Thank You, Heath.

Gluttony.

According to a quiz at Belief.net, I am spiritually a bit too thin. This is true. I live lean and mean; not out of necessity, but out of habit.

With the exception of a few good financial years during my adult life, I've been poor. I've learned to do without things that most people possess; cable television, new clothes, a cellphone, a full freezer, a full gas tank, lattes from Starbucks, and stacks of DVDs.

I'm not complaining! I'm just telling how it is here at The Hovel.

On occasion, it occurs to me that I live a spartan life. This sometimes morphs into a spell of bitterness. For the most part however, I don't consider myself poor, although my bank balance tells me otherwise.

I'm very fortunate my inner life has sustained me when things are rough. I pick up Jane Eyre and read it for the hundredth time, which makes me happy. I pop Pride and Prejudice into the VHS and the world seems right again. I put together a pot of homemade soup, which satisfies hungries and reminds me I can create something delicious from those few simple ingredients I just happen to have in the cupboard. I play with and cuddle my cats, which lowers my blood pressure. I cut my hair and feel better about myself, snipping off dead-ends for an instant erasure of bad feelings.

I'm thankful I'm not a gluttonous person by nature; however, I do need to acknowledge this doing without versus having what I need. Pseudo-monastic living has its limits.

The Shoes From La Roux's Fantasy

Gina asked I post pictures of the Anthropologie shoes that are central to The Redhead's fantasy. Here they are.

"Ooooh! Lookit!!!!"

and...

I'm all over the heels. Oh boy.

Le Roux fantasme autant que je fais, peut-être plus!

The Redhead sent me a picture of dangerously adorable tangerine leather peep-toe character shoes with a white instep strap (and button!) this morning (from Anthropologie, natch), with this little story:

From: yer "sis"

Provence: As the waiter sets a tiny dish of olives next to your wineglass, you smile "Merci" and shade your eyes against the afternoon sun while looking up the road winding its way through a warm field of lavender stretching away over the hill. Tickled by the breeze, the hem of your frock flutters and dust whispers across the toes peeping out of the new tangerine shoes. "Where is he?" you wonder, glancing at your watch. A buzz in the lazy air shivers a bit louder, then louder still as it becomes the growl of a somewhat elderly motorcycle. "Un autre verre de vin, s'il vous plait", you say to the waiter. "Daniel! I wondered if you'd ever get here!"

I know that "Daniel" is this fellow, and he's driving up on a vintage Indian.

The next email from The Redhead. Attached is another wonderful pair of shoes from Anthropologie (pink Mary Jane flats, with little eyelet-cut holes-- whee!):

From: yer "soeur"

Provence, deux: A slanting sliver of sunlight beneath the bathroom door. A hiss of water, clank of pipes, whisper of a razor on his cheek. Linen skirt smooth against your legs as you slip into the pink shoes. "Oui?" you call to the quiet tap at the door. "Madame, un mimosa ou deux?" "Deux, merci," you say, and pull the windows open to a brilliant day.

I'm guessing the fellow shaving in the bath is again:

Le Roux et moi mangeons de l'un de l'autre, vous voyez ?

Lust.

There are those who lust for power, money, or attention.

Me? I lust for really cute shoes.

Just ask The Redhead and she'll tell you-- if we are in a department store, we will inevitably gravitate to the shoe section where I'll find a beautiful pair of shoes. I will hold one of the glorious shoes up to my cheek and squeal, "Redhead! Lookit!" Repeat this ten times. This is what we do when we go to the mall.

Oooooh... I lust for pasta.

Hot or cold, red sauce, meat sauce, olive oil, with vegetables, basil, or just gorgeous, velvety cheese-- it simply doesn't matter. Pasta is the ultimate comfort food and like a good shoe, goes with anything.

I do lust for a particular Australian bloke, whom I believe I've mentioned before:

You know, each time I Google My Husband Russell Crowe, I find yet another picture of him that becomes a favorite. This is today's choice. He looks relaxed and casual and kind of scruffy/messy.

*Whispering* Oh, Russell-- if you were here with me, my love, I am sure I wouldn't know what to do with you.

Hm. Wait... okay. Yes I would. Never mind.

Booklust.

The other night a friend asked me, "If you had only $20.00 left in the world, how would you spend it?" I answered, "I would go to a used book store and buy a bunch of books." I love to read, feel the heft of the book in my hands, smell the pages, relish the story, and often lose myself in what I'm reading. It is my only true escape.

To me, lust is not sinful, at least as it applies in my life-- my quiet, uneventful, largely celibate life. Screw Thomas Aquinas and his little list of the Seven Deadlies! I'm keeping lust close to me, thank you very much, and it's a cheap, cheap thrill.

3:10 to Heaven

January 8th, 2008- a day I look forward to with one fluttering heart, two sweaty palms, and three heapin' helpin's of overwhelming anticipation!

Thaaaaat's right... My Husband Russell Crowe's movie, 3:10 to Yuma, is coming out on DVD.

Note the tagline: "Time Waits for One Man". It should've read: "T-Bone Waits for One Man."

Just saying.

As I've mentioned before, dear readers, I have a rich fantasy life.

Greed.

Here's the iconic greedmeister from Wall Street, Gordon Gekko. He is the poster child for the deadliest of the seven deadlies-- GREED. Underhanded, manipulative, and dishonest, these qualities make a person like Gordon into that one thing-- GREEDY.

The news is always filled with greedy characters, but one group of people in particular spring to mind-- those steroid-taking, human growth hormone-shooting baseball players.

There's only one reason why these guys take the steroids and hormones; they want to be faster and stronger than anyone else on the field. Because players can't be those things just by sheer talent and athleticism, they get an edge over other players by shooting up the stuff.

So why do these athletes feel the need to be faster and stronger than anyone else? It's not because of their inherent competitive natures. It's the money, baby! If they're faster and stronger than other players, they'll get the contract from the ball club that'll make them rich and famous. They'll get the hitting record. They'll get the good press. They'll get the attention and adulation from fans. They'll get the money.

Barry Bonds has been haunted by rumors of steroid use for many years. After being outed once again in Mitchell's report, Bonds stubbornly said for the umpteenth time, "I've never taken steroids". He thinks that if he keeps denying it, the public will eventually believe him. Bonds also knows his hitting record would be forever sullied with an asterisk if he said he made the record while taking performance-enhancing drugs. If he didn't have his record, he would certainly lose the money and respect he apparently craves. Greed. Again.

Why don't the ball clubs punish their players by firing them for lying and cheating? Because it's the money, honey! If the clubs don't have big players in their lineup, who would come to see the games? Nobody! If nobody comes to the games, how will the clubowners get rich? They won't! The club owners want their share of the pie, so it goes around and around. Corruption. Cheating. Greed.

Politicians are greedy assholes too. You think this war in Iraq is about "terr-ists"? No. It's about control of the Middle East's oil. Greed.

Those assholes who ran Enron into the ground? All those employees who worked for that corporation-- their pensions gone. Everything they worked for, gone. Why? Because the folks that ran Enron decided they wanted more money, so they used the pension plan and retirement money set aside for their employees to pad their own stupid wallets and fund their ridiculously opulent lifestyles. Greed.

I can't describe to you the difficulty I've had writing this post because I hate the concept of greed so much. I've revised, revised, revised and I still find greed such a repulsive subject, I hate to even give it another bit of effort.

Simply put, greed sucks.

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.