Sometimes You Go Home: Part 1

Recently I drove 675 miles "home," to the small town in Iowa where I grew up, and then turned around two-and-a-half days later and drove the same 675 miles back here. Last time I made that drive was over two years ago to officiate at my cousin's wedding, just a few months after Iowa legalized marriage for everybody. I joked that I'd gone home to marry my cousin. This time I married my baby sister, Biker Bitch Babe (BB).

I admit I never would have made the trip when I did if my sister hadn't asked me to be their minister. It was the first week of the quarter and I had to cancel the second day of classes, leaving 50 students with the false notion that I'm an easy-going teacher. I'd rather eat kitten tacos than log 1500 miles in my old van in four days with only a Neil Gaiman book on CD to keep me company (one of those times I really miss my old dog), but my baby sister chose her wedding day--9/10/11--a year and a half ago so her intended could remember it, and I agreed to travel west to perform the ceremony, so drive I did.

I left Wednesday after I finished teaching the first day of classes, finally pulling out about 8:00. I figured I'd be up anyway so I might as well drive, in spite of the downpour from the edge of an east coast hurricane. It was an uneventful drive except for a creepy post-midnight stop at the Salt Lick rest stop on I-74 in Illinois.  Acres of woods looming behind the little picnic shelters, and those lines of semi trucks rumbling in the still night with nobody around, and a guy sleeping in his car in the closest parking space ..... But wait ... Was he really sleeping or was he dead? He had his hands crossed over his chest and his car was running ..... I didn't stop long enough to see if he was breathing. What could I do for him if he were dead?

I walked with purpose down the sidewalk and into the empty, cavernous building, expecting Rutger Hauer to step up behind me and suddenly slit my throat under the buzzy, sick florescent lights. Every sound I made echoed behind me, and my clenched bladder didn't want to pee in case the tinkling noise might mask the sound of my murderer entering the bathroom to grab my ankles, drag me out of the stall and disembowel me on the cold tile floor. I had to force myself to wash my hands and walk, not run, to my van. My heart was still pounding as I passed more ghost trucks lining the ramp, pulled back onto the highway and made my way to a motel in Peoria where I spent the night. Obviously I need to lay off the Stephen King novels.

I drove as far as my middle sister Suzy's house Thursday, where we stayed up way too late trying on her collection of dressy shoes and little black dresses, dancing around the living room, and swilling most of a box of wine. We got a late start Friday because I was still writing the wedding ceremony because Suzy had to take her car into the shop, so I was bumping down the level B (minimum maintenance) dirt road toward Mom's farmhouse when my brother Hoghead called to say they'd already finished decorating the country club for the reception Saturday night. Whoops. Oh well. One of the advantages of having a gay brother is that he takes over any decorating task and makes the place look like an HGTV segment. I'm sure the balloons were all blown  inflated to exactly the same size and the confetti had  been counted and arranged artfully on the paper tablecloth to look as if it had just been scattered randomly, but oh so prettily.

After I hauled my bag into the house, Mom showed me everything that was new since I'd been there two years ago. Then Suzy, Hoghead and I fought over who got which bedroom, I won, and everybody headed to BB's house for 2-pound steaks and brats on the grill. And, since the bride and groom hadn't seen the ceremony yet, we needed to do a little wedding rehearsing.

To be honest though, not everybody headed straight to BB's house. Suzy and I made a detour and stopped at the state liquor store, which Mom had told us is now owned by our former high school English teacher, Mr. Swanson Swanny. A huge swap meet was going on down the way at the fairgrounds, so the road was lined with dusty pickups, but the swap meeters had considerately left a few spaces open in front of the store. This one appeared to be permanently occupied by Mom though.*

I can only guess that "Mom" is the name of the boat.

As we walked into the dim, dusty store we didn't see much liquor. The front of the store is packed with stuff. Cheap old guitars hung on the walls, rusty mechanical .... things .... crowded long tables along with old appliances and stacks of magazines. On top of a tall cabinet in the center of the room sat a stuffed swan festooned with cobwebs. A real used-to-be-alive stuffed swan. I wanted it. I wanted it bad.

From a circle of old easy chairs in the back of the room we heard a voice say, "The liquor is in the back there. Just keep walking." I wasn't sure I recognized him--30 years older and a few pounds heavier, his head shaved now--but Suzy muttered, "That's him." He was reclining back in one of those butt-sprung chairs visiting with a younger guy and a middle-aged woman.

"How did you know we came in for liquor?" I asked.
"You just have that look about you, like you need a drink and soon," Swanny said. That look had been stuck on my face since I crossed the state line the day before. That look had been on my face every time I walked into his class in high school.

We asked him if he remembered us, but he didn't until we told him our names. He was glad to see us and seemed rather delighted when I told him I teach writing at a university. At least I took his "no shit?!" for delight.

When PBR isn't good enough...

Suzy bought herself a fifth of Smirnoff and I picked up some local wine from Madison County (you know, the one with the covered bridges where John Wayne was born), the next county east. Yep, they're growing grapes and making wine in Iowa now. Look out France; Iowa is the new California. My best find was a small bottle of jalapeno raisin wine, the only one there. Swanny said it was best to float half an inch on a short glass of beer. A short glass, not a tall one. I plan to share this one generously.

Before I left, I tried to buy the stuffed swan, but the younger guy said he didn't think Swanny would sell it. I said he could ask him, but he said he didn't think it was a good idea to ask him. Then he noticed the cobwebs on the swan and got up there and started brushing them away. I really wanted that swan. The next day when Hoghead went out to the swapmeet to look at hubcaps and carburetors and Hawkeye memorabilia, I told him to buy me that swan. He said he told Swanny I'd pay $1000, but Swanny wouldn't even talk about it, probably because it's illegal to own even a feather from a migratory bird because it holds precious memories for him. I would never have paid $1000 for a stuffed swan, but I might write him and threaten to turn him in if he doesn't ask if he'll leave it to me in his will.

Suzy and I finally left the liquor store, scooped the loop uptown, and headed over to BB's where the steaks and brats were already on the grill and the recycle bag was already overflowing with empty beer cans. We did a little rehearsing for the wedding, ate like Iowa farmhands, and then headed back to Mom's. She and I stayed up until after 2:00--3:00 my time--talking. For once I was the one who finally said I had to go to bed or I would fall asleep at the kitchen table.

(Note: I realized I could write an entire memoir about this one trip, so I'm going to speed things along now. Although I try to break every rule for good blogging with my long, rambling posts, but there's no reason to be ridiculous about it. I suppose I could speed blog it: the little dog peed on the big dog; my niece saw BB's garters and said, "No fair! What do I get to wear on my head?"; and the groom and I had a little discussion about who was in charge and why I was in charge.... But would I ever get to the wedding?)

One corner of the square uptown. (There is no downtown.)

* Why, yes, I did say my high school English teacher owns the store this sign belongs to, but maybe he was not the one who taught me punctuation. In any case, he retired from teaching last year, so he can tell apostrophes to go to hell if he wants to.*

Voices from the Past

Six years ago, when my daughter went to school for the first time as a high school freshman, I opened a blog about her new adventure from homeschool to high school. The blog was deleted from the server a couple of years ago, but I kept the posts, minus comments. Recently she asked me to send them to her, so I did, and I’ve also been reading through them myself. I had no idea how I was going to get through her teen years then, and I still don’t know how I made it now, a mere six months after she left teenhood behind.* This post, I think, is a perfect example of what I mean.

Scene: My daughter and I are driving home on from a Passover Seder in Cincinnati. We pass a storage unit facility with a display of colorful neon lighted palm trees and fireworks.

Reticula: That's really cool! I wonder when they put that up.

Daughter: Mom, it's always been there. You've seen it a hundred times.

Reticula: Huh uh. I've never seen it before. We've driven by a thousand times and I've never seen it there.

Daughter (sighs heavily): Mom. It. Has. Always. Been. There.

Reticula: When the Alzheimer’s gets bad, promise you'll take care of me.

Daughter: (silence)

Reticula: Promise you'll change my diapers. Don't let anybody else change my diapers.

Daughter: No.

Reticula: I've changed thousands of your diapers. You won't change mine?

Daughter: No.

Reticula: You're won't take care of your poor demented mom and change her diapers?

Daughter: No.

Reticula: Will you help me kill myself then?

Daughter: Yes.

* The irony does not escape me that my daughter is now changing her daughter’s diapers, and someday she too could have this conversation with the same conclusion. She is now aware that her time on earth is limited, and that she too must follow the laws of karma. That’s why she has apologized to me for being such an awful teenager and why she has started praying to whomever will listen--and nobody will, we all know that--that her daughter won’t put her through the same thing. I tell her birth was the least painful part of being a mother....She'll learn that on her own though.

Why You Shouldn't Be Friends with Your Mom on Facebook: Reason #289

Click to go to the original blog post.

My child, who happens to be the mother of a child her own self, posted this status update on her Facebook. I should note that my child refused to friend me on Facebook for years, which caused a terrible rift between us didn't really bother me all that much. Every once in a while I would ask her if we could be friends, and she always said no. I finally gave up .... and then she finally got drunk one night came to her senses and friended me. I told her no because I didn't want her to know some of the crazy shit I was doing just to teach her a lesson ..... but later gave in. She has only herself to blame for the following conversation.

Reticula’s Child: I'm fine with porn, but everything PETA does pisses me off. What a terrible idea.

Hot Italian: PETA jumped the shark years ago. One would almost expect this crap from them at this point.

Reticula: I've used PETA as an example in my 101 classes when we're working on ad analysis. They create expensive ads that they have no intention of airing just to get the negative publicity. I guess it works for them.

Reticula’s Child: Did you read the part about how many animals they euthanize? And how they're going to sneak in animal abuse pictures with the porn? Fuck those people. They're awful and they don't help animal abuse one bit.

Reticula: I can imagine they only took in and then euthanized animals that were in terrible circumstances. What I don't understand is how they think a photo of a naked porn star will entice anybody to spay or neuter an animal. I think they've become publicity hounds (hee) and forgotten their mission.

Reticula’s Child: It's not the porn, that's just to get people on the website. It's the horrible pictures that are mixed in with the porn, I guess. Ugh.

Reticula: I agree with the author of the article. People who click on both porn and animal abuse photos are probably sick people who aren't there to support the vegan lifestyle. It just seems like a desperate, immature move to me. Who's running PETA these days and making these decisions? I don't disrespect them for their message. I don't respect their tactics.

Reticula: Wait. Did you say you're fine with porn? I can't believe you said that.

Reticula’s Child: I have no problem with porn. It really doesn't bother me. Umm, normal porn, that is. It's cheesy and stupid and not particularly arousing, but doesn't offend me. Unless it's wierdo porn.

Reticula’s Child: We should maybe move this conversation into a private message.

Reticula: So you're saying weirdo porn is not cheesy, stupid and un-arousing. Oh, what have I done? How did I fail you?

Reticula’s Child: Hey! No! Weirdo porn is all if those things AND I find it offensive and gross. Word-twisting witch!

Reticula: Bwah ha ha! No child should be born of an English teacher.

Reticula’s Child: Now I'm just trying to have the last word.

Too much sex is never a bad thing.

Reticula: Word.

Wordless Wednesday: Men Doing What?

Three Strikes

I've been trying to write about my recent trip to Iowa, but coming home is like trying to get back on a runaway treadmill. Between teaching and a play I'm stage managing and being a mommers/grandmommers, and too many fun things to do, and did I mention I've got a shit ton of papers to read and comment on again?.....Delores gets pushed out sometimes. She hates that, and I hate seeing her sitting there in the corner peeling the polish off her nails and braiding one strand of hair over and over and over. So I'm going to toss her a bone and tell this one short story about the single life.

Last Friday night was the bi-yearly celebration downtown that we call Urban Nights. Far too many events take place on Urban Nights to mention here, but I tried to do as many as I could. The Diplomat and I started out on a bike ride that was meant to highlight the number of cyclers in the city, but I suffered a low back tire early on and we had to abort and store our bikes in his office. We were on foot the rest of the night, but that was OK. We headed over to the dance pavilion where a bunch of local eateries were offering "tastes" of their menus for $3/taste. After we filled up on arepas, grilled tuna, BBQ pulled pork, shrimp skewers and pie, we walked down to the little hippie-ish district of town and met up with a couple of friends.

We walked around downtown, stopping here and there, picking up people and dropping others off. We wandered into a new consignment store where I bought a sexy little black dress just this side of indecent. And ran into some steampunk friends all decked out in their retro, techno gear. One of them peeled off to join our group and we headed back down to the District.

Eventually only the Diplomat, Martini and I were left. We wandered onto the enclosed patio of a deli that offers a weekly beer- and wine-tasting for a ridiculously low price. We stood in line for the wine, a generous four-ounce pour for $2 each.

Martini offered to split a flight--white for me and red for him and he was paying. How could I refuse? I couldn't help noticing the sommelier as he poured our first tastes. Mmmm. Cute, I thought. I wonder if I can get his attention even though I just walked in with two other men. I caught his eyes, gave him a little smile and made sure my hand touched his when he handed me the wine. As I moved over to the picnic table The Diplomat and Martini had staked out, I turned back once and caught him watching me walk away in spite of the line at the bar.

We talked and told jokes over our wine, and soon we were joined by a friend from the theatre world, D, and his group of friends. We took over the back of the patio, laughing and talking, sharing stories. The tasting was supposed to end at 11:00 but they kept pouring. Martini and I went back for our second taste. I asked the sommelier why he'd served me the sweet white first, instead of the dry .... although I didn't really give a shit. I just wanted to start a conversation with him, and he was willing to ignore his other customers to talk to me. I told him Martini had said the first red had a vegetative taste, but I thought he said "vaginal taste," which was true, and that I thought a vaginal wine was a good choice for a tasting. When we got back to our table I asked if it had been inappropriate for me to lead with the vagina. The men agreed it was never a bad idea to talk about the vagina. I took their word for it.

I drank the second taste a little faster and Martini, who had noticed a little something going on, suggested I might want to get a refill. By myself. So I did and ...funny thing .....that one didn't cost me anything except a little flirting. Neither did the next one, although I didn't stay up there long either time. I never want to keep a man from his work, but damn. He really was adorable. Every time I glanced over, he was watching--pouring, talking to customers....and watching. And I smiled just slightly before I looked away.

Eventually the sommelier and his helper shooed everybody else off the patio, except our group, and locked the gate. While his assistant cleaned up the bar area, the sommelier brought over the leftover bottles from the tasting and a couple of special bottles of beer for us to try. Party time!

He was on the other side of the picnic table and I was sitting on a tall bar stool with my feet on the bench, talking to a young guy I'd never met before about .... something. I don't really remember because I was too aware of the sommelier giving tastes of the beers and talking about where he'd found them, how they were made.....but rarely taking his eyes off me. I glanced over and smiled at him from time to time. And eventually I asked if I could go inside and use the facilities. He went in with me to find the key for me, even though we both knew it was hanging right behind the counter, attached to a rubber skeleton hand. He found it and stood a little too close as he gave it to me, held on to it a little too long. I pulled it away gently and brushed past him. He started to follow, but somebody else came in. I told him he could go back out; I'd put the key away.

Eventually we felt a group conscience to go somewhere else, find something to do. My favorite kilt rock band was playing down the street at a pub so we all walked down there, losing a couple of people and picking up another guy we recognized from karaoke. The band had just finished playing when we got there. I found the lead singer and the bass player, whom I've known for a while, at the bar and shared some hugs and conversation with them.

Finally I turned around and found the sommelier standing near me, obviously waiting for me to finish, but I couldn't see anybody else from our group. I asked where they'd gone and he said they'd flitted off to the wind. That didn't sound right and I freaked out a little bit. Surely The Diplomat and Martini wouldn't leave me with a guy we'd just met. The sommelier bought a wilted flower from a downtown "entrepreneur" who had obviously found a bouquet of flowers in a dumpster, hoping to sell them to the late crowd. He only paid a dollar, but he didn't offer it to me. Hmmm. I started to lose interest, so I looked harder for my peeps and saw them behind me, tucked into a booth. Of course they wouldn't leave me. I headed over there, the sommelier trailing behind. He sat next to me on the bench.

We all talked and laughed, and every once in a while I leaned closer to the sommelier and said something just to him, asked him about his job or something. I went up to the bar and got a big glass of cider. I invited him to share it with me. I'd had enough to drink, but I wasn't sloppy and I'd ridden my bike downtown so I wasn't driving. We passed it back and forth until it was almost gone.

Finally the sommelier said he had to leave. Interesting move. Maybe he still had work to do at the deli. He stood up and held out his hand so I stood too and gave him a hug .... just like I'd do with anybody else. It was a good long hug, and his hand move just up under the edge of my shirt and touched skin. I may have leaned a little closer at that .... just a little. And then he slid his hand down the back of my jeans. I pulled back. Strike one, I thought. He pulled me back for another hug and this time stopped when he touched skin. Better, but I pulled away and said good-bye.

 As he walked away, he turned and motioned and said, "Come with me." What the hell, I thought. I followed him out of the bar. He walked down the steps, where the band was loading their gear into their van, and he kept walking along the side of the van. I stopped and said, "Where are we going?"

"I wanted to see how far you would follow," he said.

Strike two. I don't follow. "Then I'm stopping here," I said. I turned to go back inside.

 

He walked back and put his arms around me, looking into my eyes. And then he kissed me. It was an OK kiss. Not the best I've experienced, and not the worst. Certainly he had possibility ..... And then he stopped and said, "I wanted to see if there was really anything there ... between us." 

I probably frowned. What an odd thing to say. "Do you think there is?"

"I'd rather know what you think," he said.

Strike three. It's your game, buddy. Wrong answer. I pulled away and backed up a couple of steps toward the pub without answering.

"You taste like strawberries," he said, still standing there.

I was already walking. I turned and said, "Of course I do," walked up the stairs and into the pub. I didn't look back.

When I sat back down at the table, D was all excited. "Well, when are you two getting together again?"

"I don't know," I said. "I didn't make any plans with him."

"But you gave him your number, right? You will see him again soon."

"Nope, didn't give him my number. I don't give out  my number."

"What the fuck? What do you mean you didn't give him your number? There was obviously something going on between you two all night. How will he get hold of you?"

"I don't know. It's a small town. I can be found if he really wants to find me."

"How will he find you? You've got to go back in there for a sandwich next week. You've got to! You should have given him your number."

"I probably won't. I don't give my number and I've been found before in spite of that. I was impressed when that happened. I don't think he'll impress me."

"Oh my god. You kissed him and didn't give him your number? Doesn't that make you kind of a bitch?"

"Probably."*

"Look at it this way," Martini said, logical as always. "Reticula just used her superpower to get us a bunch of free wine and beer. We had a lot of fun with the guy. It's not a bad thing." Nobody could disagree with that, but D was still quite disappointed with me.

I may go back to the wine tasting eventually but it won't be to see the sommelier. I'm practicing catch and release with men these days. It's kinder that way .... for me. And unlike a fish, which is left with a wound from the hook getting stuck in its mouth, my way is much gentler. No hook. No wound. Besides I always leave them better off than I found them. From the time I married Lt Col Ex at age 18 to now, only a few relationships later, I always leave them better off than I found them.** Or, more commonly as in the case of the sommelier, I leave them with nothing except one fun evening.

And that's not such a bad thing, is it?

* This is the Reader's Digest condensed version of the conversation. It went on for a while. Neither The Diplomat nor Martini were surprised that I didn't give the sommelier my number.

** The same cannot be said for me, but I take responsibility for my own feelings.