The weekend was extraordinary-hot, balmy, the sun always out and the moods always high. After a few days of grumpiness, the good moods broke through Mr. Y and I much like the summer has suddenly broken through England-with warmth, heat and light the likes of which I find I can't live without. Saturday morning he laid me down on the bed, exposing my girly bits to the sun, and with great concentration and a fabulous hard-on, he tapered and shaved my minge, working hard, looking deep in concentration, an artist at his palate.

An hour later, and I had a gorgeous and flawless star adorning my beaver.

Perfect.

Friday I spent some time outside, and as such, got to know my neighbors a bit more. Hanging laundry out to dry, I heard some raised voices. Curious. You almost never hear anyone raise their voice unless they're calling their errant daschund or looking after Squeakers the cat. So I found myself tuning in, mostly since I wondered who they were, but also since we all love to peep into other people's lives.

It was clearly an argument, and coming from a house that Mr. Y and I had, for so long, assumed was vacant- a beautiful brick structure on the cricket green, it had the sad disused look of a condom at prom night-wanting to be occupied but getting nowhere fast. Their backyard butts up to ours, but we have a stunningly high privacy fence draped with clematis, so there wasn't going to be any peeping. It was definitely an argument over there-it was an older man with the voice of a lifetime smoker, the hoarse hidden cough you could hear aching to come out of the strained vocal cords, the throat a sandpaper tunnel. He was arguing with a young guy, who was nearly in hysterics, you could hear panic, stress and desperation all over his voice. But there was something oddly familiar about it, there was something that made me tilt my head like a dog and wonder what was striking me.

Then I heard it.

'Cletus! Ah'm not playin' with yuh now! Ah'm ah gonna' call 911 in a minute! Ah'm not playin', if you keep up with that rastling!'

Oh sweet Jesus.

The neighborhood had just been infected with Southern bumpkins.

I listened a bit longer, and sure enough-the old man was about as Southern as they get-after living half my life in the South, I can detect redneck at 20 paces, and this man clearly had the farmer's tan. I rubbed my hand in my face-the Americans were bickering, and doing it at incredible decibel levels.

I ran inside and got some shoes on and went walking around the corner to see what the hell was going on-I don't generally get involved in fights (the kind with no violence, anyway), but I also don't like it when I hear young people crying and in such a panic. I walked around the corner and saw that the brick house, usually so alone, now had what looked like the entire kitchen appliance set sitting in the front yard-stove, fridge, boards all over the place. But it was abandoned. I walked around to the back yard, but they had apparently already left, as there wasn't a person in sight. Mr. Y came around to the front yard, and stood there watching.

I was about to walk out of their yard when something caught my eye on top of the mound of trash and kitchen goods that was littering the yard-there, rolled up and looking seriously abused, was an American flag. I reached for it and unrolled it, feeling the starched stiffness of a flag that has suffered some elements. It pisses me off when people disrespect flags-any flag-and I felt even worse about it with this flag-with my flag.

Mr. Y looked at me unfurling it and said straight away, 'There's something wrong with it. It's an old flag. Look at the stars.'

I looked at them and saw nothing unusual.

'Look at the pattern.' He said patiently. So I did, and then I did a double-take, and then I counted them. This flag must indeed have been old. It only had 48 stars.

Of course I nicked it, and took it home, washing it in the sink and hanging it to dry on the line outside. I'm not sure what I am going to do with it, but I felt it needed me to liberate it from the trash pile and take care of it.

I love adopting strays.

I stood outside in the sun later and talked for ages to Petunia's owner, a single mom named Sarah. She is the mother of the Perfect Child, 3-year-old Ellen. You know the Perfect Child. Gorgeous, sweet, enormous eyes and kind nature. Easy to talk to and with that perfect little girl giggle that makes grinch hearts melt.

Sarah is a bit different-she's a tiny wispy blond thing, something slightly elfish wafting about her. She doesn't eat really since she often forgets to make herself something when she cooks for Ellen, and anyway she can't cook and so simply doesn't. She's a gardener and landscape artist that has chosen to simply take time off work and raise Ellen until she begins school, and so they live on almost no money and with no extravagances. Sarah sometimes doesn't seem real to me-porcelain skin, pale blue eyes, blond hair, and a tiny, tiny figure, and she is such a softie that she captures bad bugs in her garden, puts them in a jar, and later releases them by the lake. She simply can't kill anything.

We're standing in the sun, Ellen dancing around in a little white leotard with wired wings on the back, a little fairy costume that she twirls about as she discusses her teddy bear picnic with me. It's enough to make my ovaries slam about in estrogen love, and in the sun she lights up like a roman candle. Periodically, she throws herself into her mother's arms, and when I offer her a glass of ribena (like grape kool-aid) her sweet angelic 'Yes please.' is enough to make me want to put her in a competition for world's most perfect 3 year old. She'd win. No contest.

Sarah turns to me. 'Are you and Mr. Y going to have children?' she asks.

'Well, we don't know yet. Discussions are ongoing.' I reply carefully, looking at Ellen pick up Petunia in her little girl arms, Petunia's patient cat nature allowing him to just squeeze and compress to fit her circumference.

'You'd make a fantastic mother, Helen. And Mr. Y is clearly a perfect father, he's such a young 42 year-old.' I feel an ice pick stab through my heart, gouging out lumps of cardiac flesh which get thrown about the yard. No one seems to notice my bleeding bits laying around in the grass, so I don't point them out. I smile and decide to change the subject, or else face hemorrhaging all over the yard.

'How about you and Ellen come over for lunch on Tuesday?' I ask, surprising myself. 'I know you hate cooking, but I absolutely love it. And I work from home most of the time and need a lunch break myself. So how about it? Or else I will have to abduct Petunia and hold him for ransom, not giving him back until you cave and let me feed you.'

Sarah looks startled, then smiles widely. 'We'd love that! That would be wonderful! I don't often get to talk to adults, it makes me so tired afterwards when I do get to.'

I nod. 'I know the feeling. I have such a hard time talking to people, I am so sure I am going to mess it up all the time. I'm crap at talking to people'

She looks at me. 'No, I just meant I get tired since I never get to talk to adults, I only have Ellen. Do you really think you are not so good at talking to people?'

I look back at her. 'Absolutely. I think I always muck it up.'

She smiles broadly. 'We think you're great. So friendly and so funny! You seem to have it all going for you.'

I smile. Good then-I don't come across as crazy as I'd worried I did. 'Did you hear the Americans over there fighting last night?'

She laughed. 'Are there Americans who have moved in? Haven't we met the quota?'

I know she's only kidding, so I laugh back. 'Yup. There goes the neighborhood.'

Sarah smiles. 'Would you maybe like to go for a walk with us sometimes? Or just meet up for coffee during the day?'

I smile back, feeling as though I am an alien making contact with a new world. 'I'd like that very much.' I say, staking my 48-starred American flag in friendly new foreign territory.

And I meant it.

Later that evening Kurt, a divorced sound engineer who works from home most of the time and is a really good laugh, rides by on his bike as Mr. Y and I are taking a walk, and while I am trying to defend myself from an aggressive and bitter goose who seems to take offense at my drawing breath. I invite him to lunch as well, seeing as I like cooking anyway and he doesn't often get a good meal, and he accepts. He also agrees to be my sci-fi movie buddy, since Mr. Y hates science fiction and from time to time I love a good sci-fi movie.

Riding wobbly on his bicycle so he can talk to us at the same time as we walk, he says softly, 'I realize what you're doing. I'm grateful, you know.'

My hand cupping some floating dandelion fluff, I turn to him. 'What do you mean?'

'I mean possibly matching me up with Sarah. Thanks for that, I'm not at all opposed.'

Actually, I hadn't even thought of that, but if that works out, then totally ok with me. They're nice people who deserve a little company, so hopefully some sparks fly. I doubt they will-Sarah is a supremely focused single mom-but you never know.

And later on I think-it's ok. I am making friends here, friends who don't think I am mental. Friends that talk to me and laugh with me. Friends that will join me for coffee, a walk, a meal, a movie. Is this how it's done? Letting people get to know you, letting people into your life? By talking and relaxing and trying to be yourself, to dial down the crazy? This is, after all, one of the reasons why we chose the little terraced house in Whitney Houston-to make friends, to get to know our neighbors, to have friends that we make as a couple, jointly, instead of the pins and needles incorporation of friends from our past lives, friends who knew our previous partners as well. And for the first time in my life'¦I am making friends with my neighbors. And it's great, better than I could have thought, and so nice to know there are people around to talk to and count on.

I feel acres of happy feelings about it all, and on Sunday morning, the sun coming into the window and the light coming into my head, Mr. Y turns to me and makes love to me, holding me close and kissing me as though he would drown if he couldn't. His morning stubble leaves little scratches along my lower lip, scratches that today look like I tripped and fell and skid on my face but I don't care, I love the feel and memory of them and of that morning when he held me tight and kissed me hard.

After, curled up under his arm, I ask him the kind of question that men hate. 'Name 3 reasons why you love your partner.' I ask, wondering what he'd come up with.

'You make the best risotto.' He states emphatically.

I laugh.

He sits quietly for a moment and then sys softly, 'That's the only flippant answer I can come up with. You're just great, that's it. You're great'

I like his answer so much it makes my morning. And so we go downstairs, have a day full of prancing ponies, and with Cletus' (you know-that's the name I really heard shouted. I didn't change it for my blog since it was so damn funny that someone in the world is actually named Cletus) 48-starred flag still on the line, my head full of what I can make for Kurt, Sarah and Ellen for lunch, my soul full of happiness for Mr. Y and our life, and my minge in a perfect star.

I could get used to this.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:49 AM | Comments (19) | Add Comment
Post contains 2156 words, total size 12 kb.

1 In this post you've talked about shaving your private bits, an old Stars and Stripes, a guy named Cletus, a lunch you'll be hosting, why Mr Y is so great and I think you mentioned another kind of star as well. Amazing. Best of all, you're sounding far happier. I love happy endings. Oh, wait, I mean....never mind.

Posted by: Simon at August 09, 2004 10:39 AM (UKqGy)

2 I always heard the South would rise again. I just didn't realize it would be next door to you. Sounds like a lovely weekend, apart from the ice pick.

Posted by: RP at August 09, 2004 11:13 AM (X3Lfs)

3 You are great Helen! And smart too, that you found someone that realizes how great you are

Posted by: Jadewolff at August 09, 2004 01:04 PM (tqQaS)

4 Could have been worse. Could have been a confederate flag.

Posted by: Drew at August 09, 2004 01:13 PM (CBlhQ)

5 Believe me, when you have a toddler, adult conversation is welcomed. Any parent, especially one who is at home with the toddler all day will attest to this. I almost spit up my coffee when I read that Cletus was actually his name. That's what one of my friends calls ME whenever I do or say something stupid. Oh, and it's shame that Mr Y didn't photo his handiwork. I'm not quite sure I believe it. I am from Missouri, after all... ;-)

Posted by: Easy at August 09, 2004 02:05 PM (6uVmJ)

6 Y did photograph his artwork!! And he is very pleased with himself ;-)

Posted by: 'Y' at August 09, 2004 02:12 PM (k78uM)

7 Cool! Welcome to the board, Mr. Y! We've heard so much about you that it is a pleasure to see your participation!

Posted by: RP at August 09, 2004 02:36 PM (LlPKh)

8 Helen, as someone who grew up in the South, I resemble your remarks! I remember visiting Israel; we were sitting in the diner at the King David Hotel. We had ordered blintzes. As they came by, we heard a Texan (you can always tell the Texans) say, "Honey, what are those...enchilada-lookin' things?" As someone who lived in Texas yourself, I would have thought you'd be more open to hearing the mother tongue again. And Mr. Y, welcome back. All the regulars hope you'll become a more frequent commentor to the site. You've brought our Helen such happiness, you're likely to get several hip,hip, hoorays from the peanut gallery.

Posted by: Jiminy at August 09, 2004 02:53 PM (3jhuZ)

9 Ahhhh.....my boyfriend was here. Major bonus points.

Posted by: Helen at August 09, 2004 03:14 PM (R4iEo)

10 Sounds like you live next door to me! You would laugh if you knew my husband's name.

Posted by: Marie at August 09, 2004 03:25 PM (PQxWr)

11 How on earth will you maintain the star? I can barely manage the short trim!

Posted by: kaetchen at August 09, 2004 04:34 PM (1nMRx)

12 And that, my friend, is how to do a weekend. Here's to millions more just like it.

Posted by: Jennifer at August 09, 2004 09:43 PM (N+5K8)

13 Great post Helen. Glad you had a good weekend!

Posted by: justme at August 09, 2004 10:40 PM (KBEWe)

14 How nice of Y to stop by! :::waves at Y::: Helen, your weekend sounds awesome. Cletus. Sheesh. *shakes head and laughs*

Posted by: Amber at August 10, 2004 12:58 AM (zQE5D)

15 Is it very naughty of me to want to stage a riot in your front lawn when I come visit? I don't think Whitney Houston is big enough for all of us!

Posted by: emily at August 10, 2004 02:35 AM (AO0sO)

16 Helen, Excellent post. I'm so glad you're meeting people and having fun, enjoying life and the simple things. And the way you write it - I'm in awe of your talent, as always. You are truly amazing.

Posted by: Sue at August 10, 2004 04:52 AM (6qYI/)

17 You've given CD wonderful, amazing, delicious ideas. I could kiss you both.

Posted by: Elizabeth at August 10, 2004 10:53 PM (KqlEq)

18 Awesome. And yes, offering to make delicious meals for people is certainly one way to get them into your home. Letting them get to know you is how you hook them for life though. 10.0 for both efforts.

Posted by: Almost Lucid (Brad) at August 11, 2004 02:03 PM (NOiRr)

19 I had to come back to this post because I can't stop thinking about your star. The whole image of Mr. Y doing that to you and how much you loved it has stuck with me. You share some of the sexiest stories I've read, and I'd like to thank you for filling my head with "stars" for the past week.

Posted by: Almost Lucid (Brad) at August 18, 2004 06:12 PM (oDYrr)

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