A true story about a very small world, part III.

Mrs. E and the Big Mistake (continued)

It is a truth universally acknowledged generally recognized known to the few stalwarts who have put up with my presence for any length of time that Mrs. E has only two strategies when confronted with potential personal crisis: a) unplug the phone, curl up in a ball on the bathroom floor and lock the door or b) dive headfirst into the deeps and attempt to surf the roiling waves of human strife with honesty (rudeness), integrity (bullheadedness) and wit (sarcasm). Both involve nausea, cramping, vomiting, diarrhea, sweating, chills and a constant heartrate only slightly lower than a hummingbird’s. Neither is fun to watch. Neither works very well.

B never, ever happens until she has been forced out of the bathroom.

Thanks to The Kid, I didn’t even have time for the puking to begin.

A true story about a very small world, part II.

(I published the first part of this before and took it down; now parts 2 and 3 are finished and I thought what the hell. Sue me. Part 1 is below.)

Mrs. E and the Big Mistake (continued)

Because of course, I was lying through my lovely veneered teeth.

We had dated, if the definition of “dating” can be understood to include “screwing around during a season of summer rep before Ms. Euphrosyne had matured enough to end an existing relationship honestly, thereby employing the classic technique of using the fling as a catalyst with no intention of ever taking it, or him, seriously.” It had seemed so perfect, in a sleazy way. He was almost ten years older, living and going to graduate school across the country in the fairytale world of C___________, and most importantly, he had played the end of the summer beautifully in harmony with my narcissistic needs.

Yes, it was fine that we date other people. Yes, we should stay in touch. Yes, maybe we could arrange a meeting at some unspecified future time, but there was to be no pressure, no obligation. I was nineteen, a late bloomer in full and raging efflorescence, and the last thing I wanted was a commitment of any kind. He was almost insultingly fine with that. I cried when I left my new friends that August; I could barely speak to the man I truly had a terrible crush on; I said good-bye to the fling with not a flutter of regret, and he was just as calm.

A true story about a very small world.

(I published the first part of this before and took it down; now parts 2 and 3 are finished and I thought what the hell. Sue me.)

Mrs. E and the Big Mistake

There is no doubt that I showed spectacularly poor judgment; not head-through-a-windshield or hey-I’m-in-jail poor judgment, but poor nonetheless. In retrospect, however, I feel a substantial portion of blame (and isn’t that what it’s all about, really?) should rest squarely on the skinny shoulders of The Kid Who Should Have Been in Honors English. You always get at least one in the chaos of wildly varied adolescent humanity that is “regular” freshman English: the transfer whose records haven’t made it yet, the eighth-grade binge drinker who is now sober with a 1.3 grade average, the emotionally disturbed introvert disguising rage as apathy, or the most depressing type, the hard-drugging 17-year-old total waste of potential.

The Kid in this instance was a classic transfer delay. He was polite, he was smart, he knew all the answers, he was a typical late-maturing male – he was exactly like most of the guys in all my own high school classes. Fortunately for The Kid’s health and well-being, he was also funny and rather pretty, a favorite with the regular English pep squad girls, although their approval did not extend to thinking of him as a potential sexual partner. The popular girls adopted him, petted him, laughed at his jokes – and you can bet your sweet ass that meant most of the boys did not give in to their natural instinct to kill off the weakest pack member. Even the most hormone-addled teenage boy knows you don’t kick the hot chick’s dog. So The Kid, unlike most of his misplaced kind, enjoyed a relatively peaceful scholastic existence.

The boys of summer

Ah, spring in Texas – and an unseasonably cool and temperate one at that – and a weekend warrior’s thoughts naturally turn to thoughts of mountain biking. My particular champion made his first assault of the year on the Hill Country last weekend. Seasoned campaigner that he is, he did not venture forth alone. He was accompanied by a small and trusted cadre of companions and fellow nrrds; hmm…

Captain Brian, bowed by the weight of command:

I think the helmet adds an air of gravitas, don’t you?

Commander Dave, either constipated or plotting mutiny:

He’s much more handsome in real life, but we don’t tell him that.

Lieutenant Will, recently married, caught in an unguarded moment:

Marriage has not yet damped his natural joie de vivre; considering that his wife is hotter than anyone has a right to be, this is not surprising.

Ensign Derrick, the redshirt, just happy to still be alive.

We don’t know much about Derrick except his propensity for Texas-themed casual wear and a general air of being a good sport.

Prizes, prizes, prizes

For Mr. Smarty Pants:

and a mix CD (yes, I’m that dorky): Ultra-Craggy Outlaw Country Singers of My Childhood: Willie, Waylon, Kris and Johnny.

A special edition of this CD will be sent to The Most Dedicated Contestant, my Aunt Zerlene, who updated her entry twice, no, maybe three times? Anyway, it was impressive.

For The Most Vehement Protester on the Subject of Jeremy Brett, Polly: Boo Hoo 1 and Boo Hoo 2, Euphrosyne’s favorite songs of lost love, self-pity, and general moaning.

And of course, the CDs I still owe Texasgurl will be posted post-haste, really, no really, if she will kindly send me her address once again.

 

All right, girls: the winner is…

… a guy.

One of two guys who entered. The other one, although a good sport for playing, totally crapped out. I know. I’m in shock, too.

So, Alan – you win. Congratulations. Since part of the prize is a rather girly piece of jewelry, I can either substitute something else or send it along for your spouse…

I’m very happy that so many played – a total of 17 entries, which is probably almost as many readers as this blog actually has.

Apparently, Waylon Jennings and Sean Bean were the least recognized, with a small but vocal minority (Mom and Polly) protesting that Jeremy Brett’s picture looked nothing like his most famous character, Sherlock Holmes. Aaryn guessed Eddie Rabbitt for #1, which I thought was pretty good, really – right era, right genre, wrong bearded guy.

Tomorrow I’ll post prize pictures; including the consolation offerings.

The answers… revealed

Before I rush off to tabulate the entries and declare the winner (although I’m pretty sure who that will be), here are the names you’ve all been waiting breathlessly for. Wait, breathe first. Okay, now read.

1. Waylon Jennings, at the height of his craggy sexiness. (Hmmm. Crexiness? Not sagginess – that comes later.)
2. Gabriel Byrne.
3. Alan Rickman.
4. Peter Falk. That’s right, damn it, Peter Falk. Stop laughing, Polly. (I never knew that ol’ Sweatypalms had auditioned for Columbo, but it made me giggle to hear it. I only spent one school year within his icky range of influence, after all.)
5. Jeremy Brett, the best Sherlock Holmes ever, and also Audrey Hepburn’s smitten follower in My Fair Lady.
6. Robert (quiver) Mitchum.
7. Sam Elliott.
8. Sean Bean, or as I like to call him, Beanie Meanie, since he always plays villains.
9. Ciaran Hinds.
10. JEREMY IRONS, Mom. For the love of all things craggy, Jeremy Irons.

Okay, off to count.

The Craggy Files: Let’s play a game, shall we? With a prize!

LAST CHANCE! Cut-off time is 2:00 pm CST today – that’s right, Mom.

This time, I have an actual prize all ready to go. Here are pictures, in no particular order, of my favorite Craggy Secret Boyfriends. Identify them, send your answers to amivins at yahoo dot com, and the first one in with all the most right names wins! Because frankly, this blog has been a major bummer lately, and I think it’s time to lighten things up.

Everyone is eligible: relatives, friends, casual browsers, crazy stalkers… go for it.

Here we go!

1. 2.

3. 4.

5. 6.

7. 8.

9. 10.

My God, the cragginess.

Hints

• Only numbers 1, 5 and 6 are dead. This is a pretty good percentage for Mrs. Euphrosyne.
• Number 1 was a singer.
• Number 5 should be fairly elementary.

Update

• Ten entries so far; the current leaders are one of my aunts and some dude. No one has them all yet… go! Go!

My first correspondence from a gentleman: 1974

8 April, 1974

Miss Ann A_____

206 Blaze, Dr.

San Antonio, Texas, 78218

Dear Ann:

I was very glad indeed to receive the kind letter that you wrote me when you were in N_____ & Company’s offices last Tuesday. I had a little trouble to understand one of the sentences you wrote: for example: 8tq7h40ikjh 000. But after studying hard, I came up with some nice things you said about me. I do hope I was not mistaken in the complimentary result at which I arrived. You see most people like to hear nice things about themselves; especially when they come from so charming a person as your self. I am no exception to the general rule. I could have preferred that you had come to my little room and talked with me. However beggars must not try to be choosers and if you will visit us again I shall rest entirely content.

How about something else. I have two little dogs; one is named Bullwinkle and we call him Bull for short. The other is named Mancha; that means “spot” in Spanish and we call him so because he has a beautiful black spot on his back, just ahead of his tail. Like people, each is different from the other. For example; Bull is very particular about what he eats, while Mancha will eat anything you give him. I believe some people are that way. Of the two, Bull is the smarter. He comes into my room every morning and finds me very comfortable in bed and hoping that I will not have to get up. But Bull will not have it so. He sticks his wet little black nose in my face and keeps doing that until I simply have to get up. When I do, he says: “now go on and get dressed and come to breakfast and give me a piece of your bacon.” That is just what I do.

I am not going to tell you to be a good girl; I am sure that you need no such admonition. If I use a few words that you do not understand very well, ask your nice mother. She knows much more about words than I do and makes me feel quite ashamed of myself.

Good bye, now; and come to see me soon.

Affectionately,

R N_______

• I was four years old; he was at least 80. He was my mother’s employer and her devoted friend until he died.

One more Cyrano post

Before Broadway went dark, I read some reviews of Kevin Kline’s Cyrano. Most agreed that he was divine, but the supporting cast was weak. Tragic – though it may seem like a one-man show, it’s not. A cloying or bubble-headed Roxane (and I’ve seen both) renders Cyrano’s passion for her both unbelievable and degrading. An empty-headed Christian (and I’ve seen one) doesn’t have quite the same deleterious effect, but he has to be clever enough to deliver a poet’s words and charming enough to hold our sympathy for his inadequacies; after all, he isn’t the villain.