My Fair Lady

Last week Turner Classic Movies showed one of my favorites, “My Fair Lady.” I settled down in my recliner with my cat Charlie on my lap, like the picture on this blog site. How many times have I seen this movie? I never counted. Like eating chocolate cake, where I don’t count calories, it does not matter. I enjoy it every time. As I snuggled down in my chair, Charlie purred as I scratched his head and stroked his back. His long hair is soft as a down pillow.

I watched the credits begin with those gorgeous flowers in “living color” on my plasma TV – my self-indulgence I bought when I moved into this house three years ago. As the peonies and daisies unfolded before my eyes, I remembered the visual delight I felt seeing that series of flower photographs the first time. That was 43 years ago in a theater in downtown Detroit. I was pregnant. I was 36 years old, already had a son and a daughter, and felt deliriously happy to be expecting another baby. David is still the joy of my life. He will be flying from California to Dallas in two weeks to celebrate my 80th birthday.

“My Fair Lady” is entwined with many memories. We moved from Detroit to Dallas to Philadelphia, and, finally, to Chicago. During family dinners in Woodridge, Illinois, we put records on the stereo to play music in the background while the three children talked about school and I passed meat loaf and potatoes. Those were good times. “I could have danced all night.”

My theme should have been, “Just you wait, Henry Higgins!” Audrey Hepburn’s eyes flashed as Eliza imagined all the ways she would take revenge, “Just you wait ‘til you’re drowning in the sea. I’ll get dressed and go to tea.” But there was no revenge for either Eliza or me. For 27 years I adored a man who lied, cheated, abused, and broke promises. My ex lived the jet set life with his second wife while I slept in a shelter for the homeless. He gave her everything he promised me: the diamond ring, the trip to Paris; they even bought my “dream home.” He told his lawyer he could not afford to give me money for food. My lawsuit was postponed again and again, while he and No. 2 went off on an African safari!

During that dreadful time I met John. He also had the “My Fair Lady” record. The night before we married, he put it on the stereo, and as Alfred Doolittle sang, “I’m getting married in the morning,” John and I danced all around his fourth floor condo. Thus began the happiest time in my life. That was 21 years ago, and my heart still feels joyous when I remember.

My little house in Garland, Texas, is not my dream home. The exterior is a pinkish brick. Not my favorite color. One -car garage, where I manage to drive in my Elantra among the boxes of unpublished manuscripts. The house has three small bedrooms, and one little bathroom, plus a tiny bathroom. The previous owner remodeled the kitchen, with more cupboards than I’ll ever fill (the top shelves are empty). Behind the dining area he also added a big den. That’s where I watch television.

On the screen in front of my recliner Audrey Hepburn, dressed as the scruffy waif Eliza Doolittle, is lifted onto a bed of cabbages, and I listen to the lilting, “All I want is a room somewhere, with one enormous chair. Lots of coal making lots of heat. Lots of chocolates for me to eat.”

Charlie jumps off my lap and ambles off in the direction of his food bowl. I look down; the front of my blouse and my navy slacks are covered with long white hairs. Charlie sheds. On me, on the furniture, on the carpet. That does not matter. Just as it does not matter that the songs Audrey Hepburn seems to sing are really a recording of someone else’s voice. It sings to my heart.

Warm air blowing down over my head tells me the furnace is making lots of heat. I turn up the thermostat and keep warm without worrying about the gas bill. My house is paid for. I don’t have a car payment. I buy groceries with my credit card, and there is money in the bank to pay the balance every month. John’s insurance pays all my medical bills. I don’t care if Wally and his second wife went on a safari. I never wanted to go to Africa, and I’ve been so many other wonderful places. Wally died, and I get his Social Security.

In my enormous chair I eat Hershey’s special dark chocolate. “Warm hands, warm feet” Isn’t it “luverly”?