Scarlett O'Hara On Prozac

Breaking The News

I met my husband, by chance, online. I know what you're thinking. We were two sex-fiends meeting in clandestine chat-rooms to explore our perverted needs. And we are, but that's not what brought us together.

My husband is a musician (which explains his sex-fiendedness) and at the time, I was exploring the idea of a singing career. Looking back now, I see it was a half-baked concept but at the time, it seemed as reasonable as any other career choice. Of course, I was sans medication back then and I thought people could see me through the walls of my house using their 'special powers.'

Anyway, he and I met through a mutual friend who said something like, "Zoe, this is Scott. He's Paul McCartney in a Beatle tribute band. Wanna hear him sing?" I said yes, and then the mutual friend said, "Scott, this is Zoe. She's got the sexiest voice on Yahoo. Wanna hear her say something?"

So Scott sang and I talked, and then I sang and Scott talked. The reaction was something like this:

Him: You've got the most soothing voice I've ever heard. Sing something else.
Me: Oh my god, he's a Yankee. Sing something else before I have to plug my ears and say 'la la la' until you quit talking.

Things went kind of like that for a few weeks. I promptly forgot about him as soon as I signed off the computer. He spent weeks trying to figure out how to get me up there to see him. I'm not sure when things changed, but when you're typing to someone on the computer you get a kind of amnesia that allows you to overlook certain faults. Things like homicidal stalking tendencies, lack of gainful employment, and the unfortunate circumstances of one's origins become less important. Even the accent grew less noticeable after talking on the phone a few times. It was only after I introduced him to my best friend that I realized what I was getting myself into.

She came over to my house one evening. Scott and I were chatting online via mic, which means he could hear me and I could hear him and he didn't have to type (he types like a monkey.) I sat Sherry down behind the microphone and urged her to say hello. She did. I told Scott to say hello. He did. And then Sherry turned to me, eyes wide with horror. She reached out, took my hand in hers, and said, "Oh, honey. He's a Yankee!"

She said it in the same tone one would use to say, "He's a child molester!" or "He's dying of cancer!"

I gave her a sympathetic look, one that said, "I know, but what can I do? The heart goes where it wills." I could tell she was disappointed in me, only slightly less than when I got involved with the Pakistani sadist who might have been a terrorist or just a sick demented bastard. I never could tell which.

So that was that. It was a done deal and I knew I would continue with the relationship, even though if my best friend's reaction was one of shock and horror I could only tremble in dread at what my parents would say. I knew I would have to tell them. It was like when I found out I was pregnant: you can't hide it for long and you sure as hell don't want them to hear it from someone else. So I drove down to their house for Thanksgiving, taking my kids for protection, and told my mom first.

She asked the obvious question first: "Is he a Christian man?"

I assured her he was, although not a Baptist. But, he lived a totally depraved life of sin before finding the Lord, which, in her mind, makes him a bit more saved than the rest of us because he knows what it meant to be headed straight to hell on a one-way ticket in a seat between two sweaty fat people who brought their own salami. Score one for the Yankee.

I also assured her he was employeed, had never been arrested, and seemed nice enough. He had good manners and his mama must have raised him right. Satisfied, and seeing that I was happy with these qualities, she reserved judgement. My father was not quite so magnanimous.

"He's from where?"

"Northern Illinois, dad. Somewhere outside of Chicago."

"You better leave that shit alone."

"Dad, I'm sure there are plenty of nice people in northern Illinois,"

"I'm telling you, you better throw this one back. You can listen, or you can ignore me like you always do. But I'm telling you the truth. Those people are not like you and me. They was raised different."

I gave him my, "I'm only being tolerant of your ignorance because you're my father" look. He countered with the "I know my daughter is crazy but I love her anyway" look. Things stayed like that until he asked me where I met this yay-hoo.

"We met online."

You would have thought I said we met at a prison reunion. And that's when I had to hear all about how nobody ever meets anyone online that was worth dinktum, and that the only people who get online are serial killers and child molesters and losers who can't meet anyone any other way.

"But Dad, he met me online, too."

That puzzled him for a moment, but he countered with the parental coup de gras.

"Nothing good will come of this. You mark my words!"

Well, that did it. Nothing cements an inappropriate relationship like parental disapproval. By god, if I wanted to date the entire Chicago Bears offensive line, I would do it and I'd bring them all right there to Sunday dinner.

Scott and I are now married, and my Dad is still waiting for me to see the error of my ways. He's a stubborn old coot. Thank God I'm nothing like that. No sirree.

posted by Zoe Richardson @ 8:57 AM