(playful jazz music) - Dear Xxlovemykitty69xX, it's known as paraphilic infantilism but I'm at least pretty sure by now you know he prefers the term adult baby. Oh yes, I found you out. No, he never locks his phone. And yes, I find your screen name to be in extremely poor taste. Now, you might remember me from chatting. You sent him, me, a message saying, "Are we meeting tonight at the houseboat?" And he, I, said, "Yeah, what time?" And you said, "Whenever you're
ready to come by, baby man." Bab
y man? Baby man? You know? I cringe. Someone else knows? Then, I reread the message
and cringe all over again, because I can't help but
notice your spelling. C-U-M by. That's fucking disgusting. Who spells come like that? Something else I noticed is that your grammar is pretty bad. I mean you didn't capitalize anything. You spelled an entire
sentence with five vowels, and I'm pretty sure night has a G in it. Come on now, really? Look, Xxlovemykitty69xX, I'm not saying you're a bad person. Hell,
I'm not even saying I haven't done some kinky shit myself. I spent at least one year
as an internet dominatrix. I enjoy light bondage and
an occasional spanking. (hand smacks) (laughs) Sometimes in my weaker moments, I'm even willing to
strap on a set of udders and engage in cow play. But this whole situation begs the question,
"What's wrong with you?" Because I'm assuming you know about me. Because he had to tell
you about me, right? There had to be one time, one time maybe when he looked up at
you, his other surrogate mommy suckling at a bottle of warm formula that he mentioned my name, the name of his girlfriend and life partner of four years. There had to be, had to be one time when he whispered the name Zoe. 'Cause he loves me. How could he not? I'm fucking adorable. Look, I find all this highly disturbing, and not because I got a text message from a girl named Xxlovemykitty69xX who's apparently fucking my boyfriend. But also, because maybe
that same boyfriend doesn't love me as m
uch as he promised. And also because I'm baffled that our society allows people
to be as D-U-M-B as you are. But, I'm disturbed, shocked really that there are at least two girls in this town willing
to pretend my boyfriend is a five foot, nine inch, 178-pound baby. Two girls are willing to go
to a medical supply store on the outskirts of town and pick up extra large diapers. Two girls are willing to
lie to the sales clerk and say, "Oh yeah, Grandma's
not doing too well." "Her Crohn's disease is
actin'
somethin' awful this week." Two girls are willing to
mix formula in a microwave, put it in a bottle and feed it to him. And at least one of those two girls are willing to powder his nether regions before doing it froggy
style at a houseboat. Oh yes, yes, Xxlovemykitty69xX, I saw the email about froggy style. What kinda hell of a town is this? I mean, who's reality am I living in? Why do you have a houseboat? And shit, why don't I
have a fucking houseboat? Are the men in this town
really t
hat unattractive that my adult baby boyfriend is a catch? Christ, seriously? How is that even possible? How did he find someone willing
to do for him what I do? And even so, why was he looking? Why would he keep coming to you knowing I was willing
to do anything for him? Even if you do what I do, even if you do it better, how could he do this to me? What do you have that I don't have? Huh? What? (upbeat jazz music) - Miss Kathleen Sullivan, you may not know this, but Passover is a very sacred
ti
me of year for the Jews. It's a time of year when family and friends
are joined together to celebrate when we
as a people were freed by the goodness of God. It is a time of year when we make and eat the
spiritual and symbolic food which sustained us in the desert as we wandered 40 long years desperate and yearning
for our promised land, the homeland from which we were exiled, only to be enslaved by the cruelest of pharaohs. (Miriam sighs) It is a time of year when we give thanks that we are oppr
essed no longer, that we are now a free people, that we are a people
strengthened by our diaspora. That we are a people made to absorb and to change the culture of the lands all the while never losing ourselves, our God, our culture, our traditions. Maybe the reason you don't understand this is because your people
have never been enslaved, have they, Kathleen? Hmm? Catholic people? Have they been scattered across the globe? Or systematically killed by the thousands? Hmm? Or what about the Irish
people? Have they been starved or driven out of their
beloved countryside? Have they been forced to move
to a harsher and new land, discriminated against,
called terrible things, made to work horrible, back-breaking jobs just in order to feed their families? Now, I'm no history buff, but I pretty sure the
answer to that question is a resounding no. Everybody loves the Irish. They always have. I think it's their accents. Anyway, my point is, I
almost can't blame you for ruining the Seder
I took d
ays preparing, the one I slave over so I can celebrate the joy
of triumphant liberation with my grandchildren. The one where my husband reads from the same haggadah that my mother gave us for a wedding gift. God rest her soul. I almost can't blame you, because you probably didn't know how important it was to me. I mean, how could you? Looking at you, you seem to be what 15 years old? You probably don't even
know how to spell haggadah. I bet you don't even know what a Seder is. You're used to Eas
ter with pastels and giant rabbits, which I never understood personally. The thing is, how were you to know that my husband was gonna tell everyone about you at my Seder, as opposed to waiting for any other time? How could you have controlled
the clinking of his fork against the copper wine goblet that came over with my grandfather when he first came to America? What could you have done to stop him from raising a toast to the love of his life, whom he recently met on Staten Island at a dental hy
gienist job fair? What could you have done to stop him from telling everyone including my children, my grandchildren and even that terrible girl
my grandson brought home from college that you were his b'sheirt? Or soulmate, because I'm
sure you don't speak Yiddish. And that he was divorcing me so he could marry you. What could you have done? Nothing. Not a thing, Kathleen. I don't remember much about that last conversation
with my husband. My daughter said I fainted after he left. But what I do
remember is that when I came to I was surrounded by people. My family. It was in that moment of utter humiliation that I realized the only
one who abandoned me was my husband, not my children, not my grandchildren, not even that terrible girl. Even though I was alone for the first time in 30 years, I wasn't by myself. So I got up and we
continued on with dinner as if nothing happened,
nothing had changed. And then after dinner, we got drunk as families sometimes do, and we talked about what
a li
ttle tramp you must be and what an ass my husband is. Because he is. One giant ass. (Laughs) But he's your ass now, Kathleen Sullivan. Mazel tov. (audience cheers) (upbeat jazz music) - Dear Trevor, I am a good Christian girl. I am. I promise. (organ music) I read the Bible, I pray for the sick, I vote Republican and I go to Church every Sunday. Sometimes I even go on Wednesdays
when I'm not at the gym. I am so Christian, in fact,
that I married a TV preacher, a hot TV preacher with his thick, w
avy, dark hair. Blue eyes, dashing smile. I sometimes imagine if
I could go back in time and look in on the Garden of Eden, I would see his likeness
reflected in Adam, the first man. The one made in God's own image. Now, all the women in the congregation, they seem to agree with me. They come up to me, take my hands and say, "Bethany, you are so lucky." And I just smile, gently correcting them, "No, dear, I'm blessed, just blessed." Lord, he is such a handsome man and a good one on top of that.
In fact, just last year we went on a mission trip to Africa, where he literally built a
mud hut with his bare hands. And bare chest. Muscles, rippling in the sun. Tan skin dripping with earthy, salty sweat. Now, I know it's not
right for a woman to lust, but I did. I lusted mightily for my husband. I simply couldn't help myself. All he had to do was look
at me and I was a goner. Lately though, he seemed a
little bit less interested in me. (playful orchestral music) He'd get home from work and ki
ss me on the cheek, whereas before he would
kiss me firmly on the mouth, letting me know that I was his woman. I guess bedtime also became
something of a chore for him, because lace teddies and
ruffled purple undies seemed sorta, well, overdone. And although he was always nice about it, I just wasn't gettin' what
my heart was desirin'. Then one night, just as I was about to
demand physical satisfaction, he turned and asked me if I wouldn't mind. You know. Believe me, I minded. I looked him squar
e in the eye and I said, "Now Andrew, I love you." "I would do anything for you." "But what you are askin'
is just plain sodomy," "and we don't sodomize in this house." I rolled over. I turned out the lights as I felt my needs deflate
like a birthday balloon. It wasn't too long after that that I first found out about you, Trevor, and at first it was hard. He told me that he loved you, (organ music) but that he wanted me
to stand by his side, to be his wife and his partner. To love him in spite o
f his wretchedness, to help him protect what he
had worked so hard to build. He begged me for my
silence and my fidelity. I told him I needed more time. I spent all that afternoon
trying desperately trying to come to terms with
my husband's sinfulness by vomiting in the second master bathroom. And as I lay on that cool tile floor staring up at the fresco we had painted as the two of us as angels in heaven, I actually thought about leaving. I was gonna leave him, Trevor. Then I did what any girl
in my position would do, I drank a box of wine. And when I finally sobered up, I went home to my mother. Now my mama, she doesn't
mince words too much. So she just said, "I coulda told you that man was a homo." "Ain't you ain't never seen" "those ice cream colored clothes of his?" I paused. Well, I thought they were dapper. "Well, you've always had bad taste in men" "and in clothes, apparently." So I asked her, I said, "What do I do?" And she said, "Well, I
reckon you got two options." "You can
stay, or you can go." And I said, "Well I know that, mama", "but what do you think I should do?" And she said, "Honestly, you should do" "whatever gets you the
most money, sweetheart." I decided then and there
to take my mother's advice. I was gonna do whatever
got me the most money. I had an A in accounting
at junior college, so I just knew that my math
was going to be accurate. I took into account the following factors, the TV show, the book deal, the public speaking engagements, not to mentio
n our yearly
stipend from the church. I also took into account
future book deals, television specials, and retreats with us as special guests. As it turns out, my husband as a corporation
was worth millions to me, whereas leaving him and
potentially destroying his fortune was not quite so lucrative. Besides, I also figure, if
you two are eventually caught, I'll still probably come
out of it all right. I'm the scorned wife of a
closeted homosexual TV preacher. Now, that has book deal
written all
over it. Besides, Andrew already
promised me a new boat and a baby if I stay. As it turns out staying with Andrew and with you, Trevor, is going to be our best option. But if we're going to share him, we need to work out some kinks first. To start, I get him on
all of major holidays, especially once the new baby comes. These include Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and Independence Day. (soft doo-wop music) You can have him on all the
ones where there's dress up, like Halloween and Mardi Gras. I
know your people like that sorta thing. I also concede Valentine's
if you so desire. I'm just not into it anymore. Next, you're not to be
seen in public together at any time except for on Halloween or at a masquerade ball, see above, as to not arouse suspicion from the media. You can come to church, if you'd like. I'm not gonna keep you from the Lord, and the way that man preaches, well I imagine it'd be
damn near impossible to keep you from comin'. The word of God drips from
his tongue like hon
ey. Next, he can't spend more money
on you than he does on me. Also, you need to satisfy him sexually in that way that he likes to be satisfied. I can't satisfy him that way, and I am not even gonna try it. I imagine in time, he'll be able to make love to me again, even if he thinks about
you while he's doing it. That will have to be good enough for me. And finally, if you decide
that you no longer love him or can't live this way, we'll pay you a lump
sum for your discretion. I hope that you app
reciate
that my husband is a good man and a hero to many people. We can't have him going
and losing everything just because of where he likes to put his. I hope that this agreement
is good enough for you. I pray that it satisfies
you as much as possible. That it keeps you quiet and mindful of the work that my husband
has done for America. And that on some level, it makes you happy even. Because I'd like to think at least one of us is a little bit happy. (jazz music) - Stephanie, Stephanie, Steph
anie. Sometimes, I'll be watching the news or reading a book and
someone, usually a man, will say something like, "We attempted to besiege the castle, sir," "but their fortress was impregnable," or "We tried to convert the people, sir", "but the beliefs of the
natives is impregnable." Or my favorite, "True courage
is a result of reasoning", "but a brave mind is always impregnable," like they know what impregnable is. Like you know what impregnable is. You know what's impregnable, Stephanie? Me.
I'm fucking impregnable. In fact, let me tell you just
how fucking impregnable I am. Three miscarriages, two ectopic pregnancies, followed by the cauterization
of my fallopian tubes. Yes, they had to burn my tubes shut. That's how fucking impregnable I am. Now I come from a huge family, and I'm not talking about 2.5 kids, suburban bullshit huge. I'm talking about huge. I'm talking about family reunions where you didn't know everybody. I'm talking about eight different shades of lipstick on your
cheeks from your aunts kissing you when you visited grandma's
house for Christmas huge. I'm talking two full roster teams when we had our annual Thanksgiving
Day flag football game. Get it, Stephanie? Huge. The women in my family
were built for babies, and I didn't think I was any different. Why would I be different? Why would God make me different? But after enough trial and error, after enough loss, I knew I was different. I knew that it was gonna
be difficult for me to even get pregnant, let
alone carry a baby to term. So I did what anybody
in my family would do if they found out they
couldn't have a baby. I prayed. And I'm not talking going
to church on Sundays, nibbling on a wafer asking God if he wouldn't mind
giving me a baby praying. I'm talking about praying. I'm talking about having people lay hands on my empty belly praying. I'm talking about joining
an infertility group and prayer circle that met at Denny's on Tuesday nights praying. I'm talking about rededicating
myself ev
ery month, just in case God didn't think
I was praying enough praying. I prayed so much that every
breath I took was a prayer. My God was vast. Infinite. I saw God in a badly designed waiting room with uncomfortable chairs, or in an ugly exam room, even in a pipette holding
my most precious assets. I put my all my hopes into medicine, because I had seen real miracles there. But my miracle didn't happen, and now it never will. Ever since the day I was wheeled newly sterilized from the hospital, I
've tried to reconcile my belief in God, and my belief in prayer, and in the power of medicine with this gaping hole in my existence. My childless existence. And let me tell you, Stephanie,
it has not been easy. Nights awake, crying on my husband's strong shoulders. Sitting in an empty room, now an office, where during my first cautionary pregnancy I had the walls painted a sky blue, good for a boy or a girl. (somber music) I became so focused on what I was missing that I didn't see what I
had d
one to my marriage and what you were doing with my husband. Did he ever tell you how
he told me, Stephanie? How he sat me down at dinner at our restaurant and whispered, "I have something to tell you." And I knew he was leaving me. He whispered, "You're gonna hate me." "No," I said, "no." "You won't forgive me." "No," I said, "No." "I have to." "Stop, stop." "I'm gonna be a father." Ooh, I didn't see that one coming. "Did you hear me?" he said. "Sheila, I'm gonna be a father." "I'm sorry." But I
had heard him very clearly. And I'd already begun to pray. I couldn't pray for you to lose the baby or for my husband wanna come back to me. Instead, I prayed that
the baby you were to bear would be the size of a watermelon. And I'm not talking about
a sweet, dainty, seedless little watermelon that you buy at the grocery store watermelon. I'm talking about at least
10 pounds, 25 inches, making you about as fat
as Oprah in the 90s, only to have you push it
out of your exhausted body making your
lips the size of dog ears. Making you wide enough
for a mack truck through. Then, I stopped for a moment, and I prayed that its size
would reflect its health, that this baby would have
the healthiest set of lungs to scream for you, oh and a healthy sense of defiance to make its childhood and adolescence extra hard for you both. And I looked up at him through my tears and the beating of my broken heart. "Sheila," he said, "Are you all right?" I said I was and I was praying. He rolled his eyes. I
said, "I'm praying for your baby." His face softened. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you." And then he grasped my hands and started softly sobbing. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." The next few days came and went. And most of the time,
I prayed for your baby. And then finally I stopped praying for you and started praying for me, for strength, for courage, for an impregnable spirit to support this impregnable body. After all these years
of unanswered prayers, miraculously, amazingly, I feel stron
g and brave and completely unbreakable. And finally, my miracle came in the form of a phone call from our
mutual mother-in-law. She told me that you had twins. (Sheila laughs)
(playful music) And that they were very big and very healthy, and you were very, very tired. But not as tired as you're going to be. Maybe God was listening
after all. (Laughs) Ah, yes! (jazz music) - Looking back, Patricia, I think my first clue that our marriage wasn't going to work probably should have been
his rampant
cocaine habit. It might have been that, I don't know. I guess it coulda been the DUls too or maybe the lack of a driver's license, or decent credit, or a job. Mighta been the felony charges. It's hard to say. All I know is these are easy things to overlook. I mean, what did I know about cocaine? I always thought this town was
too small for street drugs. And as for the DUls, well those were a mistake. "Youthful Indiscretion," he said. Besides, he was already
in AA when I met him. So I thought tha
t was a good sign. Showed real promise. The lack of a driver's license
had to do with the DUls. So I couldn't really hold
that against him twice. Bad credit was a result of no credit. I mean, who was gonna give
this guy a credit card, right? Especially with no job? And as for the felony charges, well, those were a surprise up
until after the wedding. Yep. Pete was just one a those
guys trouble followed. And I'm one a those girls
who follows trouble. So I spent long days and nights trying to get
him to come around to being the marrying kind, to be the man who spends
his days looking for a job instead of drinking away
his unemployment check. (soft jazz music) To be the man who helps with the dishes instead of passing out on the toilet. The man who shows up
when his daughter is born instead of skipping town
with his junkie girlfriend. I don't think it's that hard. Not in the grand scheme of things, Not after all he's put us through. It's funny but, before I knew for sure that
Caroline was
conceived, I thought about leaving him, Patricia. I imagined throwing him to the wolves, or in his case, the county cops, just to see if he could
make it without me. But before he even knew I'd
considered evicting him, I took that pregnancy test, which came up positive, obviously. So when he got home, I told him what was what. I told him things just had to get better. It wasn't just about me and him anymore. We were a family. And then, amazingly, things got better. They really did. For about 16
hours. Then came the infamous
Conception Reception the guys threw for him downtown after they heard the news. I heard it was quite a rager. I probably would've gone if
I'd known there was a party to celebrate my pregnancy, or if I'd known he'd meet you there. Leave it to Pete to pick up a girl at his own baby shower. Now Patricia, you might be wondering
why I'm writing you. And what I'm writing to ask
you is pretty reasonable. So before you get all
huffy and up in arms, I want you to know that
I am not trying to win him back. Hell, I'm not even trying to
get him to pay child support because I think collecting
it'd be more trouble than it's actually worth. What I really want from you, and I guess from Pete, is my ring back. It's kind of important that I get it, and I know he took it when he left, because he threatened to stab
me if I didn't hand it over. I'm pretty sure he probably gave it to you as a promise of his love and fidelity, or he sold it for crack, whatever one seemed like
a
better idea at the time. I don't know what happened to it, but I think I'd like to have it back. It isn't so much that it's worth anything. I mean, it's a little scrap of a diamond in a yellow gold setting, but I bought it for myself with the money I made
working at the grocery store, because I wanted people to stop asking me if I knew where Caroline's dad was. See, he never actually
got me a wedding band, even when we got married, which was fine. I don't feel the need to justify my relationshi
ps in jewelry, but eventually walking
around in my fat stomach felt a little embarrassing
without the ring. It's not so much that
I was ashamed of myself or of my daughter, but of Pete for not loving us enough to get sober, get a job, get a house
in a good part of town. I bought the ring, because I was tired of making excuses for a man that wasn't
worth making excuses for. Someday I want to give
that ring to my daughter, so I can lie to her. So I can tell her that
her father was a good man who m
ade a mistake, that he loved her enough, loved us enough to promise us forever. And even if he was too sick to keep it, he gave us this ring to
remember a promise by. I think she deserves at least that considering she'll probably
never know the man. If you don't send the ring back, I'll assume you sold it for blow which would be pretty standard for Pete. But I want you to know that it'd be too bad
really if you'd done that. Some guys around town have been asking lots of
questions about you two,
and if you're gettin' this letter, I know where you are. I know because the last time
Pete and I took a vacation, we were secretly laying low
where you folks are now. So far, you've been lucky. My delicate condition has
made me a bit forgetful when say approached by a scary guy in a hoodie who hangs out by the 7-Eleven. But my guess is if that
ring doesn't show up in about a week, my memory's gonna start
getting real clear, if you know what I mean. Hopefully you know what I mean, Patricia. (upbe
at jazz music) - Oh Pilar, (soft music) I know your English leaves
something to be desired, so just try to stay with me, okay? Wonderful. Now, I've given this a lot of thought, and I have decided that I don't care if she calls you momma
every once in a while. In fact, the women from my mother's group say that it's normal for children to attach to people like you, the people who provide for
their most basic needs, the feeding, the
diapering, the comforting. But as children get older and their nee
d for physical comfort gives way to the need for emotional and financial support, the one they cling to, the one they rely on, is their real mother, as nannies fade into their memories like wallpaper on childhood bedrooms. When Rebecca's old enough, she will see that you
are not a mother to her. You are a servant to her family. One unwashed window, one missed soccer practice, one missing piece of silverware
away from deportation. So you see, it's totally fine with
me if she calls you that. Total
mente bien even, because you are not her mother. You are her nanny. You work for momma. Pilar, I'd like to think
that we've welcomed you in, accepted you into our home, allowed you to stay with us. We've given you a room, Sundays off, Christmas bonuses, sick days. We've even let you relax
poolside when we're not home. Now, we don't let the gardener do that. All we ask is that you do as you're told. Is that too much? Because apparently, it has become something
of a hassle for you. When you came t
o me the
other night in tears covered in those bruises telling me that my husband
had been touching you, what was I supposed to say? My husband touches you. What am I supposed to do about it? I can't control my husband. I can't quell his desire for
the tenderness of a woman. I don't get to determine as the years go by, who he loves or for whom he lusts. I merely accept the fact
that sometimes the woman that fills that void is someone like you, a sad, doe-eyed thing with a convenient proximity to
his penis. Perhaps you should feel flattered. The way he looks at you, I practically feel him harden in the dead air between us. And while he admires your distant, unattainable sexualidad, I am left completely and utterly alone. So there, he's touching you. He's touching you. Of course he's touching you. He's touched everyone except for me since Rebecca was born. Now, I'll admit I haven't
been the same since, not in body anyway, and parts of me that were
once beautiful to the eye, to the finger
s, to the mouth, are now only vaguely
recognizable to myself. It's natural that over time, he had to find other bodies to seek those softest of womanly places. So you see, it's not his fault. It's mine. I haven't looked right
in my own body in years. This is something you wouldn't understand, even if I said it in Spanish. Right now you are young
and you are beautiful, not like I was not 10 years ago when my husband left his first
wife to make me his bride. Now, I can imagine that you're
still qu
ite uncomfortable and that this place does
not feel like home to you. Perhaps it never did. Now you're telling me that you're leaving. What could I possibly do
to make things better? Should I say that I sympathize with you? That I should leave too? That my husband's a dog? How about this, it might make you feel better to know that he does not love you. He does not want to make you his new wife. He does not wanna make you
a real part of this family. And though things are hard right now, I promise
, it won't last beyond
his next romantic conquest. Someday and probably very soon, you'll be just like me, completely ignored. So maybe you can consider
staying for Rebecca. I think, and I could be very, very wrong that she might love you, the way that children love their mothers. You know, that unconditional, heartsick way that children
love their mothers. And because of that, I have
to ask you to consider this. I know dignity has no price, but maybe the happiness
of my daughter does. And hopef
ully this is it. (upbeat jazz music) - Maureen Pender, what the fuck are you doing in my house? I leave town for one week, one week, and I come home to find
your underwear in my hamper, your soap in my shower, your boots in my closet, and your crappy country
music on my coffee table. You creepily cleaned the fridge. You did my laundry. It looks like you may
have vacuumed the rugs and dusted the mantle. If I didn't find this so fucking weird, I would say you were Martha Stewart, a picture of dome
stic goddess-ness. But it is fucking weird, because you are 18 years old. Shouldn't you be out seeing
a movie with your friends? Or planning what you're
going to take in college? Or I don't know, doing
your goddamn homework for once in your life? Because that's what I would be doing, if I were, I don't know,
say a high school senior. Look. I let you walk our dog,
because as your teacher, I wanted to help you out. Let you earn a little extra cash before you went off to college. I mean, God knows
no
one else would hire you. You're a sweet girl but not motivated. Pretty, not popular. And from what I can tell, your parents are assholes. So I thought, I could
provide a positive influence in what I am sure was a formative and probably tumultuous time for you. And you know what? Maybe I did. Of course this was all before, before you came to know Malcolm in all the ways you came to
know him both behind my back and in front of my nose, which shouldn't have shocked me, really. I mean, what could
be more
attractive to a selfish man than a beautiful girl with everything to lose and no self-esteem whatsoever? No big surprises there. What is surprising, even to me, is that now you're telling
me you love each other? Really? Fine, you know what? You want him, you can have him. I do have one last lesson
to teach you though before I am out of your life forever. Before my name is just a
faraway murmur on your lips before the time before you, plural. I want to teach you one last lesson, and give
n the circumstances, it may be the only thing I
ever taught you worth a damn. So I should tell you
before you get too involved in this affair of yours, that no matter how much
you clean the house or make yourself a soft
pillow for his body or handkerchief for his tears, soon you will only be good for one thing. And that one thing is pork chops. Now, my pork chops are something
I kinda pride myself on, and I wouldn't give this
recipe to just about anyone, but he is sort of fond
of them, so to spe
ak. Or shall I say, he requires them, often. So I am going to do you a massive favor, and I'm gonna tell you how to make them, so that when you have
nothing left to talk about and no physical chemistry left whatsoever, and you're sitting on the
couch looking into his eyes and you can feel him slipping from your tenuous grasp, you can make these and he'll smile. And he'll remember why
he fell in love with me and translate that to you. So here's how you do it. You take pork chops, raw ones, and yo
u put them on a plate. You add salt and pepper, and then you fry them in butter. Three minutes on each side, maybe four, depending on the thickness. That's it. Nothing to it. But if you're feeling really ambitious, and you feel like making a meal that might warrant a marriage proposal, I wouldn't recommend it. He's not good at them. You might try making fettuccine
Alfredo as a side dish. Now fettuccine is a bit harder
as it involves boiling water. So what you do is you take some water, and you p
ut it on a stove top in a pot until it boils. Then you add in the noodles. While their doing their noodle thing, it's about nine to 10 noodle minutes, you saute, fry, some garlic
and shallots in a pan. When that's about done, the noodles should be ready, and you take them out, strain them, and put 'em to the side. Now, in the pot where you
originally cooked the noodles, you are going to add two parts cream to one part Parmesan cheese and some more butter, and then you mix it all up until it's a
nice sauce. Then, you add in the
shallots and the garlic. Some salt, some pepper,
little bit of nutmeg. Come to think of it, I don't know if he likes nutmeg or not. But if you do, and you might, go ahead and add some for yourself. You are after all the one cooking dinner. Now, when that's a nice cheesy blend, go ahead and add back in the noodles. Mix it all up, and then put it on a plate next to a pork chops. And I promise you, he
will promise to love you until the world runs out of pigs. (upbea
t percussion music) - Tiffanie Renee Hoyt, if I ever see you, I'm gonna put a meat cleaver right between your eyes. Not really. (Laughs) Because I'm actually gonna rip into your stomach with my bare hands, twisting my fingers around your intestines and pulling them out and wrapping them around your throat. Maybe then if you're
still gasping for air, I'll put what's left of
your insides in your mouth. So you can taste your own shit. I don't reckon you've ever eaten shit. Have you, Tiffanie Renee?
You see, there was this one time, just this one time, the dog had an accident in the house on the carpet, beige carpet, new beige carpet, after I begged Chris for hardwood. "Hardwood's too expensive"
is what Chris told me. The dog got in the garbage, ate half a dozen raw eggs post-dated, some coffee grounds, maybe some paper, and he shit all over that new beige carpet before I even remembered that
I'd left the garbage pail on the kitchen floor. So I get home from work. I park the car. I put my
key in the door, open it, pushin' it open with my knee, holding a small bag of groceries, new eggs, a purse. And then the smell hit me. Like a ton of bricks it hit me. I looked down, and there was shit everywhere. I found the dog under
the dining room table, and I wail on him for awhile, mostly out of fear. He knows what I'm in
for, so he forgives me, for leavin' the garbage pail on the floor, for makin' him so sick that he couldn't wait
for me to let him out, for beatin' him so bad
that he coul
dn't stand. But I had to stop, because I gotta think. So before I get real scared, I go under the kitchen sink. I get a bucket, I get some water, and I start scrubbin'. I scrub until my hands are raw with blood and lye soap that I made myself. And hardly any time has
passed before I hear a click and the door open and a creak. And the creak sounds like a gunshot. I freeze. I stop breathin'. I stop hearing the footsteps
on the new beige carpet. You see, Tiffanie Renee, there
wasn't enough time to
clean. There wasn't enough time to
get the mess up off the floor, and that was the first time, the only time that I ever tasted shit. And that shit was mixed with blood in my mouth from coughing. And salt from the tears and
sweat falling down my face, the kind of sweat you only sweat when you know the last taste you'll have in your mouth is waste. And the tears you only cry
when you are begging Jesus to forgive you for beating the dog so bad. It was only other time
it was ever worse for me. And
that was the time that he
got home from being with you. He never did hide you
like a decent man might. He would wave you around in front of me like an American flag on Independence Day. There was pictures of
you in his desk drawer, notes from you in his wallet, and after a night of being with you, he'd come in the front
door smelling like you with the mark of your kiss on his neck and your name on his lips. And he'd look at me disappointed. (soft music) I'd have dinner waiting
for him in the ove
n, and the house would be mostly spotless. And sometimes, I'd do my
hair and put on lip gloss. And he'd still look at me disappointed. I felt like dying, Tiffanie Renee. I really did. I think I died once every minute on every day I was with him, and probably twice a minute
on the days he was with you. And after all I've been through and after all he's done, for him to look at me
disgusted after being with you is more than any woman can bear. So I don't suppose I can be any clearer or any more up
front when I tell you that if I see you, the things I'm gonna do to
you ain't gonna be pleasant. They're gonna hurt you. They're gonna make you wish you were dead. And then I'm gonna do you
the biggest favor of all. I'm gonna kill you. I'm gonna kill you, Tiffanie Renee, in the most painful way I can think of. But I want you to remember through your pained and bloody screams and your tearful pleas and your broken sobs that what I'm doing for you is a favor. Because if you stay with him, if you
replace me, you'll die a lot more often than that. (upbeat jazz music) - I was going to go more traditional, but I decided as usual to follow my heart. So I picked this one. It's not quite white, but I always thought white made me look sick or pale or just generally yucky. (soft doo-wop music) He liked it, Lila, he did. He liked the way it hugged
the curves of my figure, the way the sparkly things, the beading, the way it sparkled in the
light at the reception hall. And I'm pretty sure he liked
it best, at least I think he liked it best, when he unbuttoned it button by button down the back of my trembling body in the honeymoon suite, while our guests downstairs
danced the night away. I think he liked this dress best as a billowing pile of lace and light and beauty just gently lain on a hardwood floor. We heard the music
playing softly downstairs as we climbed into bed. And he held my cold hands and pressing his lips to my neck. "It's okay," he said. "I love you." He tried to comfort hi
s nervous bride as I lie beneath him
for the very first time. Looking back on it, nervous isn't the word
I would use for someone who waited until their wedding night. Stupid might be the word. Naive is another good choice. Bleeding maybe. I wasn't nervous, I was in awe. I had waited my whole
life for that moment, a moment that intensified our relationship solidifying our commitment to one another in an indelicate exchange
of bodily fluids. It was supposed to be magic. I personally envisioned
ros
e petals and fireworks, but instead as everyone said it might be, it wound up being sort of awkward, which was fine. In the months that followed that silly awkwardness was replaced with tender affections. Evenings spent trying to
figure out the other's body turned into mornings relaxing comfortably with entwined fingers and legs. Wasteful, dewy kisses matured into the deep, passionate embrace of tongue and breath and lips that led once more to
un-awkward, tender affecting. Our bed was our own pr
ivate fort that became a sanctuary of body and mind. I told him my secrets and my fears, and he named our first
three unborn children. I spent many lazy hours with my head on his chest
listening contentedly to the sound of his softly beating heart. I was never happier in my whole life than I was in the moments
that we wasted there in the feminine bed that I adorned with soft, pink sheets, for it was between them
that we forged a bond wrought of iron. You might ask then why I'm writing you this l
etter. Why I'm not ensconced in
the arms of my beloved courting his fantasies of wife and lover. Why the bond of iron has become like the soft gold of our wedding bands worn away by brutal time. Lila, at this reunion of yours, he saw you dance as though time had stopped, crystallizing you at 16
and himself barely 17. And in a moment of nostalgic bliss, he took your cool, dry hands and remembered how good it felt to twirl you in his arms. And though he's only admitted
to one shameful kiss, one mo
ment of lapsed
character or judgment, (somber music) I know that it gave way
to painful fantasies of alternate lives, alternate realities in which
you were his loving spouse, and I was merely a pretty girl he saw in a
grocery store that one time. The tears stung like shards of glass cutting
through my watery eyes as I asked him what he'd done. And wickedly he said, he thought maybe and only for a moment that he'd made a mistake, that he'd chosen the
wrong woman for his bride. But he regretted it
. "Can't you see?" he said. "You're all I only ever wanted." "It's natural to doubt and to question." "I love you," he said. "You're all I've ever wanted." But by then it was too late. The damage had been done. As I crawled into bed that night, lost in a sea of blankets, I waited for him. I waited for him to join
me in our safest place. I waited for him to fill
the space between my body and the emptiness that surrounded it. But he slept on the couch that night, and in the morning, he was gone. H
e left a note. Call me when you're ready. I never did. Living with knowing that after all we'd been through together, after the time spent lying
helplessly in his loving arms planning a life and a future that did not involve him ever
questioning the choice he made when he chose me for his mate. Knowing that he ever thought of leaving me or that he'd made some terrible mistake makes me unable to continue. Tuesday, Lila, is mine and Charlie's
fifth wedding anniversary. I will not be there to celeb
rate it. - My dearest June, (soft rockabilly music) I met Harold for the first
time on a Friday evening in 1951 at a USO dance organized by my big sister, Clara. Her husband Edward was
a career Naval Airman, and she'd roped me in to a
hostessing a canteen dance for a group of boys going to Korea. I was only 16 at the time, much more interested in baseball than a bunch of rowdy,
desperate teenagers in uniform, but my mother figured it
might be a good chance for her peculiar daughter
to get out of
the house. Usually on Fridays, I'd listen
to baseball on the radio with my dad. (Laughs) We were lifelong Brooklyn Dodgers fans, which wound up breaking our hearts a few short years later. So when we couldn't be at the park, we were at the kitchen
table listening intently to every broadcast. I knew all the stats and I oughta. After all, my dad had been
quizzing me since I was six, and by the time I was 12, I knew everything there was
to know about the Dodgers. We'd be at a game, or a party, or
even at the coffee
reception after Mass, and he'd say something like, "Hey Peaches", "what was the batting average
of Pee Wee Reese in 1947?" And I'd think for a minute. "284." (laughs) The crowd of guys he called
over would hoot and cheer, and my dad would laugh. After six girls, my dad
finally had a buddy. Lost in a sea of ribbons and curls, high heels and lipstick, he
had someone to relate to. Though he loved us all, he
spent lots of time with me. One summer, he taught me
to throw and to catc
h. And he even taught me how to hit my cousin Mikey's tough curve ball. The dance was nothing
special to say the least. With the schmaltzy music, stars and stripes crepe paper decorations and crumbly cookies, it was certainly not something I would have missed my weekly date with my dad and the Dodgers for. Content to ladle punch into
cups and stare at the clock, I passed the time wondering if Newcombe was gonna pitch
a no-hitter that night. He'd had a good year so far, one that wound up being hi
s best ever with 164 strikeouts. I didn't even notice Harold looking at me until he came up to the table. "You wanna dance, Harriet?"
he asked, reading my name tag. "No," I told him. "Come on, sweetheart, I'm goin' to war." "I might die." I stared him down. "Fine," I said. "But that excuse only works once." He laughed. "I'm not kidding you," I said. "All right, all right. "I'm not a bad guy,
you'll see," he promised. That's what they all say. But the two of us danced
under the dim lights of the
Knights of Columbus Hall, my hands on his shoulders
and his on my hips. He told me all about
his family in Brooklyn, his dog Rex, and his big brothers who fought in World War II. I probably couldn't have
been less interested in anything he had to say
until suddenly he goosed me, just to make sure I was paying attention. I squealed, and he grinned at me with his Cheshire Cat teeth. "You awake there, sweetheart?" That was when I slapped
him across the mouth and walked out. I was a lady after all.
As it turned out, his
father worked with mine, much to my embarrassment, and the next time I laid eyes
on Harold was two years later on Long Island, where my father's company was hosting a Labor Day
picnic for employees and their families. Harold was home from Korea and
tagged along with his folks. He didn't recognize me, but that big mouth father of his caught me out of the corner of his eye
at the goddamn punch bowl and he said, "Hey, isn't
that Give 'em Hell Harriet?" (playful music) Give 'em
Hell Harriet was
my nickname after the dance. It was the height of the
Truman administration, and everyone thought
that it was very clever. "Yeah, that's her," he said. He was dressed in his uniform. "With an arm like yours," he said, "You should play in the
softball game this afternoon." "As a matter of fact
smart ass, I'm pitching." And I did. I knocked his smart ass to
the ground with the ball, but immediately after I whacked him, I was so overcome with
guilt I rushed to his side, and yelled
at him, "Goddamn it Harold", "you had to crowd the plate?" He fell in love with me right then, June. And although I'm sure it
was because of my nerve or my temper or maybe my sense of humor, I bet it didn't hurt that my measurements were 37, 23 and 36, just like Marilyn Monroe. We saw each other every day after that, and eventually he asked
Give 'em Hell Harriet to be his girl. He had to ask four times before I finally accepted. And when I did, I realized I loved him. I loved him with everythin
g I had. Naturally, this isn't easy for me to leave him here alone. I just didn't have much
choice in the matter. When it all started a few years ago, I thought I could take care of him. It was only occasional issues, nothing that couldn't be
fixed with gentle reminders. I would leave sticky notes on the stove. Don't forget to turn off stove. And on the door, please shut door. In the bathroom, please turn off faucet. But soon the words stopped
making sense to him, and then eventually the world
s
topped making sense to him. He began to lose the world, and when he lost his world, I lost him. (somber music) That was when I found this place. It's clean, it's quiet, the visiting hours are
unlimited for immediate family. So I've been able to join him every day for as long as we wanted to. We would sit, hold hands in the sun room, and talk about our day. His eyes would light
up when I would visit, and I'd kiss him, like I still do, I kiss him on the forehead. Harold Angel, that's what I call h
im. It's corny, I know. So shoot me. (Laughs) But lately he's been forgetting me. My kisses, though welcomed,
have become foreign. My visits, though frequent
are now punctuated with the pain of loss and confusion. And I admit, it's harder now that I've been noticing
that he's become rather fond of you. I'll come in sometimes, when you don't know I'm there, and I'll watch you from another room. I notice that occasionally
you'll fondly hold his hand or exchange fond and loving glances. The orderli
es say that that's normal. That he doesn't remember
that he has a wife and that he's seeking the companionship. The last time I was there,
I couldn't help myself. I had to talk to you. I had to tell you that
this was my husband, and that you can't have
him, June, you can't. I've loved this man for 57 years, 58 in August. And I've cared for this
man every day of life, and I don't know how not to care for him. I went over to you both. Harold smiled his same familiar
smile and said, "Oh June", "thi
s is, this is." And he looked up at me and he said, "This is my friend." Reluctantly I extended my hand to you. You shook it demurely as I told you my name was Harriet. And in a moment of recognition
that was all too brief, Harold looked at me and said,
"Give 'em Hell Harriet." Harold beamed with pride at
the distant memory of my name, and you nodded politely. I'll admit, you are very polite. The two of you went right back to talking, as I sat in the recliner
adjacent to your love seat. You told
him about your children, and he told you about how his big brother who got the Purple Heart at Normandy, about how brave he was. Your eyes glistened. He was so pleased at
how interested you were. And through the fog of his disease, I saw a flicker of light
that was the man I married. The young man, handsome in his uniform, so proud, so damn cheeky, and so eager to impress a pretty girl. That was when I realized he loved you, oh, and not the same way he loved me and not better than he loved me,
but he did love you. He loved you, and he wanted
you to be his companion. I resigned myself to this that day, and in my resignation, I went home and wrote a brief, but comprehensive list that I have included for you here. It has a few things on it that you should know about Harold, my husband of 57 years, 58 in August. One, (somber music) Harold never liked to talk about his war. He lost friends and unit members, and I think he always secretly felt like no matter what he did there, it never woul
d have been as good or as brave or as heroic as what his brothers did in World War II. So do him a favor, June. Listen to the war stories
about his brothers but never make him tell you his. Two, Harold, lately, seems to like his meals in the afternoon. Waffles are a new favorite. He likes them with syrup and whipped cream if you can manage it. Three, Harold wakes up at night. He feels lost most of the time, and wants to walk until he
finds where he's supposed to go. The doctors call it sun-downi
ng. I call it itchy foot. The nurses will probably
have to handle this, but if you do stay in the same room, and one night you wake up alone, I don't want you to be afraid like I was. And I'm sure he's safe here with you. Four, he's terribly afraid of bugs, palmettos especially,
but he'll never tell you. He's too proud. Everything else, June, you'll just find out on your own. You'll find out in the
times you spend talking, whispering love through hearing aids, gazing at each other through
thick
prescription lenses. All while I look on, like I do every day in another room, occasionally interrupting to
kiss my Harold on the forehead just to let him know I was there. Because I was there. Sincerely, Give 'em Hell Harriet. (seductive jazz music)
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