Thanks, osso, re the Uncle poem.
My mother said I left out the best parts. She wants me to make it longer and talk about the little church women, who were horrified at the "F bombs" flying across the parlor of the funeral home, the pale funeral director and the cop, who staked out the porch. Might be tricky, but I'm going to try to work in Wife #3's shrill laugh when the preacher said the word, "grace", which happened to be her arch enemy, Wife #2's, name.
Also, forgot to put in the Briefcase...
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12/28/05
Not Harry Met Sally
When we met at college, everybody drank heavily and constantly. We were on our way to get beer, on our way to throw up so we could drink more beer, or sneaking beer in the dorm. I had just escaped from (what I thought was) a miserable childhood and was meticulously perfecting the art of satisfying my every indulgence. I was pretty, had a great body, and got away with murder on a consistant basis in every venue (except with my mother). My first (and only) semester in college, I talked myself out of six traffic tickets. I didn't have a clue about anything.
He was not my type. I'd never been interested in a guy I didn't consider goodlooking. I actually thought my husband was ugly when I first saw him, but his personality attracted me over time. He would scope me out at parties every night, and I'd be so entranced in his conversation, opinions, just "him"... I was at ease around him. I'd get pulled here, or I'd mingle, but I always gravitated back to him. So, after a night of drinking, clubbing with the chicks, I didn't want to go to the freaking dorm. It was a cave of dread. I missed my bed at home, but I knew home really wouldn't be home again. I was homeless and bedless. The dorm bed represented failure every night, or a sign of impending doom, or just my state of not fitting anywhere....faux bed. I went to his house. He lived in a lean-to with five smelly, incoherent boys, who didn't lock the door, so I walked in, walked to his bed, and crawled in with him. This was a surprise to both of us. The alcohol saw it coming, I'm sure.
We woke up spooning, snuggley. I'll never forget how he just gazed at me, half disbelieving, for the longest time. I couldn't read his face. I asked him if he minded. Men's fantasies about just such a thing aside, I had just walked in to his house and gotten in his bed with him, and spent the night. He could have been less than receptive. He said he liked it--he didn't like sleeping alone. His demeanor was the same as if we were sitting on somebody's couch at a party. No sexual overtone, he didn't touch me. He told me later he'd needed to feel close to somebody. His life at home made me ashamed I'd complained about mine. He did need somebody. So did I. We saw each other randomly at parties, acted as though nothing was different to those around us, and to each other, but for the next three nights, I crawled in his bed between 2 and 3, or 4AM, and slept. The fourth night, I slid on top of him.
Since they didn't have a major in alcohol consumption, I was invited to stay home next quarter by the University.
We couldn't tolerate sleeping alone, I guess. A couple of weeks after I left, he asked me to marry him. Three months later, we were married. If I'd spent any appreciable time sober, I'd have noticed signs of a serious problem.
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Odd how I can take the same story, focus on the sweetness, the acceptable, and leave off these aspects, and have a Reader's Digest courtship.
Truth, eh? It's all gerrymandery.
