Finding Happy

I invented an umbrella. It was shaped like an upside down "U," and my new friends in the Design Department's model shop at RCA made it for me. In 1970, women's hairstyles required a lot of back combing (teasing) to make us look as if we had more hair than we actually had. For me, it was especially challenging because I had fine, thin hair, and when I teased it, it looked like a rat's nest covered with a  few strands of hair. The only way to protect the rat's nest from being destroyed in wind and rain was to saturate it with heavy duty hairspray and wrap it in scarves. My umbrella was a perfect solution to the inclemencies, but a few years after my one umbrella hit the streets, the big helmet hair phase was replaced by long straight hair. I shelved my invention, but someone else on this big populated planet had come up with the idea for upside down "U" umbrella, too, and they followed through with the patent and production and they became very rich; I didn't care. Money was never a motivator for me; finding Happy was.

In 1970, at age twenty-five, finding Happy and having it last a lifetime was my primary goal. Working, going to school, and inventing umbrellas were merely distractions, things to keep me busy, while waiting for Happy to show up. Once it made its grand entrance, I could stop working, discontinue college, shelve any future inventions, and any accomplishments and goals I might have. Happy would swoop in, gather me up, and carry me away to where Happy lives. I'd be a wife, mother, housekeeper and my husband would adore me, take care of me, and never betray me.

Wherever Happy lived,  it was somewhere in the future. That much I knew. Something else I had known since the age of nine was Happy was a man. Finding a man equalled finding Happy. Me + Man = Happy.  Without a man, I was incomplete; I could never find Happy. But wait! I had a man already--my first love, my eighth-grade crush.  But where was Happy?

Me + Man + my best friend = Happy gone. Happy was nowhere to be found. So there was only one thing for me to do. Invent something...and find another man.

I invented "No Dang-Door-Dingies" (name later changed to "No Dings") car door protector with the help of my friends in the Design Department's model shop. With my invention, door dings would be a thing of the past, but there were problems with the prototype; I never followed through with the patent or production, and someone somewhere else on this big planet invented a ding-resistant paint, thereby making my invention obsolete; I didn't care. Money was never that important to me; finding Happy was.

Jim worked in the mail room, and he liked me. If there was one person in the entire corporation who made less money than me, it would be Jim, but he was a man, which meant Happy might know him, so while the betrayal of my first love and my best friend moved to the background, the foreground was crowded with another man's infatuation, doting, words of affirmation, and hints that he just may be on a first-name basis with Happy.

Will the real Happy please stand up. Me + Man = Happy -- but Happy1 or Happy2? I hadn't thought about there being more than one Happy out there, but, of course, there had to be, depending on the man. This difference was brought to my attention by Happy1 when it was discovered I was hanging out with Happy2. But wait! Happy1 meant I had to share my man with my best friend, so that wasn't going to work for me. Nope! No way, Jose! Ain't gonna happen. Happy2 was looking pretty good to me.

Off to the Shadeland Avenue drive-in we go. But first, Jim wanted to pick up some Boone's Farm Apple Wine. While he was in the liquor store at 30th and Shadeland, Happy1 knocked on the passenger side window. Surprised by the coincidence of my two Happies being at the same place at the same time, I rolled down the window. Wrong thing to do. I'm sure what Happy1 meant to say was "I'm so, so sorry for my failings, but I am your true love, and I will spend the rest of my life working hard to make you happy." But what he really said I can't repeat here. My grandchildren are going to read this someday.

It was still light when we pulled into a parking spot close to the concession stand. Only a few seconds after Jim left the car to get popcorn, hotdogs and drinks, the second coincidence of the night occurred. Tap! Tap! Tap! Oh, look. Happy1 is at the movies, too. I rolled my window down. Wrong thing to do. I'm pretty certain what my first love meant to say was, "Did I mention I'm sorry for doing the nasty-nasty with your best friend? 'Cause if I didn't, I'm so, so sorry. I love you with all of my heart. Please give me another chance." But what he really said I can't repeat here. Remember the grandchildren.

As Happy2 rounded the corner of the concession stand with snacks in hand, Happy1 was still visiting with me. Wrong thing to do. Jim had just returned from Viet Nam and he was full of pent-up anger from his experiences there. At twenty-one, he was built like a bull and he was ready to charge. But my former love was lightening fast. In a flash, he was gone. Poof! Just like that. Disappeared.

Finding Happy was my full time job, but it wasn't going to be as easy as I had hoped. There were two Happies vying for my hand: one was young, fresh out of the army, battle worn, nothing to offer me but love, and the other was five years older than me, an attorney, brilliant, cunning, manipulative, and he knew which buttons to push to get me to do as he pleased. If I was down, he would lift me up; if I needed a helping hand, he was there; whatever I wanted to do, he encouraged it, All of the wonderful things he was to me, all of the amazing things he did for me were contingent upon my doing as he pleased, and if I didn't, they would be used to attack me. "After everything I have done for you," he would say, followed by "You are the most self-centered, selfish person I have ever known." Those two buttons, when pushed, stabbed the deepest, because I thought I was good, but I was wrong. As bad as I was there was still only one man, my first love, Happy1 who made promises of little pitter patter feet by next Christmas. Yes, children...by next Christmas. Had I finally found Happy?

Early 1970's. Umbrella invented to protect rats' nests.

Who's Being Bad

I sat in the last seat. Always. "It's the safest place on the bus," she said. "The Johns' can't sneak up on you from behind."  I was new to this; never in a million years did I think I would ever do this. But since getting back from California, I was broke and needed money, and the money was good. I didn't want to be a secretary anymore, but a lady of the night? Big leap from sharpening a man's pencils to soliciting for the nasty-nasty.

Lady of the night

Linda was her name. I met her at a party at the Here Apartments at Shadeland Avenue and 38th Street. She was a heroin user but I didn't know that when I met her. Her sordid drug history didn't come out until after she had jumped off of a tenth floor balcony at a downtown hotel. Raised in foster care, she was abused by husbands of the women who tried to rescue her. She hated men, but she wasn't adverse to using them, conning them to survive in a world she called "living hell."

Linda was one of the most beautiful women I had ever known, but she didn't see her beauty. All she saw when she looked in a mirror was damaged goods. Five foot seven, slender yet buxom, perfect skin, long wavy naturally blonde hair, and over-sized blue eyes. Men tripped over their feet to get her to notice them, and notice them she did, but for reasons for survival.

A few weeks after I arrived home from the west coast, I was introduced to Linda, and I was drawn to her fun-loving, devil-may-care approach to life.  Easy to laugh, she completely fooled me about the black hellhole in her head. I liked her positive attitude and willingness to climb outside of the box that women were supposed to stay in. Secretary? Clerk? Typist? Receptionist? Housewife? Hell no!

So when Linda asked me to be her partner--the only two female private investigators to be hired by Pinkerton as an experiment to see if women could actually handle the pressure and danger--I said "I'm in."

My first assignment was to dress provocatively so as to explain the reason why a woman would be riding a shuttle bus from downtown hotels to the airport and back again, over and over, late at night. The reason for the assignment: to catch the shuttle driver charging more than the fee and pocketing the difference. After a week pretending to be a lady of the night, I found no wrong doing. "Good job, Carol Louise. Now here's your next assignment."

Neighborhoods: Go to the worst neighborhoods in the city--one was called "The Shooting Gallery"-- park your car, walk up to neighbors of the people we are investigating and ask a bunch of questions. I did as I was instructed, even though there were a couple of times my knees would buckle from fear. To calm my nerves, I told myself my employers would never put me in harm's way. "Good job, Carol Louise. Here's your next assignment." 

Criminal Investigation, Out of Town: Somewhere in a small town north of Indianapolis, there is a company who believes one of their employees is stealing equipment. Go there and ask a whole lot of questions from suspect's neighbors and anyone else he might know. I knocked on all the doors in the neighborhood where the suspect lived, but only one person opened their door to me. "Seems like an okay guy to me," the neighbor said.

While driving back to the company with my discoveries about their suspected thief, a car pulled up beside me. Inside were four very rough-looking men, and I was the focus of their attention. At the next stoplight, the man riding shotgun motioned for me to roll down my window. "HEY! I HEAR YOU ARE DRIVIN' ALL OVER TOWN ASKIN' QUESTIONS 'BOUT ME!" Shit! I was caught. What now?

"Is your wife's name Susan?" I said. "I'm trying to find a friend I went to high school with and I heard she was married to a guy with your name."  Whew! That worked. He turned his anger off and became very nice. Said I had the wrong guy. "Bye, have a nice day now."  Suddenly, I had an urgent need to pee. "Good job, Carol Louise, Here's your next assignment."

Surveillance: A union company in town has gone on strike, and some of the union workers are vandalizing company property in the early hours of the morning.  A male investigator will pick you to be his partner. You will be wearing guns. You will sit in a car from midnight to 4:00 a.m. watching for trespassers, you will not fall asleep, and you will report back to the office at 8:00 a.m.

Here's what the boss didn't say. You will be subjected to your partner's sexual advances, but that's your problem to solve and if it does happen, don't tell us because we don't like whiners or snitches. 

After a week of surveillance from midnight to 4:00 a.m., there was no wrong doing on the part of the union workers, but plenty to report on my married partner's inappropriate behavior regarding his desire to take me places I'd never been before. I reported to work every day at 8:00 a.m. sharp. I said nothing about my partner's wrong doing.  "Good job, Carol Louise. Here's your next assignment."

Year-long spy for a company out of town: Move to another town, take on an alias, work as a factory worker and spy on co-workers to see who's being good and who's being bad.

"I quit!"

Regarding the experiment to see if women are qualified to do the same job as a man at Pinkerton.

Results: Experiment failed.

Note: Linda and I were supposed to be partners, work together, travel together, but shortly after we began working for Pinkerton, they separated us. Women together, not a good idea. In the two months I worked for the company, I never worked with Linda. About a week before I quit, we were told Linda had a nervous breakdown--another story was she told the bosses about the sexual harrassment--and she was fired. Shortly after I quit, she climbed over a balcony railing and jumped to her death. Everyone blamed the drugs.

There You Are

While waiting for Charlie to call me any day now to tell me I was the only woman he could ever love--I had no way of knowing he had actually met someone else and was planning a wedding--I took baby steps to move on with my life just in case he didn't come back. The first step was moving in with my new friend, Lisa; the second step was getting a job.

In high school I excelled in classes that gave me few options in the work field: clerk/typist, receptionist, secretary. I held all of those positions at Kunz & Kunz, Attorneys at Law, in downtown Indianapolis. The workload required overtime without pay; there was pressure to not make one typographical error (one original and three onion skin copies), and everything needed to be done yesterday.  The lawyers' expectations for the secretaries were many: We had to wear tailored suits or dresses, high heels and accessorize to compliment our outfits. Pretty wasn't a requirement but all of the men in our office preferred it. We had to be smart, lightening fast and calm under pressure; the last being the most challenging. (One of my co-workers had a nervous breakdown at her desk and had to be escorted to the door.)

I was the secretary for two attorneys:  Howey and Larry, but in each of their minds, I was their own personal slave. I could be typing a mistake-free, twenty-five page brief for Larry (or Howey)  when Howey (or Larry) would buzz me to come to his office.  With steno pad and pen in hand, I'd sit down in a chair across from Howey (or...you know) and take down in shorthand whatever was on their minds at the time. "Pursuant to our heretofore conversation, plaintiff in said deposition blah, blah, blah." Larry talked fast; 125 words a minute.  Howey's words came out to about 50 words every two minutes. That's because Howey was slow. Real slow. How slow was Howey? you ask. Good question. Thanks for asking. Howey was so slow I would sometimes fall asleep while taking dictation from him. He wasn't very smart either (not all attorney brains are created equal), and that was one of the reasons I left the law firm after two years. I was smarter than my boss, the man who was making ten times what I was making ($1.35/hour), the  man who treated me like chattel, the man who proved to me I could do better than sit at a desk and type.

The day I left  Kunz & Kunz, I drove straight to Weir Cook airport to interview with Lake Central Airlines. My friend, Becky Harper, was an airline stewardess, based in Chicago, with United Airlines and I envied her life; I wanted to be a server-of-beverages in the sky, too. The lady I spoke with said I would be considered for the job if (1) I could walk like a model, (2) act demur, (3) carry a tray with a drink without spilling it, (4) gain five pounds, and (5) get my hair back to it's natural color which was mousy brown, not platinum blonde. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. So I got the job. On my first trial run in the sky, I sat in the back seat during the entire flight with a barf bag stuck to my face. The second flight was better; I threw up only once. The third was even better. I didn't throw up once, but I was nauseated from the time the plane took off until it landed. "Great job, Carol Louse! You have stopped barfing on the job. You are now be a waitress in the sky."

A month later, somewhere between Pennsylvania and Indiana, I gave my notice.  As the DC3 shook, rattled and rolled from the turbulence, I staggered up the aisle with my hand covering my mouth. Stopping just before I reached the pilots, I threw up, luckily in the bag I had been holding on to since we left Philadelphia.  When I got to the cockpit, the captain turned around and burst out laughing. "You're green!," he laughed. "I quit," I said and then turned around, staggered back to the last seat, while passenger after passenger tried to stop me. "Oh, Miss, I need a drink." I ignored them; I was no longer a waitress-in-the-turbulent sky.

I was also no longer wearing a sign that read, "You can touch, grab, and harass me. I'm fair game." Well, it wasn't an actual sign that I wore. Let's call it "entitlements" that some of the passengers believed they had because of that "Good Ole Boys" club they belonged to. A week before I quit, I was the only stewardess on a DC3 that picked up ten executives from a resort in West Virginia. The agenda for the day was meetings, drinking, golfing, drinking, hot springs, drinking. As they boarded the plane, I knew I was in trouble. Most of the men were functioning drunks, some were staggering, about-to-pass-out drunks. As soon as the plane reached cruising altitude, I unbuckled my seat belt and started down the aisle to attend to the needs of my passengers. Luckily for me, about half of the men were asleep or passed out. That left five still awake drunks. Of those five, three were awake but in a stupor. Subtract three from five and that leaves two obnoxious drunks. Two fat, slobbering old men who think my boobs are perky and cute. Two disgusting, foul smelling men who want me to sit on their laps. "No! She's mine!" "No, she isn't; she's mine!" The two men argued over who's property I was. I was manhandled from one lap to the next and back again. As I struggled to break free and work my way through the drunken obstacle course, one of the less intoxicated men stood up, approached the men, and without saying a word took me by the hand and led me to the back of the plane. "Stay here," he said. "I'll handle these guys." So I stayed in the back of the plane while choruses of "Miss, oh, Miss. I need a drink" drifted back to me. Then silence. Everyone was asleep.

Next job: WIFE Radio Station, 1330 North Meridian Street. "Executive Secretary to the President" was my title. $1.50 an hour was my pay. I was the president's right arm. I was his right arm because apparently his didn't work; I got his coffee in the morning, sharpened his pencils,  and dialed the phone for him; he told me what he wanted to say, but because of that bum arm of his, I wrote or typed all of his correspondence. It's difficult to do everyday simple things when you're missing a limb, so I ran all of his errands: bank deposits, drop off and pick up dry cleaning, get his lunch, stand on the courthouse steps to bid on tax sale real estate, and pick up from the airport celebrities like Little Richard, Tiny Tim, and Bill Cosby.

It was about this time when I started taking college classes at night at Purdue University extension. My boyfriend had told me that college wasn't for everyone--I took that to mean it wasn't for me--but when he saw that I was getting A's in all of my classes, he encouraged me to continue taking classes.

In my twenty fourth year,  I didn't want to be a man's right arm anymore, so I quit my job and moved to California. Well, that was my plan anyway. I wasn't happy with how my life was going:  a longterm boyfriend who dangled a "pitter patter promise" in front of me, yet broke out in a sweat when the M word was mentioned,  and jobs that underutilized my potential.

The day I left WIFE, my boss gave me a card, but instructed me to not open it until I got to California.  I opened it as soon as I got to the parking lot because I was hoping for money to fund my move. Instead it was a piece of paper. It read, "No matter where you go, there you are." It made no sense to me...then.

Next job: Private Investigator for Pinkerton.

Love Me Still

Addictions are hard to break. Within a dozen days of Charlie no longer giving me my daily fix of Saccharin, I went into withdraws. During our courtship and engagement he doted on me. I was his number one priority, his pet, his responsibility. He liked being my prince and he often called me "his little princess." He had taken my two "feel bad" boxes, locked them away, and hid the key. There was absolutely no reason why I should be carrying those anchors around, he said. There was no reason why I should feel bad or ugly or defective because I was perfect in his eyes.

It took a couple of weeks before my "feel bad" boxes arrived at my parents' doorstep. They came without warning. I thought I was fine without Charlie, without the doting, the special attention he gave me, his words of affirmation. Then one day, the day the boxes arrived, I crashed.

The airline tickets and Eurail passes were in my backpack. My Volkswagen was gassed and ready to go. The trip had been planned before my crash. It was too late to change my plans, so I drove to New York City, boarded a plane to Luxembourg, and spent the next month traveling throughout Europe mourning the loss of my once-in-a-lifetime love.  What had I done? I had just thrown away the love from a man who adored me. I would never, ever find another man who loved me like Charlie loved me.

You know the story already; I've told it so many times, so I won't bore you with the details about how I met two men from Indianapolis at LaGuardia airport who had the same itinerary as mine and insisted I let them be my guardians and tour guides through Europe, how I met a man in Barcelona who, if I had had more time, might have been my next great love, how I was attacked by the food-cart vendor in Germany, and then there's the running-out-of-money/had-to-eat-toothpaste story.

As I walked down the airplane steps back at LaGuardia, I searched the crowd of people waiting for their loved ones. In my world of fairy tale, happily-ever-after endings, I had convinced myself that Charlie would be waiting for me. But, alas, my prince was nowhere to be found, so there was just one thing for me to do. I got in my bug and drove sixteen hours straight to Evansville.

When I pulled into the parking spot outside of his apartment, my body began to tremble. Here I was, six weeks after giving Charlie his ring back, willing to grovel, beg, plead for another chance.  If he loved me six weeks ago, he would surely love me still.

I felt faint as I knocked on his door. Nothing. Maybe he wasn't home. But wait. His car was here. Maybe he peaked through the peep hole and saw it was me. Oh, no. He doesn't want to see me. But I didn't come all this way to give up now. Maybe he didn't hear the knock. KNOCK! KNOCK! I heard a noise coming from inside his apartment. Time stopped. My heart stopped. Then the door slowly opened. The love of my life was standing there just two feet in front of me. Please, please grab me, Chuck. Hug me. Tell me how much you missed me, how much you love me.

I drove back to Indianapolis, sobbing the entire way. Waiting for me at home were two boxes. The lids were open and all of their contents had spilled out on the bed. I took off my clothes, climbed into bed with all my insecurities and stayed there for one month.

The Screen Whisperer

Since I was a little girl, all I had aspired to be was a wife and a mother, but RJ, my first love, had encouraged me to go to college. After several classes, I realized I loved the academic environment. The more I studied and learned new things, the more I wanted to know, the more classes I wanted to take.  When I met Charlie, I was determined to get a college degree, but he had other plans for me.

There is a good possibility that if two events had not occurred the month before my marriage, I would not have gone bonkers right before my wedding. The first event was a book, The Total Woman, presented to me by my fiancé.  It was written by a former beauty pageant winner and wealthy stay-at-home wife and mother. Her idea was simple. "Ladies, listen up. Be subservient to your husband, be a good housekeeper, good mother, support him in every way, be a sex kitten that never says "no" and he will cherish you, take care of you, and never, ever cheat on you with that bimbo at the office." 

The second event came on the heals of the first one and catapulted me over the wall of stability to a place called "I think I'm losing my mind." It was a night just like any other night, except this night there was a stranger lurking in the bushes outside my bedroom window. I was reading my instructional manual on how to treat my man, when I heard rustling noises--the Junipers were twisting and turning and out of the branches two hands appeared and began scratching the screen. Then I heard a male voice whisper, "Carol Louise," the screen whisperer said. "Carol Louise." What the heck? Who would be outside my bedroom window at two o'clock in the morning whispering my name? Oh, I don't know; maybe the same person who had done it, say, three times before in the last ten months. No matter how many times the screen whisperer and scratcher appeared at my bedroom window, it still caught me off guard and terrified me.

We needed to talk, NOW! the 2:00 a.m. visitor said. I was making a huge mistake by marrying this guy from southern Indiana. I hadn't known him long enough; he couldn't possibly love me like someone who had known me for nine years could love me. The screen whisperer and I were meant to be together; we were perfect for each other. I didn't interrupt to say "What about my skinny legs, irritating nasal voice, and ungratefulness after every thing you have done for me?" I just listened as the man outside my window listed all of my wonderful attributes. But then he said, "If you go ahead with this wedding, I will come to the church, stand in the balcony, and when the minister asks 'Who among you in the audience doesn't want these two to get married,' I will yell 'ME! I DON'T WANT HER TO MARRY HIM BECAUSE HE CAN'T LOVE HER LIKE I CAN LOVE HER!' " 

A week before the big wedding in a church with lots of people coming, my parents' living room was beginning to fill up with gifts and my beautiful white Princess dress was out of its plastic bag and hanging on a hook on my closet door ready for the big Hey-everyone-look-at-me day. My aunt, the wedding planner, had called me several times to check on the progress on my list of things to do. Everything was done except my flowers. Getting the flowers was my job, but there was just one problem: me. I couldn't bring myself to order the flowers.

Mother called Aunt Gracie and Aunt Gracie called Charlie and Charlie called me. "What wrong?" he asked. "I'm not sure I can do this," I said. Within two hours, my soon-to-be husband was at my parents' house, where I was now living. "Sorry," I said, "It's just cold feet. I'll be fine." Back to Evansville he went. Two days later, the flowers still hadn't been ordered. Mother called Aunt Gracie and Aunt Gracie called Charlie and once again the man who I was going to spend the rest of my life with, the man who loved me but wanted to change me, the man who was looking for a subservient wife was at my door. "Sorry," I said, "It's just cold feet. I'll be fine." Back to Evansville. Four days to go. If I could just keep it together for four days, I could get on with the fairy tale fantasy that had brought me to this place in the first place, and the fantasy goes like this.

Once upon a time, there was maiden, a good virginal maiden I might add, who was looking for Prince Charming. Out of all the hundreds of maidens in the maiden meadow, he would spot her, see her value, swoop her up and carry her off to the enchanted forest where...oh, you know the rest of the story.

It was Thursday, two days before the wedding. The flowers still had not been ordered. I did, however, make an attempt to order the flowers. I went to the flower shop, walked around in a daze, and then left. I got in my little Volkswagen bug, drove around the city on Interstate 465 and then headed out of town on Interstate 70.

As visions of fairy tales danced in my head, my little bug and I headed west. California maybe? No, too far. St Louis? Nah. Terre Haute? Nope! Why would anyone go to Terre Haute on purpose? As much as I wanted to, I couldn't run away. I had to come back home and face the truth and the truth was I could not marry Charlie. Later that night,  I made that fateful call that put a big DETOUR sign in the road that Charlie and I were getting ready to drive down.

Sobs, disbelief, and devastation ruled the next several days, but life went on and eventually even the memories faded to the background and then were mostly forgotten. I should say here there is more to the story. You can read all about it in another one of my books, or not. From very reliable sources (Google, Facebook) this is what I know now, forty-one years later. Within one year of breaking up with me, Charlie was married. He had two beautiful daughters. He became successful in the business world of plastics and was the president of one of the companies he worked for. He is currently married to a woman who is not the mother of his daughters and who appears, from her Facebook profile, to be much younger than him.

Once Charlie was gone for good, RJ didn't see the urgency in getting me back. In fact, he had  already spotted another maiden and was in pursuit of her when he was supposed to be in the balcony of the church where I was supposed to get married.  One day, after five years of promising his new maiden pitter patter Christmas feet, she said, "I'm outta here." That's all he needed to hear. They got married right away, had a little girl, and then became the inspiration for the movie, "War of the Roses." 

As for me, I couldn't be happier. But that's another story, and it's coming your way in "All I Have to Be is Good, Part 2" to be published spring 2017. Or you can just read about it right here in my rambling blog.

Mr. Everything

"Mr. Everything." That's what the Evansville Press called Charlie in 1962. Outstanding football player for Reitz High School. Heading to Vanderbilt on a football scholarship. Small town hero. My Prince Charming.

When I met him, I was immediately infatuated, and the infatuation was reciprocated. We wanted to be with each other every day, but he lived in Evansville and I lived in Indianapolis, so our time spent together was just two days out of seven. When I accepted his ring after six weeks, we had spent a total of twelve days getting to know one another  That's twelve days before saying "yes" to the person with whom you are going to spend the rest of your life.

Everyone who met Charlie was charmed by his personality. He's friendly demeanor and attentiveness to the person he was with at the moment removed any barriers one might have when first meeting a stranger. He was more interested in finding out about the other person than talking about himself. His southern accent was delivered with slow, deliberate accuracy.  He was impressive and I was proud to be on his arm, but there was just one small problem. I was still lugging around my two boxes, and I didn't think I deserved Mr. Everything.

For nine years, my "ugly" and "bad" boxes came in handy whenever my first prince wanted to knock me down a couple of notches, put me in my place, keep me in line, let me know I would never find another prince if I ever left him. He knew where I kept my boxes hidden, and if I didn't follow his lead or do as he wanted, he would head straight for a box, rummage though it, and pull out just the right weapon and then hit me below the belt with it.

Charlie knew about my secret boxes too, and he wanted to burn them--I wasn't ugly; I wasn't bad, he said.  He wanted to burn the boxes along with every single picture, letter, item that my prior prince had given me. He didn't want anything from my past to interfere with our future. So one day, on the balcony of my apartment, he lit a match to all of my memorabilia from the past nine years. Poof! Up in smoke. Gone.

Ten months (from the day we met)  to the wedding day, August 15, 1975. But only forty days with the person with whom I was going to spend the rest of my life, and it was speeding by. But not so fast that I didn't have time to change before the big day. There was the matter of my platonic male friends. They had to go. The occasional drag from a friend's cigarette? No way, Jose. No lips that touched Charlie's lips would ever touch a cigarette. And bikinis were a no-no. Too much skin. No skirt too short; no top too low. My desire to go to college? He preferred his wife to stay home and raise his kids, but it was negotiable. Did you know that there are jobs that women do and jobs only a man should do? I didn't know that either until one day I built a rip roaring fire in the fireplace, and he gave me the speech about my job description: housewife, mother, housekeeper.

Now I know what you're thinking. Okay, I lied. I have no clue what you're thinking. So I'll just ask the question myself. Why would I be with a man who wanted to control me so completely that I would have to change who I was. Good question. I have to thank myself for asking that question. Thank you Carol Louise.

At twenty-nine I should have known better. I should have known who I was but I didn't know. After nine years of manipulation and twisted game playing with Prince One, I was confused about who I was or what I wanted. I believed I was bad and ugly but lucky to have been chosen by my eighth-grade  crush: Mr. Popular. Mr. Successful. Mr. Everything.

Charlie did not manipulate or play games. He adored me, put me on a pedestal, and doted on me. He was the caring, loving father I never had. The saccharine he fed me was addictive. I craved it. All I had to do to get my fix was be the woman he wanted me to be.  Then one day, a month before our wedding, he presented me with the book The Total Woman, an instructional manual on how to please your man in every--and I mean every--way.  I read it and when I closed the book, it was as if someone had just spit in my favorite soup. Oh, how I loved that soup, but now I'm not sure if I can eat it.

A Replacement Prince

At twenty-nine I was once again back in that maiden meadow looking for Prince Charming. Rule #1,953 in the rulebook I had grown up with read, "Never, ever do the nasty, nasty before your wedding night." Not about to break any rules, lest I be called "bad" and go to hell, at almost thirty I was still a virgin.  But I was quite familiar with the feely, feely and touchy, touchy and yippee, yippee, so no rules were broken, and I could still call myself a good girl--perfect maiden material for a prince on the prowl.

Neither one of us were looking for each other on the day we met. I was minding my own business picking daisies and he was riding through the meadow on his way to a business meeting. He asked for directions and I provided him with a very detailed map. He was impressed that I knew how to draw a map. I was impressed by his looks: tall, athletic build, blond hair, amazing blue eyes. And his southern accent was the cherry on the top.

After the meeting, on his way back through the meadow, he stopped his mount to thank me once again for my fine map. We talked for about two hours and then he said, "I really like you. If I were to ask you out on a date, would you go?" Considering the fact that I had already been picked by another prince nine years prior...considering that if I said yes, I would have to tell a few lies...considering that If I actually went out on a date with another prince I would be cheating...considering all of that, I said, "Yes, I'd love to go out with you." 

Now I had a bit of a problem. For four years I had been telling my prince that I was leaving and going back to the meadow to find another prince, but every time he would bring up that pitter patter promise, "Next year, at Christmas time, I promise, there will be the sound of pitter patter running through the house." And he knew that would stop me from leaving because every time I would think "babies" but when Christmas would come, the only sound of pitter pat was Kitty Kat.

Charlie was his name and he was a prince from Evansville, Indiana. He was definitely looking for a maiden. And he found one: me. The fact that I had already been plucked from the maiden meadow nine years before did not concern him. I wasn't married; I wasn't betrothed, and I was looking for a replacement prince. He would do whatever he had to do, even if it was a duel. He was up for the fight to claim his prize. But, alas, there was no duel because the original prince was a master magician. He would appear out of no where when I was alone, yet disappear into thin air when my new prince was around. He's here. Poof. Gone. Here. Poof. Gone.

Charlie wanted to get married right away. We started dating in November, he gave me a ring in December, and he wanted the wedding to take place in March, 1975. This is what I had been waiting for. This is what I wanted: marriage, babies, happily ever after. I was excited yet anxious; happy yet unsettled; eager but hesitant, and it was my hesitancy that moved the wedding to August. Whew! Breathing room. My fairy tale was moving too fast. I needed to spend more time in the enchanted forest with my prince before heading out into happily ever after. And, boy, am I so glad I did.

Eisenhower is the Anti-Christ

If I Were a Prince

If I were an engineering graduate, real estate broker, attorney, extremely attractive person, and the smartest person in the room,  I could see how easy it would be for my head to swell. With so many assets and accomplishments, I could also see how I might succumb to the desire to control my environment and everything in it. I am after all, the smartest person in my environment. With my law degree, arrogance could become part of my demeanor, as well as the need to always, always win. Manipulation might also be in my arsenal as a means to get my way. But, alas, I was none of those things. And since I had no bragging rights--I was a minimum-wage secretary with a few college classes on my resume--and since I was looking for marriage, babies, and happily ever after, I was nice and sweet and accommodating and non-confrontational and submissive and everything else a prince would want in his fair maiden.

If I were a prince who thought myself to be pretty darn special, exceptional actually, I might not want to settle for just any maiden in the maiden meadow. I might want to keep my maiden options open, just in case another better maiden strolled into the maiden meadow.  "Oh, glee. Looky yonder, over there by the babbling creek, another maiden, another option." If I were an arrogant prince who wanted his maiden to feel lucky that he chose her and not another maiden, I might exploit her vulnerabilities, remind her of her deficiencies, and call her names. "Not everyone is college material. Sorry about your skinny legs. You are the most selfish person I have ever met in my entire life! After everything I have done for you, you are the most ungrateful person I know." If I were a prince, who knows what I would do in the maiden meadow. But, alas, I am not a prince. I am a maiden and a maiden who wants marriage, babies, and happily ever after has gotta do what's she's gotta do.

Adios, sweet prince. So  long. Later gator. Ciao. Bye Bye now.

Those Dang Boxes

From a young age I was told that one of the rewards for being a good girl was that someday I would find a Prince Charming who valued "good." Good as in sugar and spice and everything nice, sweet but not tart, accommodating and non-confrontational, submissive, dedicated to domestic duties, feminine with a little pinch of seductive but not promiscuous, and lastly, good as in never ever doing the nasty, nasty before marriage. Princes like for their fair maidens to be untouched by other princes on their wedding night, ya know.

I could be all of those things that when added together would equal "good," but yet I still, in the core of me, believed I was bad. And I didn't like myself much for the bad in me. Where did that come from I wonder?  Oh, could it be that that was the message that repeated itself over and over from the age of five to twelve?

At twelve I escaped the bearer of "bad" news. But I carried that dang "I'm Bad" box with me into my teenage years. Oh, yes, my wonderful teenage years; the ugly years, ages thirteen to seventeen. Another box was being filled.

By eighteen, the ugly was being camouflaged by a few more pounds, refusal to wear my glasses even though I was legally blind, disappearing pimples, cotton balls stuffed in my bra, and a face that was getting bigger and catching up to my buckteeth. The opposite sex was beginning to notice.

At twenty I met Prince Charming and I knew what I had to be to win his love: nice, sweet, accommodating, non-confrontational, submissive, domestic, feminine, and untouched by another prince. Bingo! I could put a check in each box above, but there was just one problem. Three, actually. With all those attributes I still believed I wasn't good enough. Secondly, there was the ugly me who refused to believe otherwise, and thirdly, what to do with those dang boxes that went with me everywhere.