Don't Go Breakin' My Heart (part 2)

Moving vans are strange things. They pass us on the freeway, but how often do we stop to think about the lives crammed in those traveling boxes? People cruising on to a new life in a new place, but carrying so much old baggage with them.

We did the same. A few months after we married, Todd and I moved to California. We drove a Ryder van through the long stretch of nothing with only our destination in mind.

Over the years I've come to realize that enjoying the scenery is not something we do well together. It seems that either one of us can do just fine on our own, but together? Not so much. Todd gets testy on trips. It's not that he can't enjoy the scenery, in fact I remember multiple times when we'd be driving along and I'd start to say something, only to be chided with "Not now, I want to enjoy this." (And mind you, it wasn't that he had a problem with what I was saying or how I was saying it, because he'd cut me off before I even got a sentence out.) It was (and is) all about his timing, his perfect timing--a second off Todd's ideal schedule and the world might as well be crumbling from it's foundations. Is it any wonder I now pass up trips with him and live for those times when I can hit the road without him?

For only having been married a few months, we had an awful lotta stuff in that Ryder: A monster of a china cabinet we hadn't asked for, in a style I never would have chosen, but the in-laws thought to be just what we needed to display our wedding china (which we didn't ask for either, but when prompted to select a pattern, we obliged only to be told "that pattern is too expensive, pick another.")

One item, a very long, old couch was especially heavy. You'll never guess where that came from. Remember the gal who asked Todd if he'd ever been in love? Yep, she was in need of some cash, I guess, and Todd, being the sensitive guy he is, thought her semi-antique (ratty old) couch would be the perfect addition to cuddle up on in our newlywed nest. I might have thought it was kind of cool if it hadn't carried with it the ghost of "No, I've never been in love" past. We lugged that thing cross country and right into our "new" life.

Don't Go Breakin' My Heart (part 1)

Waaaa!!! There now, I feel better.

This is one of my favorite childhood pictures. It comforts me in it's function as an excellent example of the continuity of life. In a world of unpredictability, there are somethings that don't change--like the way the men in my life ultimately make me feel. The flow of emotion from that precious little face of mine was so honest, uncensored, pure. I didn't feel the need to pretend to be happy just because mom wanted a nice picture. I was free-- free to JUST BE. Oh the lessons I could learn from that little girl!

Since I'm not really Bridget, and thusly (I should try to use that pretentious ditty in each blog) ...thusly you won't be able to track down Bridget's lovers in the real world, I'm thinking I can be honest.

Where to start?

The beginning would be too trite, so let's start a few weeks before my wedding.

I had been out of town on a business trip and I stopped by to spend some time with the man I was about to marry. Let's call him Todd. The door to Todd's apartment was wide open and music spilled out into the hallway. I let myself in, looked around for him, and finally found him painting in the stairwell leading up to the next level of the building he was managing in exchange for free rent in a total dive. "I'll be right down. Let yourself in," he said. I don't think it took more than a few minutes for us to land in bed.

Before we were done, there was a pounding on the apartment door. My betrothed ignored it and went on with the business of our reunion. The pounding and the ignoring continued until at last, the door flung open. It was the owner of the building, there to see what was so important that had caused his employee to waste his money by leaving paint in open buckets, drying in the hall. Todd was angry, and proceeded to carry on an argument with his landlord/boss, just outside the bedroom door. I sat wrapped in a sheet, waiting to retrieve my clothes from the kitchen, and imagining the cross-dressing landlord fingering my unmentionables.

That happening, by itself, should have been a "what was I thinking?" moment. (1) As an ambitious college graduate, what was I doing with a dropout in a filthy old apartment building in a scary neighborhood? (2) Knowing the value of respect for property and honorable work ethics, why was I participating with Todd in the sabotage of his position in management? (3) Why was I about to marry one man when I'd never gotten over another, simply because I was already tied to him by a sexual addiction or misconception that marriage would somehow atone for the sins I had stumbled into?

That should have been enough, but it wasn't. After the landlord had left with the threat that he would charge Todd for any more paint he had to buy to complete the job, because it was his fault if it dried out, I had to work hard to encourage Todd not to do anything he would regret in his anger. He vowed to mess the whole place up, but I reminded him that the landlord would probably sue him. Finally, he went to pack up the paint and supplies, leaving the job half done.

While he was up in the stairwell and I was in the kitchen fixing lunch, a woman just walked right in the front door without knocking. When she saw me standing in the kitchen, she stopped dead in her tracks, her face turning white. "Who are you?" she asked. Ouch. Denial is a deep river, but try as I might to pretend the tone of her voice wasn't saying what I thought it was saying, I knew.

Todd walked in. Awkward. "This is Bridget, my friend." My face must have said, "what?" because he continued, "...my fiance."

Cloe or Madge or Bambie or whatever her name was made some quick excuse, "I was just passing by to say 'hi' but I've got to run." And before I could blink she was gone.

He didn't know anyone but me in this town. He had just moved there, following me because he wanted to marry me (after I had run away, across two state lines--but that's another story.) I had only been out of town for a few days, and here was someone who seemed to be someone to him. He told me he had gone out to get a bite... I think it was happy hour at a bar or something like that. And she had started a conversation with him. He could have left it at that. I didn't ask any more. But he went on to say, "She asked me if I'd ever been in love."

Okay. She wasn't very attractive and seemed a bit awkward, so I could believe she might start out with a line like that. He could have left it at that. I didn't even think to ask him his answer... I mean, of course he had been in love... he was engaged! He could have left it like that, but he went on to say, "I told her 'no'--I don't know why I said that--wasn't thinking, I guess."

I don't really remember the rest of the conversation, if there was any more to it. I think he eventually told me that he now realized that he may have given her the wrong impression. You think, Todd? In retrospect, I think he was giving me a way out. If I had any self-respect, I would have taken it.

What was my thought process that kept me from walking out that door and never turning back? Good question. I'll try to get to that in the next installment.

Who Am I?

You've probably already guessed that I'm not really Bridget Monroe.

My dad used to say that he wanted to name me "Bridget Blodgett," which he thought would have made a mighty fine stage name, but my mother wouldn't let him. That probably wasn't true, but I heard the story enough times that it stuck with me and thusly* I've always found it a convenient name to hide behind when I want to be somewhat anonymous.

For years it was a joke, a name with the assonance of a made-up label, the sort of moniker I imagined a bimbo might bestow upon herself. However, recently I googled the name and found the top listing in the search engine to be a respectable-looking PhD candidate who conducts important research. How affirming to learn that even my "porn star name" is wrought with intelligence.

The "Monroe" part is a family name. I'd have to look it up to be certain, but I think it was my great great grandmother who was named Elizabeth Monroe. As a little girl aspiring to be an actress, I always thought that was the most beautiful name in my entire family tree. Of course, when you think actress and Monroe, the legendary Marilyn Monroe obviously comes to mind. Well Dad said we were related to her, too. I know what you're thinking:

Everyone knows that Marilyn Monroe was not born Marilyn Monroe. You're right. Norma Jeane Mortenson was born to a single woman named Gladys Baker. That didn't create a problem for my Dad's theory, but rather added what he considered to be pretty strong support to it. You see, my grandmother was a "Baker" and therefore it makes sense that this little girl, born to a Baker, when faced with the task of selecting a stage name would look into her family history and find a name that she thought was pretty. Monroe. It rolls off the tongue like fine silk.

Biographers confirm that the last name Norma Jeane selected was her grandmother's name. I guess there is a chance that Dad is right and we are related. It doesn't really matter, but occasionally throughout life, I've heard random comments (from people who know nothing of my alleged Marilyn connection) about things I've said or done that are in some way similar to the former Norma Jeane. Now that I'm getting older than she ever lived to be, such comparisons are rare, but I can think of one even within the past month. Hmmm, interesting... or not... you tell me.

So, we've established that Bridget Monroe is faux.

Who, then, am I? How about one more of my daddy's stories?

Here goes: My REAL first name (which I'm not going to tell you in order to protect the innocent... and the guilty) was selected, according to dear ol' Dad, for it's meaning. Ah, isn't that sweet? What is it? Precious child? Gift of God? Lovely? Sweetness? Joy of my life? Well, not exactly. In his own words, my first name, which he and Mom selected to bestow upon an innocent infant, means "a snare."

Huh?

Yes, you heard me right. It means, and I quote, "One who snares men with her beauty." Get out of town! What parent, in his right mind, would put such a curse upon his own darling daughter? "Glad to meet you, Sir. Allow me to introduce little she-who-will-cause-you-to-stumble-into-burning-meaningless-lust-as-she-hikes-her-skirt-up-dangerously-high. Isn't she cute?" What a mantel to be informed of right in the midst of the uncertainties of adolescence--that's when he told me... No, actually I don't think he told me. I think he told a man who had just commented on how I was growing up and did Dad have a gun to keep all the boys away? That's right. That's how it went down. I'm standing there in front of one of my father's colleagues whom I didn't really know, witnessing this conversation about me... followed by a deep ha-ha-ha. What on God's green earth is a girl to think? Now do you see why I decided to hide behind a pseudonym as I embark on my rambling cyber memoirs?

Through this blog, I intend to give myself a cheap form of therapy. Each time I write, I will recline myself on the couch and imagine you, the reader, sitting in a high-backed wing chair, hiding behind a yellow legal note pad, scribbling away furiously. Since many of my issues are rooted in the curse of the seductress' name, I will probably dwell on the men who have been in my life and all of the dysfunctional relationships I have had with them (or imagined having with them, or been painfully aware that I did not have with them...) I think you get the picture: This blog will be somewhat juicy, self-indulgent, and of questionable authenticity... that is when it's not whiny, depressing and morose. It will follow the journey of a small town late-blooming, flat-chested, insecure little girl from the Midwest all the way to Hollywood and where ever she goes from there....


* Sorry, I like saying "thusly"--it's one of my tics. The word "thusly" was introduced in the 19th century, most likey by humorists, who were "echoing the speech of poorly educated people straining to sound stylish." (thefreedictionary.com) Thusly, I think it's actually a very fitting word for me to use.