"Golden Plates: Tarnished"

Yesterday, I watched voyeuristically as my country acted the john to another media-Hallmark-florist-driven whore of a holiday. Having steered clear of the entire transaction myself, I had plenty of time to muse on the fact that it was a mutual-antipathy of VD that first watered the love blooming between Groom and me.

Oh, plus he owned a silver Honda hatchback, and I sported some fierce Dee Snyder spiral-perm curls. Those were also part of the initial shizzbang.

And we both liked toast.

Now, nine years later, the Honda has hit the road; the curls have curled up and died; the toast is toast; but, proudly, the antipathy pathies on.

Indeed, the grumpy question around our house is why do we need a day about celebrating love, when love is all around, no need to waste it? Mos' def, we've always had a feeling we just might make it after all.

And yet. A recent interaction between Groomeo and me indicated that it might be time to starch my crinolines and rub a burnt match along my eyebrows, lest he stray West:

It was night, dark, but not stormy. For the second time in two years, we were watching public television's documentary about the Mormons. This documentary is so hot, so smart, so sizzlin' that it completely puts PBS's special on home funerals in the corner. This documentary has some seriously smart talking heads in it, to the point that David Byrne should just crawl over into the corner, too, and commiserate with the home funeral program about what it feels like to be such losers. By the time the Mormon talking heads are done with you, you'll be swearing the state of Utah needs to get some testicles, revert to open polygamy, and go back to living The Principle.

As the show lead into a not-a-commercial commercial, it snagged viewers with a teaser of what was to come in the next segment, which would explore the role Mormon women play in the church and in family life. The voiceover tantalized:

"The Mormon woman has long conveyed an image of perfection: she makes cookies, she always looks beautiful and impeccably groomed, she greets the world with an enormous beaming smile--"

Ever quippy, I interrupted, "Ohmigod, I'm totally a Mormon woman."

Quite agreeably, Groom patted my arm with his Mitt and noted, "Yea, you do make cookies."


Slap that on a card and lick it shut, Hallmark.
------------------------------

And if Groom ever leaves me for a lovely Mormon homemaker named Bev, I'm going to leave him right back for my Fine Gay Boyfriend, Bob Mould:

"My Funny Valentine"





Dear Bicycle Commuter Rocketing Off the Trail by Crosley Street at Dusk:

You will never know how close you came to a kismetical meeting with the Love of Your Life tonight.

That unmet L.o.Y.L.? Me.

So focused were you on getting home after a long day at the--what?--H & R Block that you didn't even see me coming, didn't even notice The Future in a Pair of Running Tights barreling towards you, didn't even register that my strides were occasionally punctuated by a sexy gut clutch. No, you were all about the blinking red light on the back of your bike; the rubber bands saving your pants from their fate as derailleur fodder; the bungee cord strapping your briefcase onto the rack in the back.

Yoo-hoo! Honey? I have a rack in the front. And you missed out on it entirely. So absorbed were you, I can only imagine you must have been mentally pre-heating your microwave for the Hot Pocket earmarked as "Wednesday's Dinner." But Lance? Sweet Lance? If you'd only slowed down, you could have become my personal Hot Pocket and I your buffet for life.

When you zipped out of the wooded trail like that--dreaming of a stuffed sandwich cooked in a "crisping sleeve"--you cut off our potential intersection, our chance to fulfill a destiny. I was heading straight for that trail and those woods, Lance, as I clutched my intestines.

If you'd come along ten seconds later, our future "Love at First Sight" story, one that would have been recounted ad infinitum during Scrabble tournaments with the neighbors, would have involved me, in the woods, crouching beneath a tree, pants down, charmingly making an orificial offering. The envoy to the telling of Our Story, of course, would have been: Some things can't be stopped--can they, darling?--and when it's time, it's time.

Unfortunately, tonight was not our time. Woefully, if you'd simply stopped for a quick drink of water on the way home, or checked your Civil War Re-Enacters' list-serve emails one more time at the office...if you'd just delayed your journey by a mere ten seconds, Lance, you would have, Hosannah on the Highest, encountered my pasty white buttocks reflecting off the moonlit crust of snow--and this, in turn, would have sent you toppling madly over the romantic precipice d'Amour as, with crashing insight, you apprehended what a rare broad you'd lit upon.

So much could have been gleaned about your future wife from that brief encounter, if only you'd lifted your head from the handlebars, Lance. Specifically:

1) She eats her recommended daily servings of fruit.

2) She runs. And sometimes she has them. But not tonight, praise granola, not tonight. Tonight was more of a well-controlled, artfully-constructed valentine in the snow. Had she known your name, Lance, she would have added it in as a final touch--in cursive. She can do that. How flat your future will be for having missed this Hot Pocket-Free Mess.

3) She is a creative problem solver. From your perch on the bike seat, you easily would have born witness as she troubleshot the "what to use as Nature's toilet paper when all leaves are covered by a foot of snow?" dilemma. How you would have smiled, chortled, clapped even, to see her pack icy snowball after icy snowball and vigorously apply them to her nethers. That's the kind of thinking that keeps a relationship spicy, decade after decade.

4) She is environmentally conscious. In fact, when she's not blazing every light in the house and driving the mini-van to Target to buy Little Debbies, she is--clearly--a devoted composter. Moreover, come Spring, a single brave tendril shall unfurl from a certain spot just off the trail in the woods by Crosley Street. Your near-wife renews the earth. That could have been our spot, our tendril.

5) She is a developer. Look at how she laid track there over top the bare trail. Now that's progress.

6) She's already married. Even a bulky helmet couldn't block the glint of her wedding ring as she scratched away at the birch tree next to her, considering the bark's advantages over the snowball's as a posterior cleanser. Yes, Lance, as the ring on her finger indicates, this woman knows how to commit, and she's not afraid to open her heart to the emotional potential of Hot Pockets a Deux. She'd have ridden tandem with you, Lance, off into what remained of the sunset. Her first husband would have understood; he would have filled the marital void by going to see Juno and chow on a bag of popcorn, size large (free refills).


However, as with so many great love stories, and so many drunken wedding nights, you were about ten seconds too early, Lance. The universe threw us towards each other tonight, but we fumbled the opportunity--and the universe, disgusted with our abuse of its plan, retreated, pouted, and moped on a futon for three hours. Then it logged on to E-bay and bid on a vintage Fisher Price airport.

The universe, in its infinite wisdom, knows shopping is always the best therapy.

Thus, tonight: the universe made a bid; you made "Deal or No Deal"; I made a poo.

Had we connected there in the woods (next to the steaming chocolate heart) and fallen in love (over a set of symmetrical white buttocks) and dated briefly (three pints at The Brewhouse, tops) before marrying barefoot at Machu Picchu with my current husband officiating (he has a license from the back of Rolling Stone), just know this, Lance:

I would always, always have referred to you, with a small quiver of love in my voice,

as

Husband Number Two.

"Sucking It Up"

In last month or two, during a phase when my lap is always full, my neck skin is constantly fondled, and "I yuv you a bushel and a peck" is whispered repeatedly into my ear throughout the day, I am exceedingly aware that

I have never before--and will never again--be loved as

sweetly

deeply

profoundly

devotedly

innocently

and

all-encompassingly


as I am by my four-year-old Wee Niblet.

It rather takes my breath away.