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Riding with Prince Charming

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Photo by Terrye Turpin on the Waterlogue app

My first steady boyfriend drove a 1978 Chevrolet Monte Carlo Sport Coupe. The official name for the car’s color was Camel Brown, an unfortunate tag that suggests a lumpish, disagreeable animal. The license plate number was UAB711. I remember the license plate number because I spent most of the next summer, after we broke up, stalking him.

I met Mark through his best friend Johnny, who was dating my best friend, Ann. When he dressed up for a date Mark wore a velour pullover top, corduroy pants, and a splash of Jovan Musk. We started dating during my freshman year at Texas Woman’s University, where I found a strong fellowship of sisterhood but also a shortage of eligible young men.

Most of our dates we cruised around our home town in the Monte Carlo. Sometimes we would drive to Finch Park and make out in the parking lot in front of the Collin McKinney Cabin, a historical structure famous for hosting tours for elementary school children.

After we broke up, I still spent Saturday nights cruising the streets of McKinney, Texas, but I rode around with my best friend. Ann had a 1976 Datsun. It didn’t have a moon roof or wire spoke wheels, but it did have an eight track player, and I had a subscription to the Columbia House Tape of the Month Club.

There was an energy crisis in 1979, but that didn’t stop us from filling up the tank in the Datsun and tossing a suitcase filled with eight tracks into the back seat. On a typical Saturday night we stopped at Dairy Queen for ice cream, popped some REO Speedwagon in the tape deck and drove around crying out loud to “Time for Me to Fly.” I would search the streets for Mark’s Monte Carlo. I could recognize those headlights in the dark, and I perfected the ability to look long enough to see if the plate number was his, but not so long that he could see I was looking at him.

One weekend, dizzy with unrequited love and reruns of Love Boat, I came up with an idea. “Hey”, I said to Ann, “What if we took the For Sale sign from the house next door and put it in front of a different house?” I went on to explain that this prank would be funny, easy to pull off, and most importantly, untraceable back to us, the perpetrators.

“Oh, wow! Sure! Let’s do it!” Ann was loyal and easily persuaded, which made her both the ideal best friend and perfect accomplice in petty crime.

We headed out in the Datsun, not the most inconspicuous car with its bright yellow paint job, but it had a hatch back, which made it easier to load up the signs. We circled the block, gathering up and replacing signs throughout the neighborhood. We placed the last one in front of the Collin McKinney Cabin.

The next several days I alternated between guilt and worry that our crime would be found out. I imagined a crowd of angry, bouffant haired real estate agents. But we remained undiscovered. The next weekend Ann called me. “Hey! Guess what! I talked to Johnny!” I considered this.

“Did he mention Mark?” I asked.

“Yeah, and guess what!” Ann paused to laugh into the phone. “He tried to buy the Collin McKinney Cabin! Isn’t that crazy?”

I realized that my former boyfriend would never forgive me for this practical joke, and the sign that our relationship was really over had come from Century 21.

The rest of that summer we spent as Ladies in Waiting as we leaned casually on the hoods of our cars and pretended that the heat from the car engine wasn’t searing the flesh from the back of our thighs. We drank Boones Farm Strawberry wine from plastic straws in Styrofoam cups and kept Visine and peppermint candies in the glove box. While the late summer sun set and the street lights flickered on, we kept watch from grocery store parking lots and drive in burger joints while Prince Charming rode by in pick up trucks or silver Mustangs, black Firebirds, and sometimes a Camel Brown Monte Carlo, license plate number UAB711.

The Forbidden is the Sweetest

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I’m cheating on my fiancé. I’d feel bad about it, but I suspect he’s cheating too. The little foil wrappers are evidence of his infidelity. I’m smarter than that, mine are stashed in my trash can at work.

Andrew and I met online, matched up by our interest in hiking and our affection for cheese. His profile listed his food preference as “Vegetarian”. I envisioned cozy evenings at home, where I would prepare eggplant parmesan and Indian curries. I soon learned that his idea of vegetarian does not include many actual vegetables. He likes beans and potatoes, and sometimes expands his menu to include a salad. And cheese, of course.

I grew up with the ideal of the happy homemaker in the kitchen, nourishing her family with love and meat filled casseroles. There are only so many ways you can cook a bean. Eventually I gave up cooking for Andrew. We prepare our own meals and buy our own snacks.

The real problem, the forbidden love for both of us, is chocolate. The five month gap between Easter and Halloween barely gives us time to lose the weight we gain from discounted chocolate bunnies. Each holiday we vow to ignore the seasonal candy aisle, but I cannot resist a bargain and Andrew cannot resist the sweets.

When I mention to friends that my fiancé is a vegetarian, they give me a pitying look. What they don’t understand and what they don’t know, is that my loving a vegetarian means I get all the bacon, but I better hide the chocolate.

Precious Seconds and Past Regrets

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Photo by German Eduardo Jaber De Lima on Unsplash

“Often when we realize how precious those seconds are, it’s too late for them to be captured because the moment has passed. We realize too late.” — Cecilia Ahern

I never thought I would miss you. We met at just the right time in my life, but too late in hers. After my divorce I took up disc golf, a silly pastime for a late middle aged woman for sure, but it led me to you. I should have realized that a man whose every Facebook photo included a “Rock On!” hand gesture would not be disposed toward a long term relationship. You introduced me to “Prog Rock”, a genre of music adored by men dressed in leather kilts. Your own wardrobe choices led my son to ask “Dude, do you even own a shirt with sleeves?”

You had two cats. The younger cat was an aloof Russian Blue and Tortoiseshell mix. You named her after some Egyptian goddess with an unpronounceable name. I always felt intimidated by that cat. Precious was older, a shy solid black sweetheart that snuggled up to me at every visit. I could feel her bones shift underneath her skin as I carefully stroked her fur. She rumbled her approval while Younger hid, jealous and sly.

One time you accidentally shut Precious in the pantry, where she survived a day and a half in silence. I would have noted her absence.

We broke up in modern fashion, by text message.

“I just want to stay home with my cat”, you said, and I knew which one you meant.

I stayed friends with you on Facebook for a while, and saw when you posted that Precious had died. A short while later there was another post. You adopted a cat, a black Tortoiseshell. I understood your need but it saddened me to see her so soon replaced in your affections.

I never thought I would miss you, and I don’t. But sometimes I really miss that cat.

Our Proof of Devotion

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Image courtesy of Shutterdemon at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I am not a dog person. In fact, I think the perfect pet for me might just be a raccoon — one of those animals that are able to open trash cans and get their own dinner. Despite this, I agreed to watch over my friend’s pet while she was out of town for a week. Misty is the kind of friend who doesn’t ask for a favor, instead she presents the thing she wants you to do as a unique opportunity, one you’d be foolish to turn down. She pitched the dog watching as sort of a mini vacation, one in which I would share her apartment space with Clara, a bull dog with body odor and an allergy to grass. I spent the week with the dog because Misty is also the kind of friend who would gladly assist you with digging out a sewer line.

Her work space in the cubicle we share is decorated with an assortment of stuffed bull dogs and pictures of Clara. Here is adorable Clara holding a ball in her mouth, tiny Clara as a puppy under a Christmas tree, and contemplative Clara in sepia, posed in an old fashioned wash tub. How do you tell someone that you don’t care for their dog? It’s like admitting that you don’t like sunshine, or oxygen.

“I want you to come over this evening, so Clara can get used to you”, Misty told me the week before I was scheduled to stay. When I arrived at her apartment, Misty decided that Clara and I needed some alone time together, so my friend left to do some shopping. The dog and I were supposed to play together, to bond, but we wound up spending time doing what I often did with my children when they were young — we watched television. I brushed the dog hair off to clear a spot on the couch, and sat down. Clara settled next to me and fell asleep snoring.

When Misty returned Clara greeted her happily, jumping up and panting. “Did you have a good time?” I started to answer, but then realized that Misty was asking the dog for her opinion.

“Let me show you how to walk her.” My friend brought out a special harness and a retractable leash. The leash was one of those designed to give your animal the illusion of freedom, while guaranteeing that the dog owner will find herself wrapped around a tree or light pole at some point. Attached to the leash was a container that dispensed little bright blue plastic bags. “I want you to watch when Clara poops, that way you’ll know how much to expect, and how to know when she’s finished.” I tried to picture myself staring at the dog’s back end and gauging the size of the deposits while Misty continued talking. “And don’t let her eat any acorns or she’ll upchuck on the carpet, she’s allergic.”

“How many times does she poop?” I asked. There seemed to be an awful lot of those little blue bags loaded in the holder. Misty explained that Clara went at least two or three times during each walk. She offered to let me try the bagging after the first stop, but I told her that I thought I could figure it out later.

“You’ll be walking Clara first thing in the morning, and you’ll need to be home right after work, by six at least, to walk her again. Then wait thirty minutes for her stomach to settle, feed her two cups of food, and walk her once more before bedtime.” A quick calculation on my part estimated that was 16 or 18 little bags a day. I planned on double bagging. “All right, here’s the list of instructions, don’t forget the after dinner treat for her teeth. Her allergy medicine is in the pantry, if she gets in too much grass she’ll start scratching. The medicine knocks her out, so just give it at bedtime. You can sleep in my bed if you want, and Clara will probably sleep with you. If she whines that means she wants under the covers.” As Misty handed me the page filled with notes on the care and feeding of her dog, it occurred to me that I would have gotten off easier taking care of someone’s elderly grandparent or small child.

On our first day of walking I nervously tried to steer Clara away from the acorns that she wanted to slurp up like a furry Hoover. I did allow her to eat all the dried bugs she found, as Misty had not specified that these were forbidden. We stayed on the sidewalk, avoiding the grass until it was time for scooping. I hoped that the dog wouldn’t suffer an allergic reaction, since I couldn’t imagine how I would get her to swallow the sedative. I would have to take one myself first.

The second day of my visit with Clara, she met me at the door, tongue hanging out and what passed for a dog smile on her face. On the third day, I could see her watching me from the front window as I parked my car. Her flat doggie face, pressed to the glass, reminded me of those wives of long ago ship captains, pacing along the widow’s walks and searching for signs of their loved ones to return from the sea.

We passed other dog owners on our evening strolls. They stood and watched their pets drop the by-products of digestion, and then like good citizens they stooped to pick up the mess. We smiled and nodded as we passed, recognizing in each other that common bond — love for family, pets and friends. And waving a happy goodbye, we each went on our own way, carrying the proof of our devotion with us in those little plastic bags.

*This story previously published as “Devotion” in the Texas Writers Journal Q1 January 2014 issue.

Always the Last Place You Look

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I spent a good part of the morning on Christmas Eve searching our apartment for a book. The missing book was a collection of fairy tales that I received for Christmas in 1968, when I was eight years old. The book was a present from my parents, and I first saw it while it was still wrapped in a Treasure City shopping bag and lying on the floorboard of our Oldsmobile. I remember teasing it carefully from the brown paper sack while I kept an eye out to make sure my mother, in her place in the front passenger seat, didn’t spot me. After I flipped the book over and traced the outline of Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf on the back cover, I stuffed it back under the car seat. On Christmas morning I pretended that it had been placed there by a generous elf, but I knew the truth. I convinced myself that my parents were in direct communication with Santa, and were merely helping him out by picking up a few things on their own.

Now, half a century later, I couldn’t find it. It sounds odd to consider the loss of a fifty year old book unusual, especially from someone who regularly misplaces her wallet, but this book had followed me from childhood. My fiancé Andrew and I searched every book case and every stack of books in our 1200 square foot apartment. “Where could it have got to?” I asked as I bent over to look under the couch.

“Did you put it up here with the children’s books?” Andrew pulled out and glanced behind Richard Scarry’s “Best Word Book EVER” before sliding it back on the shelf in our dining room. I walked back to our bedroom, to look once more at the small bookcase there. I hoped that the book had somehow found its way back to the last place where I had seen it. It seems we are often falling into this, some version of “Have you seen my…” The older I get, the more things seem to go missing. I am either growing more forgetful or my possessions have decided to free themselves before the inevitable estate sale.

“No, it’s gone, I don’t think we’ll find it.” I continued to drift from room to room, including the bathrooms, in case I had tucked the book away amongst the collection of toilet paper I had stashed under the sink. Andrew followed along behind me, a terry cloth sweatband stretched across his forehead as though he were about to go for a jog. He is good like that, he often puts aside whatever he is working on to help me look for my phone, my purse, that book I was reading. He has adjusted very well to the responsibility of looking after another person’s possessions, while I drag along, resenting the imposition of caring for anything that can’t look after itself. I’m often setting down my phone next to a sink full of water, or leaving a plastic cup too close to the hot stove top.

I pictured the worn green and white cardboard cover of the misplaced collection, patched with clear tape. As I described the book to Andrew, he mentioned that I could probably buy a replacement on eBay. “But it won’t be the same!” I protested as I recalled the black and white illustrations that I colored in with crayons. I prepared to gather myself into a ball of self-pity, moaning something about lost childhood treasures, when Andrew asked where I had last seen the book.

“I think I put it with my photo albums,” I answered from under the bed. A moment passed and then Andrew called out.

“Here it is!” He found the book tucked away in a cardboard box in our spare closet. He handed it to me, and I flipped through the pages. Just as I remembered, every story began with “Once Upon a Time”, and generally each had a happy ending, but in between there was danger, often in the form of wolves or a wicked sorceress. Most had a handsome prince, trying to win the love of a beautiful princess. Sometimes the hero wandered lost in a dark forest, in need of enchantment to discover the magic castle. I put the fairy tale book back on the shelf and thought that this is what love really is, just two people, helping each other find things.

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What I’m Saying When I Say Nothing

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The woman sitting next to me in the theater was a stranger, the sort of woman who would be hard to pick out of a crowd or a police line-up. “Well, she had bright red lipstick and fashionable clothes” probably wouldn’t be enough for a conviction or a second meeting. There was nothing about her that warned me of the direction our conversation would take.

I enjoy chatting up strangers, so when she asked me if I had seen a trailer of the movie we were about to watch I joined in a conversation with her about films.

“Have you seen Blade Runner 2049?” I asked. My boyfriend Andrew and I saw it on opening night. We bought the tickets a month early, as soon as they were released, and anxiously crossed off the days on the calendar until the screening. We stayed up late the night before and watched the original Blade Runner, so we could put the sequel into the proper perspective.

“Yeah” the woman replied in between mouthfuls of popcorn, “It was really boring. I didn’t like it at all.”

I wanted to ask her why she didn’t like the movie. Maybe, like me, she bought and consumed an extra-large soda, without realizing that she would be trapped in the theatre for over three hours. While I was thinking of what to ask, she dipped her bright red lacquered nails into the popcorn bucket again. Around bites of popcorn she explained that she saw the movie about Queen Victoria and “that Muslim guy” and didn’t like it. Not because of the acting, but because there was mention of the Koran. “Really” she said, “Who needs that!”

The whole time she was speaking my mind was doing something like “Wait a minute, you don’t like Blade Runner? Wait… what did you say about Muslims? And Queen Victoria?” I didn’t get to say any of this out loud, because she just kept talking. It was like watching your toilet overflow onto your shoes as you stand there and wonder where you last saw the plunger.

When she mentioned Battle of the Sexes, I replied “I want to see that one, I remember when that match happened.”

“Well, I walked out of that movie. There were lesbians in it and they were kissing. It was disgusting. Got my money back too.” She finished this statement with a self-satisfied nod and sighed as she leaned back in her seat. It must be tiring, I thought, trying to find a movie that doesn’t offend.

When she asked if I would hold her seat for her while she went to the ladies room, I looked at her and blurted out the only thing I could think of, “I really looked up to Billie Jean King when I was young!”

I’m not very good at verbal exchanges. Give me an hour or two to write something down, and I’ll be especially witty. I was with two friends that night, a lesbian couple. While the woman was away I apologized to my friends, both for the stranger’s remarks and my lack of response. They assured me it was okay, they knew where I stood, but I couldn’t help feeling confused and shamed. What about my appearance and manner made that woman comfortable enough to share those statements?

Like most people, I avoid confrontation. I just want everyone to like me. But my silence speaks, and what it says when I say nothing is “I agree with you.”

The First Amendment gives us the freedom to hold different beliefs. Her opinion of Blade Runner might offend me, but it doesn’t harm me. And saying you don’t like coffee might worry the folks at Starbucks, but it won’t put them out of business. When you express prejudice and hatred toward people because of their race, religion, sexual orientation, or political affiliation, what you are really saying is you don’t want to share your schools, your movie theatres, your businesses, or your civil rights.

My friend suggested that I respond to these conversations by saying “I’ll pray for you.” This seems like a sensible response, and most likely will not lead to my arrest, like a punch to the face might.

I’ll pray that those who follow that path of hate will instead find common ground with those they wish to suppress. I’ll pray that good people will speak out and say they don’t agree with hate, that hatred and prejudice are wrong. And I’ll pray for those who kneel, so that others may stand.

Peace, Love, and Understanding

Terrye

 

 

 

Stand up Ladies!

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I’ve always considered myself something of a feminist, but I have to admit there is one area where women are at a distinct disadvantage.  The great outdoors is not so great when you risk peeing on your leg because you can’t spread your legs far enough when you squat. I’ve never been envious of a penis except when Andrew and I go hiking. We’ve got a trip coming up where we will be spending five or six hours on trails at Guadalupe Mountains National Park, and I’ll be carrying a little over three liters of water.  Luckily, I found a nifty little item on Amazon.

Klean Go

When I ordered them I told Andrew “Look! It’s like a detachable penis!” He was both skeptical and relieved when they arrived and he saw that they were little wax paper funnels. The cover of the Klean Go package has the phrase “A lady’s way to stand up for herself!”  I guess the phrase “Next best thing to actually having a penis” was either taken or too risqué.

The reviewers on Amazon recommend practicing at home before you attempt to use them out in public. I did, and I have to say I never realized the toilet was so far away when you’re standing up to pee. I’ll never criticize Andrew’s aim again.

 

Come on Baby Light my Tick

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I started following Guadalupe Mountains National Park on Facebook because Andrew and I are headed there on our vacation, and I hoped to see some photos of beautiful scenery and maybe some suggestions for hiking. However, they began posting photos of snakes. The other day they shared an article about ticks.

Right after I read about the dangers of tick borne illnesses I logged in to Amazon and began searching for tick removal devices.  After viewing about 2,000 different ways to remove ticks, and reading some 146 reviews, I ordered this item, the TickEase Tick Removal Tweezers.

Tick Ease

It comes with a little magnifier, so I can get a close look at any disgusting creatures feasting on my blood. The device description on the back of the package includes the words embedded, demons, engorgement, and pleasure. It almost sounds like I’ve bought some really kinky pornography.

I showed the tweezers to Andrew, and he expressed doubt that they would work.

“I’ve always just used matches, or kerosene” he explained. Upon hearing this I imagined him pouring flammable liquid on my extremities and lighting them on fire. Yes, the ticks would probably release, along with the outer layer of my skin. He explained that he doesn’t use a flaming match, he lights it and then blows it out so he can press the smoldering tip against the tick. I was not comforted by the difference between flaming and merely hot enough to produce blisters. After all, a branding iron isn’t actually on fire, but it’s not exactly comforting if someone tries to touch you with it. 

“The kerosene is only if you have a lot of ticks at once,” he continued. This description was not helpful either, as I was overtaken by a strong desire to search my body for ticks, even though the closest I’d gotten to the outdoors that day was parking under a tree.

“I’ll use the tweezers, you can set yourself on fire.” I told him.

I took the TickEase out of the package to show him the sharp points on the end, and promptly poked a hole in my thumb. While I wrapped a bandage around my finger to stop the bleeding, I read the customer comments on the back of the package. One of them mentioned that the TickEase worked great, but that they wished it would also set the ticks on fire. Absolutely I am not showing that comment to Andrew.

 

 

Something to Look Forward To

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Every time I go in for a checkup, my doctor warns me about my cholesterol levels as though they were the rising consumer price index.  And if there is some sort of connection, soon I won’t be able to afford bread. I’ve been in a cold war with my arteries for some time now. I don’t feel clogged, so my strategy has been to pretty much ignore the doctor’s warnings.

When I read an article that suggested that red wine would help lower your cholesterol levels, I thought “Now there is a solution I can get behind!” so I headed over to Total Wine, the Grand Canyon of liquor stores. I looked around and finally found an employee/tour guide/Wine Ranger, and I asked for a recommendation for a sweet red wine.

Wine Ranger: “Do you mind bubbles in your wine?”

Me: “Actually, I prefer wine with bubbles.”

When he suggested a bottle that cost less than $10, and came with a twist top instead of a cork, I considered that a win. These are my two most important qualifications for selecting a wine.  I’ve had that bottle about a month, and I don’t know if it’s lowering my cholesterol. I do know that it’s giving me a better attitude about the evening news.

I’m also trying to lose some weight. The diet I’m trying is called the 5:2 diet. Basically it’s a modified fast where you eat regularly five days a week and two days a week you drastically reduce the calories you consume. For me that means I can only have 500 calories a day on my fast days.  What can you eat and still come in under 500 calories for the entire day? Here’s a list:

  1. Cauliflower
  2. Broccoli
  3. Foam packing peanuts

 

Just kidding.  A diet of nothing but cauliflower and broccoli should only be undertaken if you work alone, and have no friends or family. Also, my boyfriend Andrew says the foam packing peanuts are actually called rice cakes.

I was attracted to the diet because there have been medical studies done on mice that show that intermittent fasting can decrease chances of getting Alzheimer’s, lower cholesterol, and reduce joint pain. If I’m ever reincarnated as a mouse this will certainly come in handy. The magazine article where I first read about the 5:2 diet used the phrase “Quality of life”, words that trigger me now in my 50’s the same way “All you can eat buffet” and “75% off shoes” triggered me when I was in my 20’s.

A typical fasting day for me consists of either a hard-boiled egg or one cup of oatmeal in the morning, a salad with tuna for lunch, and some wishful thinking for dinner. Or I can have 4 ounces of boneless, skinless chicken along with the aforementioned cauliflower and broccoli. I also drink lots of water, and get my exercise running back and forth to the restroom.

This diet obviously is not for everyone, if you are diabetic or hypoglycemic it just won’t work cutting out your calories this drastically.  On fast days I end up REALLY hungry by dinner time. Cartoon cat hungry, where I hallucinate images of roast chicken while I’m looking at Andrew sitting on the couch. And I find myself resorting to food porn, binge watching old episodes of The Great British Bake Off and tearing out impossible recipes from magazines. I look at those torn out pages the next day like I’ve had some sort of blackout. Why did I think I would ever be able to or want to make a Towering Seven Layer Salmon Mousse? I’m also disappointed that you can’t lick the pictures of food on magazine pages and get a taste of the dish. Why can’t they do this? They can create those annoying fragrance inserts that stink up my mailbox.

I’ll keep going, though. So far I’m losing about a pound a week, and I don’t gain it back when I eat regularly the rest of the week. Regularly being the recommended 2000 calorie a day diet, not Cheesecake Factory regular. I have to skip the wine on fast days, but I find that it gives me something to look forward to the rest of the week. Even if I’m watching the evening news.

 

The Thick Grey Line

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I stopped coloring my hair about six months ago, and let the grey slowly (very slowly) take over. It had grown out to a sort of “ombre” look with blonde ends, and people were asking me “Are you letting your grey grow out?”

I was always tempted to reply “No. Why do you ask?” and then look horrified. However, I managed to keep a straight face and tell them yes, I actually meant for my hair to have this weird grey stripe down the middle.

At first it was easy to give up the coloring, I just stopped. But as the grey advanced I worried what I would look like when it was finally completely grey.  On the plus side, I noticed that the teen age cashier at KFC automatically gave me the senior discount without asking my age.

I’d been on intimate terms with Miss Clairol for almost thirty years. You don’t walk out on that sort of relationship without a few regrets. Finally, like an alcoholic dumping out that last bottle of booze, I stopped at Supercuts and basically asked the hairdresser to cut off anything that wasn’t grey.

I thought the final hairdo came out okay, if much shorter than I have had in a long time. Actually, once people started complimenting me and saying that the hairstyle made me look younger, I realized that this was the same haircut that I had when I graduated from high school in the seventies.

Another coworker came up and said I reminded him of a celebrity, and I asked “Helen Mirren?” but sadly he said no, that wasn’t it.

I forgot about this conversation until I walked outside to my car later that day, and caught sight of my reflection in the glass windows on our office building. I had on pants and a tunic top, and with the grey hair I realized that I looked like, not Helen Mirren, but Bea Arthur in her Golden Girls days.

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Oh well, Bea was a pretty classy lady so I’m okay with that. Now that the grey has taken over, I’m hoping that all the cashiers at retail establishments will be too embarrassed to ask me how old I am, and give me that free cup of coffee or taco at 10% off.