27 comments/ 55532 views/ 5 favorites 40 Years of Earth Days By: andtheend Loving wife has had enough, after 40 years of Earth Days. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the birds were singing, but there were dark clouds of discontent on Elizabeth Gordon's horizon. She was married 40 years today, Earth Day. "Happy Anniversary to me," she said taking a sip of the chilled champagne from the freshly opened bottle. It was only 9am and Elizabeth was already drinking. She loved how the tiny bubbles of the champagne that popped and fizzed in her glass exploded in her mouth, as if they were her personal, miniscule fireworks there to help her celebrate her wedding anniversary alone, again. Putting her head back and closing her eyes, she waited for the alcohol to calm her nerves and to quell the rage that was slowly but surely brewing inside her heart and inside her head, in the way of a sudden storm that unexpectedly blows up on the horizon, rolls in, and darkens her blue sky. She took a big, deep breath trying to relax to stave off the inevitable, but to no avail. Having lived her life in denial and having closed her eyes to all that she suspected but didn't want to believe, it had taken her forty years to finally admit to herself how better her life would have been had she not married her husband. Angry that she had wasted her life with this man, she was now ready to make a change. Her husband, Gordon G. Gordon, is such a wonderful man, really, so smart and so educated. When he married her, he knew how she felt about the good Earth and he shared the concerns she had for the ecology and conservationism in wanting to do her share in saving the planet and walking with a smaller carbon footprint, even back then, before it was the right and the popular thing to do. So committed to helping save the environment, so in love with Gordon, she chose the first official Earth Day, their favorite holiday, as their wedding day. In hindsight, had she known that Earth Day was not such a good day to pick to get married and to have as a wedding anniversary, she would have picked another day. Perhaps, had she picked another day to celebrate her wedding anniversary, things would have been different between her and her husband. "Happy Anniversary to me," she said again, and again taking another slow sip of champagne. Gordon planted that tree out in front of their home, a Weeping Willow tree, to forever commemorate the day they were married. How perfect is that? Happy when she first saw the tree 40 years ago, now with her angst and depression, she wanted to fall to her knees and weep in a mirror image of the tree. Emotionally, she felt how the tree looked with her head and shoulders slumped forward and her limbs as heavy as the branches of the tree from the weight of her sorrow. It's funny how the tree symbolically translated her mood. Tied with a white, satin sash with an oversized bow, a decoration that had long since been removed, the tree was his first wedding gift to her and, at the time, she swooned that he did that for her. So beautiful and giving so much shade, that tree meant a lot to her in the beginning. It had grown to become the strong and growing symbol of their undying love. "How thoughtful of him to do that? It was just like him, he was so romantic, back then, to buy me a tree, instead of a diamond ring," she said for no one to hear, while sipping her champagne. "Isn't that forty-year-old tree beautiful? It was such a perfect surprise, such a shock, actually. There I was expecting a diamond ring and got a Weeping Willow sapling instead. It would have been nice if he bought me the tree, along with the diamond. If only I knew then what I know now, who would have figured he was so cheap?" Notwithstanding that romantic blunder, it was the thought behind the tree that counted and was appreciated then, but not so much now, especially after all that has transpired to foul her air and poison her mood with reasons to hate him. Besides, everything else was so perfect, back then, and so in tuned with Earth Day. She fooled myself into believing that she preferred having that tree, as their symbol of love, rather than having a big rock, a sparkling piece of carbon on her finger to show off to her family and friends, instead of inviting them to her house to show them her tree. Sadly, she watched the bubbles fizz and explode in her glass in the way she imagined his body fizzing and him horrifically dying in an acid bath. Forty years later, symbolizing their marriage, the tree is so strong. It's so big. It gives so much shade to their house and oxygen to the air they breathe. There's no better honor to their marriage and to Earth Day than to plant a tree, even one planted 40 years ago, especially one planted 40 years ago. Now, every time she sees that damn tree, she thinks of her no good, dirty bastard of a husband. She thinks of her lonely and solitary wedding anniversary. She thinks of fucking Earth Day, the one day she has grown to despise with a passion that, if she was an alien from another planet in another galaxy, she'd blow planet Earth and him and all his little whores to smithereens. Although the tree had long since outgrown the ribbon, she delighted in the fact that the tree would always be there as a loving memory, a memorial of sorts, to not only remind them of their true love for one another but also as a reminder of their anniversary and of all the Earth Days they celebrated together and would forever celebrate together. Earth Day was their favorite holiday. Life couldn't be more perfect for them than it was, that is, until, one day, when rushing to leave to go on, yet, another trip without her, taking another one of his young, blonde, beautiful, and buxom assistants, instead, he forgot to close his e-mail screen. "Oops," she said with a vindictive giggle, as she waved to him from his office window, while watching his cab slowly drive away down the street for the airport. For five seconds, she struggled with the moral dilemma of violating her husband's personal e-mail account and invading his expected privacy by reading his e-mails. Putting aside the brief list of negative ramifications she had with her moral dilemma in not respecting her husband's privacy, she was curious and suspicious enough, and bored, angry, and hurt enough to read all of his e-mails. What else did she have to do, sitting home alone for a week, until he returned from Switzerland? Even though he could more than well afford it, he was too cheap to buy cable and there was nothing on television. Besides, she loved to read and there before her were hundreds of received e-mails from women, thousands of them, actually. The pack rat that he was, he deleted nothing and saved everything. Stunned, shocked, and surprised, even though she had long suspected it, she couldn't believe he had been cheating on her with so many women for so many years. Where did he find the time? Where did he get the inclination? Where did he get the energy? When did he get a prescription for Viagra? She was tired just from reading them all. She couldn't imagine where he found the libido to have sex with all of those women. There were so many of them. In the way that Wilt Chamberlain had admitted to having sex with 20,000 women, by her unofficial count, her husband, certainly no Hall of Fame basketball superstar, nonetheless, was the Wilt Chamberlain of the academic world. Now she understood why, whenever she was in a playful mood, whenever she needed some physical attention, whenever she required some loving affection, he was always too tired. Now, she knew the reason for his exhaustion, the cad. She thought he needed a vitamin. She thought he was just old. She should have known better. He was just spent, worn to a frazzle from having sex with women 40-years younger than he is. She's the one who is old. He's the one who's no longer attracted to her. He's more attractive to the very young and beautiful, buxom blondes. The anal and detailed Virgo that she was, it took her the entire week to print out all of those e-mails and file them away in binders; it took three of them. Then, she realized, what about the e-mails he sent. Wouldn't those be fun, interesting, and entertaining to read, too? Certainly, she had the time and the inclination to do just that. She had no idea of the enormity of the sexual scandal, until she printed out those, too. His sent e-mails filled three more volumes. She had a regular library, a permanent record, of her husband's infidelity documented via the Internet. Received and sent, they are all in a box bound with tape and sitting in her sister's basement, just waiting for the proper time to present them to her divorce attorney. "Happy Earth Day, Mr. Tree," she said standing in her living room and looking out the big bay window at the tree, before raising her glass in toast of it. Every year for the past 25 years, unfortunately, she celebrates her wedding anniversaries alone. Her husband, a well regarded and highly respected university Professor, after earning his Ph.D. in his field of study, has become the foremost authority on, of all things, the meaning of and all that relates to Earth Day in the United States and around the world. Combining elements from geology and other Earth sciences, he teaches an Earth Day, Earth science class that is always full and on the waiting list for most students. He is beloved by his students and esteemed by his fellow colleagues. Much like his lectures, his classes are always fun and interesting. Hell, he's even been on Oprah. "He's a Hell of a guy, a Hell of a guy, a man's man," she said raising her glass again, this time in toast to her husband. Even though Earth Day is their wedding anniversary, a day that he should spend his time at home with his loving and devoted wife or, at least, take her with him, sadly, Earth Day is the day he travels the most. As a point of fact, booked solidly, he has a full schedule of speaking engagements from the beginning of March to end of May and every day the entire month of April. The best place to find Professor Gordon in April is behind a podium, on the road, in the air, or in a hotel room. The thought of him in a hotel room was what made her the angriest. Constantly requiring the assistance of several, young and beautiful, buxom, blondes, different ones each year, he's such a horny man, sorry, of course, she meant to say that he's such a busy man, especially this time of year, that seldom is he at home. There was a time, when they were first married, actually, the first fifteen years of their marriage, to be exact, when he used to invite her to go along with him and they'd celebrate their anniversaries in hotel rooms all over the world. Traveling the world over with her husband was some of the best and most memorable times of her life. Paris was her most romantic memory. London is where they had the most fun. Yet, Rome, because of the culture and her family heritage, with her being Italian, Sicilian, actually, is where she'd like to return to rid herself of his dead and lifeless body, where no one will ever find him, after she murders him and cuts him up into little pieces and feeds him to the fish in the Mediterranean Sea. It's a good thing for him that he doesn't take her traveling with him anymore. Only, once he started publishing his books and recording his lectures to DVD's and successfully selling those, too, fame and fortune suddenly and positively changed all of that for him, as much as it detrimentally changed all of that for her. One would think, now that Professor Gordon was more successful, financially secure, and no longer a struggling teacher, that he'd be content with his financial and academic successes, she'd be happier, and they'd have a better life together. Unfortunately, in the guise of an extra credit course, subsidized by the university, he's been taking a student with him to help him prepare for his lectures. Most times, he takes a different one each trip, a young, beautiful, female student, instead of her. Because of his desire of wanting and needing to be with young and beautiful female students, rather than with his old and withered wife, instead of growing older, wiser, and closer together, they've grown more apart. To justify his rejection of her, he told her that he needs the eye candy to sell his books and DVD's out front in the lobby and at the conclusion of his lectures. His excuse made sense to her and no doubt, he's right, of course. He's always right. Only, she couldn't help but wonder, if his young, gullible assistants knew he thought of them as merely eye candy. For someone so educated and so enlightened, he's such a chauvinist pig to demean and belittle women by comparing them to sugared sweets. Sex sells. Right? Only, in violation of their vows of holy matrimony, especially after reading his e-mails, she knows her husband all too well and she knows the sweet tooth that he has and chooses not to ignore by disavowing his matrimonial vows and indulging in the forbidden honey and the extramarital sex of being alone with someone so sweet. Excessive and compulsive in everything he does, he loves candy, eye candy or otherwise, especially eye candy; he can't resist it. She imagined cutting off his cock and dipping it in dark, rich chocolate and plucking out his eyes to decorate his chocolate covered cock, before feeding it to him. "How's that for eye candy, you dirty bastard, you lecherous old man," she said out loud for no one to hear. Unable to grow old gracefully, she suspects he's afraid of getting old and the young women that he has accompany him on his extensive trips takes his mind off his aging for the time that they're alone together. She'd think it'd be just the opposite. Someone so young and so beautiful would make him feel so old and so decrepit. She can't imagine why a young, beautiful, and educated woman would be so interested in such a self-important and pompous, old man. Even with her, especially with her, after a while, his incessant talking, dogmatic pontificating, actually, becomes annoying, much in the way of a radio station that can't lock onto a station. "Hissssssss," she said repeating the sound she hears, whenever she hears him speak. "Hissssssss," she said letting out some of her boiling over steam. "Hissssssss," she said again thinking of him as a snake and she the deadly mongoose. "Hiss, hiss, hiss, hiss." She worked in sales after graduating from college and later, after they were married; she had a successful selling career. She knows more about selling, no doubt, than miss blonde, eye candy with the big tits, who he insists on taking with him, instead of her. As his loyal, faithful, and loving wife, who better to hawk his books and sell his DVD's than her? Certainly, she could sell his books and DVD's, as well as Miss sweet, sugar Daddy sucker, but the only men she'd attract are older men, those senior citizens who are more into Bengay and denture crème than the eye candy that accompanies her husband with their big tits and long, blonde hair. Perhaps, it's her age, an age that is closer to his age than to his young female admirers' age, that has soured his sweet tooth for her and the reason why he no longer invites her to travel with him. He's such a pompous, self-absorbed prick. She wondered if the attendees at the conferences thought his young assistants, he's had so many of them over the years, were his daughters or his granddaughters. She wondered if they suspected or knew that his assistants were doing more than just hawking his books and selling his DVD's, but having sex with him, before and after his lectures. She wondered if she was the laughing stock on campus, the good wife of the illustrious Professor Gordon, putting up with all of his extramarital affairs and sexual shenanigans, even after stupidly and naively helping him to get ready for his trips by washing and ironing his clothes and packing his bags, while handling and dispatching all his personal affairs. As usual, his logical argument makes sense and he's always so wise in everything he says, especially when making excuses not to take her with him. Now, adding more to his reasoning and justification to not have her accompany him, instead of his sweet, sugar student, he makes more money in selling his books and DVD's than he does in working as a university professor. Between the salary he earns at the university, the money he's paid to speak, and the books and DVD's he sells on tour, he does quite well for himself, actually. Between his retirement pension that he has with the university, a retirement that he may not live to see, unfortunately, if she has anything to say about it, his hefty stock market portfolio, and his real estate investments, he has more than enough money stashed away to retire, quit working forever, and stay home and/or travel with her. Only, he'd never do that. The temptation of fame and fortune, along with the adoration received from his young and beautiful, buxom, blonde bimbo type of students are what attracts him to the shine of the spotlight like a moth to a flame. He'd never quit teaching at the university. He'd never stop traveling each Spring. Gone too many nights and weekends during the year, he'd never stay home with her, not now and not ever. Yet, as he always has, he relies on her, his dutiful and loving wife, to take care of him, as well as to manage the multitude of monotonous minutia that she deals with to make his life easier and that allows him to escape her to have his worldwide extramarital affairs. How accommodating of her to do that for him. As usual, he gave her a laundry list of things to do in his absence, before he rushed out the door. As usual, he doesn't appreciate her, nor does he respect her, nor does he even know all that she does for him. She's just his wife of 40 years, after all, and no one special. She's not young, pretty, busty, or blonde, she's just old, hurt, tired, and angry. "Don't forget to pick up my suits at the drycleaners," he said without even acknowledging her with a look. "And I'll need my clothes ironed and packed. As soon as I return home to collect my bags, I'll be leaving again tonight for the airport with Christine." Again, he didn't even acknowledge her with a look. For such an educated man, how rude of him to not even look at her, when talking to her. It's bad enough not to feel wanted and desired, but by discounting her with not even so much as a warm smile, a kind word, or a bright look, he has a way of making her feel hurt and invisible. For sure, he'd never miss the chance of smiling and looking at one of his beautiful, young assistants, or one of his enamored colleagues from the university, or even some devoted fan, a stranger, from one of his lectures, when talking to them. "Don't worry, Dear," she said. "I won't forget to get your suits from the drycleaners." Now that she thought more about it, oddly enough, he never even calls her by name. Not able to remember the last time he called her by name, she wondered if he forgot her name. He'd never offend one of his buxom, blonde, beautiful assistants by forgetting their names. Surely, he remembers their names even in his dreams, especially in his dreams. Then, she thought, with all the women in his life, maybe he doesn't remember being married to her. Maybe he thinks she's his doting mother, his spinster sister, his nosey roommate, or his boring housekeeper. Yes, that must be it. He must think she's an employee and an expense of his business, his monkey business. Aging along with him, but still looking much like the dark haired Diane Sawyer that she did years ago, surely, she doesn't look bad for 62-years-old, she thought to herself, while turning and looking at herself in the mirror. Everyone tells her she looks ten years younger and can't believe her age, when she tells them how old she really is. Surely, she's no Christine, but at 67-years-old, he's no George Clooney either. 40 Years of Earth Days Nonetheless, his rejection of her makes her feel old and unwanted, much like those fossils that he uses as classroom demonstration aids. She could look better, no doubt, with a lift here, a nip there, and a tuck pretty much everywhere, along with a bit of exercise to firm her up a bit. Maybe if she had the vanity of a younger woman and was younger, she'd summoned the courage to get breast implants and liposuction, but not at her age. Satisfied with the way she looks at her age, why would she compensate for something she doesn't need or want with plastic surgery, just to please and appease him? Besides, he'd still reject her anyway. Even with a total, physical makeover, she'd never match the excitement that he obviously feels, needs, wants, and receives from being around twenty-something-year-olds. If he's still no longer interested in her now, after all she's done for him, there's nothing that she could possibly do to herself to make him more interested in her, again. Still, she couldn't help but wonder, what hold does he have over women so young? How does he attract so many of them? Why do they all flock to him and want him enough to travel with him, dine with him, and go to bed with him? The logic of it all escaped her. It was then that she wondered if she'd be as sexually promiscuous, as he obviously is, flaunting herself at younger men and playing the horny cougar, if she had a sudden wealth of money available to her to travel the world, as he has and as he does. Do they all want an A grade so badly that they'll go to bed with a dirty, old man, a senior citizen, or are they just looking for an old, sugar Daddy to stick onto and to suck? Do they ever think of her, his loyal wife of 40 years, sitting at home alone, while they fuck and suck her husband? What's wrong with these women that they all freely flock to him, throw themselves at his feet, and fall to their knees to suck away, whatever they can get of him, while hoping, no doubt, for more? After all the women's liberation that her generation had fought so hard to get, these women are willing to degrade themselves by turning the clock back 50 years for the sake of bedding an old, wrinkled man. They are all educated women, who should all know better, than to have him reduce them into such lowlife bitches, fighting to become one of his favored and favorite assistants for the chance to willingly have sex with a married, dirty, old man. She didn't understand the attraction. She'd never understand the attraction. She wondered what, if anything, her husband told them about her. Maybe he told them that she's a bitch. Maybe he told them that she's a drunk. Maybe he told them that she's stupid. Maybe he told them that she's boring. Certainly, she's all of those things now, but she wasn't any of those things before. If she was guilty of anything then, she was guilty of being in love with him, her crime of passion punishable by him taking advantage of her with all of his infidelities. She was young. She was a virgin. She was in love with him. He's due all the credit for making her into all of those other things, a stupid, drunken, boring bitch. Now, the worst of it all is that he doesn't even remember her name. If she's a bitch, and she doesn't think she is a bitch, he made her a bitch in the way he has treated her. Besides, just because she will no longer tolerate his disrespectful, bad behavior of her, and just because she's, finally, decided to stand up for herself and up to him, her new found self-esteem shouldn't label her as a bitch, but more as a self-respecting woman and as his loving wife. No one should have put up with what she's had to endure for forty years. Even, though she's drinking now, she never drank before and she's certainly not a drunk. For sure, her life would be easier, if she was a drunk. She could have numbed herself with alcohol in the way she numbed herself into believing whatever he told her. She was so stupid to trust him, but love is blind and she loved him. Besides, she's just having a little champagne, is all, to celebrate forty, fucking years of being married to this miserable, ungrateful, cheating asshole. Yes, definitely, she's stupid to have put up with all his sordid affairs for all these years. Someone should give her a medal. Even though he was, oftentimes, bigger than life, she was stupid not to have stood up to him, once he started disrespecting her by not taking her with him on his trips. Then and there, she should have put her foot down. She should have known he was up to something by suddenly not inviting her to accompany him. "Eye candy my ass, how dare he?" She said reinforcing her anger with another long sip of champagne. She was stupid not to have made her wants and needs known early in their marriage. She was stupid to have relinquished her control by not fighting for her self-respect. She never should have given in to him by accepting, whatever he said as law, and passively agreeing with him to placate his mood, so that he wouldn't be upset, before leaving for a trip. She realized now that his delicate mood was just a ruse and something he used, so that she wouldn't complain, when he told her that he was taking one of his students, instead of her. In that regard, for letting him use her and bamboozle her, she's just as much to blame for his infidelity as he is. Then, she thought, that's ridiculous to accept any responsibility for his cheating. None of his unfaithfulness was her fault. She's been saint like in her treatment of him, worshipping him, as if he could walk on water. It'd be easier if he had cheated on her with one of their friends, someone more their age. She could have accepted that. She'd have understood that, and his infidelity would have been on more of an even playing field, had he chosen a lover her age. She could have competed with her for his love. Only, understandably and regrettably, with his head spun by a twenty-something-year-old with big tits, there was nothing that she could do to turn his head back around enough to want her. If she's boring at all, it's because he doesn't take the time to talk to her or even look at her. If she's boring at all, it's because he's no longer interested in her and in what she has to say. None of that is her fault; it's all his fault. He's the one who's boring by being the stereotypical, dirty old man, instead of being the loving and faithful husband, whom she thought loved her and whom she thought she was marrying. What do they think about, while making love to her husband, she wondered? Maybe the women he seduces think about someone else, someone younger and someone harder. Surely, when with him, they must miss their boyfriends and friends more their age, after being with someone as old and as wrinkled as he is. Maybe they think about all the money they think he'll spend on them. Apparently, they don't know he's Scottish, a true Scotsman with a family kilt and all, and a real tightwad, when it comes to parting with his hard earned money, which is why he has so much of it and why she receives so little of it. His little whores know he has money, no doubt, money that she never sees and money that he never spends on her. He doles out the money that she needs for household expenses. Except for the sales job she had, after college and after they were first married, she's never worked outside the house. He didn't want her to work and she's grateful for that in a way, but bored by not having had a job and never having had a career. She couldn't imagine having to work full-time, while caring for him, too. Instead of the man she thought she was marrying, instead of the husband she thought she was getting, he's more like an ungrateful teenager coming and going, as he pleases, without so much as a thank you for all that she does for him. Nonetheless, bored and wanting to make her own money and pay her own way, she wanted him to get her a job at the university, but he refused and now she knows why. He told her that she'd have enough to do around the house and in readying him and making the preparations for his numerous trips. Truth be told, he didn't want her to find out about all his dalliances, but she did anyway. Apparently, she's not as stupid as he thinks she is. Maybe his gullible assistants think he'll divorce her and marry one of them. Not by a long shot, he's too cheap to pay off his wife of 40 years, splitting all his assets in half, and then having to share what's left of his money with someone young enough to be his granddaughter. He's foolishly stupid, but he's not financially dumb. He's worked too hard to spend the rest of his life with a child. Even he is smart enough to know that he needs a good woman by his side to help him get up in the morning and get through his day. For someone so educated and so enlightened, a teacher of young minds, for him to discard and disrespect his wife in the way that he does, he's a stupid man not to appreciate what he has in her at home. Alas, he won't realize what he has in her, his wife, until she's no longer there, one day, to take care of him. Does he think that one of his young, buxom blondes will make sure that he takes his daily regimen of medication? Moreover, wait until they see what he really looks like in the morning, before he straightens out his tired, old body with an extensive pharmaceutical elixir of pills and cups of hot, black coffee. Further, he snores as loud as a donkey brays and, from all the rich food he eats, he farts in his sleep, passing enough methane gas that if she smoked, she'd explode the poisonous and odorous cloud that hangs low over their bed and set the room on fire. "Oh, and I left my baby parked out in the street," he said. "A photographer from the magazine is coming to photograph her." "Yes, Dear." His baby. She's not his baby, not by a long shot. It's obvious to her now, by the procession of women he's had in his life over the years, she never was his baby. Too selfish to have a baby, he doesn't have any children either, nor does he have any pets. Too self-centered to have a pet, surely, a dog or a cat would take away some of the attention that he needs every day for him to continue to work his plastic smile and walk his peacock strut. He may call his young, buxom, blonde assistants baby in private, but they aren't really his babies either. His real baby, his only baby is, of course, an inanimate, unfeeling, and incommunicative object, an automobile, his beloved car. That's his real baby. A sticking point with her that has festered like an open wound for all these years, especially when continually referring to his car as his baby, he never gave her a baby. It was always, wait until I finish with my studies, wait until I earn my Ph.D., wait until I have tenure, wait until I finish writing this book, that book, and more books, and wait until my books sell. Wait, wait, and wait, by then, the time had passed and it was too late. The day finally came when the doctor told her that she had waited too long and that she could no longer have children. Her beloved husband had no inclination to adopt or to waste his money, his words, on in vitro fertilization. It was obvious that he didn't want to vie for her attention with a baby and then a child. With her attention only focused on him, he needed to have her all for himself. "I figured it would look nice for Classic Car Magazine to have a background of our house with the Weeping Willow tree out front, when photographing my baby. Don't you think?" Don't you think, sweet Elizabeth, you insufferable ass? What do you think, dearest Elizabeth, you obnoxious bastard? Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth, she wanted to say. In case you've forgotten my name, the name of your wife of forty fucking years, my fucking name is Elizabeth, you self-centered, self-absorbed, little prick of a man. Say it. Say Elizabeth. Look me in the eyes and say my fucking name, you sanctimonious son of a bitch. Say Elizabeth, you sack of shit, before I shoot you through your stone cold, black heart, you miserable excuse for a man and even poorer excuse for a husband. Then, she thought, do you really want to know what I think? Or are you asking me one of your famous, rhetorical questions that you ask and never give anyone sufficient time to respond, a thought provoking question that stimulates you to continue talking non-stop without ever stopping to listen. No matter. This is what I think, dear Gordon fucking Gordon. The fact that your parents named you Gordon and gave you a middle name of Gordon, too, the two names, when said in unison with your surname, redundantly reverberates your old English heritage in an annoying singsong way. A name that I imagine someone back in 12th century England had, before being executed for having sex with one too many damsels from the King's Court. With your neck on the chopping block and a rowdy crowd of peasants cheering the executioner on in the background, saying your full name is much like uttering a goading cheer, Gordon, Gordon, Gordon, before the executioner's axe beheads you, Dear dead Gordon. What do I think? First of all, I can't believe you are actually asking my opinion. Yet, to answer your question, this is what I think, Dear Gordon Gordon Gordon. I think it would look nice to have the Weeping Willow tree stuck up your skinny ass and the car, your baby, parked on your fat head. Now, there's a picture that I'd like to see on the cover of Rest In Peace, Funeral Home magazine, if there is such a publication. "That would look nice, Dear," she said taking another sip of her champagne. "It's a little early to be drinking, isn't it Lizzie?" As if he were her father, as if he had the right to say anything to her, he shot her a scolding look that made her want to throw the champagne in his face and mess up his perfectly coiffed, dyed hair, but she didn't want to waste good champagne on him. What do you know? He called her by her name. He called her Lizzie. He hasn't called her that in years. He must be in a good mood. He must be thinking of fondling Christine's big tits, while she sucks his little, limp, wrinkled dick. "I'm celebrating our fortieth anniversary of happy matrimony together, Dear," she said raising her glass to him, before raising it to her lips. "I admit that my celebration is a bit premature because you are leaving me so early. Have a glass of champagne with me, before you dash off to wherever the Hell it is you disappear to every April," she said filling a second glass of champagne from the chilled bottle. She expected him to apologize for forgetting their anniversary, yet, again. She expected him to give her a kiss and a hug, wish her happy anniversary, and have a glass of champagne with her. She hoped and wished that he'd pull an anniversary gift from his ass, a huge diamond ring, and slip it on her finger, before he ran out the door. Only, he didn't do any of those things. Instead, as if the house was on fire, he was anxious to go and to leave her alone to her bad self. "I can't," he said looking at his watch. "I'm late already. Oh, there's my cab," he said looking out the window, grabbing his briefcase, and turning to leave her, without so much as even giving her a glance, a kiss, a hug good-bye, or even wishing her Happy Anniversary. "Ta-ta," he said looking straight ahead and still not acknowledging her with so much as a look and/or a smile. Ta-ta? Ta-ta? I'll show you ta-ta with my foot up your tight ass, she thought, while following him out the front door wanting so badly to kick him through the glass door. Then, she spotted her. Ah, there she is. There's Christine waiting for him in the taxi already. She's always so prompt, ready, and available. They make for such a nice couple, don't they? The dirty, old man professor and the cock sucking whore of a student. They must be heading off for breakfast, before having sex at his campus apartment, on the pretense of preparing for his lecture. Elizabeth spotted her sitting in the back seat of the cab looking so blonde, so perky, and so pretty. The back of her head would make for such a good target, if only she had a rifle with a scope. If she had a gun with a bullet big enough, she could knock her blonde head clean off her shoulders. Bulls-eye. Bye-bye Christine. "Yoo-Hoo, Christine, you little home wrecking, cock sucking whore. Yoo-hoo." Elizabeth called out to her with a little wave that Christine, no doubt, didn't hear nor turn her head to acknowledge. Look at her. Christine is so pretty. Isn't she? She's so blonde, so thin, so busty, so self-important, and so perfect. I hate her. With the thoughts of what women used to do to women, who had sex with their husbands in the old days of Sicily, she thought of what she'd love to do to Christine. Elizabeth imagined opening the rear door of the taxi, pulling her out of the cab, dragging her across the street by her long, blonde hair, stripping her naked, and beating her unconscious with the champagne bottle, before pounding her pretty head against the concrete sidewalk, until her face, her hair, and her clothes were a bloody mess. Then, with her hands wrapped tightly around her long, thin, swan like neck, she imagined strangling her to death and not stopping until her bright, blue eyes popped out of her bloody head. If she was older than 22-years-old, she'd be surprised. The younger his assistants get, the bigger their tits are, the older he grows, and the more insufferably obnoxious and full of himself he becomes. Yes, they are, indeed, the perfect couple with both of them getting what they want, before getting what they deserve. He's such a dirty bastard. He's such a pig. For him to think that she'd put up with his bad behavior for so many years and not snap is surprising to her. For such a smart man, he's such a stupid man. It's all about him and never about her. He must think so little of her to think that she'd continue to allow him to disrespect her in the way that he does. She was able to control her temper all these years, but not now and not anymore. She followed him outside to the curb and he turned to her before getting in the cab. He actually acknowledged her with his look. She couldn't believe it. He looked right at her and even made eye contact with her. For a moment, she actually thought he was going to smile at her and say something endearing, something that she could take away with her to remember him by, should he and his little slut, Christine, be killed in an airplane crash, burned alive, and their bodies burnt beyond recognition, but she should be so lucky and she should have known better. "Yes, my love," she said with a smile. "What is it?" Tell me you love me, you cad. Say it. Close the fucking cab door on Christine's leg and come back to me on the front porch to tell me that you can't bear to leave me on, yet, another wedding anniversary, our 40th. Then, kiss me in front of your little whore, while humping me and grabbing my ass, in the way that you used to do with me, when we were first married, and in the way that I imagine you do now, to your bevy of bodacious sluts. Wish me a happy 40th anniversary. Wish me Happy Earth Day. Wish me that you hope I'll drop fucking dead, while you're gone. Wish me whatever? Only, say something to me. Apologize to me for being such a pompous and self-centered, cheating prick. Say you're sorry for being so ungrateful and unappreciative of all that I do for you. Say, Happy Anniversary, Elizabeth. Say I love you, Elizabeth. Say that I will miss you, while I'm gone, Elizabeth. Say it! Say it! Say it! "After they're done photographing the car, don't forget to move my baby back in the garage and put the top up and the car cover over it. I don't want bird shit or sap from the tree getting on it," he said without so much as a smile. "Don't drive it, though. Just release the handbrake, shift it to neutral, and push it in the garage very carefully. Wear your white gloves, so you don't get your fingerprints on the paint. I just had it detailed." 40 Years of Earth Days Ah, white gloves, yes, of course, she thought. White gloves would leave no powder burns or blood residue on her hands, after she shot and killed him and Christine in bed together. She imagined a bullet piecing his balls, blowing them, along with his little shriveled penis, completely off, actually. She imagined bullets piercing both of Christine's big phony boobs in the nipples, as if they were tiny bulls-eyes, before blowing out both their little, bird brains. "Yes, Dear." "Then, once the bumper passes through the garage, run around, open the door, and jump on the brake to make it stop, before it bumps the garage wall," he said with a cringe, as if imagining his baby hitting the garage wall. "I have an old, rolled up mattress there, in case it does bump it a little bit. It won't roll fast enough to harm it, if it does bump the mattress. The mattress is rolled up enough and perfectly arranged to stop the tires, before the bumper hits the garage wall." "Yes, Dear. "Don't worry, Dear." "Then, set the handbrake and shift it to first gear. Don't forget to shift it to first gear. Don't forget to put the top up and to cover it with the car cover. Don't forget to set the handbrake and don't leave it in neutral," he said rattling off instructions, as if she were one of his students about to take one of his inane tests. "Yes, Dear. Don't worry, Dear, I'll take care of your precious baby." "Even though it's a heavy car, it rolls quite easily, once you get it moving, but slowly enough for you to have the time to run around, open the door, and hit the brake before the tires bump the mattress," he said calling to her with his instructions from the opened door of the taxi. Then he got in the cab and drove off, without so much as giving her a wave good-bye, blowing her a kiss, or wishing her a Happy 40th Wedding Anniversary. She'd have no party, no cake, no balloons, no anniversary card, and no present from him, yet, again. Not this year, not last year, and not for as long as she could remember. Too hurt to complain, not wanting to cause him the heartache that she felt by burdening him with her misery, his lack of attention to her needs grew too weary to tolerate any longer. At first she thought it endearing that he forgot their anniversaries and her birthdays, when she always remembered his special days. Then, she thought of him being the absent minded professor; surely that must be it. She didn't take his forgetfulness personally. He was a very busy man, after all, and she was just a bored and ungrateful housewife with too much time on her hands and too many foolish thoughts in her head. She let it go. She always let things go. At least, she thought they were gone, but like cancerous tumors growing inside her and feeding on her loneliness, they festered, until they consumed her with hateful vengeance. Without doubt, had he not left his e-mail account open that fateful day, things would have continued the way they had continued for so long. Perhaps, upon his death, somehow by chance or by design, she would have discovered his infidelities then. After discovering that he had cheated on her with so many women for so many years, she imagined digging up his grave and mutilating his dead body, before cooking it and serving it to all the women that he had sex with and who she'd invite for a farewell meal to celebrate the salacious life of Professor ad nauseum Gordon Gordon Gordon. She wondered what he spent his money on that he didn't spend any of it on her. If she lived to be one hundred years old, she'd never understand someone, who could be so self-centered and so selfish, to not even think about her and to forget their anniversaries and her birthdays. Yet, what did it matter to be hung up on him missing her anniversaries and birthdays, when he had been cheating on her all these years? That was the bigger issue, wasn't it? It's obvious to her now that he just doesn't care about her. He never cared about her. He doesn't love her. He never loved her. It's all about him. It was always been about him. Only, back then, blinded by love, she was too much in love with him to see that he didn't love her and to see the real him. Now that she can him and now that she knows him for who he truly is, it's not too late to salvage what life she has left and to live it without him. She couldn't help but envision driving his car, flooring it, so much like a Thelma and Louise movie remake, when they drove that old Thunderbird convertible off the cliff. She imagined his precious automobile breaking through the rear garage wall and flying airborne through the neighbor's backyard behind them, down the long, steep embankment, and rolling over before exploding into flames. Imagining everyone rushing out of their homes to see what had happened, she could, actually, imagine seeing the column of fire and the plume of smoke filling the air and awakening the entire neighborhood. Wow, what a rush? Only, why would she think about killing herself? He's the one who needs to go, not her. "Shit and sap," she said. "Got it. Don't worry about a thing, Dear, my 130 pound, 62-year-old body should have no problem pushing your 3,600 pound behemoth of a car," she said giving the disappearing taxi the one finger salute. She closed the door on him and returned back in the house. Alone again. She's always alone, so very alone. Even when he's there with her, she's alone. He talks at her, as if talking to himself. He lectures her, as if lecturing his students, instead of his wife. Never listening to what she has to say, he has no interest in anything she says. He never asks her a question, unless it has to do with what he needs and what he wants. She can't remember the last time he kissed her, held her, and hugged her. He never compliments her. She can't remember the last time he complimented her. They go nowhere and do nothing together. He's always too tired or too busy. She was lonely and tired of being alone. Maybe she should get a baby of her own, a pet, a nice little doggie. A Staffordshire Bull Terrier, or the good, old, American Pit Bull terrier, or an enormous mean and nasty Rottweiler, or a big, bad German Shepherd or a devil of a dog, a Doberman Pinscher, that only took commands spoken in her native tongue, Italian, and train him to attack buxom blondes and self-absorbed little pricks. Lunch! Pranzo! Sic 'em. Mitzi. Good boy, Baby. Bella regazzo, Bambino. Good dog. Bella cane, she thought, while petting her imaginary Pit Bull, after the dog tore her husband and husband's whore to shreds. Wanna cookie? Cosa biscotti? "That's okay," she said gulping down her champagne and picking up his untouched glass. "Don't have a glass of champagne with me. That's just more for me to have. Happy fortieth anniversary, Elizabeth. Happy Earth Day," she said out loud, for no one to hear. "I love you, I love you not. It doesn't matter anymore. It's over. It's finally over." Quickly, she guzzled his untouched glass of champagne, too. Now already two sheets to the wind, alone with her bad self, she was enjoying her impromptu private anniversary party. "That's his baby, his prized automobile, a bright red, 1970 Plymouth Barracuda convertible," she said for no one to hear, while staring out the big bay window at the car. "It's so shiny. It looks brand new, doesn't it? It's hard to believe that car is forty fucking years old. Isn't it beautiful? It's every teenager's wet dream machine. They don't make those cars anymore, that's for sure. That car must make his cock hard every time he looks at it." She stared at the car, while sipping her champagne. She stared at the tree, his gift to her and the symbol of her marriage, while sipping her champagne. Every time she looked at that damn car, she thought of the diamond ring he could have bought her and should have bought her. Every time she looked at that damn tree it reminded her of not only Earth Day and her anniversary, but of him. With the money that he made back then, as the professor's assistant, she would have thought that he would have bought her a modest diamond ring, something small, but endearing and sparkly, nonetheless, instead of a tree for a wedding gift and instead of him spending all of his money on that car. Instead, he gave her that tree and this gold band that she still wears, even today, especially today, her 40th anniversary. "Diamonds are tacky and conspicuous," he said. "You don't need a diamond, a piece of carbon, from me to feel loved, wanted, and married." True, but I do need to feel that you love me, that you're faithful, and that your world revolves around me, instead of a horde of young, blonde, buxom bimbos revolving around you, while on their knees and naked on their backs. With all the more money that he has now, she would have thought that he would have bought her something special by now, a big rock of a diamond ring, for being married to him for 5 years, 10 years, 25 years and now for 40 years, but he never did. He never thought enough of her, appreciated all that she did for him, or loved her enough to do that, and to surprise her with that and in that way. He doesn't even give her so much as a Hallmark card signed by his secretary. She wondered if he bought any of his little whores diamonds or gifts or if she was the only one, who was so rewarded, blessed, privileged, and so honored actually, with a tree, her own tree to cherish and care for all of these years. If he was Jewish, she'd understand him buying her a tree and planting it in Israel, but he's not Jewish, he's Scottish, one hundred percent. She wondered how many trees he had planted around the world or if this, the tree that he had given her, was the only one, a beautiful, albeit sad looking Weeping Willow, of all trees. "He's spent more time polishing and detailing that car than he ever spent rubbing and kissing me. I hate that fucking car," she said pouring herself another glass of champagne. "His precious Hemi 'Cuda," she said before taking another sip of champagne. The sound of that car at full throttle, pales in comparison to the sound she wanted to make by screaming, while running naked down the street. "He cares more about that fucking inanimate object, his baby, than he does about me." She looked at the perfect picture the tree made with the car in the background. "He's right," she mumbled. "He's always right," she said imagining the great picture the photographer would take of the car from the other side of the street, one with the car centered and with the tree in the background, instead of in the foreground. "That would make for such a nice picture." She stared at the car, while sipping her champagne, hoping someone would steal it. She could only imagine the conversation she'd have with him, after the car was stolen. "Honey, I have terrible news, just terrible. Are you sitting down? Someone stole your car. Someone stole your baby, your beloved baby," she said imagining handing the keys to some neighborhood car thief, if only she knew of one. "I tried to stop him. I chased him down the street naked, while screaming, but the car was just too fast for me to catch." "Did they steal it from the street? Didn't you park it in the garage, as I had asked you to do," she imagined him saying. "Yes, of course, it was parked in the garage with the top up and the car cover over it. I did just as you had instructed me to do. Yes, I engaged first gear, before setting the emergency brake, after I pushed it in the garage, while wearing my white gloves." She paused imagining the thud or a crashing sound of him hitting the floor. "They took it, when I had just emerged from the shower to wash away all the sweat from doing all the chores on the laundry list of things you wanted and needed me to do, while you were off fucking Christine, Dear." Unable to take his heart medication, after having taken a Viagra, no doubt, she wondered if the good news, of course, she meant the bad news of his baby being stolen would give him cause to have a fatal heart attack, later, while on top of Christine. When the economy was better a few years back and the value of that antique car soared higher than it ever had before, she was still angry that he turned down the potential $500,000 that he could have gotten at auction for that car. With that amount of money, they could have sold this small house they're living in now, bought a bigger house, and moved to a better neighborhood. Only, he wouldn't sell that car, his baby, for a million dollars, he told the man, a car collector from Connecticut, who said he wanted to sell the car at auction in California for a fee. Why should he? It's not about the money with him. He has more than enough money. It's more about his baby. She didn't understand the purpose of owning a car for forty years and not even driving it, putting the top down, and enjoying it. The car had less than 5,000 original miles and still wore the original tires. It still had the manufacturer's sticker on the window from when he bought this special ordered car brand new. The car has never seen rain or the inside of a car wash. He hires people who detail it with soft cloths and toothbrushes. He was never like this, so self-absorbed, selfish, and mean. She met him as a 20-year-old college junior and he was the professor's assistant. He filled in for and taught a geology class, whenever the professor wasn't there. He was so handsome and she was so naive. Now he teaches his own classes and has several assistants, all of them young, blonde, beautiful, and buxom females. Truly, he's such a pig. She had no idea that she was one of several hundred dreamy eyed students that he'd go through in the course of their lives together, until, that is, he inadvertently left his e-mail open, that fateful day. There they all were, raunchy and explicit e-mails, along with naked photos of so many female students who applied to be his traveling assistant. Like the pack rat that he is, he saved everything. Now she knew that Christine has implants and likes to swallow. She's such a pig, that one. No wonder why he's taken her on more than one trip and has yet to grow tired of her company and replace her with another. Now she knew her husband kept an apartment on campus. That's so much like him, too cheap to pay for his own place, instead having the university subsidize his sordid, sexual affairs. How convenient for him to have free fuck housing, so close to where he works? Now she knew everything. She still had no idea why he married her. She guessed he needed someone to take care of him, to pick up his dry cleaning, wash and iron his clothes, cook his meals, and pack his suitcases for him to leave her weekends and each year to have his worldwide Earth Day affairs. Feeling a bit drunk and very angry in the way that Elizabeth Taylor was, when she played Martha in Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, alongside her husband in real life, Richard Burton, who played the part of George, ironically, a college professor, she had been such a fool to have put up with all of this for so long, too long. Working on her fifth flute of champagne, she called the drycleaner to have her husband's suits delivered. She was in no condition to drive to go and get them. She spent the rest of her day being the dutiful and obedient housewife, doing his laundry, ironing and folding his clothes, and packing his suitcases. Only, while ironing his shirts, instead of spraying them with water, she spit on them to wet them enough to iron a better crease. Then, once his suits were delivered and packed away in the garment bag, and his bags all packed with clean and freshly ironed clothes, she put the garment bag, along with his suitcases in the fire pit in the backyard, poured lighter fluid on them, and set them ablaze. She watched the imported, Italian leather of his suitcases, an anniversary gift from her last year, and the matching garment bag melt, so much like his skin that she imagined would burn, after his plane crashed. Then, after the car magazine photographer had come, photographed her husband's car, and gone, she went out to protect his car, his baby, from the shit and the sap. As instructed, she checked to see that the handbrake was set and the transmission was shifted in first gear. It was. Something she'd have to remember to do, putting the top up and, after moving his precious car, leaving the car in first gear and setting the handbrake again, before covering it with the car cover. She couldn't believe he was giving her permission to touch his precious car, his baby, even if only pushing it from the street to the driveway and in the garage. She was so nervous. As she was putting on her white gloves, she thought, there was just no way she could push this heavy car from the street to the driveway and, then, run around to open the door and step on the brake in time to park it in the garage, before the tires hit the mattress and the bumper bumped the wall. It was just too big, too cumbersome, and too heavy and she was too small, too old, and too weak. Did she dare drive it? She hadn't driven a car with a manual transmission in years, since her days of owning her '69 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia. She didn't want to risk damaging his clutch. Besides, she was too drunk to drive. Oh, Dear, what to do? What to do? Fortunately, the champagne she had consumed helped her to think of a better solution to the problem, one that not only protected the car from the bird shit and the tree sap but also one that necessitated that she wouldn't have to put the top up, the car cover on, or even bother driving, pushing or moving his car ever again. She'd just move the tree, is all. Yeah, that's it, that's what she'd do. She'd move the tree. That was the perfect solution to a puzzling problem. Guzzling the last gulp of champagne, she polished off the bottle to give her the strength for what she needed to do. Then, as if christening a ship bon voyage, she smashed the empty bottle against his windshield. Broken in a million pieces, the bottle resembled their empty marriage. The hurt that echoed through her mind, along with the sound of all that smashed glass, caused a momentary lapse in her sanity that fortified what she was about to do next. With the childhood singsong playing in her head of Lizzie Borden, who took an axe and gave her mother 40 whacks and when the job was surely done she gave her father 41, Lizzie Gordon grabbed an axe from the garage. In celebration of her 40th wedding anniversary, in total dishonor of Earth Day, and in memory of her husband that she was kicking out of their house, as of today, she gave the tree 40 whacks with an extra one for good luck. Every whack was a release of the frustration she's had to endure for so long being married to him. "Timber!" Forty-one whacks was all the sturdy bough needed to topple over that big tree right on Gordon Gordon Gordon's beloved bright red, 1970 Plymouth Barracuda convertible. Funny, but it doesn't look so much like a Hemi 'Cuda now, as it more looks like a crushed Mini Cooper. Her attorney served him notice and although his life, as comfortable and as free, as he had known it to be, was over, her new life was just beginning. Now, after finally receiving half the money that she helped him to earn, she celebrates every Earth Day and holiday with her new, young, and well endowed boyfriends by taking trips to the South Pacific. Bali is her particular favorite place to vacation.