I sat in the waiting area just outside gate B-7, my flight to Columbus delayed by inclement weather. Fate is wrought with irony I couldnt help but think. My addiction to the beach always had me hoping for a career or a life on the water. But when a small birth defect in my ear was discovered to be the source of my lifelong battle with motion sickness and bouts of vertigo, those aspirations were quickly doused. Water lover cruelly sentenced to a life on land. And now, as much as I love to fly I dread this trip knowing how a turbulent ride will cause me much discomfort (and those around me if I dont take precautions!).

I really didnt want to make this trip, seeing as the funeral was less than a week ago. I was feeling a little blue and I wasnt in the mood for jocularity. But my friends had insisted – it would be good for me to get away they said. And besides, they reminded me, nothing could stand in the way of our annual get-together – not weddings, not births, not natural disasters, not even the Grim Reaper. My friends were as sensitive and subtle as lightning. We hadnt missed a mission for 25 consecutive years, our first one while we were still in junior high. And by all accounts this one was going to be the mother of all missions. The women of L wouldnt know what hit them, according to my friends.

The flight delay gave me a chance to finish a book I had been reading entitled Dark Horse, the latest suspense thriller by Tami Hoag. I love her stuff. It had all the ingredients I look for in a good story, a tortured and flawed female protagonist, lies, betrayal, intrigue, mystery, self-discovery, a coming of age – -but it definitely could have used more ***** — gratuitous, unnecessary, three-page descriptive *****. Thats what makes you FAN FIC writers so popular to and addictive for me — all that *****, *****, *****, ***** –raunchy, emotional, never-ending hot, hot, hot *****. As much as I love a good story, there better be something else to read about than character development and thickening plots . I do love all you authors for that.

That was something I thought for sure I would miss on this trip – the opportunity to log on to the site and catch a few chapters of all my favorites, including HER the one who STILL wont write as often as I crave but love nonetheless. But K said she would help with that.

K has been wonderful since the funeral (K is my girlfriend, lover, soul mate, house mate, best friend, advisor, critic, confidante, whatever you want to call the person who makes you laugh and makes you want to be a better person). Having a ceremony and burial was actually her idea – I was pretty willing to just cremate him. I told her nothing excessive or ridiculous – not like that Mr. P thing on The Show – christ he was just a dog. . . a dog I accidentally killed — not really but I still feel guilty about his demise.

Fred was my 9 lb white, scruffy -looking, maniacal, ill-mannered Maltese. I would never get a dog like that on my own — some little foo-foo piece of ***** — no, I would get me a real dog like a Basset hound or border collie. But Fred was a death-bed promise I made to my mom because no one else in the family would take him. She worried more about what would happen to him than what was happening to her as the cancer ate away at her cutting short her life. She stayed with me, under the care of hospice, (those people are the BEST people in the world – I admire them and cant imagine doing that job day after day) the last few weeks of her life and Fred knew something was up. But that didnt stop him from peeing on my floor as he stared at me with that defiant so-what-are-you-gonna-do-about it-***** look, or keep him from dropping the kids off behind the couch (a South Park reference to pooping!), or ripping through the garbage or biting me every time I tried to get near my moms bed. My mom knew I didnt like him but she said I was just hiding my true feelings, that deep down I really did think he was cute (his good looks his only redeeming quality) – she was wrong but I didnt have the heart to tell her.

After he became MINE, his life certainly took a turn for the worse — I made him walk with me everyday for exercise, rewarded him for doing bathroom duty outside – he was a sucker for food so peeing 32 times a day became routine – took him to the dentist and smacked him around with a newspaper every time he bit one of my friends (not really hitting HIM – hitting the chair or wall beside him was enough to scare the bejesus out of him!). I discovered that he cringed and cowered when I used the F word – it became a staple in my vocabulary around the house very quickly. He loved to go for a ride and didnt care if it was in the basket of my bike or in the convertible – he just liked the wind in his hair and showing off. So when I opened the door of the house that day and told him to get in the car, I was not prepared for the squirrel-chasing act he pulled, his leash trailing behind him. Of course the squirrel ran across the street to avoid his clutches and the car that hit him didnt even have time to squeal its brakes. That distinctive THUD was instantaneous death, no suffering – and I tried my best to console the teenage driver who hit him that he was old and this was just as humane as putting him down — I LIED.

I had him embalmed and picked out a spot in the back yard where he would be laid to rest. K planned a picnic and invited all the people who Fred and bitten, peeped on, barked at, chased or just basically annoyed during his lifetime. I wasnt sure the backyard was going to be big enough for the expected crowd. All of my friends knew I really didnt like that mutt so when they came up to give their condolences, they gave me that wink, wink or thumbs up sign thinking I let him play in traffic on purpose.

But K knew better – she had my mothers wisdom. And when we made love that night after everyone had left the picnic I couldnt help but cry — I cried for Fred; I cried when she entered me so tender and loving that I clung to her desperately; I cried because she never said a word about it being OK; I cried because she never tried to sshh me and tell me to be quiet or dont cry; I cried because she didnt say to just let it go – I cried because she let me cry – I cried when I came-a climax so intense I thought I would never stop crying. But when I did, I couldnt help myself – and in one of those many relationship -defining moments – I came clean, gone straight (so to speak) fessed up — I told her about the FAN FIC addiction . . . .



TBC