feet.


To my Dad, I'm sure he was happy to be released from what he must have felt was a prison. He'd done his job raising us and helping provide a home. He was finished with this particular portion of his life and was ready to move on. To my Mom, she must have felt nothing but confusion and hurt.


I'll never know their feelings for sure, because 24 years later, neither of my parents have discussed any of this with me or my sisters. The circumstances surrounding their split are kept in their little safety deposit box marked "Hal and Mary", and only they have the key.


To this day, Mom has never said a mean word about Dad, nor has Dad said anything about my Mom except good things, true things. Whatever happened between them remains between them, and will always stay there.


Thing is, Mom and Dad still love and admire one another. What one is, the other is not. What one lacks, the other has in spades. In that respect, they were beautifully suited for one another.

But it's not enough to stay married.

Interiors, One.

Mom and Dad were both born in the Midwest. Their backgrounds could not have been more different, although their circumstances started out in a very similar vein.

They were born on the same day in 1932, during those dark years of the Depression. Dad was brought up on a small farm in the Detroit area and Mom in Springfield, Illinois, in a bungalow on a tree-lined street. Dad's childhood was a hardscrabble one, while Mom's was one of a sort of low-level gentility. Both lost their fathers at the age of four; Dad's to abandonment and divorce, Mom's to a heart attack. Grandmother Louise managed to raise Mom on her own, while Grandmother Esther soon fell in love with a taciturn Englishman named Fred, and married him shortly after her first husband high-tailed it from their farm.

Here Mom and Dad's similar circumstances begin to move in opposite directions-- that is, until they meet at the age of 24.

Dad does not often speak of his childhood. When we were children, we'd beg him to tell us stories about the trouble he, his brother and their neighborhood friends would get themselves into. Dad would sometimes indulge us with a rare story, but he had to be in the right mood to relate the hair-raising tales in which someone inevitably fell off of a barn, fell through some ice, fell out of a tree, or ran into Esther's house bleeding. With his stories, he painted a picture of a pack of devil-may-care neighborhood boys conjuring mischief. Years later, looking through photographs left to him by my Grandmother, I realized how modest and (in my opinion) dark their lives were.

Knowing my father and his artistic temperament, I now understand that he must have longed to escape that place in order to discover a life of beautiful, important and elevated things. Dad's first escape route was the Air Force, enlisting during the Korean War. Finally he was able to pursue those far-off places and meet people from all over the world. Fortified with the encouragement of his high school art teacher Helen, he also started to paint and draw in earnest.

Meanwhile Mom had been carefully raised by my Grandmother Louise and her sister, my Aunt Jeanette. Grandma made certain Mom went to church on Sundays and all that implies. A circle of adoring aunts and uncles surrounded Mom and treated her as an adult. Mom was Grandma's constant companion. They took trips to the East Coast and out west to California and Colorado. There were D.A.R. and Rainbow Girls. Grandma stressed to Mom it was important a woman should be able to make her own way in the world-- a hard lesson Grandma had certainly learned and decades prior to the feminist movement. Mom took these lessons my Grandmother taught very seriously, and she went off to college to earn a teaching degree.

Several years passed. The Korean War "ended" and Dad returned to Detroit, working at GM and hanging out with a posse of unsavory characters. Mom graduated from college with a teaching degree and moved to Pontiac to teach in their school district.

One day, a fellow teacher and friend named Helen invited Mom to a party.

The story is this: Dad (a former student of Helen's) was in his cups when my Mother arrived at the party in her convertible Chevy. Mom walked into Helen's house. Dad spied her-- a tall, impossibly slender, perfectly-dressed brunette-- and drunkenly declared, "WHAT A WAIST!"

He always has had a thing for tall, slender brunettes.

These two young people, so different from one another, started dating. They soon fell in love and got married.

Quickly enough, the Brunette, the Redhead and I entered the scene.

Here, my parents' life together retreated into an unfathomable privacy.

Crap email From a Dude**

Good morning (T-Bone), Sorry I haven't gotten back to you yet; I don't want you to think it has anything to do with you or your blog. I was very busy yesterday, but of course I could have responded with a quick note but I was reluctant to do so. It would be unfair of me to continue seeing you as I am not emotionally ready apparently, for a relationship (again). I was near panicky deciding what I could say realizing this; of course I couldn't just say nothing, that would be rude and I have hated being treated that way myself. Nor could I continue to see you under any false pretense,which would be selfish and mean of me. I'm so sorry (T-Bone) if this angers or hurts you, I really am sorry. Sincerely, Steve

*yawn*

**Thanks to Jezebel, which regularly features "Crap email From a Dude" on their site, for this inspiration.

Lockjaw.

This has happened to me, although I didn't have a gun. I wanted one, though.

The first time was twenty years ago. I was driving home late at night from a friend's house, when I yawned. After yawning, I realized my mouth wouldn't close. My jaw was stuck open, like an entrance to some crazy carnival ride.

I pulled into my driveway and sprinted into the house. Roommate Rich sat on the sofa, reading the evening paper. He didn't look up.

"Hey. Howyadoin'," he asked.


"guh," I answered, going into my bedroom to survey the damage in the mirror.


I tried manipulating my jawbone, pushing it back and forth with my fingers. With the palm of my hand, I tried hitting the underside of my chin hoping to snap my jaw shut. It was in vain. My jaw was set as if made of cement. Drool ran out of my mouth.


Bracing myself against Rich's inevitable horrified laughter and finger-pointing, I walked out into the livingroom, where he sat with the paper in front of his face.


"kkuh," I said.


"Hey. What's up?"


After emitting some strange clicking and gagging sounds from my throat, I poked the paper with my finger. Rich lowered the page and looked at the glory that was me.


"Jesus Christ!" he screeched. Predictably, he laughed. "Is your jaw locked open?" he asked.


I nodded, drooling.


He threw his paper aside. "Well," he pronounced, "Looks like we're going to the hospital!"


At the hospital (drool towel covering my mouth), we waited and waited. Tears ran down my face. It was excruciating.


Finally a nurse took me back to a bed, where she drew the curtain for privacy and ignored me for a couple of hours. After waiting in agony for an hour, I began picking up random items within my reach and throwing them, missile-like, across the ER. Not knowing what else to do with unruly and violent me, the nurses shot me full of sedatives and I passed out.


Waking, my jaw was back in place. Rich drove me home.


Fast forward to 2004, New Years' Day, 1:30 a.m. The Redhead, Bingo, Gant and I were in Utah. Bingo and I had been drinking scotch and champagne. They all went to bed and I stayed up to watch the Sex and The City marathon on HBO. Settled back against my pillows, I was very comfortable and sleepy.


Until I yawned.


Yes, it happened again.


This time, I didn't even attempt to move my jaw back into place. Panic sobered me up very quickly. I grabbed a pen and hotel notepaper and ventured into the Redhead's room. I poked her on the shoulder.


"What?" she asked drowsily, turning over to look at me. She gasped, "Oh no... not again! Are you serious?"


I nodded, drooling.


She got up and took me by the arm out into the hall.


She whispered, "What do we do?"


I scratched with the pen:


"hosp. drugs. ????"


"Oh, shit," breathed the Redhead.


In a crisis? The best person to have with you is the Redhead. She quickly ascertained where the nearest ER was, called to alert them that we were coming, got our coats, and drove me to the hospital.


She sat with me while we were waiting for the doctor. "Does it hurt a lot?" asked the Redhead fearfully.


I nodded, drool tissue in place. Tears ran out of my eyes.


The nurse came in with medical background paperwork to fill out. "Please answer these questions as honestly as you can," said the nurse.


"Could you give T-Bone something for her pain? She's in a lot of pain," said the Redhead.


"Sure-- we can give her some morphine. But we need the paperwork filled out first."


Weight: 150 (yeah, about five years ago).


Have you ingested any alcohol or drugs within the last 24 hours? If so, please list: 3 glasses champagne (and some beer, and erm... lots of scotch).


"You have to be honest, T-Bone," encouraged the Redhead.


"huh uh," I grunted.


Finally, the nurse gave me 10 ccs of morphine. A few minutes later, she asked, "Did that shot help at all?"


I shook my head.


"Okay. We'll give you some more."


Twenty ccs later, I was finally able to relax. In came the handsome young ER doctor.


"What have we got here? Oh! That's no problem. Just lean forward." He climbed onto the examining table behind me and reached around to my mouth, inserting his fingers inside and pressing on the sides of my face with his thumbs. Gingerly, he manipulated my jaw back into place.


Crying, I said, "Oh, thank you! I'm sooooo sorry you had to do this on New Years' Eve! I'm so sorry," I blubbered, all stoned and drunk.


"Oh, it's no problem!" said the handsome young doctor. "You should go home and sleep off this morphine. No solid food for three days. Just liquids. Here's some Tylenol in case you get a headache from the jaw trauma," he said. Then, "You have any questions?"


"Yeah-- are you married?" I said blearily.


He laughed. "Ah, yes. I am married."


"Well, go home to your wife. Thanks again. Happy New Year."




Late that morning, I woke up. On my nightstand was a glass of water with a straw. the Redhead had been to the local grocery store and the fridge was stocked with apple sauce, yogurt, juice.

After drinking and eating everything that vaguely qualified as liquid and laid on the couch to watch t.v. I greeted my family when they returned from a hike.

"I'm hungry," I announced. "I need food. Pizza."

"The doctor said no solid food for three days, T-Bone," said Bingo.

"I don't care. I'm really hungry."

So we went to the local pizza joint, where I dined on pepperoni pizza and salad.

Gant asked me, "So, when do we get to laugh about this?"

"Shouldn't be too long, G. Pretty soon, I'm thinking."

"Good," he said with a smile. "Because it really is funny."

Catch Up

I would have liked my 100th post to be of a more celebratory nature, but screw it. I'm too damned tired. Instead I'll let you, my sweet tonstant weaders, in on the recent happenings in my little universe.

First, I'm trying computer dating once again. I've had lots of people look at my profile posted on the dating website, but very few bites. This is fine because the two men with whom I've been communicating are both good guys, and I'd rather get to know two good men rather than an army of flakes.

The first guy is Jerry, with whom I share a love of Pink Panther movies and red wine. The second guy is Steve, with whom I share a love of reading, poetry, sarcasm and left-wing politics. I was supposed to meet Jerry for lunch today, but that didn't work out. We will reschedule our meeting. Steve and I are meeting tonight for drinks. We are both looking forward to it. After emailing back and forth for two weeks, it will be interesting to see if the intellectual attraction can carry over into physical attraction. I'll keep you posted on what happens.

I've considered how strange it seems jumping so quickly into the dating pool after Mikey's death. Sometimes it's odd to me as well, but I remind myself that I made the decision to release my feelings for Mikey two months prior to his death. Leslie, Mikey's ex, is for having a harder time with Mike's demise for different reasons. She has said to me, "You're handling this so well; how do you do it?" I always tell her, "You've got to remember I have seven weeks' head-start on grieving for him." It is as simple as that. In addition, my relationship with Mikey taught me a lot about what I'm looking for in a partner. Coupled with the realization he and I would never meet on common ground, I see now that time is very precious. So I need to go on to the next chapter. This includes finding a man I can love and who loves me too.

The Hamlet's Public Works Department has been a source of rich writing material recently. I'll give details in near future, but here is a condensed version of recent goings-on within The Hamlet:

Lady hits mountain lion on the way to work. She panics. Tries to load mountain lion in her minivan to take to vet. This didn't work.

Local high school's homecoming parade is cancelled due to wildfire.

Crazy people are running for city council and give interviews to the local press, revealing their complete insanity.

The Great White Hunter (GWH) was in Africa shooting defenseless animals for two weeks and has returned to the office. He has two CDs filled with videos and photographs of his bloody exploits, and he persists in trying to share these CDs with me. I refuse to watch and I've been polite in my refusals so far, but my patience is nearing an end. I have the sneaking suspicion GWH is needling me somehow in his persistence I view the CD, so the time is nigh to shut this fucker down and keep him the fuck away from me. Not that I dislike him or anything.

So that's about it, tonsant weaders. Thanks for your support through these 100 posts.

Wishes.

Someone who doesn't think I'm completely insane.

Someone who likes my incredibly thick, unruly hair; who isn't afraid to run their fingers through it; who likes to brush it.

Someone who'll hang out and talk with me in the kitchen with me while I cook.

Someone who'll snuggle in our soft, warm bed at night while the snow falls outside the window.

Someone who'll let me baby them when they're sick.

Someone who is always amazed by the alternate beauty and tragedy of life.

Someone who doesn't mind my obsession with Russell Crowe.

Someone who loves animals as much as I do.

Someone who can step up to the plate when it's time to do so.

Someone who realizes a person can never be known completely, yet never stops trying to understand.

Someone who is kind.

Someone real.

Someone who will always protect what we have together.

O.J.'s Latest

I'm sure you all have heard by now that O.J. Simpson (a.k.a. "The Murderer") was arrested in Vegas for trying to recoup some personal sports memorabilia he claims was "stolen".

Did he send the seller a letter saying, "Please give me my stuff back?" No.

Did he stop by the seller's room at the casino and say, "Hey dude. That's my stuff. Could I please have it back?" No.

Did he call the LVPD and say, "Hey! Some stuff of mine was stolen and now it's being sold. The guy who's selling it is at Room X at the Palms. Could you please help me with this?" No.

In a moment of clarity, did the Murderer simply shrug his shoulders and say, "Well, shit--simply because of my existence in this world, I've caused incalculable pain to so many people. I guess I had this coming to me. I'll let this guy sell my sports memorabilia, because no one in the their right mind would spend money on it anyway. After all, I'm a lying, murdering son-of-a-bitch. It makes no difference to me if he sells it or not"? No.

Instead, the Murderer got a little entourage of armed thugs together, rushed the seller's room, and had a huge confrontation with the seller. The Murderer then made off with "his" stuff. Naturally, the Murderer was arrested and is now in an isolation cell in a Las Vegas jail.

What is it with this asshole?

I hope the Judge denies the Murderer's bail, because he needs to sit in that isolation cell for awhile. We've seen the Murderer cannot control his temper nor his impulses. It's best he be kept in a cage because he can't behave like a rational human being.

What amazes me most of all is that the Murderer was in Vegas for a friend's wedding. The Murderer still has friends? This boggles my mind. The couple that's getting married actually asked the Murderer to be their guest at their wedding? Talk about bad luck. "On our first day as man and wife, we want to especially thank our dear friend, the Murderer, for making it all the way out to Vegas from Florida. Oh, and honey? Don't let him near that knife when we cut the cake! Haha! Just kidding Murder-- erm, O.J.!"

I wish he'd just spin off the face of the earth and we'd no longer have to hear ANYTHING about him. He is useless.

Bombs Go Green.

From CNN:

"The tests have shown that the new air-delivered ordnance is comparable to a nuclear weapon in its efficiency and capability," said Col.-Gen. Alexander Rukshin, a deputy chief of the Russian military's General Staff, said in televised remarks.

Unlike a nuclear weapon, the bomb doesn't hurt the environment, he added.