To be honest, folks, I’m not sure I can do today’s guest justice. It’s that simple.
Britt Lee is many things:
- Achingly gorgeous. (Seriously, my wife was standing over my shoulder the first time I saw Britt’s image on my laptop and when I commented on her beauty, my wife hit me in the back of the head with a frying pan. And it ached. True story.)
- Spit-your-milk-out hilarious.
- A wonderful mom that every other child envies and a loving wife that makes dad impose a 5 pm bedtime so the kids hit the hay early, leaving the night open for unspeakable acts involving frosting and light bondage.
- Beyond brave and insightful.
- Eager to share. (I’m referring to her stories and wisdom, of course! Perverts.)
- A survivor.
And she tells the story of Britt better than anyone. So do us both a favor and click on the link below, and then come back and we’ll continue.
Have you gone yet?
Are you still here?
Are you back? Oh, good, I was getting nervous. Let’s continue shall we?
Here’s a little pic to set the mood…
1) In your opinion, Britt, why do events like this year’s Boston Marathon resonate so strongly in our collective unconscious? (We’ll get to the wacky stuff soon, I promise.)
These moments resonate because they are pure.
There is a unanimous, unavoidable, unmistakable feel-goodness about our Marathon, in particular, because we’re all craving this sort of connection. Every day we are lured into a more dubious collective unconscious during the coffee breaks of our social media saturated lives. Those angry/bitter/funny memes, a co-blogger’s hilariously grumpy rant, another opinion from your politically un-shut-up-able Facebook friend—these lasso us into The Conversation, where unfortunately we often find ourselves fondling different bits of the elephant.
But the Boston Marathon? We’re all looking in the same direction there. We’re watching survivors, and heroes, and ordinary folk who decide maybe they can run 26.5 fucking miles … and then they do that. And it’s kind of a relief for all of us to look in the same direction for a spell, even if it’s only just for one moment on a pretty, Spring day.
2) In our world of “I want it NOW!”, is foreplay dead?
When I hear “foreplay,” I think of high school and boys with all of their aching urgency. Happily married sex (though happy) is tinged with “Are-the-kids-awake?” and “I-forgot-to-buy-broccoli!”, distractions that tend to scoot us right past the first bases.
But those couch fumblings in the basement wondering if Mom is going to walk in, groping and hoping but never actually advancing to anything reportable in the confessional… do kids do that anymore? Have we become a culture that wants everything via Amazon Prime, including intimacy? Probably. Remember how it took, like, a thousand seasons of Cheers for Sam and Diane to hook up? Now our favorite TV characters are coupling up faster than you can say, “Oh my God, did she just reference Cheers?”
I have no blossoming teens at my disposal to embarrass with a query about the death of foreplay. Twitter leads me to believe that youngsters think pizza is foreplay, and then they have really, really naughty sex with strangers or devices.
(I may need to start following a different crowd on Twitter.)
It’s entirely possible that the closest thing to foreplay now is waiting for the next installment of Game of Thrones. That’s an aching urgency for sure. One week is a cruel, ascetic exercise in delayed gratification to see Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons.
3) Please share a memory inspired by your favorite pair of shoes.
Girls with one favorite pair… who are those mythical creatures?
My prettiest pumps presently, or t-straps from my twenties? Favorite stiletto, or decadently comfy sparkly flat? The ones Mom wouldn’t let me buy, or the ones that cost more than a car payment? I could narrate any number of memories that began in lovely stems and ended with them kicked off in the corner of someplace unexpected.
But you asked, so here’s a little ditty. I once had a particularly delightful pair of bright coral platform heels. They were very, very cool. They (almost) made me cool. They made my jeans look funky, my dresses look retro, and my ass look fantastic. Granted, it was a younger ass.
One night, I wore these magic heels to dinner with my in-laws and some distant cousins who were in town visiting from Taiwan. Most of the evening’s conversation was in Mandarin, but one of Bernie’s relatives was an adorable girl who couldn’t stop complimenting my shoes in enthusiastic English: “Where’d you get them?”, “Are they comfortable?”, “Were they expensive?”, I really want them!”
At the end of the evening, I slipped them off and insisted she try them on. And then when they fit, I refused their return against all protests and had Bernie piggyback me to the car.
I loved those shoes, so to me, it felt like a grand mitzvah to give them away to someone who loved them more. As we drove away, I was beaming with my big-hearted, bare-footed generosity, so happy to have made this unorthodox gesture of goodness. Only then did my darling husband inform me of the lesser-known Taiwanese no-gift-shoe custom. Apparently, giving someone shoes is akin to telling them to take a literal hike. And also, like many, many things in Taiwanese culture… it’s bad luck. Beaming, big-hearted moment busted.
Now I wonder if she ever wore those bad-luck shoes? Whatever. They were kind of pinchy anyway.
4) Your favorite X-Man is…
Mystique. She’s hot. She’s blue. She can be anyone… but she’s also Jennifer Lawrence. I’ll admit to Googling X-man characters (sorry, Hook). But I will always choose looking like Jennifer Lawrence; and it’s entirely possible I’ve watched Silver Linings Playbook more times than you have watched X-Men. I’m always reading the signs. And all hors d’oeuvres in this house are crabby snacks and homemades.
5) If you could retire anywhere, in any time period, where would you wind up living out your days?
Because my life has been tainted with cancer–the kind that doesn’t boast a cure or remission — daydreaming about “retirement years” seems jinxy. I live with the best guy and his teeny smart and hilarious clones.
This is where I want to be. Right here.
Should we fall on the lucky slope of the curve, it would be lovely to live out our days seaside, where friends stop by with steaks and Processo, and nights are filled with reminiscing and giggles. But we do that now, even without the sand, surf, and sunsets that prove that even if you don’t think God exists, there’s something truly fabulous out there… something pure… something that has all of us looking in the same direction.
I’d be a fool to try to follow that ending. Thank you, Britt.
See you in the lobby, kids…