Voice of Reason

Here I am again, 2017,  and it's time to put last year's blog into a book for my children and their children. I've done this every year since 2010, so this will be my sixth blog book and my last. Wait! It appears my pants are on fy-eeer, so I might be lying about this being my last book. But then again, maybe I'm telling the truth. The reason I say it's my last book is because I don't think I'm going to see the Times Square ball drop on January 1, 2018, thus eliminating any possibility of another rambling, aging baby-boomer book.

It's not unusual for me to think I could meet my maker any day now. Thoughts about my passing began in my forties, continued into my fifties, heightened in my sixties, and now that I'm in my seventies--although just barely in my seventies, and by today's calculations I'm really only forty-one--my demise feels imminent. And if it were to happen, people would probably say, "Well, she lived a good long life, so it's okay that she's gone." No! No! No! That's so wrong. I'm really forty-one, folks. Way too young to pass over to the other side. I have a lot of living to do: There's children's weddings, high school and college graduations, and grand babies to pamper. I can't leave now. But the truth is now is when it happens. The seventies and eighties are usually when it happens. Oh, I don't wanna go yet; my house is a mess.

I'm okay living in squalor--well, it's not squalor, just exceedingly cluttered and dirty--but once I leave the house for any reason--walking down the mountain to the mailbox, going to the recycle center a mile away or on a long trip--the house has to have the "appearance" of clean and tidy. (Don't look under the bed.) What if I died before I got back home? What would people think of me postmortem if they saw dust on the furniture, dishes in the sink, fingerprints on the refrigerator, and toothpaste spit on the mirror? Oh, the shame. A voice of reason might say, "Well, if you're dead, who cares?" It's obvious that the voice of reason has not thought its rationale through. "I care!" I say back to the voice. "I care because... because... because... ."

I have my reasons for thinking Heaven has me on its waiting list and my name is getting closer and closer to the top. I really do have reasons, but my memory is not so good these days, and I can't find them right now. But just because I can't find my reasons for thinking I will be kicking the bucket any time now, that doesn't keep me from thinking this spot on my leg is beastomycosis, a disease that normally affects hedge hogs, but when a human has it--and I think I do--it's a slow and painful death. Voice of reason again sticks its nose into my business of dying and says, "The probability of you having beastomycosis is one in sixteen trillion." Shocked by rationale's lack of empathy, I say, "Tell that to the one person out of sixteen trillion who died from beastomycosis." 

A pain in my left arm? Heart Attack. Constipation? Colon cancer. Tingling in my right big toe? Stroke. "I think I may be dying," I say to the voice and the voice calmly replies, "We are all dying. It's part of life. But the probability of you dying today is one in three million." I think about what the voice said and relax, but then I see spots in my vision. Brain Tumor. Quick! Hurry! Where is the vacuum cleaner? There's lint on the carpet. Oh, the shame.

Tomorrow will be my last post before I turn my year-long blog into a book. That is, of course, if I'm still here tomorrow.


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Note to Denise: If I’m not here tomorrow, look in the bottom drawer of my desk for the file folder labeled “All I Have to Be is Good, Part 2.” Instructions for publishing my book are enclosed. Thank you Denise and it was nice knowin’ ya.

Done with Men

Today sixty is the new twenty-five (Google Christy Brinkley). In 1990 I turned forty-five which was at that time the new thirty-five. So by the time I was thirty-five I was single and searching for Happy again (me + man + my child = Happy.) I had bought a $45K house, which is worth $35K today, in a blue-color neighborhood on the south west side of Indianapolis--sometimes referred to as the armpit of Indy. But it was all I could afford at the time; I didn't want Jason to grow up in an apartment.

The 1,100 square foot house I picked was four doors down from my son's babysitter, and our culdesac was awash with kids. A month after I bought the house, my babysitter spent six hours with Jason in the Emergency Room (he broke his arm jumping out of a tree) and said, "I can't take it anymore," and quit. I didn't blame her; Jason's energy level was off the charts and ER visits were common. Mrs. Johnson from across the street--ya know, that one  house in the neighborhood with tall weeds, unfinished addition, and nine cars in their yard--became my son's before and after school caretaker. Mrs. Johnson was very good to Jason and that was all that mattered.

Life was good for Jason and me in 1990. I had found my way back to the Design Center and had secured the jobs of the two men I had worked for when I started at RCA in 1969 (remember Ray Coates and Paul Myers?). I was the Spec Writer for Color Television and in charge of new color development. RCA's new name was Thomson Multimedia because the French government had bought us and didn't like our name. My job included travel to France (Paris), China, Thailand, Hong Kong, Singapore, Hawaii, and Mexico. I was just one statistics class away from earning my college degree--Take note, kids: I wouldn't have gotten this job without college--and Jason, if we don't mention his grades at school, was doing wonderfully: well adjusted, happy, funny, smarter than me, cunning, full of mischief. But there was this one itty-bitty thing missing: a man.

Enter Photo Man. He had been hired by RCA--I mean Thomson Multimedia--to take photos of our consumer electronic products, and his constant presence in the Design Center was getting attention from the ladies. Photo Man was very good looking (think Antonio Banderas). He was six foot tall,  about 170 solid pounds, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and hazel eyes. And he was painfully shy and quiet. He was at RCA to do a job and that's what he did. He took the back stairs to avoid any interaction with the employees; he didn't want his presence to be a distraction. But it was. Antionio Banderas can't come to an office full of women and avoid notice.

One day Antonio came into my cubicle to ask if he could use my hands for a photo shoot. I asked if I could bring my body along, too. He laughed and I melted. But Antonio was too good-looking and way too young for me, so I conspired to fix him up with a someone closer to his age and as beautiful a woman as he was a man: my sister, Lynnette.  She was coming to town and I put my plan into action. I invited her to lunch and when she walked through the big glass doors of the Design Center, every man within fifty feet stopped to take in the sight. My sister is part Cherokee which means she always has a tan. Her long dark hair was streaked blond, her makeup just accentuated her natural beauty, and she was wearing a long white dress. Wow! Stunning. How could Antonio not fall for my sister? Lynnette and Antonio met but sparks didn't fly. I was confused. They were both gorgeous; why wasn't there any chemistry? Lynnette wasn't interested and, as I soon discovered, neither was Antonio.

Several weeks later, after several more photo shoots using my hands, Antonio asked me to dinner. Huh? What? Me? You want to go to dinner with me? But...but...but...what about my sister? Of course, I was thinking that. What I said was, "Yes, I would love to go to dinner with you." At dinner Antonio said he was confused when I tried to fix him up with my sister. He thought I was interested in him the same way he was interested in me, but he must have been wrong. It took him several more weeks to get the nerve to ask me out. Huh? What? Are you kidding?You're too handsome for me. I was thinking that. What I said was, "Oh."

A few months after Antonio and I began dating, Wonder Kid, said he wanted me back. But by that time I was able to put our relationship into perspective. I was able to compare the man Antonio was with the man Wonder Kid was, and it made me question why I dated WK in the first place. Why did I go there, and why did I stay there for two years?  Why did I walk on eggs for two years trying to keep from breaking the peace that we so rarely enjoyed as a couple. Was it because I was so desperate for a man? Was something better than nothing, even if it was bad? I couldn't answer the whys back then, and I can't answer them today. You're smart. Maybe after reading my books, you'll know the answer. But, by then it will be too late for me 'cause I'll be long gone.

Antonio was an anomaly. He had the looks of a famous actor, but the demeanor of a librarian. He was quiet and poised and proper and an introvert. He told me his looks were a curse because women thought he was something he wasn't. He didn't want to be admired for the way he looked (he didn't earn his looks); he wanted to respected for what he had done in life, what he had earned by hard work. Bingo! I finally found the man for me, and he wasn't controlling and manipulative and cunning and mentally unstable and evil. But there was just one itty-bitty problem. He was distant and aloof. He wasn't sure about us as a couple. Bingo again. Oh, goody. A challenge. Someone I would have to work hard to earn their love because I didn't deserve it by just being me.

It wasn't that Antonio didn't like me; he liked me a lot, but love would take some time, he said. "How much time," I wanted to ask but didn't, "because after a year of dating, I'm in love with you." Here was a good man, with a good job, and solid morals. At forty-six--I mean thirty-six--I was done looking. I had found my Happy. There was just one itty-bitty problem: the letter.

The letter came one day in June, 1994, four years into my relationship with Antonio. We were looking for property and, even though a date hadn't been set yet, we were discussing marriage. The foundation of our love took a very long time to build. With each concrete block that was put into place, I felt more secure with Antonio. He was slow, cautious and very detailed in everything he did; our relationship included,  but that just meant we were rock solid. Except for just one itty-bitty problem: that letter.

I opened the letter and within seconds, my legs gave out and I was on the floor. It read, "My name is Jenna, and I have been in an exclusive relationship with Antonio Banderas, aka Photo Man, for four years." I read on and the letter gave specific details that I had preferred not to know. Surely my shy, quiet, high-moral man wouldn't do those things. But just to confirm my denial, I took the letter to Antonio. As he was reading it, the truth revealed itself. Jenna was telling the truth.

No one should ever underestimate the power of seduction, especially when it comes to sex. Antonio was chased by women the entire time we dated. One woman in particular, Jenna, was the master of seduction. Combine her powers with Antonio's weakness for a woman in distress and the results can be explosive and addictive. She chased him until she got him, but the relationship was strictly sexual, he said. It was me he loved, he said. Would I forgive him? he asked. Would I give him another chance? You know what I said, don't you? I said yes. And I did forgive him. He was a good man who had done a bad thing.This was not evil; it was weakness. He felt remorse and regret. He deserved a second chance.

Then one day, about a year later, Hindsight tapped me on the ankle and said, "If he cheated on you once, he'll cheat on you again." And my hindsight was right. I had forgiven him once, but I never, ever forgot, so the second time it happened I turned my back on the tearful admission, the regrets, the "I'm sorry," and walked confidently out the door and down the sidewalk to my car. My love of five years was standing crying at the big picture window with his hands on the glass. His Chow-Chow was next to him; I could hear her whining from the street.  With no expression, I got in my car, turned on the ignition and drove away. About a block away I pulled over into a parking lot and cried like I've never cried before.

That was twenty-two years ago, and losing Antonio was a dark and hopeless time for me. I could not imagine life without him. I fell into a depression that lasted months and required Zoloft to free me from the pits. But life, as it has always been and will continue to be, marches on and, good times or bad, we have no choice but to march with it.  After Antonio, I made the decision to be done with men. My selection process was flawed and I couldn't, wouldn't go throw another heartbreak. Until, that is, one day my phone rang--a long distance call from Florida. An old friend from the seventies was calling to catch up.

Wonder Kid

He was a spectacle and everyone was looking at him. Someone in the coffee line said he was RCA's new industrial designer; a wonder kid, they said. RCA pursued him until he finally said yes. My first impression was negative. We was wearing red slacks with a multi-colored shirt and he wore his hair in a ponytail. He was slender and effeminate and I assumed gay.

It was 1987 and Dale was history. Even though I was drawn to men who were aloof and secretive and controlling and could not, would not love me completely and unconditionally,  I was done with the pain and suffering this type of man brought to the relationship. For as long as my memory went back in time, I had felt unlovable. Some "thing" was wrong with me. Some "thing" kept me from finding the love I so desperately wanted, needed. Yet, I was attracted to these men who confirmed my unlovability.  Except for Chuck, my ex-fiance, who was controlling and doting, I had never been attracted to nice, attentive men. There was no chemistry for men who sought me out, treated me well, doted on me. They could be my friends but nothing more.

Every morning I saw Wonder Kid in the cafeteria. Every day he had on another hideous outfit. It didn't matter to him that you never, ever wear stripes and plaids together, or that you don't mix pink and red. He broke all the rules but I guess it's okay when you are the Wonder Kid, the designer who is going to single handedly save the Design Center from humdrum, boring television designs.

One morning WK was in the cafeteria line behind me and he commented on my outfit: I was wearing black slacks, a white shirt, suspenders, and a tie. Yes, I was wearing a man's tie. He liked my outfit, he said. I looked up at him as I accepted his compliment. For the first time I noticed how handsome he was, but young. Too young for me and besides, he was gay. But yet, there was something about WK that interested me. Maybe we could be friends.

We had the same coffee-run schedules and everyday WK and I would pass each other, smile and say "Hello." One day, after complimenting me on my outfit--I couldn't reciprocate because his outfits were outrageously awful--Wonder Kid, seven years my junior, asked me to go to lunch. Thus was the beginning of my platonic friendship with a gay guy, except for one thing.

Wonder Kid was not gay and the relationship that began that day at lunch was not platonic. It started with a kiss. He leaned over and kissed me and something happened. It was just a kiss but yet it switched me immediately from not interested to very interested. WK was the exact opposite of Dale in every way: not a manly-man, not distant or aloof, not controlling, not evil. But...but...but...

You knew there would be a "but" didn't you? You're so smart. That's why I like you so much. I like smart people. Wonder Kid was very smart; I like smart. I said that already, didn't I? He also had a great sense of humor and I had missed that humor with Dale. WK adored me, doted on me, made me feel special and lovable. But...but...but...

There's that but again. Dang that but. Wonder Kid and I dated for two years; he never cheated on me once. He gave me full body massages, cooked gourmets meals for me, ran errands for me, ran my bath water, and painted my toenails. He couldn't do enough for this woman he loved so much. But...but...but...

There was this one reoccurring nightmare I had during the two years WK and I dated: I was walking down an aisle in a church all by myself. People were turning in their seats to look at me; they were smiling. Ahead was a pulpit with a preacher standing behind it. Then I saw WK next to the preacher. He was wearing bright purple slacks and a shirt with orange polka dots. Didn't he know you never mix purple and orange, especially when you're getting married. GETTING MARRIED!? Oh, no! Oh, no! I can't marry WK. STOP THE WEDDING!! No way! Not gonna happen! Nope!

I didn't break up with the wonder kid. He broke up with me. He said I couldn't give me what he wanted, and he was right. As much as I liked WK, I didn't love him. And so, one day he said, "It's over," and I was devastated. I don't do well with rejection. Even though I knew this day would come, I was crushed. But by the time I got home that night, he had changed his mind. It wasn't over; I was relieved. Acceptance pushed rejection aside. The next day at work when he saw me it was over again. Rejection. Devastation. A day later when he had heard someone had asked me for a date, we were on again. Relief. Rejection gone. Two days later, we were off again. Rejection was back and so was a long period of sadness. I missed the affection, the doting, the tender moments that came with the wonder kid, but...but...but... WK had issues--lots and lots of issues, and those I wouldn't miss.

One day, a few months after Wonder Kid broke up with me, a photographer hired by RCA to take photos of televisions and remote controls peeked into my cubicle (I was working as a spec writer in the Design Center) to ask politely if he could borrow my hands for a photo shoot.

Goodbye Wonder Kid. Hello Photo Man.

 

Sex, Lies, and Videos

I have over 39,341 hits on my blog. Thirteen were real people who accidentally landed on my blog, and after realizing their mistake, quickly clicked off. The other hits are non-human Internet crawlers looking for the word "sex" so they can send me spam about making my penis bigger. Tom reads my blog but I can't count him because it's his duty as a loving and supportive spouse to say, "Read your post today, Sweetheart. Good. Really good." When I ask him what his thoughts were about what he had read, he'll say, "Good. Very Good." Most of the time I just leave it at that, but on occasion when I feel I've written the best post ever in my life, I'll push him for more and he'll say, "Good. very, very good." He'll remind me that once he is done reading a book, it's history; he doesn't remember anything about the book he just read. He's got me there because I have the same memory problem, except mine is much worse than his. I'll be in the shower when the perfect title for a blog comes to me. I'll say it over and over while I'm showering, drying off, and brushing my teeth. Sex, Lies, and Videos. Sex, Lies, and Videos, Sex...uh...what was the second word? Sounds like flies. No. Pies? No. Ties? No, that's not it; it starts with an "L" I think. Before I'm done brushing my teeth, the title is gone. Never to come back again, except with "Sex, Lies, and Videos." It came back to me. Well, how can anyone forget sex?

SEX

Childhood:

Shhhh Sex

Sex is when a married man and woman do the nasty-nasty.

The nasty-nasty is when a "married" man and a woman take

their clothes off, stand in front of each other naked, and...

and...and...I don't know what they do next but according to

 Hazel, my stepparent from five to twelve, it's nasty-nasty.

Yuck!

Early teenage years

Sex

Sex is when a married man and woman lie down

on a bed naked. The woman lies on her back and

 the man lies on top of her. Then he puts his

thing in her thing.

Double Yuck!

Twenties

Sex

Sex is when a man puts his thing in her thing.

That happens only when the man and woman

are married. Period. If the couple is not married

and they do the feely, feely, touchy, touchy, 

YIPPIE! YIPPIE!

and his thing does not go in her thing

then they're are not having sex and

the woman is still a virgin and no

church rules have been broken.

Good pure maiden material

for a Prince on the prowl.

looking for virgins.

LIES

Why do people feel a need to lie? I lie because sometimes telling the truth doesn't work well for me. I lie because it makes my life easier; I lie because it makes your life easier--you really don't want me to tell you that your butt looks huge in the those jeans, do you? I lie because it's what humans do. We all lie. Oh, you can sit there staring at these words of truth and say, "Well, you're wrong. I don't lie." But that's a lie and your pants are on fire.

I only lie when I have a good reason to not tell the truth. Remember your big butt in those jeans? I'm not gonna be the friend to drop that piece of hurtful news on you. Remember that guy from the Holyoke Bar on Pendleton Pike you dated in 1972? I'm not gonna be the friend who tells you he cheated on you with the bouncer. Wait a minute! I just told you that. Sorry. But I will say, and this is the truth, I'm glad you and the bouncer found true love and are about to celebrate your forty-second wedding anniversary. 

Speaking of lies, where do we draw the line? If our lies are for good or benign reasons, i.e. do no harm and have no negative consequences, then are lies bad? Sometimes we lie and we are not aware that we are being untruthful. Like, for example, Bill Clinton said he "DID NOT HAVE SEX WITH THAT WOMAN! " And he believed he was telling the truth because he didn't put his thing in her thing: he put a cigar in her thing instead of his thing. "Sex" did not happen. When you hear a woman brag about being a virgin until the age of twenty-nine--why are you looking a me? STOP LOOKING AT ME!--is she lying or just fooling herself? No man's thing ever went inside her thing, so technically she is a virgin. Good pure maiden material looking for a prince on the prowl looking for virgins. 

Speaking of princes on the prowl looking for virgins, that's a lie perpetuated by old white men in the post middle ages who wrote fairy tale books about women who couldn't make it on their own; women who knew they were less than, not as smart as men; women who needed rescued; pure as the driven snow women. Enter me. I was that woman until I realized I was lying to myself. I was none of those women in the fairy tale books, but I believed  I was supposed to be. And that's were my internal conflict warred on for decades. I was given a script as a child and at first I followed my lines perfectly. But when I  would go off script, guilt and shame would always bring me back to the script. I needed to follow the rules to be considered "good." I needed to be pure as the driven snow. 

On stage, in the play that was my life, I read my lines and played my role until I couldn't act out the lies anymore. And that's what they were: lies. Contrary to how I viewed myself, I wasn't a bad person; I just couldn't be pure as the driven snow. Who is? Are you? Because if you say you are, you're lying.

VIDEOS

I know what you're thinking. Sex tapes. Even if there was a sex tape in my past, I'd lie about it. Video taping yourself having sex with another person is definitely not behavior associated with pure driven snow. Unless, that is, you had sex in pure driven snow and you videotaped it. No, I have never videotaped myself having sex with another person. Absolutely not. No way, Jose. Nope! Never! Ain't never, ever done it! And even if I had, I wouldn't remember which pair of flannel socks I hid it in. It's my memory, ya know. Not so good anymore.

Pure Driven Snow

Evil Goes On Down the Road Being Evil

Of my seven loves, two were evil: Dale and another person whose name shall remain sealed in a letter-size Manila envelope that is hidden under the basement staircase, third step up. Evil doesn't like to be exposed; evil has a huge ego; evil gets even; if something happens to me, look for the envelope;  Evil did it.

Evil Doer

Evil doers are very, very bad. A person who connives to
exploit others for their own self-serving agendas. Evil doer's

motive is to do harm to others without feeling remorse. They

are cunning and manipulative and scheming and immoral and 

dishonest and disloyal and betrayers and liars and cheaters

and they don't wash their hands after they go to the bathroom.

                                                                             --Mikidikipedia

I had no clue these two men were evil when I was dating them. It wasn't until Hindsight tapped me on the ankle years later, looked up at me and said, "Remember Dale? Evil. Remember the other guy? Evil." It's not as if I didn't have the flashing neon lights warning me of danger. They were there; I just ignored them. I wanted to believe what I wanted to believe and I didn't want to believe the truth. I wanted to stick my head in the sand and pretend I wasn't being lied to; I wasn't being cheated on; I wasn't being betrayed.

Of my seven loves, four cheated on me, but two of the cheaters were not evil. They were good men who had done bad things. Both were seduced by women who were masters at the art of seduction. It wasn't their fault; they were weak and their penises said, "Let's do it and if we get caught, we'll ask for forgiveness later." And that's exactly what they did, and I did give forgiveness. But then my Hindsight tapped me on the ankle, looked up at me and said, "If he's cheated on you once, he'll cheat on again." But I ignored Hindsight and stuck my head in the sand and pretended I hadn't been cheated on; I hadn't been betrayed. 

The problem with cheating and betraying is the victim of those acts, although they may have forgiven, never forgets. I couldn't forget and sometimes Hindsight would wake me up in the middle of the night to remind me of the high probability of my love cheating on me again. And when that happened, I had to get out of bed, put my sleeping five-year-old son in the backseat of my car, drive over to my love's house, park in the neighbor's yard, tip-toe up to the house and peek inside the window with the light on. I had to do all this because of Hindsight's insomnia and overall distrust of this evil man I was dating: Dale.

Dale was sitting at the kitchen table, and across from him was an attractive, voluptuous brunette. Ah ha! Cheating. Hindsight's prediction was correct. But I'm getting ahead of the story, so let me go back to the beginning, shall we?

Dale was the man I began dating after my marriage to the cowboy ended in divorce. He fit the specs: handsome, smart, manly man, had a job, but he didn't have a sense of humor. What he did have was the hook: he wasn't interested in me. Bingo. His aloofness was a challenge. 

Dale owned an auto repair business and my car was in constant need of repair. It took several trips to the auto shop before he made eye contact with me, but he wasn't impressed. Bingo. His disinterest meant I would just have to work harder to get him to notice. Knowing that he was a pilot, on one of my visits I mentioned that I too had my pilot's license. His head popped up. Whaaaat? It was as if he was seeing me for the first time. Here we have a girl who can fly an airplane. Isn't that interesting? Ummm. Let me learn more about her. And thus began our dating relationship. In the beginning we had a mutual interest: flying. We had something to talk about. 

Dale was the controlling type. I didn't mind because I was attracted to a manly man who led rather than followed. He became a strong father figure and that I also didn't mind because I had always imagined my father, had I known him, would have been like Dale: handsome, smart, manly man, leader.  Then he said we were exclusive. Okay with me, I said. He told me to tell the people at the bank we were getting married. Well, what he really said was, "We're getting married and you can take that to the bank." He said he liked it when I wore my hair in pigtails, so to please him, I wore pigtails. He said I looked like a ten-year-old girl: little, petite and innocent. 

At a Christmas party that Dale sponsored for his employees, a mechanic's wife took me aside to tell me Dale was bad news. "He likes very young girls," she said, and then she said that I was just one of many women he had dated in all the years she had known him. When she told me this, I let her words wash over me as if she were talking to a third person in the room. "She's different," I felt like saying as the other person speaking up for me. "They weren't keepers; she is." But that would have been weird (me talking in the third person) so I just smiled and thanked her for the warning. Then I stuck my head in the sand believing what I wanted to believe and ignoring the truth. But then one day the truth smacked me in the face and I took notice.

I've told this story before. Possibly you remember it. I was cleaning Dale's house when a stack of envelopes fell from the top of the refrigerator. A picture slipped out of one of the envelopes; an arrow pointed to one of three women standing together and smiling. "This is me," was written on the picture. I read the letter enclosed and there was no question that "This is me" was replying to a personal ad. All of the other letters had pictures of women enclosed with notes about wanting to get to know this successful, physically fit, attractive, pilot better.

The letters answered my curiosity about why Dale's phone was always off the hook when I visited his house. "I don't want our time together to be interrupted by people calling me," he had said and I believed him. Another oddity was the open suitcase in his spare bedroom that held all of his toiletries: toothbrush, underarm deodorant, aftershave, shampoo, and an extra set of blue jeans and a T-shirt. Once I read the letters from the women all over Indiana who he was visiting, I got it. Finally, I got it. So now there was only two things for me to do: break up with Dale and have a little fun while I'm at it.

Some of the women had mentioned the magazine where they had read Dale's personal ad. Before the Internet, before Google, there was the library. I went downtown to Central Library to search through weeks of personal ads in the magazine, and I found his ad. He was looking for a young voluptuous brunette; I was a skinny blonde. I copied his ad, took it to work and enlarged it up to an 8 x 10. Then I taped his personal ad looking for a big-boobed brown hair girl to my refrigerator.

On our last date (he didn't know it was our last date), while he was driving me home, I asked him if he had ever posted a personal ad in a magazine. He said he didn't even know what a personal ad was and asked me to explain it. "Ya know, it's when you say nice stuff about yourself and then list the kind of woman you're looking for." He said he had never done that. When we got to my house, he said he was thirsty so I directed him to the kitchen where the refrigerator and his personal ad were. He was in the kitchen for the longest time before returning to  the living room where I was waiting. His face was flushed and he was without words. Busted! He knew where the door was and he let himself out. Evil gone! Bye, Bye now. Adios. Ciao. So long sucker.

Years later I heard that Dale was accused of taking inappropriate liberties with a ten year-old girl, and that's all I'm gonna say about that. Remember the Manila envelope under the staircase? Evil gets even. And so evil goes on down the road being evil and cunning and manipulative and scheming and immoral and dishonest and disloyal and betraying and lying and cheating.

 

Agendas, Motives, or Morals

My specification sheet for a mate listed attributes in accordance with importance: handsome, smart, had a job, good sense of humor, an over-all good person and single.

Handsome: I preferred my mate to look like the man in the Sears' catalog. Ya know, that big, strong manly man holding a Craftsman chainsaw in one hand and dragging an oak tree with the other.

Smart: When I first wrote my spec sheet, "smart" was lower on the list, but then after a couple of dates with pretty boys who just wanted to be arm candy, I moved it up to second. There is no future in dumb.

Job: After my first love and I broke up, I remember saying, "I can love a weed picker just as easily as I can love a lawyer."  I was young and naive and dumb. But I had also just spent nine years dating a lawyer who was hard to love, so maybe I wasn't so dumb after all.

Humor: Haven't we all heard it a thousand times? Laughter is the best medicine and it's so true, but for me humor is so much more; it's the antidote to blah, and everyone with a sense of humor knows blah is boring and wearisome. It pulls back the black-out curtains revealing the light. The light is always there, but it's those dang curtains that are in the way; if you're not laughing, pull back the curtains.

Good person: For the longest time, I thought everyone went to the First Church of the Nazarene. I presumed everyone knew the rules for being "good." So I didn't question agendas or motives or morals.

Single: Since I preferred heaven over hell, I didn't dare date married men, even though several approached me about their desire to do the nasty-nasty with me. Nope! Nah! No way, Jose! Not gonna happen. But not every married man thought it wasn't going to happen. Enter I don't remember his name, so let's call him Roger.

At RCA, there were six levels within the clerk/typist/secretarial positions: 6 - 11. In 1969 I started out at the bottom: 6. In 1980, before my son was born, I had made a dent in the plexiglass ceiling and had secured a job in Purchasing at the level of 42. Yep! I was moving on up. "Liaison" was my title and I have absolutely no recollection of what I did in that position, and since it has nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell you about Roger, let's move on, shall we?

My son was born on April 27, 1981. On April 30th he stopped breathing three times. Each time, the nurses revived him. The doctor called it Apnea. Jason was in IC for a week and then sent home with a monitor for a year.  I took a leave of absence and when I went back in 1982, guess what level job I got? That would be a 6. SIX! Yep! I was at the bottom again. But since this has nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell you about Roger, let's move on, shall we?

Within two years of returning to RCA, I was promoted to "Sales Administrator" in the Sales Department at a level 12--one pay grade over the highest paid secretary. AND I was single again. Jason and I were living in a small apartment on the south side of Indianapolis, and as my luck would have it, my recent pay raise kept me from having to rob Peter to pay Paul. But what does all this have to do with my story about Roger? Be patient; I'm getting there.

My inside position in the Sales department required me to communicate on a daily basis with outside sales reps--all of whom were male. Let me refer you to the sixth paragraph down from the top of this post: Good person. Enter Roger. Such a nice man this Roger. He was married with children; he was a devoted family man; went to church every Sunday; he liked animals, classical music, long walks on St. Pete Beach where he lived, and he talked to his mother every day. Such a good man this Roger.

One day, an outside salesman showed up at my desk. There was a sales meeting in Indianapolis and all outside salesmen were required to attend. Enter Roger. "If you ever come to St. Petersburg, look me up; I'll take you to dinner and show you the town." As it turned out, Jason and I had tickets to fly to St. Pete to see my sister in a few weeks, so I accepted this nice man's offer.

Roger showed up at Lynnette's apartment wearing a suit and tie. After introducing him to my sister and her roommate, we were off in his shinny, new sports car--a nice perk of the job, he told me. Would I mind if we went by his motel room so he could change out of his suit into something more comfortable, he asked me. Okay, stop right here. I know what you're thinking. But trust me on this. I thought nothing about it and said in a pleasant and accommodating manner, "Of course I don't mind." 

There was small talk all the way to the beach and when he pulled into the parking lot, he said he would only be a few minutes and then asked if I'd like to join him in his room. Okay, you're gonna have to stop judging me now or we'll never get through this Roger story. I followed him into  his motel room. He excused himself into the bathroom saying he had been working all day and was hot and sweating so he was going to take a shower. I stood by the window and watched the ocean and the people strolling along the beach. Roger came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. "I'll only be a few more minutes," he said. "Okay," I said. I was hungry and thinking about the dinner this nice man had promised me.

"Such a great night for a walk on the beach," Roger said. Would I mind if we walked to the restaurant. Of course, I didn't mind. But I was really hungry and hoped the restaurant wasn't too far way. We walked several hundred yards to a outside thatch hut that served only alcohol. Roger took a seat at the bar and ordered a drink; I asked for a gingerale. After a half hour and two drinks,  Roger and I began walking the beach again. This time, hopefully in search of a restaurant. The sun was dropping below the ocean when Roger turned toward what looked like a restaurant; Thank goodness, it was. We sat down at the bar and Roger ordered another drink and a gingerale. There was never a void in our conversations. We talked mostly about RCA and people we knew and Roger's interests. I wanted to say, "Can we please eat now?" But I didn't because Roger had invited me and I didn't want to appear ungrateful or pushy.

After Roger finished his drink, he said he knew of another restaurant that he liked better, so we walked on a dark beach back to his motel room where his car keys were. I waited outside for what seemed like a half hour but I'm sure it was only minutes. He came out of the room flustered because he said he couldn't find his keys, but then he found them and off we went in search of another restaurant. By now it was nine o'clock. I would have been happy with crackers. Anything! Food! I need food!

It wasn't to happen. What I wanted (dinner) and what Roger wanted (sex) wasn't to happen. Close to the end of this bizarre dinner outing, Roger finally made his intentions known. He had hinted all night long and I wasn't getting his hints. It wasn't until he said the words, "I want to  have sex with you," did I finally get it. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I wasn't thinking, but if you're thinking that, you're wrong. Back then,  I thought--or maybe I wanted to believe--everyone knew the rules for being "good." You know them don't you. Oh, never mind. You're still judging me.

Family Dynamics

It was a cold February morning in 1922, when Mattie McCloud gave birth to what would be her fifth of eleven children in a small shotgun house on North Harlan Street in downtown Indianapolis. "Failure to thrive" was the name the doctor used to describe the baby's condition. After several days, when little Harriett Louise didn't improve, her mother resigned herself to losing yet another child. Harriett would be her third baby who died at or close to birth, so Mattie gave up on trying to save the baby who was just going to die anyway and hurried back to the many responsibilities screaming for her attention.

When he did have a job, he worked at the railroad. There wasn't much for a man with no education or a trade to do in those days. Times were difficult but not just for Tommie McCloud's family; being poor was commonplace and widespread. But yet, according to Tommie's always-angry wife, he could do better for his family. He'd turned out to be such a disappointment--so different from the man she'd married when she was sixteen. How could he be so cavalier about his duties to his ever growing family. Why wasn't he more responsible? Why did he always act happy and carefree with so much on his plate? With a wife and five children (one dying), why couldn't he see his failings and change?

Mattie never wanted children. She had plans for her future that didn't include children. One or two might have been okay, but no more. There was just this one itty-bitty problem: sex. Her husband liked it and because her faith instructed her to never say No, the babies kept coming. She had four now, well, five but that baby was dying. Four was enough. No more babies.

As it is supposed to be, according to the First Church of the Nazarene, on Washington Street, we should love God and Jesus above all. Everything else will fall into place as it should. My grandmother was 100% committed to God and Jesus. She read the Bible daily and followed all of the rules in our church's rulebook and expected her husband and children to do the same. Gray did not exist. Life was black and white. No exceptions. She loved her children but she would think nothing of drawing blood by beating a child if that child broke a rule. Better to take a beating now and then if it meant saving one from the fiery depths of hell.

While the McCloud family waited for my mother to die, a neighbor lady just happened to stop by to see the new addition to the family. She was told the baby had failure to thrive and was dying, so best to leave her alone. It was part of God's plan and his will. Instead of walking away from little Harriett Louise, the neighbor took the baby in her arms and began talking to her. She refused to believe that God wanted this baby to die, that God had brought this baby into the world so he could just take her away. While the baby, at first, refused the bottle, the neighbor didn't take no for an answer. She was tenacious; she persevered. Soon Harriett Louise was drinking from the bottle and began to improve rapidly.

Mother was the middle of nine surviving children: four boys, five girls. The boys were my grandmother's favorite. It is as it should be; it says so in the Bible. Men are more important than women. She spared the rod on the boys, but not the girls. The reason she was so hard on the girls was because they were not strong like their brothers; girls are weak and vulnerable. She told the girls to make it their priority to find a good Christian man and get married. They needed rescued because they couldn't make it in life by themselves.

When Grandmother's children were growing up, she could be loving but also a brutal tyrant. They knew she loved them and she did the things she did to protect them from the devil and hell. They all accepted that, but the one who suffered the most was my shy, emotionally fragile mother. Being the middle child, she felt neglected, ignored, left behind. With eight siblings, a mother and a father, she often felt alone, lonely. This translated to low self-esteem, a strong need to find love and acceptance, and the unshakable notion that she was unlovable.

By the time I came along, my grandmother had shrunk and shriveled down to a ten-year-old child. She was very old and tiny and wrinkled and kind and sweet and harmless. She wasn't a hands-on Grammy; I saw her seldom. She just wasn't into children.

I've heard that family dynamics have a tendency to trickle down through the generations. So I'm here to tell my grandchildren this: I'm old and tiny and wrinkled and kind and sweet and harmless. So whatever you hear about what I did to your parents when they were children, don't believe them. It's all lies. No, really it is.