Johnny sez 500 words, so let's go. The Five Hundred.
This was a good weekend, marital relations-wise. Things have been rocky these last two or three years, like a continuous wave of Hurricane Katrinas, and sometimes it's the eye of the hurricane that gives you twelve hours of peace while other times it's the weeks between the blowers and ocean surge...
She's the childhood sweetheart. The girl who clapped for the high school homecoming queen because she was relieved, so she didn't have to be in the spotlight. The cheerleader. The girl who got in the best sorority, and then depledged. The girl who knew how to wear scarves and didn't need makeup, ever. She's way too good for me. This is a widely acknowledged truth. We've had good years and not so good. This weekend was good.
Last night we attended a wedding reception, or whatever you call it. A presentation? I must consult my Emily Post. The wedding happened a week ago, down in South Carolina. When you're rich you have a dinner in the groom's hometown to introduce the New Missus to the lad's friends and family. We were dressed in our wedding finery -- men in suits and black shoes and women in heels and jewelry -- and went to Fairfax County's country club, a very chi-chi place. Men and women floated by with wine glasses and finger sandwiches. An hour of small talk with friends long missed.
My wife looked gorgeous, I have to admit. She is a Grace Kelly kind of woman whose looks sharpen with age. Her hair is still ash blonde. Our daughters have taught her the basics of makeup and jewelry, and they go clothes shopping with her now. (Thank you R and J.) She is kind and gracious to all who meet her, a natural conversationalist. She is the kind of woman who makes other women comfortable. Men look at her out of the corners of their eyes.
When we meet couples, we invariably get the same reactions: They look at her and they look at me, and then if this was a movie there'd be a cartoon balloon that would appear over their heads. The text would say, "How'd she end up with him?" It's a mystery.
The bathroom walls have wallpaper with tasteful vertical stripes and icons of fox hunts and men playing golf.
G. Gordon Liddy was there with his wife. We didn't say hello.
Ronald Reagan was the topic of conversation at our table. A talkative gray haired man sitting next to me at the dinner table turned out to be the attending nurse-practitioner who was in the ER when Reagan was shot. He told us about going into OR with the president after he and James Brady were shot on March 30, 1981. The NP was standing next to Nancy Reagan when Ronnie told her, "Mommie, I forgot to duck." Then he passed out. 5 hours in the OR minimizing damages from two shots into the chest cavity.
You just never know who's going to be sitting next to you at these affairs. Several older man-younger woman couples were sprinkled around the room. I used to envy them. Now they just look funny, and I feel sorry for the women.
Filet mignon, tender as could be. Champagne. Great coffee.
Dancing was fun. When the DJ played some hoary favorites, like the Electric Slide, the women stayed on the dance floor. The men watched. I couldn't take my eyes off my wife. Damn. She does look good.
The hostess came over and chatted with me. We both watched B. She turned to me and said, "Your wife looks so sexy out there."
Yes. Yes, she does.