Me: I’m sad about Al and Tipper Gore. I’m feeling disillusioned.
Y Chromosome: How long were they together?
Me: 40 years! How did this happen? And more importantly, who will make-y out-y in a gross yet vaguely endearing manner at the DNC? Who, I ask you, who?? I was sixteen when that happened, and in some sort of twisted way, watching that made me feel slightly better about the world. And grossed out. But mostly better about the world.
Y Chromosome: Do you think something happened? Like cheating or something?
Me: I don’t think so. Maybe. It seems less likely, since he doesn’t have the hair for it. You know, John Edwards hair. Never trust a man with John Edwards hair. I’m looking at you, Bob McDonnell. And while we’re on the subject, do me a favor. When I have cancer, don’t sleep with some mindless woman who says horrible, vapid things, then knock her up, put her on your payroll, and film a sex tape while she’s pregnant, okay? As a close personal favor to me?
Y Chrome: Alright.
Me: And, to be fair, if you have cancer, I promise not to knock anyone up. Maybe.
When I was younger, I always thought it was strange when people made a big deal about the deaths of celebrities, often people I’d never heard of. I’d watch images of people leaving flowers, or crying, or holding vigils, and feel bewildered at the outpouring of grief for people they didn’t even know.
It turns out, of course, that I was just too young to feel the impact of someone I didn’t know personally on my own life.
When I hopped over to my favorite news site this afternoon, and read that Rue McClanahan had died, my heart sank, the way it did when I read about the deaths of her “Golden Girls” costars, Estelle Getty and Bea Arthur.
During its first run, my sisters and I watched “Golden Girls” religiously on Saturday nights. We probably started watching it because my Dad liked it, but we were quickly a rapt audience, often turning the volume up to tune out Dad’s snoring, which began half-way through the episode. I was only nine when the show ended in 1992, so it definitely had an early and shaping impact upon me.
Some people might be scandalized to think of a nine-year-old watching a show with suggestive dialogue, controversial topics, and frank treatment of sex, but I think the show was a wonderful influence. Rue’s character, Blanche, was my favorite, and one of my first idols. She was confident and glamorous, proud, a little vain, but good-hearted. Blanche always seemed to have lots of fun, and she was so fun to watch. I didn’t understand some of the sexual jokes and innuendo that surrounded her, but the delivery was so good I found it genuinely funny anyway, even if I didn’t get exactly what everyone was alluding to. It was here that I learned about quick comebacks, smart banter, and well-timed delivery—things that got me into a good deal of trouble as a kid, but I can’t imagine being without now.
The women went on dates and their children came in to town from time to time, but so much of the show was dedicated to topics outside of the realm of motherhood, romantic relationships, and marriage. They were older, but still sexual and sexy. They did well at their jobs and aimed for promotions; self-improvement was more than picking up a copy of Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. They took risk and got themselves into sticky situations. They didn’t rely on men to bail them out. And, best of all, they were happy.
Blanche loved men, but happily lived with her female friends. They were a team. Even when I was nine, and I played a lot of dress-up in wedding clothes with my sisters, I thought it would be perfectly divine to live with close friends and have dessert and coffee at 3 am while sitting around telling stories. The idea that every time you sat down at the kitchen table you’d have a fantastic conversation was irresistibly charming.
I can’t think of a better message for a little girl who played Barbies exclusively to chew on their feet and dress them up in wedding dresses and parade them down the aisle to a Ken doll who only had multi-colored swim trunks to mark the occasion. Cheesecake with your female friends is always better than marrying a man whose head regularly pops off and rolls to the most unreachable spot under a dresser.
In short, Rue’s Blanche is the sort of charming, goofy Southern belle I’d like to be.
I bought this little red guy at Christmas last year while I was shopping for other people (I know, I know. Don’t look at me like that. He was irresistible, in that he’s adorable and I’m utterly weak). He’s made of wool and his legs are adjustable. When I bought him, he was standing a little off-balance, and though I could easily balance him by bending his leg a little, I find his slightly tipsy stance endearing.
And then it became apparent that he’d need company, so I went out and bought the blue bird on the left last month.
And that very same day, when I got home from work, Y Chrome had the bird on the right wrapped up and waiting for me. Apparently we missed each other in the shop by about an hour, and he picked out the other bird I was debating about getting.
A few mornings ago, I was walking along the downtown mall with my cup of coffee, when two people on opposite sides of the mall a little ways ahead of me came running toward each other. I could tell that they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time. When they met in the center, they laughed and embraced; I didn’t hear their words but their voices were high and happy as they spoke excitedly. And all at once I was knocked on my ass by a wave of homesickness.
When I was in graduate school I would mark my calendar carefully, noting how many days it would be between visits from my then-boyfriend or my visits home, and I was careful not to let more time go by between visits than had ever gone by before. If the longest I had ever been away was 10 weeks, I would ensure that I wouldn’t spend more than another 10 weeks away before another I made the trip up to Connecticut again, or had someone come down to see me. It was as though I knew I could survive 10 weeks, but 10 weeks and one day might be more than I could bear. I knew it was silly, but I cautiously marked time just the same.
These days, I feel much more settled. I’m happily employed, I have friends for all occasions and running partners, and clubs, and a fabulous boyfriend minutes away. But there’s always a nagging feeling that I’m missing something, or I’m about to miss something, and that there are things I’m missing that I don’t even know about. My grandmother is ill, but no one thinks to update me when she’s admitted to the hospital. I’m in a dear friend’s wedding this summer, and have been painfully, embarrassingly uninvolved; she had two bridal showers and I was unable to make it to either one. I’ve missed slews of birthdays, parties, and get-togethers in CT, though, of course, I’ve been happily able to participate in these things down here in VA. And if I moved away, I know I’d miss this state like crazy.
When I’m in Virginia, I call Connecticut home, when in Connecticut, I refer to Virginia as home. Some days this makes me feel very lucky, this equal comfort with—and love for—two places. But now and then it occurs to me that this really means I’m always referring to home as the place where I’m not. Sometimes I wonder if this is just a stubborn refusal to be happy no matter where I am.
Still, I always feel a little silly complaining. I’m certainly not the first person to move away home, and people have moved much further away, and under much more painful circumstances. And let’s not forget about the men and women serving overseas, and the people who they’ve left behind.
And so, with that in mind, I will be even more thankful as I head up to Connecticut for a visit this weekend. I really can’t wait.
