I had a hole in one once.  In Ireland of all places.  Rick was there.  He saw it.  So did all the other patrons of the pitch and putt where we had rented our clubs, donning our street clothes and tennis shoes.  I readied myself on the astro turf of the first hole.  Adjusted my grip on the 20 year old pitching wedge and let go a mighty shank.  It never really got airborne. Just shot across three fairways and rolled into the cup of the fourth hole.  Drinks are on me.

Sometimes when you think things can’t get any worse, they do.  I’ve been feeling somewhat out of sorts all year, with the heart thing and all.  Then, the past two weeks I’ve been fighting the flu.  OK, it’s probably just a cold, but that sounds so lame.  This has been a full-blown, sore throat, low-grade fever, runny nose, stuffy nose, coughing mess.  I’ve been confined to my house mostly.  I don’t want to infect anyone else, and quite frankly, I am too disgusting to be out in public. Besides the sniffling, coughing, hacking, honking, gross shit I’m doing, I have two raw sores under my nostrils from the incessant blowing. Like my mother used to say, I’d have to feel better to die.

We’re only in Carmel for a few more days, so I decided to muster all my strength and take a walk along Scenic Drive overlooking Carmel Bay. If that can’t get your spirits up, I don’t know what can.  I changed from the pajamas I’ve been living in all week to some Target sweatpants and a hoodie.  I donned a pink bucket hat and sun glasses, a fanny pack and some tunes.  Off I went.  I had to sit down to rest every so often, but so what.  The view is killer.

I was on the return part of my route.  I was considering whether or not to spit.  Carmel probably has spit police like Hong Kong or is it Singapore? Plus, it’s OK for runners to spit, but I was barely walking, more like strolling. Even for a Wednesday, there was a beehive of activity.  A FedEx driver was taking a break, enjoying the scenery. Cars lined the street, filled with day trippers and walkers like me. I decided not to spit. Over the music in my ear buds, I heard someone say “you’re gorgeous.”  I figured it was a young couple enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. This is one of the most romantic spots on the planet.  I sat down to catch my breath and to take in the view. A guy was running toward me, saying something.  I took my head phones off and he said, “didn’t you hear me?”  “No, what? Are you talking to me?”  He said,” you’re beautiful. When you walked by my car, I called out.  You’re gorgeous”.  “Oh, I did hear that,” I confessed.  “I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

“I’m Michael”.  He extended his hand and we shook.  I told him my name. His opening line was about my accent. Not a bad pick up line.  I told him the accent was from Tennessee, even though I’ve lived in Texas most of my adult life.  He asked what I did and I told him I was retired from banking. He said I looked too young to be retired.  I coyly said I was older than I looked.  He said he was 40 and I couldn’t be that old.  I said, try adding 20 years. ha ha.  (more like 17, but I was light-headed).  We chatted for a few minutes. I was enjoying it, probably too much.  How long should I let this go on? I finally said, “I’m retired from banking and I’m a house wife.”  “Oh, you’re married.”  “Yes, I’m married.” He excused himself and I completed my walk.

My head was spinning.  How long had it been since someone tried to pick me up?  A long time.  I think the last time it happened was at Costco. This was better. But it was scary, really. How this stranger had so much power over me.  How he made me feel so special, so alive.  How I probably talked a couple of minutes too long before confessing that I’m married. How flattered I was. How the beautiful setting intensified the whole thing. Then the skeptical part of me kicked in. I felt used, targeted, stupid.  Was I that easy a mark? Does this guy come here every day? How often does he get lucky? Maybe he’s a serial killer.

Or maybe he’s just a nice guy who liked what he saw. Maybe I’ve still got it. Maybe things are about to get better. Maybe I need to hear those words more often.

I am conservative in almost every way. I believe in the American Dream.  I’ve lived it.  My great grandfather or his grandfather or somebody, came over here from Germany.  They drifted west doing manual labor, mostly logging, clearing trees.  Eventually they found some good farmland on the Mississippi Delta, borrowed money from the seller, bought their own patch and the rest is history.

I like to think the American Dream is available to all people in equal measures.   My passion, money and time go toward educating young people so that they too can experience the American Dream. So, when I read or see something that seems to imply that this dream may not be everyone’s dream, that makes me too sad.  I close my eyes.  I close my ears.  I turn away.

Yesterday I experienced my own injustice.  I was the victim of a crime.  At my very own country club, someone expertly lifted my wallet out of my purse in a room full of people. Within an hour, they had made a passport with my name on it and the female thief’s photo. There were at least three of them, a woman and two men. They hit the Galleria and had a field day. They spent over $25,000 in shops I have never set foot in. Hard working people don’t waste their money on Gucci or Louis Vuitton.  But the real violation didn’t happen to me.  It’s what happened to Christopher and Adam.

You see, at first my friends and the club staff did not believe that my wallet had been stolen.  How could it have been?  The four of us playing mahjong never left the room.  We were there the whole time.  After the book club ladies left, no one else was in the room. No one except for Christopher, who was our waiter.  Chris is black. He’s from Nigeria. Double whammy. You know how it is with those Nigerians and credit card fraud?  We called Chris in to see if he noticed anything unusual.  If he saw anything. We were trying to gather as much information as possible. Pick everyone’s brain.  I could see it in his eyes. The worry.  The resignation.  The fear.  It broke my heart.  Christopher is a wonderful guy.  It never occurred to me that he might feel threatened by being asked to help.

At this point, everyone was still trying to convince me that I must have left my wallet at home. Then I remembered that I had tipped Adam, the Hispanic valet, on my way in.  I was hoping that he had not left for the day, because he could verify that I did have my wallet when I got to the club.  I gave him $5.00 when I got there because we often play mahjong late into the afternoon after he’s gone home.  We stood beside my car and chatted for a few minutes. Fortunately he was still around and the club manager brought him into the lounge area where it happened. Adam told everyone basically the exact same thing I had told them, word for word.  He saw me get my wallet out of my purse, hand him a five dollar bill and put my wallet back in my purse.  I did not leave it in the car or drop it on the ground, although the club staff and my friends searched my car a half dozen times. I was so thankful to Adam for corroborating my account of things. If not for him, no one would have believed me.  But when Adam first walked into the room, I saw the same look in his eyes as the one Christopher had.  Fear.

There is so much to tell about this particular theft.  It was a professional job, no doubt.  I am out only one trip to the DMV to replace my driver’s license and the $300 cash I had in my wallet. Chase Bank is out quite a lot, although they don’t seem too fussed. American Express is the real hero here.  They alerted me to the fraud almost immediately. They are the reason I looked for my wallet to begin with. They shut down their spigot before the scumbags could spend any money.

I am not the victim.  No, I sort of am.  But my pain is temporary.  My inconvenience small. I already have a new American Express card, thanks to over night delivery.  I have ordered new checks, a new debit card, and spoken to the customer service coordinator who will help me alert all the vendors about their automated payments.  I have received my “Fraud Kit” from Chase and I am good to go.  I’ll be alright.  But I won’t be the same. I saw the world that Christopher and Adam live in.  A world where when something goes missing, they are afraid.

Why are rich women so damn skinny?  I go to a Bible study at one of the local country clubs. I know, it sounds like an oxymoron, but I guess even the country club set needs to hear about Jesus.  No, seriously, it is a fabulous ministry and the Bible teacher is truly outstanding.

But, if you didn’t know it was a Bible study, you might think it was an anorexia support group. My goodness, you have never seen a better dressed group of skeletons. Women of all ages, some dressed in tennis outfits, some in their work clothes and others in designer jeans.  And so many of them painfully thin. You’d think those who could most afford to eat would not be starving themselves to death. Houston, we have a problem.

I just dropped Rick off at the Monterey airport.  He’s going back to the salt mines in Houston for a four day business trip.  I’m going to miss him.  I crave my alone time.  I need it like oxygen.  But since I’ve been sick, I’ve come to depend on him in ways unimaginable the first 29 years of our marriage.

We ate a nice dinner at the Golden Tee, the time warp of a restaurant in the airport.  I had the prime rib, as usual, and Rick the chicken parmesan.  We ate early and the place was packed with locals and their little kids who came to watch the private jets take off and land.

Then we parted ways.  I went to the short term parking lot and he went to his gate.  I could have been sad.  But on my way out, I greeted the ticket taker with my usual southern enthusiasm, “how are you doing today?” And he said, “better now.”

With those two little words, he made my day.  He changed the course of the evening, heck, maybe he changed the course of the next four days.  After thanking him effusively for the corny compliment, I drove down to the beach and watched the sunset. The surfers rode their last waves, families were building bonfires and couples were drinking wine as the sun set over the Pacific. God is in his heaven and all is right with the world. And I’m better now.

I hate men with small penises. You know who I’m talking about.  Men who drive expensive sports cars, who hire hookers, or if they can find their own dates, go for big tits and small minds.  Men who smoke cigars, play poker, cheat on their wives. No matter how high their golf handicaps, they play from the tips and they play for big money.  They never, ever play golf with women or in co-ed tournaments. They have never changed a diaper, gone to the grocery store or made dinner for the family. They talk loudly and buy rounds of drinks to impress. These kind of men so disgust me that they have made me jokingly threatened to go lesbian.