Keep It in the Family
Dildo, my pet name for my ex-husband, Ira, returned from a seven-day trip that included a few days of business and a couple of days of bachelor partying. His younger brother was getting married. Being the efficient man he is, Dildo decided to kill two birds with one stone and have the party in the same location as his meetings. He reported all went well. He had productive business meetings and therefore his clients were happy. The bachelor party had an appropriate amount of fishing, alcohol, marijuana, and strippers, and therefore his brother was happy.
I spent the week in box hell. We had just moved into the home we had been designing for years. Although unpacking is almost my least favorite have-to, right up there with cleaning toilets and organizing receipts for the accountant, this wasn’t so bad. I was unpacking with the satisfaction of knowing that I would never again have to move. I vowed that the next time I moved, would be via the morgue wagon. I was productive too. In addition to unpacking most of the 300 boxes overrunning the halls and garage, I found my toothbrush, my son’s underwear, and more often than not, the phone when it rang. It rang a lot. It was either my sister, Katrina, or one of my friends asking what they could do to help with the move. I suggested, “One of those Clapper things for the portable phone would be nice.” Being the efficient woman I am, I talked to Katrina while I unpacked. She was going through a different kind of hell. Her husband, Patrick, had just died.
It was laundry day. Dildo had not yet unpacked from his travels so I took his suitcase into the laundry room and emptied its contents onto the floor. There, staring back at me, amongst his dirty socks, crumpled boxers, and stinky gym clothes was a black thong. There was no confusing it or mistaking it. This black, Victoria’s Secret, size medium, cotton thong wasn’t on my laundry room floor before I dumped out Dildo’s suitcase. The damn thing was in Dildo’s suitcase, and the damn thing wasn’t mine. Just then my daughter walked in, “Whose is that?” I brushed it off, “It’s probably Aunt Katrina’s.” The look on her face said it all. She didn’t believe me and she was scared. She must have known her world was about to turn upside down.
Every woman I know, even those not married, has participated in the What If game. “What if you found out your husband was having an affair?” We’ve all said it, or at least sat next to someone who has. “If I found out my husband was having an affair, I’d throw his ass out, naked! Then I’d take all his shit and start a bonfire in the front yard.” The thing is, when I found that black thong in my husband’s suitcase, I didn’t do any of the things I predicted I would do. In fact, my first reaction was not “He’s having an affair! I’m going to kill him!” I distinctly remember being shocked to see another woman’s underwear. I distinctly remember knowing it shouldn’t be in his suitcase. And, I distinctly remember not “getting it”. My brain, my mind, my psyche, my denial skills, my whatever, could not process the event in such a way that I reached the natural and obvious conclusion that my husband was having an affair. I came to a conclusion just short of “he’s having an affair”. I knew he was doing something he shouldn’t and I knew he was lying about it. I just couldn’t conceive the depth and breadth of what “it” was.
I stared at the thong just long enough to compose myself and concoct a plan. It wasn’t a splendid plan. It was more of a concept, a notion really - confront him without losing it. I grabbed the damn thing and walked down the hall towards our bedroom. Dildo was sitting in bed, working and watching TV. He looked so comfortable sitting their in his smug duplicity. I stood at the foot of the bed observing him while I decided how to execute this notion of mine. God. Who is this man? How many secrets are between us? Fuck you for doing this to me! I gently tossed the thong onto the papers he was reading.
He froze and turned a lovely shade of crimson, similar to one of my suits, my “Nancy Reagan suit”. I remained calm, quiet, still. His autonomic nervous system, the old part of our brain that tells the new part of our brain - we’re in trouble, really kicked into action. He was breathing quicker, his hands were shaking, and he had a huge lump in his throat that he kept trying to swallow. He didn’t look up. I had never before seen my in control, on top of it, my-way-or-the-highway husband react this way to anything. My finding this thong, it seemed, was a surprise for both of us.
I could see the wheels of creative reality turning inside his head. He needed an explanation, and quickly. The pressure was on and my serenity wasn’t helping. Silence can be uncomfortable. This silence was demonstrably excruciating - for him. He finally swallowed that lump and lifted his head, breathing through his nose. Out of breath, he asked. “Where did you find this?” Without sarcasm or indignation, I answered. “On the laundry room floor. It came out of your suitcase. Did you want me to wash it?”
The wheels inside his head spun faster. He closed his mouth again. His eyes were wide and circled around as if he was trying to read a cheat sheet he had hidden inside his sockets. I noticed his heart rate slowed down just as his eyes quit spinning. This meant he had an answer for me and had some confidence in it. He screwed his mouth and narrowed his eyes. There was a pause, and then his mouth and his eyes got wider as he drew in a breath, “It’s yours!” A self-satisfied, relieved demeanor took over.
I gave him the raised eyebrows, big eyes well what a ya know expression. He wanted to make a game out of this. Why not? thought I. Let’s play. I’ll be the host. You be the contestant. I actually had two roles in this game, that of the host and the buzzer. “Baaaauuh. Try again. I only wear European undergarments and” I turned and pointed with both index fingers. “my ass is one size smaller.”
He chewed his lip and nervously searched for the winning answer. He begrudgingly conceded. “Yea. You’re right. It’s not yours. It’s actually a stripper’s. Uh, she gave it to me after she gave me a lap dance. You see, the guys bought me a lap dance, you know, for throwing the bachelor party, and she gave it to me. Uhh, like as a souvenir. They do that ya know - give you their thongs after they do a lap dance for you. I just didn’t want to tell you about the lap dance.”
This was an exquisite combination of pain and delight: watching my husband writhe under my cross-examination about the provenance of another woman’s underwear found in his suitcase. But, back to the game show. “Well, Ira. As much as I appreciate any effort on your part to spare me the shock and horror of learning you had a lap dance … Baaaauuh. Try again. I happen to know that strippers do not give out thongs as souvenirs. Nor do they wear Victoria’s Secret thongs while they dance. They wear stripper thongs while they dance, also known as g-strings. Even if they did wear Victoria’s Secret thongs while they dance, they would not give them out because that would render them naked. Clubs have to have special licenses to have all nude dancers. And, if it were an all nude club, this supposed stripper would not be giving you a lap dance while wearing a thong. She would be giving you a lap dance while naked, and therefore would have no thong to take off and give to you as a souvenir.”
I’m sure it does not bode well that I am privy to facts about stripper attire. Please trust that I have several rather unsavory clients who have forced me into this knowledge.
Ooooo. The wheels of deception were turning. I could almost hear them. Bullshit was in production. His eyes were bugging and doing that around and around thing again. And, just as I was about to give up, I saw it! The proverbial light bulb chain had been pulled. He blurted out. “It’s your sister’s!” Even he was surprised at his genius.
I was suddenly and violently overcome by a deep apprehension about my children’s intelligence. For their sake, I hope this shit skips a generation. Katrina hadn’t been over to the house since we moved in and she took all her undies with her then. I would know if she hadn’t. We talk about five times a day. My daughter didn’t even believe that shit.
“Baaaauuh. Try again. The undies weren’t on the laundry room floor. They were in your suitcase.”
“I know. Your sister’s underwear was in my suitcase.”
I repeated slowly. “My sister’s underwear was in your suitcase?”
“Yes. They must have gotten into my suitcase.”
I was confused about where this game was going, but found it impossible to stop playing. “They must have gotten into your suitcase?” I repeated and nodded. “Sooooo, you’re having an affair with Katrina?”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“No?”
“No!”
“Sooooo, Katrina’s a stripper?”
“No! She’s not a stripper.”
“No? Katrina’s nota stripper?” I was almost impossible not to crack a smirk.
“No.”
“Okaaaay. Katrina’s not a stripper. But she gave you her thong as a souvenir, anyway?”
“No!” He shook his head with a pained expression. I could see his tongue dancing around in his mouth. “It must be your…”
“Your what? Your what?” I teased, “Your mother’s.”
“Yea! Your mother’s! It’s your mother’s thong!”
Now I have heard some crazy shit in my life. There was the client charged with exposing himself who insisted I use the “dunflop” defense. “There was no way they could have seen my penis because it is so small and my stomach is so big, it flops over my penis. Wanna see?” There was my son who tried to get out of brushing his teeth. “Mom! No. The yellow layer protects them from cavities.” There was my daughter who tried to get out cleaning her room. “I left the dust bunnies on purpose so the dog can play with them.” But this? This was priceless.
My mother, Twinkie, is a 60 year-old, big undies wearing, out of shape, former cheerleader with a bad back and a fat ass. What she lacks in athleticism, she makes up for in enthusiasm. I could, as painful as it was, see her gleefully snapping on that thong over her granny panties and dominating the center stage with her signature dance, the Pony. I could also see her losing herself in the music and busting out some leg-over-the-head stripper maneuver that throws out her back. She would do what she always does when she hurts her back: scrunch up her face showing her gums; torque around placing her hand on her lumbar; and yell, “Oh, my back. My back. I hurt my back!” and then have to be carried off the stage as dirty old men shove dollars into her granny panties.
The mental picture is something to this day I treasure. As amusing as it was, it was just that, amusing - not the truth. I left the room acutely aware of the difference. I would never again see myself, Ira, or my life in the same way. I would have to reconcile myself with the fact that I was a statistic, a cliché, and living a lie. This would not happen over night. It would be two and a half years before I divorced Dildo. Along the way, I know I have contributed to some statistics and have behaved predictably, even badly at times. I care not. This is an infinitesimal price to pay to live an authentic life.
