by Ree Drummond
Just then, the music stopped. The band needed a break from Mike’s requests. As they were exiting the stage, a sudden uproar—an explosion—erupted from the first floor of the country club.
ASU had shocked the world by beating Nebraska. The final score: 19–0.
September twenty-first was about to go down in history as the most memorable date of Marlboro Man’s life.
SOON IT was time for us to leave; the clock had struck midnight, and we had miles to go before we slept. After throwing my bouquet and saying good-byes, Marlboro Man and I ran through the doors of the club and climbed into the back of a smoky black limousine—the vehicle that would take us to the big city sixty miles away, where we’d stay before flying to Australia the next day. As we pulled away from the waving, birdseed-throwing crowd at the front door of the club, we immediately settled into each other’s arms, melting into a puddle of white silk and black boots and sleepy, unbridled romance.
It was all so new. New dress…new love…a new country—Australia—that neither of us had ever seen. A new life together. A new life for me. New crystal, silver, china. A newly renovated, tiny cowboy house that would be our little house on the prairie when we returned from our honeymoon.
A new husband. My husband. I wanted to repeat it over and over again, wanted to shout it to the heavens. But I couldn’t speak. I was busy. Passion had taken over—a beast had been unleashed. Sleep deprived and exhausted from the celebration of the previous week, once inside the sanctity of the limousine, we were utterly powerless to stop it…and we let it fly. It was this same passion that had gotten us through the early stages of our relationship, and, ultimately, through the choice to wave good-bye to any life I’d ever imagined for myself. To become a part of Marlboro Man’s life instead. It was this same passion that assured me that everything was exactly as it should be. It was the passion that made it all make sense.
IN THE coming year, real life would come crashing in around us. Within days of our wedding, we would receive unexpected, startling news that would cause us to cut our honeymoon short. Within weeks, we would endure the jarring turmoil of death…divorce…and disappointment. In the first year of our life together, we would be faced with difficult decisions, painful conflict, and drastic changes in plans.
And through every step of the way, it would be the passion that sustained us.
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-two
THE SICK AND THE DREAD
AS OUR plane touched down in Sydney I rubbed my eyes, which were so puffy and encrusted with fourteen hours’ worth of postwedding airplane sleep that I couldn’t see more than six inches in front of me. Aside from a viewing of the Aussie movie Cosi with Toni Collette and a couple of under-the-felt-blanket snuggles with Marlboro Man, I’d slept almost the entire flight—a result of the exhaustion, not just from having endured a six-hundred-plus-guests wedding, but also an almost year-long roller coaster with my parents. It was the deepest I’d slept in months.
Having crossed the international date line, it was Tuesday morning when Marlboro Man and I finally checked into the Park Hyatt, nestled right on the Sydney Harbor. Starving, we feasted on a big plate of scrambled eggs from the lobby buffet before heading up to our room, which overlooked the harbor and had remote control–operated drapes and a marble bathtub just big enough for two newlyweds hell-bent on discovering every single thing about each other’s bodies that they could, as soon as humanly possible. We didn’t come up for air till Wednesday afternoon.
“Let’s just stay here for the whole three weeks,” Marlboro Man said, tracing his finger along my scapula as we lay dreamily in our honeymoon bed.
“I’m game,” I said, gazing at his whiskered face. Sydney was my new favorite place on earth.
Marlboro Man pulled me closer, our heads nestling in each other’s necks…our legs wrapping as tightly around each other as was orthopedically possible. We were as one flesh as two people could be. There were no two ways about it.
It didn’t take long for us to realize, though, that we hadn’t eaten since the eggs twenty-four hours earlier. Eating was the one desire of the flesh we hadn’t fulfilled.
I remembered seeing a McDonald’s near the entrance of our hotel, and since I needed a little exercise I offered to dart out for some safe and predictable American food, which would tide us over till the dinner we had reservations for that night. Our blood sugar was too low to comb the city, looking for a place to have a quick lunch.
I knew Marlboro Man was a ketchup-only guy when it comes to burgers, and that’s what I ordered when I approached the counter: “Hamburger, ketchup only, please.”
“Sar…you only want kitchipinmite?” the innocent clerk replied.
“Excuse me?”
“Kitchipinmite?”
“Uh…pardon?”
“You jist want a hamburger with kitchipinmite?”
“Uh…wha?” I had no idea what the poor girl was saying.
It took me about ten minutes to realize the poor Australian woman behind the counter was merely repeating and confirming my order: kitchip (ketchup) inmite (and meat). It was a traumatic ordering experience.
I returned to the hotel room, and Marlboro Man and I dug into our food like animals.
“This tastes a little funny,” my new husband said.
I concurred. The mite was not right. It didn’t taste like America.
THAT NIGHT we got dressed up—Marlboro Man in his snug Wranglers and handsome black button-down shirt, me in a flowy taupe dress and black heels—and headed out for the restaurant that a tour booklet had told us was the most sublime dining experience in all of Sydney. We snuggled in the cab to the high-rise whose top floor housed the place.
“You’re mine,” Marlboro Man said, his strong hand caressing my knee in such a way that I considered asking the cab to return to the hotel. My hunger for a substantial meal was the only thing that propelled me onward to the restaurant.
The thirty-six-floor ride to the top of the building took seconds, it seemed, and when the elevator doors parted we were greeted by beautiful Aussie accents welcoming us to what appeared to be a gorgeous five-star restaurant. I inhaled deeply, smelling grilled meats…garlic…wine…freshly baked bread. It was a far cry from the peculiar McDonald’s experience from earlier in the day, and after we were seated and began perusing the menu, I could see that we were home free. What an awesome joint.
But then, unexpectedly, the words on the menu began moving around the page; I blinked my eyes in an attempt to ward off the strange visual disturbance, but that only served to muddy them even more. I glanced at Marlboro Man, who was reading through the beef main courses, and immediately I felt an uncomfortable wave of nausea wash over my body. I grabbed the glass of water our waiter had just brought to the table; by the time I swallowed my first gulp, the situation was dire. Suddenly the aroma of the five-star establishment was a scourge, a predator drone following and firing suffering at me. I felt green.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, setting down the menu and making a beeline for the restrooms, which were at the top of a winding spiral staircase on the other side of the restaurant. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, I’d slapped my hand over my mouth, trying to ward off what I realized by then would certainly be vomit—and I barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up everything I’d eaten in the past six months, it seemed.
What in the world? I thought to myself. I’d never experienced such a sudden attack of barf like this. Could it be the mite from McDonald’s? Maybe it was a kangaroo.
I felt better immediately and stumbled to the sink area of the bathroom, where two hot young Aussie women were brushing their sexy blond hair and adjusting their short skirts so that they hit at just the perfect place on their bronze thighs—no doubt made such a beautiful shade of golden brown by the strong Australian sun. I, by contrast, looked in the mirror to find a mascara-smeared face and bulging eyes caused by my heaving episode a minute earlier. In my haste to leave th
e table, I’d left my purse, too, and had no makeup to save me. So I did my best, using the scented hand soap to lightly wash the black from under my eyes…and availing myself of the complimentary combs to give myself a quick hair touch-up. I hoped there weren’t any vomit chunks in my wavy auburn locks. That would be sure to ruin Marlboro Man’s dinner.
“You okay?” Marlboro Man asked when I returned to our table. He’d ordered a Coke, and his bread plate was covered with crusts. I’d been gone over ten minutes.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sorry; I just…I just got a little sick all of a sudden.”
“What’s wrong?” he said, by then probably alarmed by the green tinge of his new wife.
“I have no idea—it just hit me like a ton of bricks,” I explained. “I’m fine now, though!”
“Maybe you’re pregnant,” he said with a sly grin.
I knew enough about the timing of conception and morning sickness to know that pregnancy likely wasn’t the problem. “I don’t think that’s it—,” I began. Then it hit me again even more violently than before, and I ran back to the bathroom, where I lost it again—this time in a different stall.
Sydney, we have a problem.
Immediately feeling better again, I tended to my appearance, resigning myself to skipping the whole “food part” of this dinner and instead plunging straight into survival mode. I wasn’t going to let this ruin the first official meal of our honeymoon. Marlboro Man needed food. Please, Lord, please. Let this be the last time.
I combed my bangs again, which were starting to look a little sweaty.
When I exited the bathroom this time, Marlboro Man was standing right outside the door—just as he’d been at his grandmother’s house when I’d had my flop sweat episode at his cousin’s wedding. He put his arm around me as I dabbed the corners of my eyes with a Kleenex. The gagging had sent my tear ducts into overdrive.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
It was the first time he’d called me that. I felt married.
“I have no idea!” I said. “I must have picked up a stomach bug or something. I’m so sorry!”
“It’s okay—we can just head back to the hotel.”
“No! I want you to eat….”
“I’m fine—I just ate a whole basket of bread and had two Cokes. I’m good to go.”
The nausea hit again, and I ran back into the bathroom.
After vomiting again, I decided to take him up on his offer.
Exiting the cab back at the hotel, I found walking to be difficult. I hadn’t ingested a single drop of liquor, but I suddenly couldn’t walk in a straight line. Grabbing Marlboro Man’s arm, I used him to steady myself until we got to the room, where I immediately fell on the bed and wrapped myself in the comforter.
“I feel so sorry for you,” Marlboro Man said, sitting down on the bed beside me and gently playing with my hair, a gesture that proved to be too much for me.
“Could you please not do that?” I said. “The motion kinda makes me sick.”
I was a complete and utter mess.
I was a nauseated loser.
It was Marlboro Man who deserved the sympathy.
I FELL ASLEEP at nine that night and didn’t move until nine the next morning, waking up still dressed and wrapped like a pupa in the Park Hyatt’s comforter. Marlboro Man wasn’t in the room; I was disoriented and dizzy, stumbling to the bathroom like a drunk sorority girl after a long night of partying. But I didn’t look like a sorority girl. I looked like hell, pale and green and drawn; Marlboro Man was probably on a flight back to the States, I imagined, after having woken up and seen what he’d been sleeping next to all night. I made myself take a warm shower, even though the beautiful marble bathroom was spinning like a top. The water hitting my back made me feel better.
When I came out of the bathroom, refreshed and wearing the Park Hyatt robe, Marlboro Man was sitting on the bed, reading an Australian paper, which he’d picked up down the street along with some orange juice and a cinnamon roll for me in hopes it would make me feel better.
“C’mere,” he said, patting the empty spot on the bed next to him. I obliged.
I curled up next to him. Like clockwork our arms and legs began to wrap around each other until we were nothing but a mass of flesh again. We stayed there for almost an hour—him rubbing my back and asking me if I was okay…me, dying from bliss with each passing minute and trying to will away the nausea, which was still very much hovering over our happiness.
I made myself get up and get dressed; I was determined to be a young, vibrant bride and spectacular honeymoon companion. We went out for lunch and tried a museum, but the dizziness became worse. I had to do something. “I’m going to go back to the hotel and find a doctor,” I said. “I’ve just got to do something to get rid of this. It’s going to ruin our honeymoon.”
“I think you’re pregnant,” Marlboro Man suggested again. But I knew that wasn’t it.
We found a family clinic near the hotel and were able to get in to see Dr. Salisbury, a beautiful, tall physician with a strong, comforting voice and naturally blond hair. After a battery of neurological tests and a litany of standard diagnostic questions, she finally asked, “Did you recently take a long flight?”
I told her we’d flown from Oklahoma to Los Angeles, then from Los Angeles to Sydney.
“Did you sleep a lot of that time?” she continued.
“Pretty much the entire time,” I answered. My concern grew. Could it be something terrible and communicable? TB, perhaps? The flu? A terrible strain of airborne malaria? “What’s wrong, Doctor? Give it to me straight; I can take it.”
“I believe what you have,” she said, “is an inner ear disturbance—most likely brought on by the long flight and the sleep.”
An inner ear disturbance? How boring. How embarrassing.
“What would sleeping a lot have to do with it?” I asked. As the daughter of a physician, I needed a little more data.
She explained that since I hadn’t been awake much during the flight, I hadn’t yawned or naturally taken other steps to alleviate the ear popping that comes from a change in cabin pressure, and that my ears simply filled with fluid and were causing this current attack of vertigo.
Fabulous, I thought. I’m a complete wimp. It was a real high point.
“Is there anything she can do to make it better?” Marlboro Man asked, looking for a concrete solution.
The doctor prescribed some decongestant and some antinausea medication, and I crawled out of her office in shame.
THE NEXT morning, hallelujah, I was worlds better—a good thing, since it was time for us to retrieve our rental car for our drive up the coast of Australia.
Marlboro Man had planned the entire trip, right down to the rental car we’d use to drive from Sydney all the way up the eastern coast. He’d been especially excited about traveling to the Land Down Under. He’d always wanted to see how Australian ranches–known as cattle stations—compared with those in America.
This was the mid-1990s, a few years before the SUV revolution had taken full root in the world. Still, because we were planning to be in Oz for three weeks and would have lots of luggage, and because he had grown up driving only large vehicles and could never be comfortable in a regular car, Marlboro Man had decided renting an SUV for our Australian honeymoon was the way to go.
Britz Rentals of Australia was a large enough car rental firm that they did have SUVs for rent. And not just any SUVs—Toyota Land Cruisers, which, at that time in history, were considered a luxury vehicle. Marlboro Man was thrilled to the core to have booked and prepaid for the Land Cruiser in order to lock in a good rate. We checked out of our beautiful hotel room and loaded all our bags in a cab, directing the driver to take us to Britz, where we’d pick up our sleek Toyota Land Cruiser and begin our journey of love up the eastern Australian coast.
When the attendant at Britz Rentals of Australia whipped around in our prepaid-in-full honeymoon car, my eyes grew wide and I knew we we
re in trouble. It was an SUV, yes, and a Toyota Land Cruiser at that—just as Marlboro Man had ordered. It was white and clean and very shiny. And painted in huge bright orange and royal blue lettering across the hood, the roof, all four doors, and the tailgate of the vehicle, were scrawled the enormous words: BRITZ RENTALS OF AUSTRALIA.
I could see Marlboro Man’s jaw muscles flex as he beheld his worst nightmare playing out in front of his eyes. He could hardly even bear to gaze upon such an attention-grabbing abomination, let alone conceive of driving it all over an entire continent. Unfortunately, our last-minute attempts to trade to another vehicle proved to be futile; even if Britz hadn’t been completely booked that week, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Every single car in their fleet was smeared with the exact same orange and blue promotional graffiti.
Having no other transportational alternative, we set off on our drive, a black cloud of conspicuousness and, in Marlboro Man’s case, dread following us everywhere we went. Being an attention-seeking middle child, I didn’t really mind it much. But for Marlboro Man, this was more than his makeup was programmed to handle. As far as he was concerned, we were the Griswolds, and the Land Cruiser was our Family Truckster.
It was a pox on what might have been the perfect honeymoon.
Except for my inner ear disturbance. And the vomiting. And the slightly marsupial undertone to the hamburgers.
Chapter Twenty-three
FOR A FEW DOLLARS LESS
WE MADE our way to the misty Blue Mountains north of Sydney and settled into a resort in the smoky hills. My nausea was still hanging around, but the quiet, isolated resort lent itself well to lying around in the hotel room, ordering room service, and avoiding going anywhere at all, lest we have to drive our Britz rental. But it was fine with us, lying around a hotel room on the other side of the world, absolutely gobbling each other up and wondering why we ever had to return to our home country if it meant unwrapping each other from our arms for more than ten seconds. We were fused together, inextricably locked in a permanent state of bodily oneness. It was everything a honeymoon should be. I felt better, too. The mountain air had helped my equilibrium.
