Today is the ninth snow day I've had so far this year. You'd think I'd be over it already, but it coincides with my weather philosophy so well: if it's gonna be hot, I better be at the beach, not working. If it's gonna be cold, there better be snow on the ground (which also causes no working). Since there's snow on the ground, today I'm spending my time in this recliner planning my Homecoming Reunion, aka, 2014 Summer Vaca to Cherry Grove, North Myrtle Beach.
The Peebles' household are major fans of the Olympics. I'm talkin' bout, watch every event, all day long. Record them if we aren't here. Hang the American flag up outside like it's July 4th. And it really is an obsession that has nothing to do with enjoying watching the athletes nor cheering on our country, yada yada yada. We just sorta got into it with the Summer Games of 2012 when we were forced to watch it on the miniature ER cubicle TV while experiencing miscarriage #2. I don't know if it holds special meaning to us or what, but it's what we do. (It also could be that I'm a 14 year-old girl inside and I like to scope out the aspiring moderately attractive snowboarders and hockey players. It also could be that we pop popcorn and drink Pepsi while watching men's figure skating, secretly hoping they'll fall in all their bedazzled-tights glory. Figure Skating IS the Olympics' gayest sport, after all. And I love gay people and am still in search of the perfect gay male companion, so don't be offended. And really, if I haven't offended you yet in this writer-reader relationship, then I think we're good. I digress.)
Watching the Olympics also means you develop a bond with the commentators. With the exception of Tara Lapinski. Remember her? Yeah. She has had like Joan Rivers' amounts of plastic surgery and it's a struggle to not let my breakfast fall out of my mouth when she's on my screen. And I ate breakfast like an hour ago, so it wouldn't be pretty. Anyway, Bob Costas, bless his sweet heart, is the face of the Olympics on NBC. He aired the first night with what looked like pink eye. Doctors told him it would be better in two days. Two days turned into a week, so NBC gave him time off and have been bringing in other people all week to cover for him. He has some insane eye infection and his face looks like Rocky right now. I mean, seriously!? All this man has done for the past YEAR is research and LIVE all things 'Olympics' and he can't do all he's worked for because a rare infection has taken over his face?! It's crazy. Ol' Bobby's situation is one that's been on my mind lately. Situations that are supposed to work out one way, but end up doing a 180 and you have no control over them.
A few weeks ago, I went to a surgeon's office to schedule my gallbladder surgery. I was sitting in the waiting room in Richmond and I see an older man walk in from Victoria. He happened to be one of my favorite people from my hometown and I couldn't believe he was there, so randomly. I hadn't seen him since Christmas, but he's one of those that you could go years without seeing or talking to, yet when you do, you fall right back into conversation like you talked to them the day before. In a community like Victoria, you grow up knowing everyone. I didn't actually get to know this man until I was sixteen, even though he and I knew of each other my whole life.
At the time, he was friends with my boyfriend's mom. I'd hang out with them on Saturday nights, watching COPS, while they smoked cigarettes and I bitched about the lies my boyfriend had told me that day (and yes, I was hanging out with HIS mom while doing so). I remember, distinctly, William Howard looking straight at me, cigarette in hand, saying, "Don't be one of those psycho women". I was sixteen, so I was wounded by his words. I thought he meant, "you're being psycho, that's why your boyfriend makes up lies to be somewhere where YOU aren't." It hurt.
When I was going to community college, every Thursday night I'd go to Victoria Restaurant and eat taco salads at the community table that consisted of 2 divorcees, an older married couple, and a few older men, William Howard included. (This is evidence of the start of my old-people obsession). They were the coolest people I knew. I was working my way through a horrid break-up with the lying boyfriend, so I found solace listening to old stories and wisdom--whether it was or not--for a few hours each week.
I was 21 then. It had been about a year since I got out of my long, broken relationship. A guy I met through mutual friends in South Hill asked me out. I said yes. I shared this at the table at the restaurant one night. I remember, distinctly, William Howard looking straight at me, cigarette in hand, saying, "Told ya you wouldn't be one of those psycho women". I didn't get him...what he was saying. I brushed it off, went to pay (found out he had already paid for my dinner) and left to go walking. Half way through that walk, I realized what he meant. He told me when I was 16 not to be a psycho woman--one of those women who put up with men's nonsense because they thought they couldn't do better. He was telling me without out-right saying it that I should move on and find better. Six years later, he was telling me "congratulations, you did it" in his own way.
This was January of 2007. I ended up going out on several dates with the first guy who had asked me out since my long-term relationship. He was so opposite from what I was used to. Skater-boy mentality. Artsy. Cool. I knew it wouldn't work because it was one of those 'I like you as a best friend, not romantically' kinda things. Our dates were becoming scarce, and the week before Valentine's Day, I had to live up to my end of a lost bet and let this sarcastic cop I had recently met drive my car to Raleigh. Then, on the actual V-Day at work I get a huge bouquet of flowers (I'm talkin' like, $80 worth) from the computer tech guy that frequented our offices. Being a total non-hobag, juggling 2 admirers at one time was a bit overwhelming. I was super shy so I had my friend and coworker let the tech guy down easy. She told him I was in a relationship. (I thought she meant the skater-guy, she says to this day she meant Mike.) At the time, I didn't count Mike as an admirer. I was seriously interested, but I seriously got the vibes from him that he wasn't. I hadn't heard from him that day, so I accepted a date to dinner with the skater-boy. I got showered with gifts and food, but something just wasn't right. I decided we wouldn't go on anymore dates.
When we got back to town and on my way home, I texted Mike. I had just turned down the road to take me to Victoria when he said "why don't you come by here?" (Stop being judgmental!!! It wasn't like that!) I whipped the car around and headed to where he lived. I told him about my day (all of it!) and we talked for awhile, which was saying a lot, considering we'd only chatted via email and text thus far. When I got up to leave, he went to the kitchen and brought me back a little heart-shaped tin of Hershey's kisses. It was THE perfect Valentine's Day gift. I didn't know what to think. I didn't think the man was interested in me and BOOM. He brought out the big guns: Hershey's. It was love at first sight. I never went out with another person again. I never got flowers from anyone else. And every Valentine's Day since then, I've gotten a heart-shaped tin of Hershey's from my man.
Mike was with me that day a few weeks ago in the doctor's office. He had never met William Howard, yet I'd told him plenty about the community table at the restaurant. William Howard certainly knew all about Mike. We all chatted and I got a smug grin from the man who had given probably the most sound advice I'd ever needed, when I didn't even know what he was talking about.
When I got a call last week that William Howard had died suddenly, it was quite a shock and somewhat of a jolt to my system. It blows my mind how things work in this world. You think and you plan and you schedule, but then something beyond any of us shakes it all up. You have to find the good in whatever the outcome is. If I hadn't moved on, I'd still be one of those psycho women. I wouldn't appreciate a man's random words and apply them to how good and decent my life is now. I wouldn't get annual heart-shaped tins. And for the love of Christmas cookies, instead of being bummed out about his jacked-up face, Bob Costas is probably enjoying a paid-in-full, snowy, mountainy, Russian vacation right now. I just hope he doesn't run into Tara. Seriously, Google her. It's a nightmare.
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