Robin looked on and nodded. “Good job. You handle a hose better than most people.”
Haha! I laughed, and Robin looked at me blankly. Oh, she probably meant the rubber garden variety of hose.
We continued the rhinos’ spa day with an exfoliating treatment. While I had always envisioned rhinos as scaly creatures, their skin is naturally smooth except for tufts of protruding hair. A rhino’s scales are simply dead skin cells that need to be sloughed off. I rubbed Sam’s back with a rubber mitt brush, and bits of dead, scabby skin flew off.
I moved on from rubbing his side to his left lower hip. Sam collapsed against the bars, in seeming ecstasy with his massage. Suddenly, he lifted his left back leg. I stepped back.
“Oh! I think he’s going to pee!”
“Um, no,” Robin said. “See his equipment down there? This is similar to how we manually ejaculate him.”
I squinted at Sam’s “equipment.” Perhaps I was too good at this particular job. Or maybe the Aqua Velva was making him feel a bit sexy. Clearly, Sam the rhinoceros was one horny old dude.
I switched positions and began exfoliating his back instead. Sam might have become my new best friend, but we wouldn’t be friends with benefits.
After we finished Sam’s spa treatment, Robin suggested we reward him with some treats. I hesitated before reaching out with a handful of rhino kibble.
“Don’t worry, he doesn’t have front incisors,” Robin told me. I cringed as he sucked my entire fist into his mouth—a gigantic wet vacuum. I laughed a bit nervously, but at least I knew Sam’s slobber was worse than his bite.
“But his back molars,” Robin continued, “could still do some damage.” I yanked my hand from his lips.
Sam proved to be a gentle giant indeed. I patted his horn and told him he was a good boy, never minding his one minor indiscretion that day.
I left the zoo with fond memories of my new animal friends, a wealth of knowledge, and an appreciation for all the work done behind the scenes each day at the Toledo Zoo.
And, I added “I gave a rhinoceros an erection” to the list of things I never, ever thought I’d hear myself say.
Chapter 35:
LET IT ROLL
As I premeditated and executed my list of new endeavors, life—as it does—carried on. Occasionally, a planned experience dropped off the list and something unintended found its way on. One such unexpected venture resulted from a late night phone call from Son #2.
It wasn’t the mad dash out of town for my twenty-two-year-old’s emergency surgery that was so noteworthy. Nor my unforeseen overnight stay in a renovated Milwaukee brewery. Not even my cleaning the apartment bathroom of two young bachelors. All three were indeed new life experiences, only one which I ever care to repeat.
What made the weekend trip list-worthy is that I rode for six hours, alone in the car, with my former husband.
George and I had remained friendlier than most divorced couples I knew. Spending Christmas mornings together with our sons while they opened gifts had remained a fairly comfortable annual tradition, since our attention was focused on our children. But our relationship was nowhere near the take-a-roadtrip-together level. This car ride was by far the longest amount of time we’d spent together without our children in almost fifteen years. A drive across four states—with no children or holiday festivities to provide buffers—could only prove to be awkward, at best.
No surprise we spent the bulk of our drive time talking about our two sons. While George and I still lived in the same town and remained in frequent contact mostly due to our children, our lives had branched off in two different directions. What we still shared in common were points of pride and concerns about our young adult sons.
We discussed their jobs, interests, personality differences and similarities, and dating lives. (The last item was all conjecture, since they seldom provided any details about that). As we passed snow-covered farm fields in Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Wisconsin, our conversation turned toward other topics.
We shared news about our careers, our extended families, and the new houses we’d each recently purchased. It struck me as sadly surreal to talk about our new and separate homes, only months after I sold the house we’d built together and once assumed we’d grow old in, together.
We fell quiet for a few stretches along the road. Was he, like I was, silently reflecting on our once happy past and on our failed future as a couple?
I felt obliged to ask him about his girlfriend of seven years, Julie, a nice-enough woman I’d met a few times. He asked me about my writing and about The 52/52 Project. I relayed a few of my experiences, and he grinned and nodded.
“You’re a good writer,” he said.
I shrugged and said thank you. I asked him about his business, the company he started after we separated. I told him he should be proud of taking it to such phenomenal success. It was his turn to shrug and say thank you.
Through our somewhat disconnected relationship, we had still managed to appreciate the other’s talents and accomplishments. What we were less proud of and never discussed, of course, were each of our weaknesses and failings: the kind of things that break up a marriage and split apart a family.
Those had been discussed too many times, too many years ago. The passing years had clarified some of my own mistakes, and possibly had done the same for him. But enlightenment cannot change our past. It serves us best by guiding our future.
As we veered into a discussion about our children’s finances, we clearly disagreed—with no compromise in sight. We both fell quiet. I stared out the window. I wondered if he was thinking, as I was, “Yes, this. This inability to see the other’s point of view. This is why we didn’t work.”
We moved on. Why was it less difficult now to detour around a singular dispute and manage to let it go, than it had been fifteen years ago?
After arriving in Milwaukee, we saw Son #2 through his appendix surgery and first couple days of recovery. George and I ate dinner together at a nearby restaurant. We both stayed at a hotel right across from our son’s apartment, in separate rooms, of course. The desk clerk appeared confused when we checked in at the same time, under the same name.
“Oh, honey,” I wanted to tell him. “Trust me, this whole thing is even weirder for us.”
But the drive to Milwaukee and the two days that followed were nothing compared to what I found myself facing on the trip home, when I inadvertently upped the ante of the challenge.
George, whose position as owner and president of a company allowed him more flexibility than my job did, stayed behind a few extra days to take care of our son. I returned to Toledo via Amtrak.
And, I spent most of that return trip sitting on a train seat next to my former husband’s current girlfriend.
While my ex and I had been attending to our appendix-afflicted son in Wisconsin, George’s girlfriend, Julie, had been attending her daughter’s bachelorette party just an hour south in Chicago. What were the odds she’d be departing Chicago the same evening I was leaving Milwaukee, and she would be taking my own connecting train back to Toledo?
George realized we’d be on the same train and mentioned this to Son #2, who was still recuperating from surgery. Whether influenced by narcotics or youthful optimism, Son of Mine thought we might like to connect. He texted that Julie was looking for me in Chicago’s Union Station.
My encounters with Julie had always been within a group, and we’d never exchanged more than a few bits of dialogue. She had seemed nice enough. But we definitely weren’t friends.
I sipped my Bloody Mary in Union Station as I contemplated this. Would I have made this same effort to connect with her? I wasn’t so sure. I had to give Julie credit for reaching out, even if she felt swayed by obligation. I told my son to forward her my cell phone number.
Five minutes later, I found myself sitting next to her on a bench. We waited out our train’s delay and eventually boarded, together.
Julie’s daughters had provided h
er with a couple bottles of wine, which were stuffed into her overnight bag. I wondered if this was her family’s normal protocol, or if the gesture was provided after they learned her boyfriend’s ex-wife might be along for the ride.
No matter. She popped open a bottle, and we began chatting as we rode the rails through the Midwest.
We talked nonstop for more than four hours. We mostly discussed current events, our children, and our jobs. We didn’t talk much about the man who was our common denominator. Even over wine, I think we both sensed that could be a slippery slope.
Julie proved to be intelligent, funny, and delightful. Who’d have guessed? Not me. I’d had no idea, since I’d always kept her at arm’s length, like the code of behavior generally dictated for these kinds of relationships.
But why wouldn’t she be terrific? Clearly, my ex always had great taste in women.
Somewhere in Indiana, Julie uncorked the second bottle of wine. Not because we still needed it for liquid courage, but just because we were, well, thirsty.
By the time we pulled into Toledo, a huge snowstorm had brewed. Julie and I each called for a cab, but the weather had resulted in major taxi delays. A friendly couple I had met in the Chicago station, who happened to live in a small town near my Toledo suburb, offered me a ride home.
Could they give my friend, Julie, a ride, too?
When we dropped her off at her downtown Toledo condo, Julie and I hugged each other goodbye. Damned if we hadn’t become, well, friends. Not the kind to call each other for a girls’ night out, surely to George’s relief. But the kind with whom I’d find myself comfortably conversing and laughing, the next time I saw her.
Some experiences and some relationships are only as awkward and uncomfortable as we allow them to be. When we open ourselves up to it, life is full of strange surprises.
Sometimes, we just need to roll with it, right down the highway.
Chapter 36:
TIPTOE THROUGH THE TULIPS WITH ME
As a child of the sixties and seventies, I was weaned on scary movies. Just like our parents allowed us to chase after mosquito control trucks—shrieking and giggling through the toxic fog—they also didn’t monitor the movies or TV shows we watched. We were free, at a young age, to poison our lungs and our brains. Maybe it was due to our parents’ innocence or ignorance. Or maybe they were just too busy bowling or playing cards to pay us any heed.
I endured all the horror classics of my youth. These included The Omen, The Exorcist, and The Other. But through the years, what continued to haunt me most were any films featuring an aged and categorically creepy Bette Davis.
I never recovered from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? I still can’t listen to the song “Bette Davis Eyes” without seeing Bette turn to Joan Crawford, who was mid-bite through her sister’s thoughtfully prepared meal of what appeared to be chicken. “Oh, Blanche,” Bette said oh-so-nonchalantly, “You know we’ve got rats in the cellar?”
Sometime around my twenties, I grew weary of shielding my eyes from horrific images and trying to erase disturbing dialogue from my mind as I lay awake in bed. The blood and gore didn’t trouble me; it was the psychological terror I couldn’t handle. The last horror flick I watched was the 1990 TV mini-series of Stephen King’s It. Thanks to Pennywise, I never watched another scary movie. And clowns haven’t been able to find work since.
So, at the age of fifty-two, I decided to test my heightened wimpy level by spending a night watching horror films. My challenge was to stay up the entire night—until sunrise—watching scary movies nonstop. And, I had to do so while totally alone in the house.
If that weren’t enough, my mother suggested that I raise the stakes by keeping all my blinds open and my doors unlocked. Thanks for that, oh sweet, nurturing mother of mine. (Note to self: Be sure to finagle an excuse when Mom invites me over for a “chicken” dinner.)
I armed myself with a twelve-pack of Diet Coke to keep me awake and alert, as well as every form of junk food known to gradually kill a human being. If I died of fright, I’d do so while binging on Oreos and chips and dip.
I also advised Ringo the Wonder Retriever that he was on watch duty. After years of his explosive barking at such dire threats as tricycle-riding toddlers or the UPS guy making a delivery across the street, now was his chance to put his skills to good use.
With suggestions by Son #1 and several readers, my horror fest lineup included The Ring, The Blair Witch Project, Paranormal Activity, and Insidious. WARNING: The rest of this story contains plot spoilers. If you haven’t yet watched but were still planning to see these movies, I apologize. If you have already seen them all and are some type of wacked-out horror film aficionado, I suggest you seek professional help.
Shortly into The Ring, I watched as the main character popped the clearly murderous tape into her VCR.
“No, don’t watch the video!” I shouted.
Her phone rang, and she eyed it in hesitation.
“NO! Do not answer the phone!” I screamed.
Just as she picked up the phone anyway (Why? WHY, I asked her, did you watch that damn tape, and WHY are you answering your phone when you know better?), my own phone rang.
I gawked, frozen-faced, across the coffee table at my phone. It was after 11 p.m. No one ever called me this late. Was it possible that just viewing that deadly tape, within the movie displayed on my TV screen, was enough to curse me? Was I, too, now doomed to die in seven days?
No, it was just my mother calling.
Of course it was her. And, also, thank God, it was her.
“Hi, honey. I just wondered how your movies were going,” she said. “Anything really scary so far?”
I sighed. “Mostly this phone call.”
After we hung up, I set my ringer on silent. If some evil being did call to announce I’d be dead in a week, I’d let the frigging phone go straight to voice mail.
A few minutes later, Ringo began pacing the house, barking frantically. I had let him out to do his business just before the movie started. I paused the video and chewed my bottom lip. I turned on the front porch light and peeked outside: No tricycles or UPS guys in sight. I perused the back yard through the sliding glass patio door: Nothing lurking out back, at least not within the light from my deck.
I let Ringo out, slammed the door shut, and stalled a few minutes before I peered around the curtain again.
Did I mention my yard backs up to a cemetery?
I squinted through the glass, scoping out the blackness beyond my patch of lawn. The graveyard was secluded, bordered by woods and cornfields. A perfect venue for zombies, ghosts, and Children of the Corn.
Ringo patrolled the yard and finally stopped to pee. Once I ascertained no straggly-haired demon had jumped out from behind a tombstone and was waiting nearby, I quickly ushered the dog inside. Then, I locked the door and closed the curtains. Screw my mother’s added challenge to the night.
The Ring proved to be way freaky. Maybe not quite as bad as I envisioned—but only because I envisioned really, really bad. SPOILER: The evil, immortal little girl in the film had me rocking and hugging myself several times. Still, I figured if the main characters endured a series of awful events yet didn’t die some horrible death, it was practically a Hallmark movie.
Next up was The Blair Witch Project. Only twenty minutes into this film, I was so annoyed by the three main characters’ constant whining and bickering and bad decision-making—especially the girl with the over-the-top sobbing, who was to blame for half the shit that befell them—that I prayed someone would kill them.
SPOILER: I found little intriguing or frightening about this movie, except for the last few seconds. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What just happened? The final cellar scene provided ingenious and enduring shock value. And, any parents out there looking for a sure-fire punishment for your wayward young children? Make them watch this movie and then send them to the corner for a time-out. They will never misbehave again.
Paranormal Activity was ano
ther pseudo-documentary format film. I didn’t totally hate the two main characters, but I couldn’t conjure up any love for them either. Especially the husband, who lost me at his first moment of stupid. SPOILER: They both die. And I didn’t much care. But I did make a note to permanently seal the ceiling hatch to my attic.
By the time I got to Insidious, at nearly 4:30 in the morning, I’d learned a bit about what really engaged and frightened me in horror movies. Perhaps it was the writer in me, but I needed likeable characters who eventually got screwed over, a tight plot without pointless and irritating dialogue, and lots of shocking “Oh shit” moments.
Insidious had this all, as well as a childlike demon-creature dancing to “Tiptoe through the Tulips.” As if the song’s original singer, Tiny Tim, wasn’t creepy enough. Shudder. The movie was so intense that I actually screamed a couple times, most notably when my Internet faltered and the movie began buffering in the most nail-biting scene.
I panic-popped potato chips all during Insidious. If I hadn’t sworn off alcohol for the night, vodka shots definitely would have been in order. SPOILER: Just when you think it’s a happy ending, it is so not.
I finished up my night of film fright around 6:30 a.m. Staying awake until dawn didn’t prove to be much of an added challenge. Even in my middle age, I apparently was still a night owl. Who says all-night college parties don’t help prepare you for real life?
Although my horror fest elicited a number of heart palpitations, I never once hid beneath a blanket nor seriously toyed with the idea of turning off the TV. I was proud how I powered through this scary chapter of my life. Maybe I could finally put this particular fear behind me.
Before I headed off to bed, just after sunrise, I watched two episodes of Parks and Recreation. I might have felt braver than I had ten hours earlier, but I figured a good laugh would lull me to sleep better than any death screams lingering in my head.
As I lay in bed though, I tossed for hours. I wanted to blame it on the Diet Coke and onion dip. But truth be told, I remained plagued by the refrain of “Tiptoe through the Tulips.” Weeks later, I still couldn’t get that disturbing song—nor the image of the demon child dancing to it—out of my brain.
Finding My Badass Self Page 16
