[INSERT ZEBRA CARD COVER]

Hampshire Hollow Hello to you from this Saturday haven of midwest awesomeness!

How you feelin? Hopefully more upright than the poor dude on the cover of this card. I thought for sure that the inside punchline would have something to do with a drunk zebra. Bummer that it is instead far more silly predictable. It was not in the Get Well section; but it would go well if there were a section of cards for people in rehab; especially if the inside said something about outrunning one’s metaphorical lions? Not that recovery is funny. But, speaking from divorceland experience, difficult souls that refuse to acknowledge the issue are subject to their own form of self-induced commercial fodder.

All I know is that if I were a zebra getting chased by a real lion, my epic fail of needed speed would prove that I was sadly definitely, if stereotypes of the fair skinned western European descendants as myself being painfully genetically historically slow, a white zebra with black stripes. Ironically, Julian is really fast; enough to almost stake claim to being a black zebra with white stripes. I used to tick off my ex-MIL (a generational bastion of unabashed racism who taught public school for many years and was offended by skin tones darker than ecru) by saying her boys were clearly of middle eastern descent. After all, they get yanked from every line in every airport for a random security check. We can all agree: racial profiling is bad; until it inconveniences a nuisance ex. Then it’s kind of funny because it’s personal. Maybe Mark Twain was right: there’s an element of truth in all humor.

Just in case you nor the zebra are back on your feet (and assuming the blasphemous rumors I hear of chemo patients being told to lay off the hooch are unfounded), thought you could use the “If you can read this” “Bring me more wine” socks enclosed.

The latest from my back deck in upscale Mayberry:

School class schedules came out and Heather wants to compare Addy’s to everyone else from the gifted program, just in case “test bomber Addy” suddenly decides that academic challenges are important. She’s already proven she can run with the smart kids, but is smart enough herself not to take on their workload: probably gonna end up running a board room someday. As for the rest of us, scenarios like are proof that we could all benefit from some Xanax, or at least gummies. I know I could. Although I’m not sure I should be trusted with much medicinal: the other day I accidentally gave golden retriever Lenny my UTI pill and took his for joint pain. Both looked pretty damn identical, both in those caramel colored tube pill containers. Far as I can tell, Lenny hasn’t sprouted a uterus and I haven’t atrophied, so no harm no foul.

So Pete and I have been dating and I keep fielding questions about where things are going. I want a ring. I’ve made it clear. I loved being married. I just didn’t love the person I was married to at the end of it. Pete’s gotta look way ahead for vacation time. I’ve got the kids for Thanksgiving this year. Pete wants to invite his dad. I said he’s welcome to come if I’ve got a ring. If not, then no. I’m not going to sit there with the red letter A emblazoned on my forehead in my own home without some fire power. And if he doesn’t want to marry me, then it’s better to know now. Mark Evans Katz is this awesome podcaster matchmaker that I follow and his advice is pretty spot on. If you’re not getting what you want, you’ve made it clearly known (none of the mind guessing games) and you’re at the three year mark, then it’s go or no time. I don’t doubt his commitment or loyalty to me, but I want to make it more official. Right now I’m like the middle aged version of an Avril LaVigne song chortling on about my “booooooooyfriend”.

Pete thought I was kidding. But I reiterated it again a week later. And then the week after that. I said I will be hosting for my crew: I love a houseful of fun and food and people. It’s up to him where and with whom he wants to spend his holidays. It’s the man up or step down moment. So now he’s calling his friends looking for ring guys. Remember when you got engaged: everyone had “a guy”. Felt like pyramid scheme version of jewelers claiming to be Opus Dei caliber exclusive, if only you could somehow make that connection. They all claimed to get the best deal when in reality no one probably even got a good deal, so you may as well just support local.

Chase bought me a gorgeous ring. And we got two gorgeous human beings out of that mess of a marriage. This time I will only stand at the far end of the aisle if I am unequivocally no cold feet certain that this is the person that will be my true til death partner.

That was not the case when I stood at the far end of the aisle from Chase. And, to his credit, he probably deserved more than that. I’d found out the week prior that the promise that he would be out of debt wasn’t met. The momentum of the wedding wheels were underway: thousands had been spent, guest airline tickets and room reservations made.

We got married in this beautiful protestant cathedral in the city on this picture perfect summer day. The church is incredible: one of the lone surviving structures from the Chicago fire; gargantuan stone arches with woodwork, stained glass and euro-worthy tapestried pulpits. It holds 5000 on Easter and Christmas Eve. Because it is so big and echoey, I had to get special permission from the music director for our 4 bagpipes and 2 drummers to lead the processional.

I stood in the large narthex as the pipes and drums roiled down the aisle and circled back where they would hang ten until the end of the ceremony. They play and return, the pipe organ starts bellowing Jesu to Man’s Desire (what Sydney calls the Wedding Death March Song), my first three bridesmaids start their stroll down the very long aisle, and I am frozen. Sheer panic stricken cannot move. I see the exit door in my peripheral vision: it’s dark in the shadowed narthex and super sunny outside in a “stay away from the light” way. Part of me just wants to bolt.

My uncle is giving me away; an honored stand in for my dad who died when I was in high school. He is trying to step forward and has an Uncle Buck build and demeanor, but I cannot bring myself to budge.

He stops pulling, leans over to me. I turn my head to face him and he says, “Honey, you do not have to do this if you don’t want to.”

He liked Chase, but he loved me more.

Kelly is my MOH standing within earshot of him and senses the panic. Not knowing what to say, she snags my best friend Katie before Katie steps down the aisle to join the other bridesmaids. Katie was the first person I met on my first day of law school. We were roomies for years and chances are she recalls more about me in my 20s than I do as she was witness to most of the escapades. She is super tiny like you, which makes the visual of her stepping out of the processional, past Kelly and into a spot next to me as I’m dressed like a bright white cupcake, all that much better. Katie tells Kelly, “I got this”, looks at me and says “Stormy, remember the monkey underpants story?”

I shake my head but start to feel the panic thaw slightly. Then it dawns on me. She must be talking about this spectacular pair of purple skivvies I had with emoji precursor monkey face print that I thought were hilarious. “Yep, I still got those.”

“My uncle and Kelly shake their heads in disbelief, the bagpipers step in a little closer and Katie continues. “No, not those. NOT the monkey underpants. I’m talking about the UNDERPANTS THEORY. You know, the theory that racist idiot I dated (now a plaintiff’s attorney on billboards in Florida) in law school had to justify why his white ass felt inferior to every black man? The theory. The most offensive racist theory uttered by a lawyer in the history of ever.”

I feel myself melting more as one of the pipers asks, “What’s the theory?”

The organ music is still playing, half the procession is already in place, yet int he narthex all (thankfully white male and female) eyes and ears ar e on Katie who explains, “Well, according to my very well endowed yet super racist ex-boyfriend Jack Mooney, black men have bigger penises than white men because Darwin’s theory has them more evolutionarily closely related to the monkey. And since monkeys don’t wear underpants, gravity does its work to give monkeys and by evolutionary totally racist Jack Mooney jealous standards default black men big penises. Ergo, black men have big penises because monkeys don’t wear underpants.”

Kelly’s jaw drops.

My uncle again says, “you don’t have to do this.”

And one of the bagpiper says, “this is by far the best wedding we’ve ever done!”

I exhale, motion for Katie and Kelly to go ahead, walk down the aisle with my uncle and the rest is history.

My uncle refused to speak about that until I was divorced ten years later. Even though I’m guessing that convo was the most titillating to be heard by the hallowed walls of that particular cathedral that day, Katie wishes she had told me to run. Then I would have needed the Pete starts to align to have Syd and Julian in my life now; very existential. In the end, I guess it all really can end well. Plus, I’ve got awesome examples of married friends like you and Colin to keep my faith in that particular institution alive.

Gotta run – the household natives are getting hangry. At least I’m writing this from my desk and not a pool or baseball bleacher. So enjoy what may be the only letter I send that’s not dust-laden or smells like chlorine.

Hang in there – school starts soon – will get another date for me to come your way on the books once that mayhem settles! xoxox love ya’, Stormy