Click: An Irreverent Chat

Click

An Irreverent Chat

Copyright 2013 R. L. Salon

Cover Design by Jill Weber

Smashwords Edition

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. An resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, stored or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without digital rights management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

With enormous gratitude to Jill Weber, for listening to every thought, ad nauseum, reading every sentence, at least twice, and designing a kick-ass book cover.  Without her encouragement, Paige would have remained quiet. Blame her.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Cognitive Leaps Are the Nature of the Beast

Like a Lamb Being Led to the Slaughter

Station Identification and Vital Statistics

Re-virginized and in Danger of Being Deflowered

The Fairytale Begins

Hot Flashes or Just Global Warming?

Early Signs of Dementia

Crossroads, Crosswinds and Diaper Pins

Indecent Exposure

No Trip Can Compete With the One You Take in Your Mind

The Heroine Experiences More Cosmic Adventures

Jewish Children Must Be Really Naughty If Santa Never Brings Them Anything

Fooling Some of the People Some of the Time and Fooling Myself All of the Time

Life is a Sitcom Not a Fairytale

Cupid Displays a Sick Sense of Humor Again

Sleep Deprivation Can Lead to Insanity

Hallmark Has Validated My Aha! With a Card: It's Not That I've Become More Mellow With Age, I Just Don't Give a Fuck Anymore

There's Always a Snake in the Garden of Eden

Spiraling Downwards Into Addiction With My Laptop

A Little Diversion During Working Hours

The Sitcom Continues

My Successful Career as an Internet Detective

Beware The Fantasy That Becomes Reality

Not Exactly A Traditional Mother of the Bride

Crossing the Line Again and Again

Menopausal Pearls of Wisdom

Life As a Polygamist

Trouble in Paradise

Another Turkey Bites the Dust

My Turn to Deal with Death and Dying

Paige the Professional

My Life Imitates My Art or Vice-Versa

Starman Implodes And Scatters Throughout My Universe

Sara Lee Drives Me To The Dreaded Colonoscopy

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way To Where Was I Going

About the Author

Cognitive Leaps Are the Nature of the Beast

Conversation with a menopausal woman is an adventure, vastly different from typical communication. The middle-aged speaker assumes the listener has the skills necessary to make inferences and predictions, summarize, mind read and follow stream-of-consciousness up and down hills, around curves, and sometimes out to lunch. A word, an object, or even a thought can conjure up a memory, which in turn might evoke a story, sometimes having no relevance to the initial word or object. For example, the word pond summons up frog, which you have to kiss a lot of, to end up like Camilla Parker Bowles, who finally got her prince.

Like a Lamb Being Led to the Slaughter

It began in late summer of 1997, just before I turned forty-nine, a dreadful age to say the least, or so I thought at the time. Everything is relative. That was the year Gabe, my less than perfect husband, gave me a Palm Pilot for my birthday. It wasn't jewelry, so I almost missed the fact that he had programmed and synched my new toy with my address book before presenting it to me. He knows, but doesn't understand, why I've always found instruction manuals beyond my attention span.

Let me stop here for a moment. History lesson number one. 1997, you may or may not know was prior to Facebook and Skype. Instant messaging was in its infancy. High speed internet was a vision.

So to continue. One night, a couple of months before my birthday, I awoke from a deep slumber at about three in the morning. 3:05. 3:10. 3:15. Time was ticking away and I couldn't fall back to sleep. I was hot. 3:30. 3:35. 3:40. My eyes remained open. 3:45. 4:00. 4:15. So hot.

I quietly worked at getting out of the waterbed, bought when I was pregnant with our now thirty-eight year old daughter, and have only recently replaced ( I love my Bob-O-Pedic), so my turning and tossing wouldn't wake my comatose husband. While changing my nightgown and thinking, always thinking, I noted several nights when I woke with leg cramps so severe that my screams could have awakened the dead, and yet, the man next to me remained asleep. Amazing, since getting out of that bed was not an easy feat and required gathering some momentum, creating quite a bit of motion in that ocean of a bed.

About the leg cramps before I forget. Several years ago, I was attempting to put my legs into the stirrups at my gynecologist's office when I was overcome by severe cramps in the calves of both legs. A reasonable course of action necessitated that my doctor stretch the muscles in first my left, and then my right leg. I was beyond mortified. Anyway, I explained, as I struggled to hold the hospital gown that I was wearing together — Open in the front please — that I often awoke during the night with leg cramps. After suggesting that I have my husband stretch my calves out before I retired for the evening, something I knew, by the way, was never going to happen, at least not in this lifetime, my doctor advised me that two of his patients, not related, both of sound mind and level head, swore that if one takes a bar of soap and puts it between the top and bottom sheet of their bed, it eliminates leg cramping. He indicated that there was no scientific reason why this should work, but added with a smile, that I could be part of his scientific test study. I left his office that afternoon, put a bar of soap between my sheets, and I've been leg cramp free ever since. Knock on wood. I'm a believer.

Now where was I? Oh yeah. I went straight to the kitchen for a couple of tablespoonfuls of Breyer's mint chip ice cream, which I believe to be addictive, and eventually found myself in the den, which still needs, as it needed then, a new rug. Flicking through the three hundred and thirty two channels that we got, thanks to our local cable company, nothing on the television caught my interest that didn't necessitate a credit card, second language acquisition, or my vibrator.

4:30. 4:35. 4:40 a.m. I took two tokes of a joint that I had found several weeks before while rummaging about in my son's bedroom, after he had vacated the premises and moved on to his own space. Bad mother that I was, I never mentioned it to him because I wanted to smoke it. I had actually been saving it for a special occasion to surprise Gabe with. Sorry, Honey. Do you know that it's been statistically confirmed that women apologize much more frequently than men? 4:45. 4:50. 4:55 a.m. By this time I was wide awake and I certainly didn't want to waste that glorious high, the likes of which I hadn't experienced since the last time we had been with Maddie and Sid, old friends of ours. Suddenly, I wasn't interested in going back to bed. I walked over to the desk and sat down at the computer which, through no fault of mine, was perpetually one click away from online.

Out of the blue, I found myself checking my email, glancing at the following day's weather, and finally clicking on the word 'chat,' an apparent out of body experience, since this was something I had never done, nor had ever thought of doing prior to this particular moment in time. When asked to provide a nickname and password, an occasion when a lesser woman would have clicked offline and returned to bed, I created a new nickname and identity. Cynthia was a thought. I really got a kick out of Cyn for short but before this thought reached fruition, Voilà! gabriella46ca was born. I'm sure a therapist could have a field day analyzing my choice of a nickname.

For the past several months my sexual desire had been at an all time high. I found myself aroused and thinking about sex all the time. I was often all over Gabe, who began pushing me away, sometimes thinking me inappropriate, which I suppose I sometimes was. In all honesty, I didn't actually want to engage in sex each time I alluded to it. I simply wanted to engage in the preliminary dance leading up to it. I enjoy dancing. Seduction is a concept many married men—so I've been told by their wives—find foreign. My state of high arousal was almost unwelcome by us both. To be honest, it felt completely beyond my control.

I saw that the chat categories were abundant. There were so many choices about so many interests, one being romance. I wondered what that was about. It had been awhile and at the time, I felt I needed a little romance in my life. CLICK. married no strings attached sounded innocuous. I certainly wasn't looking for any kind of attachment. After all, I was a happily married woman. Wasn't I? CLICK. Immediately, as if appearing out of nowhere, a box began flashing on my screen. With an almost knee jerk reaction, I clicked on it. Whiteknight was whispering.

hello gabriella how are you tonight?

Oh my God! Someone was speaking to me. I actually felt the sense that I was being whispered to, which was impossible, since there was obviously no voice to hear. In spite of my surreal feeling, I cautiously typed, as I waited to hear Rod Serling's voice emanate from the Twilight Zone,

hello, fine thanks, and you? I responded. Easy enough, I thought to myself, to which he replied,

better now thanks

smiling

where are you? At this point, my heart began to beat a bit faster and as I sat up a bit straighter in my chair, suddenly feeling more alert, I remarked

in the den

lol, he typed.

I wondered what lol meant. I was being clever and I sensed he was amused. Laughing perhaps. Laughing out loud drifted through my mind. Oh my God! I got it. While I had been pondering lol, he had added,

married?

I really loved that he got my humor.

of course, I typed, and then asked,

isn't that the criteria for the room? One of those demonic smiley faces appeared on my screen. Years ago, there was a Mr. Yuck campaign designed as a poison caution system for children who needed a visual to understand the warning. Every time I see one of those faces I immediately think yuck.

and it's all in my name

you? I continued.

so you live in colorado? he asked.

no, i live in california, I lied.

right ... sorry

now I feel like an idiot

tell me what you look like gabriella

I actually experienced a rush of adrenalin as I recognized a personal turning point. I could be anyone I wanted to be, and without further hesitation I adopted a somewhat arrogant personality and decided on the spot that I only wanted to talk to men who could rise to, pardon the expression, and return my witty repartee.

a woman

lol, he replied before continuing.

right

but if we were meeting for coffee

how would i recognize you? I immediately grasped the power of this form of communication and how liberating it was—not only be to be invisible, but anonymous, as well.

you wouldn't

because i would never meet you for coffee

smiling, I typed, while actually finding myself smiling and thinking myself so very clever for writing those words. I was definitely starting to relax and enjoy myself.

nice smile! he typed.

thanks, I wrote, as I took a deep breath, sported a bigger smile, and started to feel an anxious but not unpleasant sensation stirring in the pit of my stomach. I was shocked that I actually experienced a connection with this stranger. I found it bizarre, but also a bit enthralling. I was somewhat concerned about consequences, but was pretty sure he couldn't track my computer, or worse yet, give me a virus, no pun intended, that I'd have to explain the origin of to Gabe. As I waited for him to respond, I read the text of what other people were discussing in the room. It took only moments before recognizing the huge sexual undertones.

36 m pa, 5'11, 170

light brown hair, hazel eyes

ah ... very nice smiling, I replied as I envisioned the old Brad Pitt

well thanks gabriella

but come on

describe yourself to me, he continued. My heart began to race. I certainly wasn't going to mention my distended abdomen or the roll around my middle. Without premeditation, I watched myself reply,

5'4, 128

dark brown shoulder length hair, green eyes, miraculously twenty pounds slimmer and three years younger than I was in reality. gabriella46ca was, in fact, forty-nine, never lived on the opposite coast, and wasn't a size eight, but what the hell! Who was I hurting and besides, who would know?

you sound lovely, he typed.

why thanks, I said, and suddenly feeling more brazen, I added,

i don't think you'd be disappointed He responded with:

i'm sure i wouldn't be

i love green eyes

can i ask you a question?

you can

but i don't promise to answer it, I replied.

Another one of those smiley faces appeared. I winced.

what are you wearing gabby?

black silk pajamas, I indicated in type while tightening the belt on my well-worn terrycloth robe.

gabriella?

yes?

will you talk to me while i stroke my cock? CLICK. Trembling, I returned to bed falling asleep around 7 a.m. Whiteknight was a deviant. A Brad Pitt look-alike perhaps, but a pervert just the same. And anyway, at the time I was mad at Brad Pitt for fucking up his marriage to Jennifer Aniston.

Good morning babe, Gabe remarked as my eyes opened and attempted to adjust to the morning light. Sleep well?

I barely slept at all, I responded with just of a bit of an intentional edge to my voice. I woke up during the night and couldn't fall back to sleep. I ended up in the den and spent several hours playing spider solitaire before I finally came back to bed. I'm wiped and seem to be having trouble waking up, I contended as a vision of Brad flashed through my brain. Shirtless. I think I'll stay in bed for a little while longer.

Well, I'm going for my morning run. I'll make lattes when I get back, Gabe announced as he sprinted out the bedroom door. Actually the espresso maker is one of the better gifts I've given him over the years, in terms of benefiting me. He, of course, sent me shopping with the brand name, color and model number. Don't buy Gabe a gift he doesn't want. Once he left, I hopped out of bed, showered, and eventually found myself wrapped in my robe waiting with baited breath for my morning dose of caffeine. I didn't remember walking into the den, but I found myself sitting in front of the computer with my pointer finger hovering over the mouse, just about to click, when Gabe walked through the door.

I had a great run. I think I'll take a fast shower before I make us coffee, he remarked before adding, What are you up to?

Nothing I hastily asserted. I guess I'll check my email while you shower. Hurry up. I need my fix. I contended.

Give me fifteen minutes. Want to do some errands with me later? he added.

I'd love to but I have to get a test report done today. The evaluation meeting is on Monday. When are you going out? I asked.

I thought I'd go this morning, he answered.

Would you stop and pick up the cleaning while you're out? I inquired. I dropped your shirts off at the laundry last week and haven't had a chance to pick them up,

Sure, he promised as he headed down the hall.

I'm going to have a couple hours all to myself, I thought as he trotted off. There wasn't a doubt as to how I would busy myself in my husband's absence. Hmm. Maybe I could think of a couple of extra errands for him to run.

Station Identification and Vital Statistics

I've heard it said more than once: that I have trouble saying no to myself. If it looks, feels, or tastes good, I over-indulge. I'm brought to tears by television commercials, the Lifetime network for women, sad movies, old songs, happy occasions, and life cycle events, both my own and those of others. My medicine cabinet hosts Prinival for high blood pressure, a bottle—okay, maybe two—of Ativan for stress or the occasional panic attack, and low dose aspirin for the strokes and heart attacks that run in my family. Though I rarely take them because they're horse pills, I tell my gynecologist that I faithfully ingest my daily recommended dose of calcium, as if it actually makes a difference to him. I depend on Aquaphor for dry skin, and suffer twinges of carpel tunnel, especially in my left and lately even in my right thumb. My memory is not what it once was. I find myself losing the notes that I write in order to remember things, and rely on an ever-ready supply of stickies. I have to make a remark the moment it enters my head (often interrupting, and somewhat irritating to, the current speaker) because if I wait for a lull in the conversation, my comment will forever be gone from my memory bank, unless, of course, I remember it in the middle of the night. The following morning, usually while in the shower, it will occur to me that I remembered the unspoken comment—often clever I should add. Unfortunately, while I remember that I remembered it, I've regrettably forgotten what it was. Oh well. My children verbalize that I don't pay attention to what they're saying (I really do try to stay focused), but acknowledge that I remember the information they disclose, that they later regret revealing. I smile as I tell them it's a mother's gift.

I'm plagued by hot flashes, bouts of insomnia, leg cramps, occasional night sweats, and frequent trips to the bathroom, during the night, to urinate. I look into the mirror and I see the faces of the women born before me—my grandmother's mouth, my mother's eyes, and yes, even various aspects of my children's features gazing back. I squint and sometimes catch the reflection of my true being, my thirty year-old face, still firm and unwrinkled.

I live vicariously every time another friend or acquaintance of mine has a facelift, a tummy tuck, or an affair. Call me shallow. I long for a cashmere Burberry scarf and a real Louis Vuitton bag. My sister-in-law, Ava, of course, has several. It tickles me that I've been stopped by a stranger in Bloomingdale's and a saleswoman in Neiman Marcus, both of whom made comments about my fabulous Prada bag. They each asked where I had purchased it, because neither had seen one quite