I Love You Too - Confessions of a Serial Marrier part 1

My least favorite question, "How many times have you been married?".  I smile and say, "four",  There is silence and then the questioners facial expression runs the spectrum from amused to appalled. Suddenly I want to explain that at first I thought marriage was like leagally going steady or that I chose unwsiely a few times. But I don't. How do you explain 4 marriages? Throughout these postings I will try.

I do not use my husbands names. I refer to them as:
Husband number 1 - Who?
Husband number 2 - Oops
Husband number 3 - Elsie
Husband number 4 - Current

Let me address Current first. Rest assured Current is my last husband. He is an awesome man who does not deserve to be any one's fourth husband. He is the polar opposite of Who, Oops and Elsie. Living with me may not be the easiest thing on earth. Words that have been hurled at me by former husbands include selfish, spoiled, stupid and some words that I won't print but rhyme with pitch and bunt. Current thinks I am wonderful, funny, smart and talented. Current believes that he is the luckiest man on earth. Poor Current, imagine what a pitch his last wife must have been.

Ok, here is the first confession of a serial marrier. I hang my head in shame when I say that I married Who? because I was in love with his brother. Who?'s brother was my first love. I will call him Paul. I was 15 years old on January 1, 1969. A typical New Year's day at my house. My dad and brother were watching the college games, mother was recovering from the "flu", (this was actually her once a year hangover). I was in my room with the door closed dressed in the hostess pajamas that I had received for Christmas. I had actually gotten up and painted my face with my other Christmas present - make-up. Used my electric rollers to achieve Nancy Sinatra hair and was now thoroughly bored. My mother opened my door and said with a worried look, "there are two boys on the front porch". This was the best news I'd had in a while. Who was it? Why didn't they ring the doorbell? I sashayed down the hall to the foyer and opened the door.

Indeed, two boys were on the porch. Actually one boy and a college man!, Paul. Paul introduced himself and his brother and explained they had moved  up the street just a few months ago and were out taking a smoke break and decided to sit on the porch and finish their cigs before going home. I didn't actually hear any of the words as a band of heavenly angels was singing in my head and a glow seemed to emanate from Paul. Holy cow, he was gorgeous. I am not sure how I managed the next maneuver but I got past the parents, down the hall and into my bedroom with Paul and his brother. This was forbidden. Boys in the bedroom led to pregnancy and worse my mother assured me. I could get a bad reputation. "Psst, Bobby did you know we can get in Lillybell's bedroom", "yeah, she'll  let anyone in there". I ran the risk. I remember we rearranged the furniture in my room and made some sort of conversation. I believe they talked and I giggled. Paul was still glowing and I thought  he winked at me. Jesus, please let it be true. My feet seemed to float just above the ground. I was thunderstruck with this man. Paul was talking-something about college, Austin, California, existentialism, blah, blah, blah and I was imagining the feel of his mouth. French kissing suddenly didn't seem like a rumor - or disgusting.

At this moment the door flew open and there was mom. I know she expected to find me spread eagle on the bed with a tip jar on the headboard. She announced, "Lillybell is not to have visitors in her room and she needs to spend some time with her family. You should leave". The guys said goodbye and this time I know Paul winked at me. I lived on that wink for days. My mother chastised me severely for having boys in my room and reminded me that nice girls would never engage in such behavior.

I considered this statement momentarily. Nice girls sounded boring.  And so it began I was on the path to marry Who?.  Do you know the words to the wedding march? "Dumb, dumb da dumb..."

Todays Body Art is Tomorrows "What the hell is that..."

I was in the ladies room of a local Mexican restaurant washing my hands and trying to decide how best to open the door while still hiding my OCD. I was considering using the tail of my shirt when the door opened. There stood a pretty young woman wearing shorts and a tee almost in tears. I couldn't help but notice the tats that banded both legs from mid thigh up until they disappeared under her frayed cut offs. This is so foreign to me.  I don't like needles so I can't imagine voluntarily stripping down to my skin and offering it as canvas to a person who is "certified" to create said art.  She began pulling paper towels out of the dispenser, soaking them in cool water and placing them on her thighs. "Did you just have those done?", I asked. She nodded as tears started to run down her face. I looked at her toned, colorful thighs, taut and shapely and resisted the temptation to drop my pants and show her what 58 year old thighs look like.

Honey, the tat on your inner thigh that currently reads "I like it when you lick my body" will eventually read, "Ickbod". Allow me to explain. At a certain age a woman's upper thighs begin to reassemble a curtain. The folds of skin almost exactly replicate the way the curtain in an opera house or symphony hall crease and roll as it is raised. I know what you are thinking, "my thighs will never be fat". Good theory. However, it is gravity that you will be fighting. The skin sags, it's a fact of life. Cellulite and natural creases are inevitable too. Someday that cute pixie on your butt is going to look like a scowling gargoyle.

Women whose body art can easily be hidden under clothes you can skip this paragraph. Those of you foolish enough to have tattooed your feet, hands, neck, or face, well, it's going to get ugly. Those tribal bands and Asian symbols you chose so carefully will someday appear  like strange undefined bruises on your skin. A sort of man made melanoma design. Those tats with swirls of color and beautiful scenes will start to look like bleeding madras. Please, be smug now. Show off the tats. Wear them proudly for someday you will be at the pool explaining to your grandchildren why grandma has a wizard melting on her back.

To Warren Buffet I suggest investing in tattoo removal.

To fashion designers and stylists I recommend introducing the American Burqua.

You're welcome,
Lillybellblues

A Letter To Kate Mittleton

A Letter To Kate Mittleton:

Dear Kate,

Congratulations on your pending nuptials.

As a former serial marrier I feel uniquely qualified to offer some advice, some would say warning, about the state of matrimony.

First, they all start out as a prince. Attentive, attractive, funny, charming, (get it? prince charming), and feeling the need the be a princess you of course fall for this ruse. The wedding planning is so exciting and all you can think about is gown, crown, flowers, food, music, carriage, etc. And the day will be all you dreamed about. Here is a hint. Try not to drink too much alcohol because vomiting on your wedding night sounds funny but it sets a bad precedence.

Second, pretty soon your prince isn't so charming. He knows how to do absolutely nothing except hog the TV remote. He will never, never, ever know what he wants to eat. This rule applies except when you have prepared a beautiful meal. He may not know what he wants to eat but he knows it isn't what's on the table. He will also not know where the dishwasher or the trash is. He might be able to find the kitchen counter, if so you are lucky.

Third, sex. It is good now, right? Well remember these days because soon it is rub, rub, push, push, goodnight. Which brings me to the real issue. Snoring. Yes, dear Kate, your prince will snore. At first you find it rhythmic and soothing and you think it is kind of cute. Soon however you begin to feel as if you are sleeping next a mastodon with an adenoid problem. When you gently nudge and tell him he is snoring he will not believe you. In the morning when you show him the paint that peeled off the wall from his snoring he will think you are exaggerating. This situation will eventually make you a bitch.

Fourth, man activities. Yes, hunting and fishing will be a part of your life. You will not have to participate but you will have to hear about it. By the way these are always weekend activities so plan on visiting your family alone. Also, be prepared to ooh and ah over the dead thing he brings home.

Fifth, visiting the in-laws. This is a tough one. Your case is so unique. Although I have had a mother-in-law who thought she was a queen I've not had one with the actual title. I recommend resisting the urge to bring your mom's favorite spinach dip when invited to the palace for dinner. There is something about forks but I assume you know those rules. And, honey, good luck with picking out gifts for the in-laws. What does one give a crowned head of state?

An heir! A boy, of course. And, Kate, lose that baby fat quickly or you will hear about it everyday.

In conclusion, Kate, while this may sound sad on this the day before your wedding, eventually there will be no conversation. You and your spouse will communicate in a series of grunts and gestures, scowls and smirks. And you know what? You will welcome the silence because you will have heard  every anecdote, story, and reference your husband knows and the mere utterance of, "when I was captain of the ____", will send you into a blind rage.

Again, congratulations and best wishes,
Lillybell Miller McReynolds Jackson Baxter Adams