Goody Two Shoes (3 page)

“Cock.”

“Cock,” I repeat, “taught you about your marriage.”

She laughs, “You said cock!  Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”  She leans towards me as if she’s explaining where to find the Holy Grail, “It taught me not to be afraid of a mirror.  It taught me that just because I’m a Grandma doesn’t mean I have to look like one.  Seriously Tara, have you seen that bathing suit you’re wearing?”

I look down at my fully clad midriff with a grimace; she’s right about this stupid suit too.  It’s horrid.  What’s worse is that the rest of my clothes are similar.  “So why can’t I just go buy a new wardrobe?  Get a makeover?”

She studies me, “It wouldn’t hurt, but it’s not going to solve the problem by itself.  It’s not really going to change anything because all you’re changing is the symptom.  You need the cure to a bad marriage.  Clothes aren’t it.  You’re going to have to change the way you think Tara.  Forget all that shit about the Wrath of Hell, and change from here,” she says, pointing at her heart.

“I like to think my heart’s in the right place most of the time.”

“Oh it is girlfriend, it is.  But you’re so busy following what you
think
are rules that you don’t have any damn fun.  When’s the last time you had an orgasm, Tara?  Just tell me.”

My face reddens.  Did I mention I’m not sure it’s ladylike to be talking about s-e-x like this?  “I don’t know, I can’t even remember, why?”

“Because I just had one, not ten minutes before I left the house.”

“With Steve?” I giggle uncomfortably.

“Yes with Steve!  Fool.  I’m telling you, if you don’t change, Simmons is going to cheat on you.  Men can only go so long with Mother Theresa as a wife.  It’s not their nature.”

Again her words strike like Sister Loyola’s ruler.  I haven’t told her, but I suspect he’s already cheating.  He’s come home smelling like lavender twice now.  Both times he said he was at the club, so I’m zeroing in on the young brunette who’s always flouncing her boobs at him from behind the bar.  And he’s been at the golf club, a
lot
, lately.  I try to cover the crushing weight I feel on my chest when I think about it.  I’m nearing the place where I throw my hands up in defeat.  A single tear strays down my cheek and Patty see’s it.

“Aw babe, don’t cry.  I’m telling you, do this with me, it’ll work,” And she touches my shoulder for comfort.

“Alright then, shock and awe me.  Tell me what I’d have to do to get my husband back.”

“First you have to forget all those stupid rules that you think are real.  You’d be surprised at how many there are.  There’s a term, ‘pansexual.’  Have you ever heard of it?”

“Nope.”

She straightens, peering at me beneath her umbrella sized straw hat, and says, “It means someone who enjoys all kinds of sex. 
Different
stuff.”

“Good Lord, what do you mean by different?” not able to pretend I’m not shocked.

“Oh there’s no telling.  Once there was a man in diapers walking around.  He got off on that shit… probably literally now that I think about it…” She seems momentarily distracted by her own thought.

“Gross!” I retort with my nose crinkled.

“Yeah, maybe so, but still I had to respect that.  I couldn’t criticize because I damn sure wouldn’t have believed I’d ever do crazy stuff either.  There’s no law that says that man can’t walk around in a diaper, we just think there is.  If you’d have told me Steve and I would be back together after only six weeks, I’d tell you to talk to your doctor about some new crazy pills.  But sure as shit, we fell in love again.  And that’s what I’m talking about; you never know what’s going to happen until you try it.  It’s best not to cast stones.  You might try something and decide you don’t like it; you may try another thing and find out you like it a whole lot.  You may join the Club with me and go through the training only to find out you’re a closet lesbian.”

I laugh.

“Don’t laugh; it happened to that woman from ‘Family Ties.’  Woke up one day and said, ‘I think I like pussy now.’  And so it was.  But seriously, I don’t think anything weird is going to pop out of you if you let go and enjoy yourself.  I’m not jogging on a path to hell here either, just having a good time,
mostly
with my husband.  Ninety-nine point nine percent of us just rediscover ourselves and our husbands, and that’s all.  It’s a leap, Tara, but it’s how I saved my marriage.  I just woke up one day and said, ‘I’m sick and tired of this shit.’”

“And so it was,” I say.  Her point strikes dangerously close to home for me though.  If you’ve ever oohed and awed over a new Mercedes and wondered what it would feel like to be the ‘flashy harlot’ driving it, then you have imaginary rules.  Of course I’d never consider driving a Mercedes; my imaginary boundaries are set somewhere between trashy and flashy.  Trashy being a fifty year old in a bikini with a new Tramp Stamp, and flashy meaning someone who has more money than good taste.  Being trashy is a sin, and being flashy is a sin; do let me reassure you that I’m not a sinful woman.  Holy hell do I have imaginary rules!

I blame my imaginary rules on centuries of Southern genetic prosperity.  But we didn’t start out that way.  No matter the airs my family puts on, we’re all still easily traced back to poor Irish potato farmers.  My family was persecuted and tortured long before anyone knew there were other skin colors, long before Pilgrims met Indians, and long before I met my best friend Patty.  I imagine my Great, Great, Great, Great Grandmamma decided one day, ‘This is absolutely enough of this
crap
and taught
her
children manners of the elite.  She puffed us all up and civilized us.  Thank God because where would we all be today without her?  (With strong sarcasm.)  And they were important life lessons like putting your folded, linen napkin in your lap and under no circumstances shall you wear white after Labor Day.  It surprises me that those rules ever sounded sensible to anyone.  Give me a real reason why can’t I use paper napkins if I’m not entertaining?  Winter white exists as a well known color; the name lends to something that can be worn during cold months.  My mother would tell you that Winter White is in fact, not a real color.  It’s a thinly veiled excuse for not having a reliable pair of sensible black pumps and
quite
intolerable.  But my mother never had an ounce of fun in her life.

The whole scenario with Great, Great, Great, Great Grandmamma evolved into what my family is today:  a bunch of holier than thou’ers with a firm set of commandments that you’d better follow or else be doomed to life in purgatory.  I’d always found it enlightening that they’d added purgatory as a loophole; they insisted that no matter what evil thing you did, you’d get a chance to right your wrongs there, in the land of nothing.  That’s the way I grew up; Mass on Wednesdays and without excuse on Sunday mornings.  It wasn’t until I spent the night at Patty’s in the fourth grade that I discovered the single perk to my stringent Catholic upbringing:  at least I wasn’t Baptist.  When Patty said we were going to her church, I expected to be back for lunch by noon at the latest.  Oh, how naïve I was.  We prayed until noon, fellowshipped, then prayed and sang again until dinner time.  That following Wednesday I’d gone along happily to Mass with my mother, with full knowledge that forty five minutes later I’d be on my way home.

As much as I’d like to think that prayer will save me from this path to divorce, it hasn’t worked so far.  I’m not going to deny that Patty’s not right because she is my voice of reason after all.  Maybe I do need to change some things.  Maybe I’ve become… what’s the term I’m looking for… a fuddy duddy.  I sit up now that the mid-day sun has moved and rearrange myself on the lounger.  “Well, as long as I don’t wake up one morning and find out I’m a man living in a female body, because that would really screw up my wardrobe, things can’t get much worse around here.”

“Wait!” She sits up and stares at me with disbelief, “Are you saying you’ll consider joining the Club?”

I nod, lowering my sunglasses over my eyes, “I guess.  Yes, I’ll consider it.”

And Patty rejoices, “For the record, that shit you call a wardrobe ain’t nothing to write home about.”

I flip her off.

She probably thinks I told her that just to placate her, but the truth is that my friend Vagina had begun talking to me again suddenly during the conversation.  Maybe she and Patty are right.  Maybe it’s time for me to let go and enjoy life; something beyond dreaming of traveling to exotic locations in Travel and Leisure.  Something bold and brash that will absolutely and forever change my life.

You don't know how you met me,

You don't know why,

You can't turn around

And say goodbye,

All you know is when I'm with you

I make you free

And swim through your veins

Like a fish in the sea,

-Uncle Kracker

~Tara Townsend

My Path to the Pole

Mid-life Crisis.

Of course I mentioned my marriage is shit, right?  And you’re wondering why I’m not angry about it?  Do let me reassure you that I’d like to rip ‘lavender woman’ a new orifice.  I’m angry as hell.  I’ve just been angry so long that it’s become a part of me;  Something that doesn’t even require noting anymore because it’s just not worth crying over.  I’m essentially numb to it.  Get the message?

Later that night I decide a test is in order.  At first I thought of setting a plate full of horse manure on his placemat and watching to see if he’d even notice, but revenge isn’t as good served cold like everyone says.  The few times I’d done anything spiteful to him (I kicked over his computer while vacuuming… five times), he didn’t even consider that I’d do such a thing.  Therefore, it had no actual impact.  My revenge was unhinged by his faith in my all around goodwill and general catholic benevolence.  But hell yes, I’m pissed at him.  It’s only due to my
goodwill
and general catholic benevolence
that
I try this more direct method, and I head for my bedroom.  Certainly there’s something in those dusty lingerie drawers that will catch his attention.

Rummaging around I finally find a pair of string thongs that’d come with a baby doll night gown I’d never worn.  I don’t want to seem too overdone; I just want to remind him that he’s married.  To an ordinary husband, my walking around in slinky underwear would be enough to startle him back into the real world.  Sliding them on I immediately notice that they completely disappear beneath the twenty nine year postpartum chub that remains on my thighs.  Maybe I don’t have them on right?  I wriggle around and turn them from side to side.  No, they seem to be on the only way possible.  In a sudden display of anger (see I told you), I yank them off and study my naked form in the mirror.  I take a deep breath, assess the situation and cool my steam.  Nothing I can do about the thigh chub, not tonight at least, so I take the stance that ‘Sometimes less is more.’  I grab two towels and head towards the hot tub on our back deck as naked as a jaybird.  I stop at the door to Simmons’ office, leaning against it in what I consider a provocative pose, “I’m headed for a soak.  Want to come?”

Simmons’ eyes flick up from his computer screen briefly, “No thanks.  I’m right in the middle of a tough chapter.”  Immediately his eyes go back to the screen.

“You sure?  You’ve been at it all afternoon,” I say, trying to posture myself like a Victoria’s Secret Angel.

This time he doesn’t bother looking up at all, “Positive,” he drones, and his fingers whack away at the keyboard as if the brainstorm of a century has presented itself.

I walk out the back door feeling dejected, unwanted, humiliated.  The door banged behind me… three times.  That’s not good, I think.  I’ll need someone to come check that door tomorrow.  So I sink into the hot tub just in time for Vagina to start ordering me closer to the jets.

*-*-*-*-*

The following morning finds Simmons sound asleep in the lazy boy recliner in his office.  I stand at the doorway again, this time admiring him in slumber.  You know, I’ve done a great deal of soul searching since yesterday, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the fact that I’m even considering cheating on my husband makes me a vile and evil woman.  I’m on my way to Mass now to beg for forgiveness.

But as I stare at Simmons, so exhausted in his chair, I can’t help but wonder to what lengths I’d go to keep him.  I study him as I haven’t done in years; those legs are always the first thing to attract my attention.  You see, I have a short woman complex; I see long legs and get all gooey inside.  And Simmons’ are the best I’ve seen, even after all these years, hence why I married him.  Well, okay, there were other reasons; for instance the blueness of his eyes, now closed, but knowing they’re underneath those slumbering lids does cause Vagina to wake up.  I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve looked at him this way.  The sound of my oven timer breaks me from my examination and I glance down at my Timex to note that I have twenty minutes to get into town.  I grab the casserole that I’d made late last night for my parish priest and leave to get my dirty, nasty thoughts absolved.