February 27, 2016

And I Quote

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Some of my favorite quotes are my own:
  • I make mission statements, not resolutions.
  • It's a decision, not an ultimatum.
Pretty good stuff.  Don't you think?  The quote I'm most famous for, seeing as though my cousin quoted me on Facebook and tagged me?
  • When there is no right answer and you don't know what to do, ask yourself what makes a better story.  Do that.
Those are words I live by.  All day, every day, I ask myself what makes a better story.  It's almost an obsession at times, but it's what life boils down to.  Stories.  Every moment is a story you will potentially tell someone someday.  A friend, your kids, a stranger at a bar.  You never know when this piece of your life will resurface.  Everything comes down to just words.  A story.  How do you want to tell it?  What makes a better story?

Recently, I have been faced with a tough decision.  That question echoes through my mind.  What makes a better story?  It wakes me in the night.  What makes a better story?  It haunts me in the shower.  In the car.  At work.  What makes a better story?  What makes a better fucking story?

I sat with this one longer than I usually do.  Not just days or weeks, but months.  I couldn't hear the story I would tell someday, no matter how hard I tried.  It just wasn't there.  I couldn't figure it out.  What would make a better story?

Eventually, the story began to write itself, but it left me holding the pen at the chapter before the last.

I wrote him away.  I had to.  For now.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

January 18, 2016

Morning Greenwood

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Do you ever hear a song you haven't heard since you were a kid and it takes you back?  And then suddenly, it takes you aback?  Like in a 'What the fuck did he just say?!' kind of way?  That happened to me recently.  With a Lee Greenwood song of all things.  Lee fucking Greenwood.  Lee fucking.  Mister God Bless the USA.  fucking Greenwood.  He's so squeaky clean that it makes me feel better to fuck up his name a bit.  Plus, I may still be harboring a little bitterness about having my childhood censored.

Back to the story.

When I was a kid, I was not allowed to listen to what had been deemed 'secular music' by my mother and the good people of the church.  It was all satanic.  Pronounced say-TON-ic by those same wise church folk, and by my mother.  All she had to do was hold an album, and she could feel the sayTONic vibes coming from it.  I watched them burn albums (not to mention books) in a bonfire behind the church on more than one occasion.  Basically, if it was not gospel music or christian rock, you would spend an eternity burning in hell.  And no one wants that.  So, I quietly watched The Beatles Yellow Submarine go up in smoke.

I don't know if country music had been grandfathered in under god, under the church, under my mother, or if it was one of the seven things my dad put his foot down about and we kept our mouths shut about, but regardless . . . we listened to it, especially if my dad was spinning the tunes on a road trip.  My mother and sister would pass out, and he and I had a set of tapes that took us to West Virginia and back:  Kenny Rogers, Anne Murray, Tammy Wynette, and Lee fucking Greenwood.

My dad and I knew every word of every song on every tape.  Neither of us could carry a tune in a bucket, but we loved to sing in the car!  You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, know when to run . . . Even though we ain't got money, I'm so in love with you honey . . . Stand by your man, give him two arms to cling to, and something warm to come to . . . It's everything that is wrong with me today.  It is also everything that is right with me.

Well, there was this Lee fucking Greenwood song I loved:  Morning Ride.  Enough said.

But, I'll go on.

Because I loved to ride in the car, I loved that fucking song.  Loved it.  Belted it out.  Could not wait to grow up and meet a boy that would take me for a car ride in the morning.  That was my version of Prince Charming and happily ever after.  I was a teenage girl at that point.  A virgin would be an understatement.

Over the weekend,  I heard the song for the first time in decades.  As I sang the old, familiar tune, with visions of watching the sun rise through the car window on a country road, it hit me.  Um, I'm pretty sure this song is about sex.  Not totally sure, but pretty damn sure.  Even when he is trying to fool us into believing it's an actual car ride, he uses the term 'spanking'.  Spanking.  I can't be certain, but I detect a hint of, "Yes sir, may I have another", at the end.  Then again, it's Lee fucking.  Mister God Bless the USA.  fucking Greenwood.  He's so squeaky clean, he's probably never even had sex.  I'd hate to misinterpret the lyrics.

What do you think, Tom?  I'm going out on one of Satan's fiery limbs and saying it's about sex.  I kind of hope so.  I still like the corny little song.  And if there's a boy who wants me to wake him up and go for a morning ride, then do it again?  What can I say?  It makes for a better Prince Charming and happily ever after than some dude who wants to throw me in a car first thing in the morning.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

January 17, 2016

He Doesn't Have to Know About Us

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I don't want to have sex with you.  Ever.  I can't even watch you on the screen.  I've tried.  Other than an occasional Friends rerun, or maybe an old episode of Magnum P.I., I just cant watch you.  It weirds me out.  Sorry.  That's just the way it is.  Once I decided you were 'the one', the one who would play the role of my dad in our blockbuster, I just can't do it.  Just cannot.  I'm terrified of what I may see and what I may feel.

The sailor does not understand this.  It's ironic, or not so ironic in my world, that he watches everything you appear in.  He's constantly trying to get me to watch Blue Bloods, or some movie you've done.  Constantly.  I always politely remind him that I cannot watch anything with you in it, there's no good explanation for it, that's just the way it is, so stop suggesting it.  It unnerves him every time.  He doesn't understand, and finds it even more frustrating that I keep a picture of you in the bedroom, but can't watch a show or a movie with you in it.  What can I say, Tom?  He knew going into this just how weird I am.  Most of the time, he's ok with it.

Sometimes I don't know whether to take our Tom Selleck connection as a sign he and I are on the same path, or if he is trying to figure me out in a very observant and calculated way.  He's like that.  It's one of the things I love about him.  He thinks I don't know, but I do, and that's how I stay a step ahead of him.  It's cute, watching him trying to figure me out, realizing how little he really knows about me.  I'd like to think it's part of my charm, and what keeps him coming back.

The sailor has no idea that I write to you.  He knows I write, just not to you.  I've told him I'm writing books and there's a chapter about him, but I'm not sure if he believes me.  I'm ok with that.  It makes the story all the more enchanted.  If I had my druthers, he'd remain fictitious forever.  He's mine.  I don't want to share him.

The way I see it all playing out, is that I'll write a bestseller that is made into a blockbuster and eventually makes its way to Netflix, which will undoubtedly put it on the 'Suggestions for the Sailor' list.  He'll have to watch it.  Because it's you.  And it has five stars.  I bet he never mentions to me when he watches it.  He'll think he's a step ahead of me.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl