Adventures in Wonderland

Awhile back, I posted about my foray into the world of online dating (The Not-So-Young and Restless).   I’d like to report that the three sites I joined (E-Harmony, Our Time and Plenty of Fish) resulted in a shower of eligible men who wanted to meet me.  Unfortunately, I can’t.  As of early June, I’d met one guy, and while he was nice enough, there just weren’t any sparks at all.  For me, anyway.

I also had what looked to be a promising prospect with a guy from Sweden who’d settled in Jacksonville.  Ruggedly handsome, gainfully employed as an engineer in the construction industry, about my age—he was perfect!  He was on a project in Texas and wouldn’t be back in Florida until it was done, which he anticipated would be in about a month.  We’d traded e-mails for about two weeks when he sent this really effusive, overly mushy e-mail about how much he loved me and how I was his soul mate, etc. etc. 

That set off my alarm bells (hello! stalker!!), and I told him so in no uncertain terms.  He backed off, pleading a language barrier, and I gave him the benefit of the doubt.  After all, the only Swedish I know is what’s in IKEA.   We got back on track and he proposed we text.  I told him I don’t do texting (which I don’t), so he suggested internet messenger.    IM didn’t work for several days, because we could never seem to connect at the same time.

Finally, one night the stars aligned and we were online together.  I was in an airport waiting for my flight home, and had a few hours to kill.  I was sitting at the power-strip counter at my gate, and was soon joined by two other women about my age.  My Swedish Meatball and I were only a few minutes into our conversation when he started bemoaning the fact that he’d run out of materials.   He needed more materials to finish the job and come home.  I asked him several questions and got increasingly suspicious from his answers.  Finally, he mentioned that $7,500 was all that stood between him and the project’s completion.

“Oh my God, it’s a scam!!”  I have the annoying habit of talking to myself (or Margeaux) out loud.  To those of you who’ve been subjected to this habit, I apologize and thank you for not killing me.  I didn’t realize how annoying it was until I was subjected to it by a co-worker who kept up a running monologue throughout the day.

The two women sitting with me at the counter looked up from their own computers.  I briefly explained the situation.  One suggested that I try to put the bite on him for money.  I vetoed that idea—the last thing I needed was for him to claim that I was scamming him.  After that, we started coming up with everything we could think of to portray me as a most undesirable target.   By the time I caught my flight, I was sure he’d written me off.  Just to be on the safe side, I blocked him from contacting me again.

Another seemingly promising prospect also fell suddenly by the wayside.  This guy was retired military, now teaching at a local community college.  He was around my age and, from his e-mails at least, seemed normal.  He advertised that he was looking for a sane, mature woman who was drama-free.  After trading correspondence for about a week, he asked for my phone number.   All the dating sites advise against daters disclosing their personal information, like, oh…phone numbers.  Aside from safety concerns, I generally hate talking on the phone, so I politely declined and suggested a Starbucks meeting instead.

Imagine my surprise when, in response, I received a flaming e-mail from him stating that he WOULD NOT meet someone he hadn’t first talked with by phone.   I tried e-mailing a reply, but he had blocked me.  Huh?  I guess he was looking for a sane, mature and drama-free woman to balance out the qualities he lacked.  I still can’t figure out what’s so special about talking on the phone, but a lot of these guys want to do it.

After that encounter, I decided that Plenty of Fish should rename itself Plenty of Shit, because that’s what I was finding there.  I deleted my profiles from all three sites and decided to fish elsewhere: Match.com.  For any of you looking to join the world of online dating, I highly recommend this site.  It’s very user friendly, and it offers a money-back guarantee is you haven’t found a match within six months. 

As soon as my profile went live, I started seeing some traffic.  Not an overwhelming amount, but a few potentials a day.  Plus, the site suggests eight or nine matches a day.  One Daily Match’s profile, in particular, caught my eye: the tag line read “Semper Ubi Sub Ubi” (Always Where Under Where).  His answers to the standard questions were quirky and funny.  He was at the top of my age range—65—divorced, retired, Jewish, and in my town.  The profile photo showed a deeply tanned man with a gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match.  His eyes were warm and inviting, a bit guarded, but twinkling with mischief.   I sent him a wink and he winked back.

After about a week of exchanging Haiku-like e-mails, we arranged to meet.  Drumroll, please.  We hit it off immediately—what started out as a happy hour meeting turned into a full-fledged, six hour date.   We’ve seen each other once or twice a week for the past month and we usually Skype at least once a day.  He’s wicked smart, funny and adventurous.   His name is William.  Having never lost my Louisiana penchant for nicknames, I’ve tried to give him several, but haven’t hit upon the right one yet.  I usually call him Will or Will.i.am.

It’s interesting how my outlook on dating has changed since my younger days.  The goal to dating back then was to find the best husband, father and life-mate I possibly could.  I found that person in Bunny, and now I don’t feel the need to fall in love or find my soul mate or get married again.  My only dating goal is to have fun with people who make me happy.   

Will and I enjoy each other’s company, whether it’s over dinner or moving furniture.   One of his favorite amusements is riding shotgun while I drive—I’m prone to mild, profanity-laced road-rage—and roaring with laughter over my comments.  We make each other smile and constantly learn things from each other.  I’m having a great time with someone who makes me happy, which is exactly what I set out to do.   

What the Hell is Topsy? And What Does it Have to Do With Healthcare?

Since all the furor over Obamacare seems to have settled to a dull rumble, now may be a good time to raise the issue here.  Affordable health care has very much been a part of my life for the past few years, between Bunny’s cancer and the treatments and my cervical spine fusion back in 2010. 

For years, we had insurance coverage through Bunny’s job, and a very small amount of his salary went toward the group premium.  No sweat.  We had access to the best doctors we could find.  Once Bunny ran out of FMLA time and his employer terminated him, we were in COBRA territory.  COBRA is supposed to provide health insurance without a gap—you pay the premium, and your coverage continues until the insurance at your next job kicks in.  Sounds good, right? Ha!

I was acquainted with COBRA from changing jobs many years ago—it’s expensive.   Very expensive.  For the exact same coverage we had before, we now paid as much for health insurance as we did for our monthly mortgage payment.  I don’t consider it “affordable” when you pay as much for the roof over your head as you do for health insurance.

Not paying for COBRA wasn’t even an option: Bunny needed chemo and blood transfusions.  He got desperately ill with the least provocation.  Worrying about the extra expense added to his already-anxious demeanor.  I assured him that everything would be okay, but he worried nonetheless: if we spent all our money on medical care, there’d be nothing left for me once he was gone.  At the time, we didn’t realize how little time he had left, and he was prepared to continue treatment as long as there was hope.

Finally, he hit upon a solution, borrowing a page from some of our friends who’d done the same thing years earlier: if things got too bad, we would divorce, and he could qualify for Medicaid and get medical care that way.   Knowing how much the whole situation upset him, I agreed, but I thought to myself: how fucked up is it that people would be so worried about having health care that they would dissolve an otherwise happy marriage?  Then I started hearing stories from every corner of the country about people who had done the exact same thing.

I’ve been on board for universal health care since way before Hilary’s plan.  I’ve always believed that health care is a basic necessity that everyone should have.  Socialized medicine?  That label doesn’t bother me.  When people need it, they should have access to it, and it should truly be affordable.

I’d never discussed the issue with my daddy, other than in passing.  My daddy has worked in health care his whole adult life, so he knows more about it than the average dad.  He’s also maddeningly logical in his thinking—kind of like Mr. Spock on Star Trek.  E-mails from him never took up more than a few lines, so I was surprised a few weeks ago when he sent me a draft of an e-mail he was sending to a friend who was losing her mind over Obamacare.  With his permission, I’m reprinting it here:

**********************

"It growed like Topsy”

I can remember the late 40s & early 50s, when the only wonder drugs were the sulfa drugs (developed in the 30s), newly released penicillin (if your doctor trusted it) and of course the patent medicine spectrum (Hadacol) . Immunizations were the most visible sign of medical research. These were affordable to even the poorest people.

Surgical procedures were primitive compared with those performed today on a daily basis. In Louisiana, the Charity Hospital System (taxpayer supported) provided care to anyone who could not afford (or was unafraid of the "charity" stigma) and was willing to be treated. Most of the private physicians in the state interned or completed residences in these facilities.

"Clinics" which were generally named for the physicians in the practice and reflected their personal training and attitudes had become available after the 30s as a result of the advent of medical-hospital insurance schemes, which were participated in by union members, state governments, enlightened employers and some individuals.

Transplants, implants and chemo were experimental and not available except to the wealthiest.

Generally, outside of state-supported hospitals, if you could not afford a specific treatment, you did not get it.

In sum, standardized medical care was a commodity which was not available to everyone and 'Nature abhors a vacuum'

Thus, the impact of Medicare $ on this system brought forth research, enhanced medical care, fraud, unnecessary treatment, unintended consequences, etc. (another vacuum waiting to be filled).

Now we have "Obama Care" which will have both good and ill consequences which are awaiting discovery.

Until we as a society are willing to honestly address the fundamental issues (medical ethics - an oxymoron?), the cycle will continue.

How much medical care for everyone do we really want?

Although I am willing to drive a clunker rather than a Maserati, am I willing to receive the same medical care as the poorest member of society? Should there be an available difference?

How much morality do we want to inject into the issue? birth control? abortions? pacemakers for 85 year olds regardless of mental/physical condition, CAT Scans and MRIs for someone obviously about to die?

Do I want a friend on the "Death Panel"?

I'm sure you can add a few others, but as usual it all comes back to $$, and a way to administer the system in such a way so as to please everyone.

­vox populi, vox dei

*********************************************

Thought-provoking, for sure—the issues he raises could spark endless debates.  I was astonished that he could write so well!  My e-mail back complimented him on the content, and asked the burning questions: What the hell is Topsy?  And what does it have to do with healthcare?

“It growed like Topsy,” it turns out, is an arcane saying that developed after Uncle Tom’s Cabin was published.  Topsy was a character in the novel, and in the years following, "it growed like Topsy" became a popular saying to describe something that grew or increased by itself, without apparent design or intention.   Daddy had been introduced to the saying by his north-Louisiana cousins during childhood.  It was a new one on me, and on my (well-read) step-mother and (English professor) step-sister, as well.

Maybe Obamacare isn’t perfect, but it’s a step in the right direction.  I’m sure it will evolve over time as the bugs get worked out.  I don’t have all the answers, but I do know one thing: people should be able to pay a reasonable amount for the opportunity to access health care.

Rock Bottom

It’s been over a month since my last post.  Maybe you’ve wondered where I’ve been.  Have you ever heard the expression “hitting rock bottom”?  That’s where I’ve been—Rock Bottom--and I got there before I even knew I was headed that way.

            Late May and early June used to be a time filled with happiness.  Bunny and I celebrated our anniversary was on May 31^st, and my grandmother’s birthday was on June 2^nd.  We grew up right next door to my grandparents, and my grandmother was very much a second mother to us.  My mother’s birthday was on June 6^th.   When Trinity came along, her birthday was smack in the middle of my grandmother’s and mother’s, on June 4^th.   So every other day for about a week, our family had reason to rejoice.

            When my grandmother died nine years ago, we still remembered her birthday.  It wasn’t a terribly sad day, though, because she had lived a long, healthy life.   But this year, as the end of May inched closer, I grew increasingly anxious about my first anniversary without Bunny.  The fact that my computer crashed in late May didn’t help.  Then, on May 30th, I suddenly came down with the worst sore throat of my life, along with spiking a fever.

            From my symptoms, I was pretty sure that I had strep throat.  The doctor confirmed it, and put me on Penicillin.   For my entire life, I’ve never been allergic to any medications, so I figured I’d be good as new in a few days.  The best part was, the Penicillin was free—it’s one of the meds that Publix dispenses without cost. Score!

            After about three days on the antibiotics, I noticed a rash on my arms and legs.  At first, I thought it was my eczema flaring up—I’d been taking a lot of super-hot baths when the fever was raging, and hot water is one of the things that triggers an outbreak for me.  Pretty soon, I noticed the rash in places my eczema usually doesn’t go.  Only two possibilities now—either it was the Penicillin or the strep, itself.  Either way, it wasn’t good.  Naturally, it was Saturday, and my doctor’s office was closed.  I stopped taking the medicine, called when the office opened again, and got switched to a non-Penicillin drug. 

            Up to that point, I felt like I’d been progressing really well (computer issues aside), especially given my recent victory at the Cochon de Lait.  One of my friends had even remarked about what a fortress of strength I was, given all the chaos of the last six months.  Despite the occasional mini-meltdowns, I believed it—I was strong, and I would get stronger every day.  Then came late May, and the start of the once-happy occasions that would now be hollow.  The fortress started developing cracks. 

On May 31^st, I was swaddled in flannel pajamas and quilts, fighting off chills and fever.  On my grandmother’s birthday, I was covered in a rash, suddenly allergic to a drug I’d taken without incidence my whole life.  As silly as it sounds, that reaction was the final insult—the straw that broke the camel’s back.  My loved ones were unexpectedly dying off, my emotions were unpredictable, certain people in my life were flaking on me at random, and now my body—the one constant that I could depend upon—was betraying me.      

I spiraled down into a well of depression, crying for no reason, by turns unable to eat or stuffing myself with food for comfort, and generally feeling alone and bereft.  I’d try to bolster myself by thinking of all the blessings I have, and then I’d feel guilty for being such a whiny baby because so many people have much bigger problems than I do.  Nights were the worst.  I’ve always loved to sleep, but I’ve also always had a difficult time falling asleep.  I envy people who can fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows—Bunny and my sister Julie being two of the worst offenders.   I couldn’t stop my brain from conjuring up images of my lost loved ones. 

And the dreams!  I’ve always dreamed very vividly, in full color, and the dreams I started having in early June were no different—quite realistic, in fact.  At the start of these dreams, Bunny was still alive, and I was both surprised and happy to see him.  Then he would unexpectedly die--often right in front of me--as I desperately tried to save him but couldn’t.  Every night, these dreams came, and I’d awaken in the middle of the nights, my face wet with tears.  In the old days, when I had a bad dream, Bunny—never waking from his own slumber--would pat me gently while I got my bearings.  His not being there for this series of nightmares made me miss him even more than I already did.  After awakening so abruptly, I'd be unable to go back to sleep.

            Slowly, I started inching my way out of the hole I’d fallen into.  One thing that kicked me into high gear was getting a very long letter from one of my oldest friends.  Hearing from her made me realize that I’m not the only person in the world whose life has unexpectedly turned upside down, and that I didn’t want to waste another minute feeling sorry for myself.  I started getting out more, seeing old friends and making new ones.  Spending time with my granddaughters also boosted my spirits.

            Prayer, of course, was another thing that soothed my raw emotions.  In addition, I  started reading one of Joyce Meyer’s books that I’d gotten for Bunny about two years ago, to give him inspiration to fight.  He never cracked it open, but I’ve read it twice now.     

I also started doing physical labor along with my normal desk job.  I’d bought an investment property in early May, and I threw myself into redecorating it so that I can get it rented out.  I do love to paint!!  Being there calms me like no other place on earth.  It’s right on the water, and I can just sit and watch the boats come and go and marvel at the beauty of nature. 

I don’t know that any one thing helped more than another, but by mid-June, I was feeling more like my old self than I had in the previous month.  Death is just a part of life, and sometimes it seems unfair about when or how, but we all have to go sometime.  I just hope I’m around for a long time to come—I’ve got a lot to do.

Country Comfort

After my husband died, the one thing I craved most was stability.  In the chaos of the preceding months and then his death and its aftermath, I was overwhelmed by all the changes in my life that had endlessly come at me.  I felt like if I could just get a routine going, if I could get some stability back, I'd feel like my old self again.  I'd feel better.  I’d feel normal. I was just getting my bearings when my mother's death sent my emotional compass spinning out of control again.

In the months since, I'd gotten into a routine, for the most part.  Ironically enough, though, the stability that it brought didn't make me feel better.   It didn't made me feel worse, either; it just made me feel...numb.  I didn't even realize what had happened until about six weeks ago. Numbness may beat pain on the emotional scale, but it can't hold a candle to happiness, no matter how fleeting that happiness is. The road to happiness isn't paved with routine.  Not for me, anyway. That's when I decided I needed to step outside my comfort zone.  I would go back to Mansura for the Cochon de Lait Festival, and I would recruit as many people to come with me as I could.  I was also determined to check on my step-father, Donald, since I figured he’d be having a hard time on his first Mother’s Day without my mom.  Mother’s Day was as important to her as Bunny’s birthday was to him. 

Louisiana excels over the rest of the U.S. in one area: food.  You just can’t find better food anywhere.  There are lots of food festivals in south Louisiana, and my hometown is the Cochon de Lait Capital of the World. Since the early 1960s, Mansura holds a festival celebrating the roasted suckling pig, usually on Mother’s Day weekend.  At some point, the festival became so popular that it got out of hand, and for several years the town didn't hold one. Some of my best childhood memories are from Cochon de Lait  Festivals of yore.  All my relatives would come up from New Orleans, and we'd pile into my grandfather's truck and head for town to watch the parade. 

 My grandfather's family was definitely the most colorful of all the branches of my family tree. My grandfather was the only one of his siblings to live in The Country: everyone else fled to New Orleans at the first chance.  There, they married and raised families.  While they'd come up for occasional visits, none of them retired to The Country.  Once the festival went on hiatus, the Chatelains would still have their own pig roasts, and we'd still have a good time, but they didn’t carry quite the same excitement as the festival. 

Growing up, we country folks were closest to our Uncle Jake's family. Uncle Jake was the youngest surviving sibling of my grandfather’s, and he loved to visit the country, so we saw him and his sons at least every six weeks.  His older sons were closer to my dad’s age, but the younger ones, Glenn and Norman, were closer to ours: Glenn was three years older than I, and Norman and Julie were exactly the same age.   Norman was a high-energy daredevil, and Glenn was more laid back, but mischievous nonetheless.  We always had fun when they visited, particularly because they caused our grandfather a great deal of consternation.  For example, one time, they exploded his mailbox with some of their never-ending supply of firecrackers. 

When I was about 15, Glenn started bringing his girlfriend, Bonnie, to The Country with him.  Bonnie was my age, from a big Italian family, and was enthralled with The Country.  She would eat anything set before her (which was a pretty big deal, considering some of the things Cajuns eat) and was down-to-earth, which was very important to Country folks. 

Glenn and Bonnie eventually married, but as time wore on and we moved away from Louisiana, we rarely saw them.  The last time I did, their elder daughter, Melissa, was 8 or 9 and Little Alyssa was a toddler.  Sadly, that would also be the last time I would ever see Glenn—he died as I was graduating from law school in Atlanta.

Fast-forward to 2010, which was the last time I’d gone to the Cochon de Lait Festival.  My class reunion was that weekend, as well, and I was determined to go, despite having recently undergone spinal fusion on my neck.  The brace I had to wear made it impossible for me to drive, so my cousin Vicki, who had recently moved back to New Orleans from Florida, agreed to be my chauffeur.  Since she’d enjoyed the festival so much, she was one of my first potential recruits for this visit.  She had plans for the weekend, but she’d join me in New Orleans.

I’d long ago asked JoCo and the kids to come along, but their schedules, too, didn’t allow them to.  Then I sent an e-mail the cousins I’d befriended on Facebook, asking them to meet me for dinner in the French Quarter on Thursday night.  Alyssa was the first to accept.  I’ve kept up with Bonnie (who isn’t on Facebook) mostly through Alyssa.

At dinner, Bonnie asked what my plans were for the rest of the weekend.  When I told her about the Cochon de Lait (the natives never add the “Festival” part to the title) plans, she seemed to brighten up.  I asked her to come with me.  She was hesitant at first, but her daughters encouraged her to go, since she never did anything spontaneous like that.  As the evening wore on, she became fully committed to the idea, and we started looking forward to our Thelma and Louise-type adventure, without the cliff at the end, of course.

As we headed up to The Country Friday afternoon, she told me, with some amusement, that as of that morning, the girls were still expecting her to back out of the trip.  I was proud of her for stepping outside her comfort zone, and happy to have her company.

Our first stop was my stepfather’s house.  The house where I grew up isn’t actually in the town of Mansura—it’s on the outskirts, in a fairly heavily wooded area: Petite Cote Road, or “the ‘tite Cote” to the natives.  In other words, it’s not a place you pass through—it’s a place you have to go to.

When we asked Donald what he’d been up to, he mentioned that he’d been fishing a few times, and mentioned the neighbors who frequently dropped by to visit.  We talked with him for a while, and then I asked him to come to the Cochon de Lait with us on Saturday.

“Aw, no.  I’m too old for that,” he demurred.  We worked on him for a while, and finally got him to agree to come to the parade.  Like Bonnie’s girls, I had my doubts that he would actually show up.

We met him there the next morning, and had a good time watching the parade and catching beads and trinkets.  We toured the arts and crafts booths and played a few shooting games—Donald is a hunter, so he did pretty well for a first-timer.  Despite his initial hesitation, he was having a good time.

We had lunch—huge, heaping plates of roasted pig and jambalaya that none of us could finish.  It was delicious!  After noon, the first of the contests—the hog calling event—started.  Donald stayed on, enjoying the competitions and chatting with people he knew from town.   He knows a lot of people, because they kept finding him to chat him up.  He had stepped outside his comfort zone and was enjoying himself; he was smiling again, laughing again, and I was happy to see him in his element.

The Ladies’ Beer Drinking Competition was slated to start at 1:30pm.  When I’d gone with Vicki, I’d begged her to enter, because I was sure she’d win.  She wouldn’t do it, despite my best efforts.  About 30 minutes before the contest, my phone made the noise it makes when I get a text message.  AAAGGG!  I hate that noise, because I hate texting!  I looked at my phone, expecting a message from Joey, and was surprised to see it was from Vicki.

“I want you to enter and win the beer drinking contest!  You got to represent! LMAO!”  I laughed as I remembered making that same argument to her when we were there—ya got to represent!  I told Donald and Bonnie about it.

“You should enter!” Donald said.  Bonnie readily agreed with him.

“But I don’t drink beer,” I answered.  I don’t drink much of anything, really—a glass of wine here or there.  When I do drink beer, it’s Guinness or another dark brew.  The drinks I’d had Thursday night were the first I’d had in a long time.

“It don’t matter.  I’ll tell you what—I’ll put up your entry fee!” Donald responded, whipping out the $5.00 necessary to enter.  Donald knows that: 1) I normally don’t drink; 2) I’ll seldom refuse a dare; 3) I don’t like to waste money; and 4) I’m so competitive that, even if it’s something I’ve never done before, I’m in it to win it.

Under the circumstances, I accepted the challenge.  I would step outside my own comfort zone and enter the beer drinking contest.  Breaking my own no-texting rule, I sent Vicki a response.

I’m registered, girl!

“Do me proud and take some pics!” Ha!  The competitors actually practice for this event—my chances were slim.  Still, I took my place on the stage when my name was called.

In all, there were 12 women seated at the table.  The crowd swelled before us as the MC explained the rules.  We would each get two cans of beer, which were set before us.  Our hands had to stay flat on the table, on either side of the cans, until we started.  We had to open the first one, drink it as quickly as we could, then turn the empty can upside-down on the table before we opened the second.  When we’d emptied the second, we had to turn it over upside-down on the table and then stand up.  The first woman to drink two beers and stand up, without being disqualified, would be the winner.  Few things would get you disqualified—spitting up or leaving too big a ring of beer on the table are the only ones I remember.

As the MC read the rules a second time, I tuned him out to psych myself up.  You don’t drink beer, but you drink a lot of water and coffee, and you can slam those down when you try. Waiters can barely keep your tea glass full, you drink so fast.  You can do it!  Represent!  Then the MC gave the countdown:

“1…2…GO!”  Where was 3?!?  We all popped our cans open and started drinking.  I wasn’t looking at anyone else—I was just focusing on slamming the beer down.  Despite it being the coldest beer on the planet, I finished the first one without difficulty.  Bonnie told me later that I finished way before anyone else—before that, she wasn’t sure I’d have a chance.  The crowd was roaring. 

I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, but I turned over my first can and started the second.  I stopped midway through as brain-freeze started to seize me, but I took a deep breath and chugged the rest down.  I turned over my second can, stood up, and looked around to see how badly I’d done.  No one else was standing!  A few seconds later, a 20-something stood up, and a few seconds later, the woman on my immediate left stood.  Several more followed, as the judges inspected our cans.  One of them tapped me on the back.

“First.”  First!!  I couldn’t believe it!  The three of us got our medals and were introduced to the crowd.

“From Tampa, Florida,” the MC said after my name.

“Tell him whaa you really from!” Bonnie called out.  If you’ve never heard a real New Orleans accent, it’s a lot like a New York accent, and very distinctive in a Cajun-accented crowd.

“I grew up in the ‘tite Cote,” I said, which incited some cheering.

I was really excited (and a bit tipsy) over my victory.  For the rest of the day, people congratulated me, asked me my secret, and wanted to know how I’d practiced.  Naturally, I had to text Vicki again.

I won that shit, behotch!

“And you’re texting back beotch!  I miss ya and I wish I was there.” 

But I think Donald was more delighted than anyone else.  He told me that once I’d gone on stage, he told Bonnie, “Watch she wins,” in a “wouldn’t it be ironic” tone.  Joey didn’t believe I’d won when I called him, so Donald took the phone to confirm my story.  Donald joked to Bonnie and me that we’d have a lot of company next year—her girls and JoCo, at least.  Vicki has since said she plans to compete for the title.  I told her they’ll probably need a whole table just for the family members looking to challenge me.

Donald stayed on through the rest of the afternoon and had a great time, proving that he isn't too old for the Cochon de Lait.  Bonnie and I headed south the next morning, both having enjoyed our adventure.  It just goes to show that when you step outside your comfort zone, you can surprise even yourself.  You might even win a medal.

 

Recyclin’ Lightnin’

Ever since Bunny died, I’ve been reluctant to wear my wedding and engagement rings.   They were too painful a reminder that he was gone.  For the first few days, I tried switching them to my right hand, but then they really were a constant reminder, because I wasn’t accustomed to having them on that hand.  I wore them for the memorial--which felt like the right thing to do--and as I put them away, I realized that I was letting perfectly good diamonds go to waste in a drawer.

I’m generally not wasteful by nature, and my love of bling is legendary—plus, diamond is my birthstone!   I decided to convert my old rings into a new one.  I’d recently read about newly-divorced women melting down their old rings and turning them into happy new ones.  I decided to do the same.   As an aside, my love of bling began, appropriately enough, as a result of Aunt Ruth’s garage sale hauls.  She would send us cocktail dresses and other fancy attire, which we would put to use in our dress-up games. 

My first, much-beloved cocktail dress was a shiny, ice-blue satin number, with blue rhinestone buttons and embellishments.   I was about six when I got it, so it was more like an evening gown on me.  It was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen!  My sisters and I called it the Lightnin’ Dress.  For those of you who didn’t grow up in the South, lightnin’ is the electrical atmospheric disturbance that often accompanies thunder.  And the insects you catch in jars during summer nights aren’t fireflies, dammit—they’re Lightnin’ Bugs!   From that point on, I wanted lightnin’ every chance I could get it.

Back to the present: I found a jeweler who was up to the task, so Trinity and I went over there today to bring him my three rings and Bunny’s three rings to melt down and recast into a new one, using my five diamonds.  Let me explain why we had six rings:  I had a thin, gold band and an oval solitaire to start, and Bunny had his first gold band.  Bunny’s first band was cut off him during an emergency room visit for an asthma attack.  We were in Atlanta at the time.   He went ring-less for years after, until he got ready to move to Florida.  At that point, he insisted I get another band for him.

“Why?  You haven’t worn a ring for years.”

“Because you’re not going to be down there with me, and I want all the other deauxs to know that I’m taken.”   Aw!  He was so earnest, I didn’t have the heart to tease him.  In hindsight, I realize he was anxious about being alone, even for a little while.

That was Bunny’s ring #2, which he lost in less than a year.  I got ring #3 and later found the second one.  During the trip to get #3, I got a ring wrap, with two diamonds on either side, for my solitaire.  This is the whole trove of our combined marriage symbols (badly in need of cleaning):

I explained what I wanted done, and why, and the jeweler showed us several different settings.  I found one I really liked, then I had a brainstorm.

“Let’s make my ring with the three larger diamonds, and take the other two diamonds and make pendants for the two granddaughters.”  Trinity really took an interest at that point.   The thought of dying didn’t bother Bunny so much, but the thought that Sarita wouldn’t remember him did.  He really identified with Sarita, and if he had one regret, it was that he hadn’t gotten to spend as much time with her as he had with Trinity.

The jeweler pulled out a book to show Trinity the pendant styles, and she found one that we both really liked.  She pointed it out to him.

“That’s the rabbit-ear setting,”  he said.  How perfect is that?  Sold!

He made a sketch of my new ring, then started taking my old ones apart to weigh and measure them.  The solitaire was first.  He took out the stone and examined it with his loupe.

“Wow!  This is a very high quality stone; one of the best I’ve seen!”  Then he put it on the scale as I told him an abbreviated version of the story.

“Yes, he had it custom-made.”  Bunny and I started dating in mid-June of 1985.  Within two weeks, he asked me to marry him.   By November, he’d enlisted one of his professors to make the ring.  This professor made jewelry as a hobby, and had access to wholesale diamonds.  I remember stopping by the professor’s house so Bunny could pay for the stone.  Bunny told me at the time that it was a very high-grade stone.  I got a really bad vibe from the guy, but Bunny thought highly of him.  As it turned out, I was right—he later went to jail for perving on a girl.

Bunny’s plan was to give me the ring on Thanksgiving weekend.  I wouldn’t know how or when, but that was the timeframe.   I woke up in pain Thanksgiving morning, ate very little of the dinner my mother had prepared, got sick from what I did eat, and was undergoing emergency surgery that night. 

I really don’t remember the exact moment he slipped the ring on my finger—I’d gotten so sick from the anesthesia that I’d been up all night.  Plus, the nurses (who were my co-workers) made sure I wasn’t in pain.   At some point, when I was fully conscious and lucid, I realized that I was engaged.    It was a beautiful ring, but everyone I tried to show it to had already seen it—Bunny had shown it around before he’d given it to me!  He’d even shown it to my cousin’s fiance’, who was in one of his college classes.  We were married on May 31, 1986.

Seeing the stone loose from its setting brought all those memories flooding back.  Fat, heavy tears flowed involuntarily down my cheeks, splattering onto the glass case below me.  Then I started thinking of Trinity and Sarita wearing their pendants, maybe even on their own wedding days.  What better way to begin a marriage than by wearing a pendant made from jewelry that came from your grandparents’ happy marriage? OMG!  Can you hear the violins yet? 

The poor jeweler, seeing the sudden storm brewing before him, looked genuinely distressed.  He quickly brought me a roll of paper towels (apparently jewelers don’t keep Kleenex at the ready), and consoled me on my loss.   I assured him I would be alright, and dried up soon enough. 

In a few weeks, I’ll have my new lightnin’ ring.  Just in time for my anniversary.

Passin' it On

Yesterday was Take Your Child to Work Day, and for the first time since Joey was little, I had a child to take: Trinity.  She and I went to the courthouse and joined other Hillsborough women lawyers and their kids for the morning—touring the courthouse and watching justice at work.  We also saw a very entertaining mock trial involving pirates.  Trinity was quite excited to be on the jury.  After lunch, we set off to Brooksville for an estate sale.

During the drive, we talked about a number of things, including Take Your Child to Work Day.

“Who invented it?” she asked.

“My grandmother,” I answered confidently.

“Nah-ah,” she said.  I couldn’t see her face, but the tone of her voice more than conveyed her disbelief.

I explained how once upon a time, when I was Trinity’s age, my grandmother occasionally took me to work with her.  This was long before Take Our Daughters to Work Day.  My grandmother was a public health nurse in our rural Louisiana parish, and back when I was small, there were only a handful of nurses covering the whole Parish.  My grandmother (“Miss Betty” to her patients) was their leader.

The days that she took me to work with her were very special.  For one thing, it was a rare chance to spend time alone with her—at home, I always had my sisters competing with me for attention.   When we were at the office, I got to do cool things like stapling papers, filing index cards, and helping keep the rosters for the clinics.  We spent a lot of time out of the office, though, visiting patients all over the parish in Grandma’s Chevy.  She always left one of the windows slightly cracked, so that we wouldn’t be overcome by carbon monoxide.   I don’t know if that was a legitimate concern, but we were protected, in any case.

We would travel down winding, tree-lined dirt roads without so much as a compass, and somehow eventually find the people we were visiting.  If we happened upon a country store along the way, we’d stop for cold Cokes.  Back in those days, Coke came one way: in glass bottles.  Grandma kept a bottle opener on her keychain “just in case.”  Once we got where we were going, Grandma would disappear into the house to visit her patient while I stayed on the porch visiting whoever was there.

I felt like hot stuff on those days—people would fuss over me and ask me if I wanted be a nurse like my grandmother.  Some days I did, and some days I wanted to be a doctor, but I knew I wanted to help people feel better, like my grandma did.  Either way, I knew I wanted a career outside the home.

Years later, when I was entering high school, I was planning my schedule for ninth grade.  I could choose one elective, but our high school was limited to three: Home Economics, Shop and Typing.  The first wasn’t even an option—I had zero interest in Home Ec.  I’d have taken Shop, but didn’t want to be the only girl in the class.  I was left with typing, which I figured would come in handy at some point.  (Note to my younger readers—this was back in the Dark Ages, before everyone had a keyboard within easy reach.)  I turned in my schedule and didn’t give it another thought, until I was called into the principal’s office the next week.   Mr. George, the Principal, had an issue with my elective choice.

“Ah, Baby, I see you don’t have Home Ec scheduled,” he said.  Maybe he thought I’d been confused by the scheduling process.

“No, I’m taking typing instead,” I answered.

“But all the girls take Home Ec,” he replied helpfully.

“Well this girl isn’t.  It’s an elective, and I’m electing not to take it.” Poor Mr. George—he wasn’t used to eighth grade girls being so assertive.   Nothing he could say would convince me to change my plans, even throwing in that I needed Home Ec.

Knowing that my grandmother and my mother, who also became a public health nurse, had careers outside the home gave me any extra confidence I needed that my family and I would be able to survive despite my lack of Home Ec.   Aside from that, I had an innate sense of outrage that men seemed to have the easier paths in life.  I wasn’t going to fit into somebody else’s mold for what girls should do.

Yesterday after lunch, one of the judges asked Trinity if she was going to go to work with me that afternoon.  I explained that we’d be going to an estate sale instead, where I would teach her the art of negotiating.

I learned negotiating at the feet of the master—my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Ruth.  Before she retired, Aunt Ruth had worked at the Sears in Alexandria, the biggest city near my small hometown.  She had been the head of the foundations department, which sounded quite risque’ to a nine year old girl.  Aunt Ruth had the added mystique of being divorced—an unheard-of condition in Grandma’s strict, Baptist family.  History was later rewritten so that Aunt Ruth was a widow.

Grandma would pack us up for overnights at Aunt Ruth’s house.  She had a small, modern house in the big city of Pineville.  Early on Friday and Saturday mornings, we’d hit the neighborhood garage sales.  Aunt Ruth loved her some garage sales!  My sisters and I, encouraged by our grandfather, would giggle about Aunt Ruth’s frugality.  But as much amusement as it gave me at the time, I picked up some very valuable lessons in negotiation from Aunt Ruth’s garage sale shopping.

Years later, Bunny started going to garage sales.  I resisted at first, but soon joined in.  He would stand back, gape-jawed, as I’d walk away with items he’d have paid at least 50% more for.  On one of my bad days.  He got as much fun from watching me wheel-and-deal as he did from going to the sales.   When my daddy came to visit last year, we found a willing accomplice in our treasure hunts.

So now, I’m passing my skills on to a new generation.  Once we got to the site, we starting looking for the things that interested us.  There were TONS of things, but most were way overpriced.   The seller wasn’t the actual owner of the property, but one of those companies that comes and sells all your junk for you.   Getting good deals at those kinds of sales—particularly on the first day—is difficult, because the mark-up is high and the person running the sale doesn’t have much incentive to slash prices.

Almost immediately, Trinity found a box of knitting supplies—various sizes of needles, yarn and other stuff.  Her eyes lit up.

“I’ve been wanting to knit!” she said excitedly.  I looked at the box, which didn’t have a price, and took a quick inventory. 

“They’ll probably want $20 for it, but they’ll take $10.”

“That’s a good deal for all this stuff!”  She, like Bunny, was an easy mark for these folks.

“No it’s not.  $5 is a good deal--$10 is what an amateur would pay.”

“But I AM an amateur!”

“Yes, but I’ll teach you the secrets.”   Then I told her what to say.  She’s got enough savvy going that I knew she’d throw in the appropriate body language and eye contact.  She was dubious about the script I gave her, and insisted that I practice with her before she approached the seller.

I sent her on her way with the box of knitting supplies and continued browsing the overpriced artwork.  She was back in less than five minutes, empty-handed.

“Well?” I asked.  I knew from her expression that she’d closed the deal.

“I did it!  $5!! I can’t believe it!!” She was full of glee as she explained how the deal went down.

“So where’s your box?”

“I left it with the lady so that I don’t have to carry it around.”  Ah, my heart melted.  Such a smart little grasshopper!  Then I threw in some extra advice for the next time.

As I was taking her home last night, Daddy called.  I told him about our day, particularly the estate sale.  He’d probably been to garage sales with Aunt Ruth as a child, too, and he told Trinity, almost verbatim, some of the things I’d told her.

“That’s what Nana said!” she shouted from the back seat.  We all had a good laugh, and I’m sure that Aunt Ruth was smiling down upon us: three generations of negotiators that she’d trained.

Memorial Day

Yesterday, on what would have been his 50^th birthday, we held Bunny’s memorial service.  Bunny was always a proud non-conformist, so when we were discussing what kind of ceremony he wanted, if any, he decided that he wanted a memorial with a Star Trek theme.   I’d known that if he did settle upon some kind of ceremony, it wouldn’t be a conventional one.  Just to cover all my bases, I asked if he wanted any particular religion attached.

For many years before his death, Bunny claimed to be an atheist: the last time he had even been to a religious service was at his mother’s funeral, five years ago.   However, during  his last month, when he spent more time in the hospital than out of it, the hospital’s priest had visited him a few times and had administered the Sacrament of the Sick on some of those visits.  So, on the day before he died, as we discussed his final-final wishes, he thought for a moment before answering my question.

By this point, Bunny could only get out one word at a time, very slowly.  This was torture for him, because he always loved to chatter away.  There was rarely silence when Bunny was around.

“Yes.   Catholic.”  He smiled at the startled look on my face. 

“Okay, well that’s a shock,” I admitted, which made his smile broaden.

“But hey—it’s your funeral.”  At that, we both burst out laughing.   We had always shared, and kept, a quirky sense of humor, and we weren’t going to stop now, when we needed it most.  Then I made a crack about atheists in foxholes that made him laugh again.

He also decided that his memorial should be on his birthday.  His birthdays were always akin to national holidays for Bunny, and often included week-long celebrations.    Anytime a new decade was involved, the celebration was even more grand than usual.  For example, for his 40^th birthday, we went to Las Vegas for a week. 

As we were discussing the final details, Joey announced that he had arranged for a memorial poker tournament at Bunny’s favorite local card room, Lucky’s, with a part of the proceeds going to prostate cancer research.  This addition to the celebration made Bunny beam with pride.  It was the best parting gift his son could have given him. 

After he died, I got overwhelmed with grief and work and the unexpected loss of my mother, and was quickly becoming anxious about getting the final arrangements set.  By the end of February, I knew that we had to get going if we were going to have a memorial on April 20^th.  At the time, Corey wasn’t working, and I asked her if she’d make all the arrangements.  She readily accepted the task, and arranged every detail with the efficiency of a professional event planner.

We got the invitations from vistaprint.com and sent them out.  Fortunately, I didn’t have to look very far for decorations: they’re all over my house.    With the start time set for 11:00 a.m., the plan Thursday night was to meet JoCo at the hotel at 9:30 a.m. Friday to set up everything.   I was running a few minutes behind—I needed gas and decided to drop into the Target next to the gas station for some glittery confetti to spread on the display table.  As I was exiting the store, Joey called me.  I could tell from the background noises that he wasn’t even on the way yet.   Margeaux and I exchanged some very colorful conversation in the three minutes between Target and La Quinta.

I got to the hotel and unloaded all the Star Trek gear I’d packed: 4 life-sized cut-outs from Star Trek: The Next Generation (Captain Picard, Commander Riker, Counselor Troi and Mr. Worf); a box of assorted ship models (including two identical models of the U.S.S. Enterprise) and hand-held gear from the original Star Trek; and a box of Hallmark collectable Star Trek Christmas ornaments.  I’d also brought along a kitschy table-top aluminum Christmas tree to hang them on.

By them time I got everything into the conference room, I was fuming!  Still no JoCo.  I was calmed slightly, though, at the sight of the cake.  It was absolutely perfect in every detail!  I used to decorate cakes as a hobby, so I appreciate the work that goes into them.  If this cake tasted anywhere nearly as good as it looked, it truly would be perfect. 

The cake only held my attention for a minute—I went quickly about setting up, since it was now past 10:00 a.m.  I set up the table displaying the models and a picture that Bunny had taken during a trip to Vegas at the “Star Trek: The Experience” exhibit at the Hilton.  I scattered the glitter around the table to simulate stars.  Then I put up Picard and Riker on either side of the podium, Troi near the cake, and Worf guarding the door.  Naturally, Margeaux and I kept a steady stream of expletives going, since I was doing the work that three people were supposed to be doing.

At about 10:30 a.m., JoCo and Trinity casually walked in.  Boom!  I went off.  Corey usually seems to know when my last nerve has been snapped, so she got busy immediately with the remaining decor.  Joey doesn’t seem to have that same radar—plus, he has the annoying habit of making more inane chatter than usual when he’s anxious.   I knew he was very anxious about the memorial, and that he wasn’t sure he would be able to sit through it.  I had told him to sit near the exit and quietly step out if it got to be too much.  Still, we hadn’t even started yet, and now he was an hour late and seemingly oblivious to the fact that we weren’t yet ready for a ceremony that would start in less than 30 minutes.

I told him to rearrange the tables—they’d been set up at a 45 degree angle, with chairs on either side, and I wanted them straightened out with the extra chairs lined along the wall.  I also wanted chairs set up at the back of the room for any late-comers.  As usual, he had what he thought was a better idea.  I made it clear that I wasn’t entertaining options—I was giving an order, and it needed to be carried out immediately.

By 10:45 a.m., everything was ready, and I was a hot, sweaty mess.  Great.  Nothing better than hugging a sweaty WiDeaux, I’m sure.  I changed from my flip flops into my dress shoes and hustled off to the bathroom to try to tidy up a bit.   By the time I got back, the first of the guests were beginning to arrive.  After that, everyone seemed to flood in at once, and before I knew it, 11:00 a.m. had arrived.

I started the ceremony and introduced the one and only Catholic deacon in all of Tampa Bay who had agreed to attend such an unorthodox affair.  He opened with a prayer, then read from the Book of Wisdom, then gave a rather stirring and appropriate mini-sermon.  My distaste for Catholicism aside (that’s a whole other blog post), he did a very nice job.  Bunny quickly made his presence known by causing two stars behind the podium to fall off the wall.  I wasn’t the only one with that thought—everyone else I spoke with afterward mentioned it.

The deacon closed with a prayer, then I spoke for a few minutes about Bunny and our life together, including how we initially met as children, then as adults after he’d done a tour in the Navy.  John McClendon, one of Bunny’s former co-workers from Atlanta then Florida, was the next to speak.  Finally, Scott Long and Chris Cosenza, two of Bunny’s poker buddies, shared their memories.   Chris and Scott own a poker magazine (Ante Up); Bunny was one of their first columnists, so he was on the ground floor of what’s become a national publication.   I think it’s safe to say that ­­­­we all learned about facets of Bunny’s life that we’d been ignorant of before.

Jazzy’s Bar-B-Que catered the affair, and the food was delicious.  I cut the cake and it was, indeed, as perfect on the inside as it was on the exterior.  We visited with the friends and family who’d gathered to celebrate Bunny’s memory, and he once again made his presence known.   Chris and one of the other guests were trying out a game called “Draw Something,” which is like Pictionary for the iPad and iPhone.  The first clue to draw: Mr. Spock.

Once the guests left, I went home, changed clothes, and went to poker tournament, which was already in progress.  I drew the seat right next to Chris, and he told me that his first hand had been Ace-King.  Bunny was famous for (unsuccessfully) playing that hand, so we took that as another sign of his presence.  In all 30 players started, which wasn’t too shabby for the middle of a Friday afternoon.   Corey and I were the only women playing.  By the end, I finished fifth, Corey third and Joey first. 

I hadn’t played poker in about a year, so I was pleased to even get to the final table, especially considering the awful cards I was getting.  Corey is convinced that Bunny sent her good cards, but she’s a good player, and probably the most consistent finisher of the three of us.   People had been buying her drinks all afternoon, though, and from the amount of alcohol she’d consumed, I don’t doubt that she was getting extraterrestrial help.  Joey hasn’t said whether Bunny sent him good cards, but he’s a good player, too.   I’m sure Bunny was quite pleased at the outcome, even if he didn’t help.

This morning, I got another sign from Bunny.   The History Channel was one of his favorites, but I haven’t watched it since he died.  I absolutely guarantee it wasn’t the last channel I watched last night.  About mid-morning, I turned on the TV to try to catch some DIY shows.  Imagine my surprise when the TV came to life with the History Channel’s show about a naval (remember, he was in the Navy) aircraft carrier.  Its name? The U.S.S. Enterprise.