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Tags: Inspiration, kindness, motivation, quotes, today
Fartbuster Lost It
4 Jun
I told y’all how Monday was kind of weird because of that wedding ring memory, right? Well, it got even weirder when I came home from work. G met me at the door of our bedroom with the words, “I’ve got some bad news. Not big bad news…” He held up his left hand. “I lost my ring.”
I shit you not. My body went cold because that’s not the first time a fellow who’s wearing my ring confesses that he’s “lost it.”
Guess who? C’mon, guess.
FARTBUSTER.
About a month before I found out that Fartbuster had been having an affair, he met me at the door as I walked in from the garage. He was picking at the skin of his palms, all sweaty looking and panicky. “Don’t freak out–I lost my ring at lunch today.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say so I stayed quiet. Funny how the only thing I could hold in my mind at that moment was the door mat from that fall. Funny how that betrayal came right back to mind.
“I think what happened was I took it off to wash my hands in the bathroom and I stuck it in my pocket but it must not have gone all the way down in there and it fell out. But I didn’t hear it maybe because the water was running. When I was getting in my car after lunch I realized that it wasn’t there. I looked EVERYWHERE–in that bathroom, under the table, I asked them to look in the kitchen. I was an hour late getting back to work because I didn’t want to stop looking for it. I left my number with the restaurant manager. We even looked in the parking lot.”
I still couldn’t say anything because all the blood in my body had gone to my head to pound between my ears.
“I’m sorry. I’ll go back and look tomorrow.”
I shrugged.
“Are you mad?”
“I’m sad. That was a beautiful ring.” Handmade and special ordered from an artisan in California. A wide band made of alternating braided gold. Even with Tony the Jeweler giving me the family discount, that ring had cost me $1500.
I was sad. Maybe I had been sad since the summer before, when we took that miserable trip to England. Or since that August, when he came home with the lipstick on his collar. The door mat had made me more angry than sad, but sad at the heart of it. I had been sad back in October, when I planted those daffodils in the backyard and wondered if we would still be married when they bloomed. Had I been sad since January, when he had lost his job? It had been a sad year.
That ring was never found. A couple of weeks later, we went down to Tony’s and ordered a new one. I thought it would be a fresh start for us.
A few days later, Fartbuster told me that he wanted to move out and “get his head together.” I STILL didn’t know about the affair. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t the time to lay out another thousand dollars on a wedding ring. I was too embarrassed to call Tony myself and cancel the order. Big Gay took care of that for me.
So a few weeks later, when Fartbuster came clean about the affair and I threw my own heavy gold wedding ring at his head, his finger was already bare. I remember saying, “Oh! Now I know what happened to your ring!” and he said, “No! I wasn’t lying about that. About that.”
Yeah, G didn’t know WHAT can of worms he was opening up when he told me “I lost my ring.” I kept quiet, working through all these thoughts. That was the same day I had been visited by the memory of Richard’s wedding ring–now here I was reliving a deja vu ring scene from ANOTHER marriage!
Luckily, while I was tracing my way through all that mental drama, G found his ring in the sofa cushions. Sometimes, if I keep my mouth shut, things work out on their own!
With This Ring
3 Jun
Image courtesy of Metropolitan Museum of Art
I hit one of those grief loops today–the portals through time that sweep me back into another moment from another life.
As I was washing my hands in the kitchen at work, a memory came back to me from the day Richard and I moved into our house back in the fall of 2003. We were unloading a truck filled with my stuff (mostly boxes of books). Our paths crossed in the garage as he was walking into the house and I was walking out. I saw his left hand gripping the corner of a gigantic cardboard box and for a fleeting second, I imagined that I saw a shiny gold ring there. A simple wedding band. The image seemed so real, in that instant, that I stood there kind of dumbstruck. He paused as he walked past me and gave me a funny look.
“What?” he asked. I laughed and shook my head to clear it. “Nothing. Just daydreaming.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. Then he said, “I love you…and you didn’t have to say it first this time.” And he went on his way.
I was usually the “I love you” and he was the “I love you, too.” That moment–sweaty and stinky and tired in the garage– made me so completely happy. We were starting our life together, blending our stuff.
I guess that moment was prescient–seventeen months later he did wear a simple gold ring on that finger. We picked out our wedding rings while sitting on the side of the bathtub in our house, the night before the ceremony. Big Gay had brought a black velvet tray of them from our jeweler friend, Tony. Richard wasn’t much for jewelry. He didn’t even think he would wear a ring. But it was important to me to give him a token, so he chose a simple gold band. There was no time for engraving.
The next morning, under a white tent in our backyard, I put that ring on his finger. The minister bound our hands in his silk stole for the blessing then whispered to us, “You’ve tied the knot!”
Richard agreed to wear the ring for the rest of the day because I enjoyed the sight of it so much. He kept it on into the night. In between IV meds, he joined the rest of us out on the deck where we sat telling stories in the dark. He kept it on when we went to sleep, past midnight when his drugs were finished running their course.
The ring was still there the next day, on his finger. It stayed there for the eleven days that we got to call each other husband and wife. He never took it off. After he died, I took it off his finger and put it on mine.
That’s the memory that came back to me today–the imaginary vision of a gold band when he was so strong and happy, and the memory of the gold band when he was dying…and happy. It’s hard to believe that we found a way to be any kind of happy in the middle of the end of his life. We did.
So I dried my hands on a paper towel and went back to work. If you passed me in the hall and wondered why I had that strange look on my face, this is why.
Sunday Sweetness–My Sister
1 JunI’m really proud of my sister. Here’s a story about her and a trip we took to New Orleans. I like them both–New Orleans and my sister–but I love my sister! Click the mask to read on…
You Can Feel Safe Holding Hands
29 May
The first big overseas trip that my late husband Richard and I took together began in Amsterdam. It’s a city that’s just as fun as you’ve heard–and that’s all I will say about THAT in this forum. The second afternoon we were there, we were meandering around in the Red Light District. Richard stepped into an exchange bureau to exchange some American money so we could buy more…souvenirs. I waited for him outside on the narrow sidewalk by the canal.
When he stepped out of the tiny storefront, Richard took my hand and we continued on our walk. Before we had gone 20 feet, a very stoned and twitchy man who looked alarmingly like Osama bin Laden approached Richard. He stuck his hand out and muttered something about money. Richard waved him off and said, “I don’t have any change.” We kept walking with purpose, eyes forward.
Well. That dude thought he had found an easy mark. A short, slight American who had just stepped out of a currency exchange office and now had a lump in the pocket of his jacket? The guy snarled, “I’m not interested in CHANGE!” and snatched as hard as he could at Richard’s pocket. He was disappointed when only a pack of cigarettes fell to the cobblestones. And when Richard gave him a sharp side elbow to the face.
It was on. I expected the man to run away, but he was ready to fight. The two of them circled each other. The pickpocket kept waggling his hands at Richard in a “come at me bro” way and saying “Fucker mother! Fucker mother!” Richard kept his hands up and all his weight was on the balls of his feet. The thief took another dive at his pocket. Richard feinted to the right and popped the guy in the head.
Dude KEPT ON yelling “Fucker mother! Fucker mother!” and swatting at Richard. By that time, even in the sparse afternoon crowds, a few people had come over to see what was going on. The pickpocket decided it was time to move on.
I ran to Richard. He was breathing heavy and shivered from adrenaline. He knelt down and retrieved his Marlboros. “Don’t mess with my cigarettes, right?” We laughed in relief. I turned and shouted at the pickpocket’s retreating back: “It’s ‘MOTHER FUCKER!’” Richard took my hand and we ducked into the nearest bar. I always felt safe after that when I was holding his hand, because he may have been small but I had proof he was fierce and wily. Richard was 5’4″ of badassery if ever the need arose.
This story came back to me last night when Facebook displayed an ad in the sidebar for a trip to Amsterdam. The trip is offered by Olivia Travel–the premiere lesbian travel company. Sorry, Facebook ad algorithm. You misinterpreted all those Wesleyan posts where I talked about how much I love my sisters. Still, I was intrigued by the concept of a lesbian travel company, so I clicked the ad to see what makes it different. This line jumped out at me in the description of Amsterdam as a host city: “You can feel very secure holding hands and being yourself while walking the streets of Amsterdam.”
Dang. Going on vacation to a place where you can feel secure holding hands and being yourself. That wasn’t in my Top 50 reasons to visit Amsterdam. True, The Netherlands was the first country to legalize gay marriage. It’s also the site of the Homomonument in Amsterdam–a series of pink granite triangles built in memory of those killed by the Nazis for being homosexual. Jews wore the yellow star; homosexuals wore the pink triangle. We went there on our way to the Anne Frank House. But it never even crossed my mind.
The tagline on the Olivia ad was “feel free.” They charter the entire ship, or rent out an entire resort, so that their clients can relax and be themselves.
My eyes were opened a little wider because of that ad and I’m glad for it. I’ve never had to go somewhere other than my home just so I could be myself. To do something as simple as holding hands as I walk down the street beside the person I love. My experience of feeling safe holding hands in Amsterdam is very different from some of my sisters’. I only had to worry about being robbed–not being judged and robbed.
I feel free to squeeze my partner’s hand, or give him a peck on the lips, or say goodbye with a hug wherever we are–PTO meeting, Kroger parking lot, cafeteria at work, airport curb. Hell, I feel free to have a snarling fight with him in those places, too, because we’re just free.
Holding hands for a stroll down the beach, or for comfort after a robbery attempt, or during the prayer at church–that’s a simple thing so many of us take for granted. And so many of us can’t.
Holding Hands
28 May
A few weeks ago, in the flurry of prom snapshots on Facebook, I saw an image that took me right back to being young and aflutter. In the photo, my friend’s daughter posed with her date. Smiles and smiles and smiles. Poses with their friends and with just the two of them. They weren’t a “couple” couple, but not “just friends” either. It was a date date. And they were young and so so sparkly.
The picture that got to me was a candid snap of the crowd of kids. The boy had taken the girl’s hand as they turned to cut a path through the crowd. The look on her face, and the look on his face, even though they weren’t looking at each other–it was clear that holding hands was a big deal. They both looked a secret kind of happy, like maybe it was the first time they had held hands right there in front of everyone. The energy that flowed through their hands made them one as they moved through the group. The touching was something new, but the way it marked them apart as a pair was something new too.
When’s the last time you felt a secret kind of happy because you were holding someone’s hand?
Really. Think about it.
Now that we’re Adults, most of us have moved on to more…expressive forms of touch. Sure, G and I still hold hands when we’re out on a date, but most days we are holding the hands of those tiny people that we created (via the previously referenced “more expressive forms of touch”). At this stage of life, we hold hands to keep people from darting into traffic, not to declare our coupledom to the wider world.
Richard and I used to joke about “who got to be on top” when we held hands. I liked to be the hand on the bottom. I liked the protected feel of my hand tucked into his. Besides, I already had a good five inches on him in the height department, so I didn’t want it to look like I was dragging him down the street to a dentist appointment. He liked being the bottom hand because he believed that it gave him more steering control–he swore this was a lesson he learned as a ski instructor. So we joked for years about who got to be on top.
Anywho. Where was I? Oh yeah, high school….
Right in the middle of all this thinking about hand holding, I read a book that I cannot recommend highly enough–“Eleanor and Park” by Rainbow Rowell. I give it five stars then I would color in two more stars with a Sharpie. That Good.
If you lived in the 80′s, read this book. If you ever felt like a misfit in high school, read this book. If you ever got swept up in first love, read this book. If you lived an absolute perfect life through your teen years, shut up because you’re lying then read this book. If you know how to read, read this book. As John Green, author of “The Fault In Our Stars,” (the other book that knocked me to my knees this year) said in his NYT review: “Eleanor & Park” reminded me not just what it’s like to be young and in love with a girl, but also what it’s like to be young and in love with a book.
Eleanor and Park begin their courtship on the school bus. It is a slow and furtive reel of comic books, mix tapes, snark, and sentiment. It is sensuous in the truest sense of the word. Rowell’s characters revel in the touch, smell, sight, and sound of each other. And eventually, the taste–but there is so much that comes before that. Remember the days before kissing and all that comes after kissing? Remember leaning in to read something together just for the excuse of being that close? Remember when it took weeks to work your way up to hand holding, and then only if no one was watching? Remember?
Sunday Sweetness–Taking Wing
25 MayHere’s a story that I wrote almost a year ago. It’s about all those strange quivery feelings in the pit of your stomach–the “butterflies” that come from anticipation of new adventures. Click the butterfly to flutter on over!
I hope you feel the sun on your wings today.
Saturday Morning Cartoons
23 May
Our family had one TV when I was Vivi’s age. Black and white, no remote, rabbit ear antenna. It got three channels (four if there was a solar flare or something)–ABC, CBS, NBC. One TV, three kids. The rule was “whoever gets there first decides what we watch.”
This is why my dad says that he would get up on a Saturday, get dressed to go to work, and walk out in the living room to find me already awake and watching the test pattern on the TV. I loved me some Saturday morning cartoons and I had one narrow window to watch them. From 8 a.m. to 1:30. Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, Super Friends, Land of the Lost (my favorite!), Electro Woman and Dyna Girl, Far Out Space Nuts, Isis, Shazzam, Hong Kong Phooey.
By the time American Bandstand came on at 12:30, then Soul Train after that, we were sated. With brains full of brightly colored Sid and Marty Kroftiness, we wandered out into the rest of the weekend. Once the cartoons were over, we spent the weekend doing the stuff we could do any day. We rode bikes, played with the dogs, played on the swing set, explored the woods, read books, played games, made up stuff to fill our time. Ordinary stuff. Cartoons were only available for four hours; getting to watch them was a special opportunity.
I got to thinking about all of this last Saturday. Our whole family was in the backyard all morning. I was vacuuming the pool. G went down to the river and took cuttings from wild roses that grow down the bank. Vivi and Carlos played on the play fort with its slide, swinging bridge, rock climbing wall, fire pole, swings…you get the idea. But what struck me as strange is that my kids have no sense of “Saturday morning cartoons.” They can watch cartoons whenever they want. Not that we let them watch whenever they want…I mean, cartoons are always an option for them. If Carlos wants to watch Peppa Pig at 6 p.m. while I cook dinner, we have it On Demand. If Vivi wants to watch Littlest Pet Shop at 6 a.m., she knows to punch 186 on the remote. And keep the volume below 15.
My kids only get to play like that in the backyard for a few hours on weekends. I know, I know. Free range kids and all. We live on a river and have a pool (#goodproblemstohave). Even though both are fenced, I’ve always been nervous about turning the kids loose in the yard without keeping an eye on them. They get most of their Vitamin D on the deck where I can see them and put a lock between them and drowning. I spend money on sand so they will have dirt to play in when there is an acre of dirt at the bottom of the stairs. Duh.
When they are free to gallivant in the backyard, they look like this:
Sometimes you need to tie a zebra to the swing with a pink feather boa. You just DO.
Dirty feet are happy feet!
Giving his sister a little shove…with his head.
My goal for the summer is more Saturday mornings like this, and fewer Saturday mornings like this:
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