My Husband, My Beard

The good thing about growing old is that you finally believe you can do whatever you damn well please. The bad thing? The resulting pain is simply the weight of time on your body, not a social repercussion.

And then there are those lucky few---the few that are timeless. Such as my husband.

I'm not offering this as an endearment. It's simply a fact based on fifteen years of careful observation. And discussion. Yes, we discuss his 'condition' not because we're vain or conniving but are amused by the mystery of it all.

We have decided this aura is based on his small stature. A short man can either fight his supposed shortcomings or revel in the fact that a major social expectation has been removed. The perception of power is shifted, causing strangers to relax into chatty, even forward behavior. Women find him an endearing equal, which may have its own sex appeal. Men, safe in there looming size, make the pretense to treat him as an equal, or gush over his mustache.

Yes, his handlebar mustache is definitely part of his petit mystique.

"You're so cute---you're so cute!" a woman cried out at the local Dairy Queen a few years ago. "You look like the Monopoly Man! You should go to McDonald's and see if they’ll give you a free Happy Meal!"

I was sure she'd wet her pants.

She was with her teenage daughter, and her distraction over my husband went on sporadically as we indulged in our two for one Blizzards. He happened to be away from our table when she came out of the restroom and repeated her mantra to me up close and personal, and I just smiled back at her. When she got to her table, she turned back to ask:

"Is he your dad?"

"Nope," I replied---not quite looking at her in the eye.

I heard her daughter swat her and tsk mommmm. She seemed more embarrassed by her mother's stupidity than her impropriety.

In writing this I've realized that I haven't been asked since if my husband is my father---which means I'm aging in the public eye while he remains the same. The question used to annoy me since we're so physically opposite, but now my ego might welcome it. No one believes he's almost seventy, while I must look very much forty-something.

If age has changed my husband at all, it's expressed in his increasingly matter-of-fact attitude. Recently he was being chatted up by an older woman while in line at another Dairy Queen inside a truck stop. She was momentarily distracted but still noticed when the first Blizzard was handed over to him, so when she turned back and noticed the Blizzard missing, she was shocked.

"Where did it go?!"

"Oh, I handed it over to my husband."

The trucker in front of her spun around as if my husband said he just handed it to a supermodel or a martian, but I was already safely away in the twelve volt appliance aisle.  There was nothing for them to do but duly note his truth and continue waiting for their order.

In case you haven't noticed, the evolution in facial hair continues.  There were goatees, and some men just can't leave behind what Mother called muff mouths.  Beards are still hot, but mustaches are cutting edge.  My husband has overheard the teenage boys in the coffee house murmur that's the mustache I want.  Another, hardly any older, recently flagged us to stop for a construction zone on the Feather River Highway.  He peered through the glare on our windshield which could not hide the white mustache inside.  He gestured grandly over his bare upper lip and gave the okay sign---and then hocked a big loogie.  Eventually he let us on through, but he had to lean towards my open window to voice his approval.

"That's one hell of a mustache, brother."

 I smiled wanly as he grinned beyond me, knowing I was quite invisible.  Brother?  You mean Grandpa!

The Queerest Little City in the World

The other day my husband and I walked into the Mill's End remnant store in Reno on a quest for colored denim.  Once again I was reminded that if I tarry too long in any fabric store the strangest thing happens:  Customers start gravitating towards me, asking me where the seersucker is.  So far I've never seen a fabric store clerk wear cowboy boots---so they must presume some sort of expertise from my jeans of green instead of blue or my fussy little mustache.

"Is this where the swimsuit material is?"

I turned and looked down on a fireplug of a woman.  She's definitely not making herself a swimsuit.

"I'm sorry, but I don't work here," I smiled.  "But, yes, this is where the swimsuit material is."

We calmly studied one another---all the unspoken questions being answered as clearly as dogs sniffing one another.  Her mouth half opens, and I expect her to ask if I'm family, but that would seem archaic to her.  Besides, she had no time for such pretense.  She looked back and forth between me and my husband and simply intuited.

"I need to make myself a binder," she launched off.  "Someone stole mine and my packing too!  Can you believe that?"

Well, no, I can't.  Someone in Reno is now packing her---I mean his packing.

"I'm thinking Spandex," he continued, pushing his tongue through the gap where his front teeth should be. 

"Yes," I nodded, casting a glance over to my husband.  "But he's the tailor.  My interest falls off somewhere below rayon challis." 

My husband didn't seem to mind being volunteered.  He pulled some Spandex off the racks and they discussed the merits of each fabric and ideas on how to sew a binder, which included stretching the material over each others chests to see how much material would be required.  Of course Roland really had only a vague idea of what sewing a binder would entail, and 'Sam' had never done more than some simple mending.  Roland thought that buying something like a small sports bra at a thrift store might be a good way to experiment on how to sew something that might actually work.

 "Oh, I'm not experimenting," Sam misconstrued.  "I've been doing this for years.  I just haven't the money right now to replace the real thing."

So Sam gave us a grand detour through Chicago, operations desired and hormones.  The latter perked up my husband, since he knows way more about hormones than binders.

"You know, they have excellent transgender services in Sacramento."

"Really? Cool."  He pulls out a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket.  "Do you have a pen?"

My husband gave him a pen and some information.

"There's a casino bus that goes between here and Sacramento," Sam mused aloud.  "It's real cheap, like six bucks."

But in Sam's mind the bus was already leaving for Phoenix, where there's a famous and handsome Native American transgender---and for me this surreal situation started falling into place.  I had stood back a bit once my husband took over, occasionally looking over the challis for a sundress for our house sitter but occasionally engaging in the conversation, too.  Frankly I was uncomfortable with Sam's forwardness and the leaps in his thinking process, but underneath my uneasiness I was receiving a sporadic buzz that made me stay engaged.  Now I could deduce Sam's ancestry, and it matched my admittedly limited exposure to Native Americans---of speaking with people boxed into Western civilization.  I started reviewing the scene outside of that box---the spiritual communication,
and found a person in the now and without pretense.  Yes, he spoke of change in the form of operations and hormones, but the goal---for the lack of a better term---was not an exchange of physical for spiritual, that thing we call happiness.  He was literally seeking a more comfortable form to be present in.

The conversation wound down, and Sam reached to shake my hand.  I had to juggle a bolt of challis to do so, and it gave him enough time to decide to fall back into what came naturally to him---to reach out and hug me and kiss me on the cheek.  I was amused by his generosity---amused by the fluidity of gender that knives can't cut or hormones alter.

On the freeway on our way back to our hotel, the Atlantis---the proverbial lost and therefore exotic---a car came up behind us and started beeping as if my prairie skirt was caught in the door.  The car slowly passed by, a middle aged blond man waving from the driver's seat.  Below his Nevada license plate was a bumper sticker stating Family Car.

Domesticated Doll

I'm still famous for my meatloaf.  It's about the only thing that has survived the years when my friends used to call me the Happy Housewife.  Oh, I'm still a housewife and I'm still happy, but they don't go together in quite the same dust 'n' douche manner anymore.  The dining table is now covered with artifacts to write about and the dust is thick here at Rancho Notorious---gray in the winter, red in the summer.  Every so often I just have to invite someone over to dinner so I have an incentive to knock down the cobwebs and clean the whole house.  Well, most of it.

I just went to the Frigidaire to see if I had the secret ingredient for my meatloaf but found no half empty and half dessicated bag of frozen mixed vegetables.  Oops.  Well, there you have it: Starchy frozen mixed vegetables, ground down to a coarse crumb, is my secret ingredient.  One of them, anyway.  The ratio is to substitute about two to one, meat to vegetable.  Your fresh ingredients must be minced and your meat can be a combination of anything---and if you can't figure out the rest you don't like to cook so you don't care anyway. You're welcome.

No matter how delicious the meatloaf is sliced hot, it's always twice as good the next day in a sandwich---or, if your at all clever, served on crackers as a suburban pate of sorts to impress your neighbors.  Tell them to bring the wine.

So we're going to have to settle for a bit of broiled and glazed pork if anyone is coming to dine here at Rancho Notorious.  This always amuses our usual guest, since she's nominally Jewish.  Unusually I apologize beforehand for serving pork once again, but once I found some chicken in the interim and she seemed just slightly disappointed to find it on her plate.

V is for Very Interesting, But Stupid

A couple should find a companionable hobby.  Therefore it's my duty to tell you that casually following up on real estate ads in not at all companionable.  That is unless you enjoy intense discussions of what if, frantic studies of your finances and still-mental pleas for short term loans from incredulous relatives.

Lovely, isn't it?  There's snow on those peaks now, which makes it lovelier---and the grass is somewhat green, although we haven't had much rain in the last month and a half.  After sitting with his morning cup of coffee and this view, my husband wants to drag a kayak down from the house to the river for an hour or two of paddling.

No, I'm not going to show you a picture of the house.  You might be less enamored with it that we are, which would be a very bad because you're third on my list to hit for a loan.  No, it's not overpriced.  Not necessarily.  Look at that view!  Yes, my husband has his life jacket on...

The house is a mid-century ranch.  Oh, don't yawn.  It's clad in heavy cedar board and batten, with atypical little nods to the Craftsman style.  A change of windows could make its front facade timeless.

What do you mean you can't hear me for the echo in here?  Space is luxury.  It's only two bedrooms and two baths.  And a living room---and a family room and a breakfast nook and a laundry room that's big enough for my husband to sew in.  Or he might use the dressing room for a sewing room.

You want to rent out the living room?

Oh, yeah---we haven't made it inside yet.  It's a little messy, you see.  Hoarders.  But it's cool because they're gay hoarders.  Look at that print out page taped to the sidelight next to the front door:

THIS IS A

NO HATE

ZONE

Way out here in the sticks---amazing!  Here's some boxes full of The Advocate out here on the patio.  A little damp.  I don't think the recyclers care.

"There's probably a bunch of porno inside," says my husband.  

If you knew my husband, you'd know what that would sound like.  His Way Down East accent does the most amazing things with Rs.  He makes it sound like the participants haven't washed for a week or something.

A look through the windows reveal that there's just a lot of dust inside---and dust buffaloes and more magazines.  Computer gaming magazines, mostly. Not much furniture. Here's an invitation to a Naughty Santa Party.  There's so much to learn about this community! Look at that photo on the shelf.  The old mom and pop, taken about thirty years ago.  He must have inherited this place.

Bottomless well water!  My climbing roses will smother the place in a year or two.

"That roof," my husband begins.

"There's no stains on the ceiling," I counter.  "Those asphalt shingles have just melted into themselves, not curled up."

He nods.  "Yes, we could paint them with Sureseal for now." He then looks squarely up at my face:  "You know, if we can possibly swing this, there would be no money for fun for a couple of years."

I smile and shrug: "The best things in life are free."

Well, here we are again, and this joint is jumpin'.  An offer has been accepted, contingent on a loan approval, which is unlikely because the house is under a reverse mortgage, which is Financialese for Freakin' Impossible Situation.  The older woman must be the neighbor, and judging by her jovial attitude she's the kind you want.  There's the inspector and the potential buyer's contractor, and that man hovering in the background might well be the potential buyer, so I'll ignore him.

Hello, Mr. Realtor---you look just like my friend's gay older brother, right down to the triple strength eyelashes and delectable little ears.  Except you're as tall as me in my boot heels, which means I have to look you in the eye more than I'm comfortable with.  Of course you like my husband; everyone likes the little man with the big mustache.

"First," the Realtor grins,  "everyone who comes here must take something away!"

I think he's joking, but we'll see.

Walking through the house is like walking on a rocky shore.  We're ever in danger of twisting an ankle, but at least we wont be squirted by a sea urchin.  Or something else.  I hope.

The living room is huge.  I was thinking of making it the dining room, but it'll have to be the dining room and an office/library.  Four foot tall library cabinets can go on either side of the fireplace chimney.  The fireplace itself opens to the family room but is not of the two way type so typical of the era.  Library cabinets on the opposite wall, too.  Desk.  The wing back chair here. Side table. Dining table and chairs.

The kitchen is rather sleek, and except for the clutter, is surprisingly clean.

"Don't open this", the Realtor says, patting a mumbling chest freezer in the breakfast nook. "I made that mistake the first time I came here.  Phew!"

I habitually sniff the air.  Strangely, the house has no real odor at all. My action causes me to look upward, and my husband's eyes follow mine.

"Look at that ugly acoustical tile someone added," he says.

It isn't so much ugly as just 1959.  I've seen worse, anyway.

"No, it's original," I say.  "They were all into hushing household noise in the '50s. Luckily they didn't use it all over the house, or spray popcorn everywhere."

"Gee," the Realtor says, "I should take you around with me when I show houses---you could teach my clients so much."

"Hmm," I say slowly.  I'm already thinking of ways to make it happen.  "That could be fun."

My eyes travel out over the family room ceiling with it's slightly swirled surface.  That's beautiful hand finishing---and not a crack or spot to be seen.  We won't even have to paint it.

We walk out a side door into the carport.  Immediately to our left is a door into an odd room---like an outside pantry, lined with mostly empty shelves.  I look up and see an ivory V shaped vase.

"A Victory vase," I say, taking it off the shelf.  "From World War II."

"Really?" asks the Realtor.

I shrug.  "Most likely."

The vase reads Artistic California USA on the bottom, and while the Realtor is momentarily distracted by that other man, I mutter to my husband:  "Do you think he was serious about taking something away?"  I push the vase into his hands, which means he's to use his unconscious charms to get our way.

I pretend to be interested elsewhere as the Realtor's attention returns to us.

"Um, sure," I hear him laugh, but the vase is still in his hands, and he puts it aside.

My husband's attention turns to the sunny workroom-wellhouse across the carport.  The pump is running and we can hear the sweet sound of copious water rushing---off to somewhere.

"Girard tells me you designed his house," the Realtor chats.

"Yes," I reply---realizing he had changed the ownership from we to he, perhaps because he thought he misheard my husband, or because he wanted to hear we from me as well.  "There was a well-built garage and workspace already on the property---20x30---so I just designed a flat in the Monterey style to go on top of it. It's like living in a tree house."

"That sounds very nice."  His tone is a bit opaque.  Out of habit, I really didn't give him the clarification he was seeking.  "My father is a contractor," he offers.

I smile and nod, and then turn to reenter the house and go down the hall.  The bedrooms are rather small considering the scale of the house.  The inspector is in the master bedroom, and this is where I encounter the porn my husband had intuited the day before.  It's in the form of DVDs scattered over the floor, peeking out among the detritus.  Twinkies.  Most uninteresting. We both pointedly ignore their existence.

Crack!

The inspector and I both look down to our feet.  His left foot is a scant six inches away from Davey Does Dallas.  He pushes a bed sheet aside over Davey, revealing a broken commemorative plate still in its open faced packaging.

"We'll just take that out of your paycheck," I smile.

He chuckles, but his proximity to porn embarrasses him.  "We're looking for the hatch into the attic," he says.  Good change of subject.  "We can't find it anywhere."

So I join in on the search.  We look everywhere except in the rat's nest under the hall bathroom vanity.  No hatch.  The inspector and contractor go outside and take a circular saw to the gable.

"Cedar siding!" yells the inspector.

"Doesn't matter," replies the contractor.  "The wife wants stucco."

"Jesus."

"I know."

It's the latest of the indignities I've overheard.  The house will be essentially gutted if they get it.  I can't stand it anymore and go off looking for my husband---and in doing so I suddenly find myself uncomfortably close to that other man.  I drop my eyes and note his cowboy boots.

"Hello," he says pleasantly enough.

"Hello," I reply, bowing slightly.  I slip away.

My husband and I decide we're just loitering now, a wishin' and a hopin' and wasting the Realtor's time, although he doesn't seem to mind at all.  He shakes our hands.

"It was nice meeting you both---and don't forget your vase."  He slips it from behind his back into my husband's hands.  "You'll be the first I call when I find out if their loan went through or not."

We thank him and start turning way.  He makes the move shake my husband's hand again, but it's too late for him to be noticed.  He drops his right hand and raises his left, letting it slide across my husband's back. My husband looks over his shoulder and smiles at him.

As we drive away, I tell my husband about my encounter with the potential buyer.

"That's not the buyer.  The Realtor introduced him to me as his business partner."

"Is that nine to five or twenty-four hour business?"

My husband rolls his eyes and then says:  "Turn here.  Let's go talk to the neighbor lady."

I find myself unusually vivacious.  "Pardon the intrusion!" I call out when I see her from afar.  Of course she doesn't care.  In a minute we're like old friends.

"Oh, they were really nice guys.  They would check on Mother every day before we moved in with her.  But they told us don't give Mildred the idea that she can come over to our place---she'd hate to see the mess it's in now.

"After Glenn died, Jack moved into a trailer down on the bend.  His daughters came to help him move some of his stuff, but they gave up pretty quickly.  We're not taking anymore---it'll just make the situation bad again sooner than later.  They left a trail of junk down the driveway. The bank paid for a service to pick it up, but they never finished with the house because the bank wouldn't pay them after the bill exceeded $2,500."

$2,500 worth of dumping was done---already?  We figure there's a month worth of weekends to finish the job.  Of course we'll be going at a slightly slower pace, pausing to note any interesting items.  We can have a Former Owners wall.

I tell her that the wife of the potential buyer doesn't like the house much---wants to gut it---take out the big fireplace and make that one ginormous room.

"She thinks the place looks old."  I lean in closer.  "But you know what?  In ten years so will she!"

The neighbor bursts out laughing.  "Well, then."  She presents us with her crossed fingers.  "Here's hoping you two get it!"

My Organ Fantasy

As I finished inking in the man in bed some twenty years ago, I realized he looked a lot like a friend of mine.  I paused to feel out what that meant, and at the time it felt like nothing more than coincidence.  Besides, his spouse was an even more handsome distraction.

The man in bed is gone now.  When someone takes their life, we can either plug our ears or listen with our hearts.  I suppose I was left sitting there, waiting for the concert to begin---reading through a perfunctory program of the past.  And then suddenly I was mad because I realized the symphony had been playing all along and I never heard it.  Tears and snot ran off my chin---and then, slowly, I caught my breath.  Because the music was still playing, now striking my inner chords.  The reverberation was awesome, and it would swell up again and again---whether I was out watering the yard or laying in bed next to my husband.

I could now clearly recall the day we met, his eagerness to be my friend.  I felt more than my gratitude now.  I felt his love and understanding---his subconscious understanding that I would be the one who would hear him after everyone else folded their programs.  I flinched when he could finally show me why he would end his life, but I could take it.  I was prepared even before we met, for his secret was too similar to mine.

Could it be magic?  The man he left behind believed me---he could see me vibrate, but it wasn't something I could gift him.  I was conditioned to try, but in the end the gulf is wide between believing and accepting.  We all carry so much baggage.  I was left holding the gift, and slowly came to realize it was meant for me.  For now, anyway.

Oh yes, there's a backside to this envelope---not as well executed, but showing my propensity to unduly expose myself to the public.  Some things never change, do they?  My butt never looked so good on a bench...

It's his head on a less hirsute body.  I know I never sent this in his direction because he wouldn't know the song Tico Tico or Ethel Smith flying around with her Hammond organ, but I'd like to think he'd be amused by the swaying chenille balls on my hat.

Long Ago and Far Away

I drew this pic one day.  And now---and now I can't recall what passion was pending.  There are so many, you know.  Simmering.  Waiting for an opportunity from their careless caregiver.  Surely I never wanted to be Myrna Loy to Ramon Novarro's Barbarian, although I suppose that could be fun.  No, the passions are something more at hand---and more durable than orchid blossoms.  Things than can possibly stand public scrutiny, unlike my present day chest.  Passions not so much of my past but of the past.  Strange loves that tell there own story.

Before email and the internet I was a regular, retrograde letter writer.  Eight-ten-twelve page letters  were not out of the norm.  And for some reason lost to time I started sending such letters unfolded, slipped neatly into a white nine by twelve envelope that I illustrated.  Contents and illustration rarely jived, but the receiver more or less knew what they were getting into.  Perhaps I continued the practice because it got more notice than the letters.  Postmasters and postmistresses eagerly awaited my appearance at the counter for the envelope to be weighed and postage affixed, but only after it was handed around for their perusement.  I still believed my artistic talent---drilled into me ever since I could draw a house in perspective in kindergarten---was my greatest talent.

I can still recall my Postmistress of the Dark---yes, it was by mutual decision for that to be her title.  I can still recall her disappointment when my illustrations declined and then disappeared off the envelopes.  She never saw the contents within---but now, in a quiet moment of her retirement, perhaps she will.