And as we continued on the grass path, one foot in front of the other, she told me why her mom couldn’t be there.
A band begins to play, "I walk along the avenue" as I down a water and side belch. I take another cup, swish, and spit as he sings, "I never met a girl like you..."
When things would inevitably not work, Marilyn’s sage advice, “Sometimes you gotta kiss a lot of frogs before one turns into a prince.”
There was a very distinct memory placed at that moment, when a little voice in my head told me, “You always wanted attention from guys, this must be what it’s like.”
He danced his funky self all over that little stage--a small town, white boy carrying a few extra pounds was like the second coming of the His Royal Badness. It was all so beautiful and raw and sexy and well, confusing.
These are the type of men who bring their Chessie Retriever with grapefruit-sized testicles swinging about to the park and then wonder why toddlers run in fear. The kids aren’t afraid of the pooch, they are afraid of knockout by scrotum.
For years, being big (and tough) was a shield to protect me from letting myself be vulnerable with any of you humans. To a certain degree, it still is.
Cable television with TBS and WGN afforded two reliable options: You watch the Braves or you watch the Cubbies. I picked the Cubs and I offer you complete clarity on why: Harry Caray.
A wise man who wrestled with the darkness taught me that it’s never about making bad people good, it’s about helping sick people get well.
It’s easier to be angry at the sick person than be angry with yourself for how your choices helped create the situation.
Never before had the ritual involved guilt.
The actual engagement decision happened later at a bar downtown, but I wasn’t so drunk and begged him to keep it hush-hush. I didn’t want anyone to know.
I could smell it on their breath when they came in the living room. I felt like the wife of a drinker checking his breath when he hits the door. Of course, Joey tried to give me kisses, which I declined.
Because I thought I was hard to love, I chose men who validated that. I mastered the skill of crying myself to sleep without disturbing the person on the other side of the bed.
He was kind and complex, messy and hilarious, and struggled with addiction and health issues. But holy shit, did he have a sense of humor and a genuine ability to connect with people. He was so completely all in when it came to living.
It wasn’t about what I might lose; it was about the hope for her to continue the life we’d started.
And even though I cried as I watched him die, I wasn't sad for the death of Han Solo. I was sad for the little girl who believed in it all. And then angry for the woman who spent her life chasing Hans.
A hunk of Colby-Jack finally pushed me to do something about it. Maybe cheese really is some type of mythical wonderment, with near bacon-like powers. Or maybe I was finally ready.
I realized I will never apologize to anyone for annoying them with my joy.
I know man friends around the world die a little, whether from concern or annoyance, when our tears start, but I couldn’t help it. I felt so betrayed. I felt ashamed for losing something so important.