This is an absolutely true story Book Index
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"Get your facts first, then you can distort them as you please." Mark Twain
I have gotten a lot of mail asking the “ins and outs” of why I am not with Bootsie. What could have happened? Why do I not give her a chance? Those of you who have not read Pages 44 and 45; this condensed version will explain WHY Bootsie and I aren’t together: Of course if you have read those chapters just skip these paragraphs between the lines. and read the note at the end and wait for the next chapter. But it won’t kill you to read this…anyhow. I mean… I read your stuff…even when it’s mean and nasty. Just sayin…
Bootsie was the archetypal “bon vivant”. After we spent our first night together (see page 44 ) the following day Bootsie was at my work promptly at 5pm…already waiting.
“How was work?” She had gone back to the house, to be expected, and had noticed things were different from the night before. Apparently in all our lust she just skimmed past the two doors immediately preceding the love den, in practical terms, the mistress bedroom. Upon returning she took inventory of who else may be living there.
“Di, there is no delicate way to put this. She started “You have children?” .
More a statement than a question.
“Yes, my daughter is still living at home, but, not to worry, she really is a 30 year old in a 10 year old’s body”.
Bootsie doesn’t do competition of any kind. She’ll go head to head with every dyke and man on the universe, but children are another thing altogether. The sad thing was, she had not even met the child. I made a point of adult proofing my children. I always warned that the first opinion would essentially be the ONLY opinion, and they should always be certain that when they left said house, they would be welcomed back. And I did this without physical damage.
My daughter was especially cautious when it came to other's opinions. She had prohibitive self-esteem, but she yearned to be a few steps greater than the average child her age because she craved education. Life experiences were interesting to her even as a very young child. She was an innate listener, but had the shortfall of being argumentative when she absolutely knew she was correct. It was not often she was incorrect, when she was, she offered apologies. But woe to whomever offered opposition. That was a problem if it was anyone but family. Bootsie felt that children should not argue ANYTHING, no matter how Wikipedia the issue.
I explained this to Bootsie at length. I really cared for her, but, in ALL cases, my children made the final decision. I know there are many out there that have guffawed at that statement, but to have a harmonious household is conducive to good health. And children can be formidable. Children's talent to endure stems from their ignorance of alternatives. The sad thing is, Devon liked Bootsie. As opposed to most of the women I had been with to date, she had remarkable intellect.
Devon craved this in people and had little patience for issues of no context. In spite of all of that, I still looked forward to their meeting and felt it would be a wonderful meeting of the minds.
We picked Devon up from daycare, and she was still the small adult in the making though only nine. She came running to the car ready to share the day’s events. She immediately liked Bootsie, but who wouldn’t. So, being introduced to new “meat” her life story began. And Bootsie did her best in Bootsie terms, to placate the child. But this fell apart over something as trivial as a pink liquid.
While eating dinner, I coughed, Bootsie clichéd “Must have gone down the wrong pipe” .
This sent the child scurrying to the medicine cabinet, bringing the bottle of Pepto Bismal with the detail of the human digestive system on the back, explaining how it would be impossible for it to “go down the wrong pipe”. Impressive argument, don’t you think? Bootsie felt children were never to argue with an adult. Even intellectually. She was raised in that fashion as were most baby boomers. There is an extreme in either discourse and I will admit, I favored Devon because, frankly, she was already light years ahead of the average human being intellectually. And being a baby boomer as well as the much unpopular middle child, I knew how not to raise a child. As it goes I didn’t get it right either way.
So day 3 of Bootsie and my relationship went something like this: .
Sheryl decides she wanted to move home...AGAIN. She argues this while Bootsie - for whatever reason - hides in the garage holding our cat Cloudy. To this day I have no idea what either of us were thinking. But Bootsie doesn’t do the fighting thing. It will mess her hair.
Sheryl leaves, Bootsie and I make an appointment to discuss this during daylight hours.
Either en route or at work. Uneventful until ...
Bootsie calls, seemingly upset. Her tires had been flattened. She was certain it was Sheryl. I was equally as uncertain it was Sheryl. Sheryl was at work in downtown Houston at the Law Firm of Chamberlain and Hyrdlika, on the 50th floor, about 1200 feet from a parking garage or transportation. And truthfully - she wouldn’t have had the gumption much less the knowledge one would need to put together that scenario. But I gotta give it to Bootsie; to err is human, to blame it on somebody else shows management potential. Sheryl didn’t know her adversary’s name, not too difficult, but it can take a bit of time, then her address, where she would be when and what kind of car she had. So I offered to pay for new tires feeling this could fill in the gap. She demurred and was especially pathetic in demeanor. But, NO, I insisted.
“Just a minute Diane ” She says as she covers the phone allegedly talking to someone in the room. “My sister, Diane has already come here from work and taking me to get new ones, and she wants to pay for them”.
I have an almost surreal memory. Surreal in that I retain the most inane incidents but forget the important matters. I recalled Bootsie telling me about her family, her father’s steel company and her sister working for him. And of course she just gave me her sister’s name. Luckily Diane was the sister that worked at her father’s company or this case would never have been solved. After I hung up with Bootsie, I found the number to her father’s company and asked for Diane. Luckily she wasn’t on break or in the powder room. She picked up and I made some lame excuse about being mistaken to the wrong extension, something of that nature. Of course a call to Bootsie was in order. And she was home ... still. Not very quick thinking. No caller ID much less cell phones. Still, wouldn’t you think she could follow up that lie with equal action? .
“Bootsie, I just spoke to your sister... “
And she was off, like a friggin' tire fire. I let her take it away until she ran out of steam. Pretty much pissed off that I called her family. Nothing sucks more than that moment during an argument when you realize you’re wrong. Not even recognizing the lie she was just snagged in. As soon as I could get a word in, I told her I didn’t give a shit about one word she said, because it was offensive to think I could buy into that narrative. What was the REAL story here? My heart was breaking to think that this person I felt so treasured by, was not the person I celebrated. Fortunately she picked up on that immediately.
“It’s the kid” She sounded like she was reading a Robert Evan’s script “I just can’t take you having a child” .
So there it was, and considering my track record, I shouldn’t have been surprised. But that didn’t stop the sensitivity lobe from making the leap of faith. And she was speaking of my child. That not only closes the door, but it pretty much seals it, nails it, boards it, and cinder blocks it. Closed for good. But it didn’t necessarily close any windows. Well, ok, I'm being ambiguous. You will understand.
If you would like more info on Bootsie read Chapter 3 and Chapter 3 continued, as well as Chapters 44 and 45.
I do not have many pictures of Bootsie with me. I don’t have many pictures of anyone with me. All my stuff is in storage in NH. I have a huge green suitcase sitting there waiting on top of everything. If I could find a good Samaritan to go to the storage and retrieve them, I would pay for gas…and you can have your pick of the antiques and stained glass. (Lamps etc.) Yes, I really want my pictures!
Mel and me.
By the way IISTG means If It Seems Too Good to be True