Intercontinental

From, Adult Education: Stories

My darling husband of fifty years came to me, smiling and holding out to me, a glass of homemade Sangria. I took it, sipped it and gave him a thumbs up. Then he showed me a piece of paper. It was a list of the top 50 bars on the planet ripped out of the pages of our brand new Conde Nast Traveler magazine that came in the mail earlier. He then sat down next to me, moved a sweaty hair away from my forehead. I had been gardening. The Hibiscus plants were out of control and needed pruning. My husband looked serious.

“Let’s do it.”

“Do what?”

“Let’s go to them all.” He smiled. “Let’s do a planetary bar crawl. We’ve been so good in our adult lives. I think it’s time we have some fun.”

“Fun?” I asked with a smile on my face. “We’re almost seventy.”

“So what.” He said. “Seventy is the new fifty.”

I pushed him away. “You’re insane.” I said. “Are you drunk?”

“I’m as sober as The Virgin Mary.” He said. “And we would definitely fly private.”

“How would we pay for it?”

“You’re sitting inside of it.”

“The house?” I asked. “Sell our house?”

“It’s California beachfront property worth at least thirty-five million.” He added. “Plus your books are still a cash cow and my new book is going to be a money machine.”

“The kids would kill us.” I said. “That money is supposed to be their inheritance.”

“Clarke.” He said. “You know and I know that the kids don’t deserve it. They never have. They never come to visit us.” He said. “Trevor is with his snobby trophy wife and family in Austin, Terrence is living out his bachelorhood in Vegas sleeping with anyone who will part their legs, Tate is married to Luke with their growing family in Scottsdale, Teagan is stationed in Osaka and Tatum is in Washington D.C. on a quest to become the first female president. They all have their own busy lives. They don’t call or text and I can’t remember the last time they visited us on the holidays.”

“You’re right. We didn’t even get cards this year.” I reluctantly agreed. “I couldn’t tell you how old the grand kids are or how many they are. I just send birthday cards with a check every year instead of actually seeing them.”

“See.” He said. “That’s what I’m talking about. They’ve made it perfectly clear that they don’t want us in their lives. We’ve been ghosted by our own children.”

I sighed.

“We busted our asses off for them to have good, braggable childhoods, and now they want nothing to do with us, except our money.” Felix said. “I hear you cry everytime you finish a once-in-a-lifetime call with one of the kids and it breaks my heart.”

I looked away from my husband, Felix and knew that his words were true. Felix’s last name is Kennedy. Yes, of those Kennedy’s and he comes from a long lineage of blue bloods with political pull and money. His family was grooming him to be a senator. Maybe, President? But he chose a different path. He fell in love with a commoner, got her pregnant and moved to the Midwest. While she earned her PhD in Creative Writing, he started a career as a Literary Agent, and that is how our forty-five year love story began.

We had five ungrateful children. Three boys and two girls. Trevor, Terrance, Terry, Teagan and Tatum. We moved across the country from rural Illinois to Malibu when my first book, God’s Angry Children, shocked the shit out of me and went number one on The New York Times Best Sellers list. There, it remained number one for thirty-six weeks. During the fifth week the book had sold out my advance and then the real money started to come in. Financial freedom was finally in sight. The book was going to be released in paperback and I was going on a book tour. A deal was inked for the movie rights and I wrote its screenplay.

I did interviews on The Today Show, Good Morning America and had a ten minute bit filmed about me and my writing career for CBS This Morning. Then the book was anointed by Oprah’s Book Club and I started receiving checks from my publisher that has so many zero’s, I almost wondered if I had made a deal with the Devil. I did an interview and reading on NPR, an interview for The La Times and landed a coveted cover on The New York Times Magazine. From that, international sales were going through the roof and I was invited to the BBC, Al Jezera and then America’s, Charlie Rose. Twice. I visited them all for interviews about the book. The interviews, the travel and the book tours were taxing, but all of it was everything I had ever dreamed of, everything that I ever wanted and I was quite happy with my accomplishments.

Felix was a talented, passionate, and dogged literary agent. When a query was sent his way, he knew if he was going to read on for more after only three words. Sounds harsh, but he was having to read at least twelve-hundred queries per month along with hand holding his new talent and reshaping his old talent. He also had to negotiate advances, contracts, book tours and book to screen deals. That’s just the tip of his busy day. His bright and shining stars were Mario Lee; a brilliant New York Times Bestseller and National Book Award Nominee who effortlessly penned Southern Gothic. He was a writer from Birmingham, Alabama. Then there was a brother-sister duo from Ohio, Kit and Aden Frederich's, who wrote deeply moving literary fiction about relationships and won The Nobel Peace Prize in Literature. Leann Sinclair was at the top of his list of his thirty curated clients. She did very little press, didn’t like to travel, never flew, had a strict writing regime that began at six in the morning and concluded at three-thirty; just so she would be ready for dinner with her husband and Editor, the famous John O’ Malley, at five. Leann was a prolific writer who cranked out at least five books to my one. These were Felix’s cash cows. He had other writers he would nurture but none kept us afloat like these three did.

We kindly refused money from his family and with the growing sales of my book and Felix’s well paying job at the literary agency, we moved into our house in Malibu, I purchased it in the nineties for twelve million which was steal back then. It was more house than I had ever seen in my life. There were three floors, seven bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, two offices, a large kitchen that spilled onto an outdoor patio area overlooking our private beach. We have two living rooms; a formal and informal one. The garage holds three cars and off to the side of the house was a guest cottage where I did most of my writing. I wrote from eight to four and then came in to help Felix with supper. He was a great stay at home dad. Very hands on, sensitive and attentive. We didn’t have a cook, a maid or a nanny. We did all of the childrearing by ourselves and they still turned out to be selfish brats. I do wonder if they would have turned out any better if we had help. I ponder this question as I cry in the shower from the hurt and neglect we receive from each and everyone of them. To leave it all behind would be another dream come true.

Our children were spoiled and had to have the best of everything. We, not wanting to deny them anything, we gave them everything that they wanted. All we insisted on was that they all attend public schools because the area had some of the best in the country. As for everything else, we happily provided. Over the top birthday parties with celebrity appearances? Check. The latest and greatest phones, gadgets, computers and toys? Check. A Mercedes for every child on their sixteenth birthday? Check. Backstage passes at A-List concerts? Check. Ski trips and lessons in Breckenridge, Aspen, Germany and the Swiss Alps? Check. Trips to Europe? Check. Safari in Africa? Check. Surfing trip to Australia? Check. Private trips to Disneyland? Check. Thanksgiving at the Kennedy Compound? Check. Christmases in Alaska and the Caribbean? Check. Watching in horror as our children raised our spoiled rotten grand kids? Check. Check. Check. Check. Check.

“Imagine,” My husband said dramatically. “No more nauseating cat puke or disgusting cat litter to clean up after.”

We had two elderly cats that had sensitive stomachs and seemed to barf up their food every time they ate. We’ve had to replace the house carpet several times and the shades have gone from beige to chocolate brown where the stains aren’t so visible. Next, we’ll just get hardwood so we can wipe up their messes.

“Where would the cats go?”

“There’s a no-kill shelter in Maui for Senior cats.” He said. “You should see it. It’s better than most high end nursing homes.”

“I see you’ve thought this out.”

“I’ve thought everything out.”

“The cars?”

“We’ll sell them, or give them to our friends.”

“All of our clothing?”

“Keep what we actually need, and give the rest to Goodwill.”

“Furniture?”

“Sell it, leave it or put it in storage.”

“Why are you so eager to do this?”

“Because, we are not going to live forever.”

And, there was the dagger of reality that made me shake off a chill of mortality and actually feel my age.

“Clarke. We are not getting any younger.”

“Where will we live?” I asked.

“Anywhere we like.”

“Paris?”

“Yep.”

“Ireland?”

“Ireland is on the list.”

“Barcelona?”

“Yes.”

“Norway?”

“Clarke. The list is impressive and if we didn’t want to stay in a hotel; we could get an Airbnb.”

“I see.” I said, now nodding to his original offer.”

“The kids can grow up and finally be on their own. They have their own jobs. Let’s let them pay their own way for once.” He said, taking me by the hand. I stood up with him. He was smiling and wrapped his arms around me. “And we can be free.”

“It has to be a secret.” I smiled, nuzzling my face into his chest. He smelled like CK One, “a true California scent.” He would say. My mind is imagining scenarios of us being the ultimate, jet setting, empty-nesters. We would spend our children’s inheritance as we globe trot all over the world as Expats following a boozy trail of bars listed by a high end travel magazine.

“The less people who know, the better.” He said.

“We should keep it to a small list.”

“Ten people?”

I shook my head. “That’s too many.”

“Seven?” He asked.

“Five.” I said. “I feel like five is enough.”

Felix kissed me on the lips, then looked at me longingly. “Five it is.”

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Oh, we’re doing this.” He smiled. “Are you excited? Scared? Apprehensive?”

I looked him in the eye and was serious. “I’m ready.” I said. “When do we start packing?”

“I love you Clarke Kennedy.” Felix smiled. “I always have and always will.” He paused. “Let’s renew our vows?”

I was just thinking the same thing. “It can be the one last time that we see everybody.”

“The kids would have to come.” He grinned.

“Close friends, too.” I added.

“You pick the venue.”

“Let’s smoke some pot on the patio, plan and then go up to the bedroom?”

My husband smiled and had the eager look of a teenager as I took him by the hand and we slipped out to the patio and grabbed our hefty marijuana stash and paraphernalia that we kept in a large, handmade, nesting Kachina doll that was a gift from my best friend when she went to Russia to visit her parents.

The story of Felix and I is somewhat a modern day fairy tale. We first met while I was passing out tall glasses of iced tea with lemon. I was working with a friend whose parents owned a catering company and provided for The Kennedy’s annual fourth of just celebration at their very large compound on Nantucket Island. I was the “help” and black, so he definitely should have not been flirting with me. I could have lost my job or worse, my friend’s family could have lost their exclusive catering for The Kennedy’s. But there he was in front of everybody asking for numerous glasses of iced tea, following me around with conversation, helping me clean up after the fireworks and in front of everyone asking me politely if he could walk me home.

His grandfather was Ted Kennedy. Felix never wanted for anything in his life and yet he walked away from it all to be with a then pregnant me struggling to get through and attain my Creative Writing PhD at The University of Illinois. Used to the finer things in life, he adapted quickly to my modest student living conditions in a one bedroom, attic apartment that was so hot in the summer and freezing in the winter. We lived off Ramen noodles, canned sardines and Kraft Mac and Cheese.

Felix already graduated from NYU with a Masters in Journalism and was commuting by train up to Chicago to Winston, Nelson and Smith’s Literary Agency where he was an Senior Agent. Then he would take the City of New Orleans train home after work and come home to find me working diligently on my dissertation which was a novel titled, God’s Angry Children; a story about a devout religious married couple who turn away from their religion when their three year old son is abducted from the safety of their house and is found murdered in the nearby woods by a hiker.

The story’s main theme was finding hope in the dark while faced with the unthinkable. Felix thought it was remarkable and when I turned it in, my professor called me to tell me that I had created something special. I graduated that summer, snagged a job in The U of I’s art department as a nude model and started to query literary agents. Felix wanted to help and I begged him not to. I wanted to seek representation all on my own without any of his assistance. I cried when I received my first round of rejection letters. Felix would always be there to comfort me and told me that rejection was part of the process.

The more query letters I sent out, the more rejections came back to me with a resounding “no”. Broken and still believing in myself, I kept on. In a t-shirt that has a little mouse holding a pen saying, “Never Give Up!” I wrote four more novels, three books of short stories, a detective series and several other books. With my creativity came more and more rejection and my heart ached from the literary world stomping on my ideas. “Someone will say, “Yes” I told myself over and over again as I sent out more queries, only to have a stream of very polite, “No’s” return to me. Seasons changed and I grew older as birthdays came and went.

As I struggled Felix stayed with me and went from boyfriend to dad on Valentines Day in 2000. As I was breast feeding our first born Trevor, Felix got down on one knee, presented me with a magnificent, solitaire diamond engagement ring and asked me to marry him. I whispered, “yes” and he kissed Trevor on the head and then me softly on the lips. With a baby at home, I sent out my queries and still I received a steam of rejection as I breast fed and changed diapers. I was enduring a metamorphosis. I was becoming a working mom and Felix was a very hands on Dad.

The wedding was impressive and a white tie event. His parents insisted upon it, and it was Catholic. It was a big, Catholic wedding and it took place at The Kennedy Compound on Nantucket Island where we met. I had seven bridesmaids; four who I did not know but they were nice. I didn’t know a lot of people, but my best friend I met in 4H when I was eight was there and so were my parents and a smattering of relatives. There were Secret Service men and women everywhere and my mouth almost fell on the ground when the celebrities and A-Listers started to pull up in limo’s. A who’s who of the elite magazine rack was there to document the big day; Town & Country, Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, People, and Vanity Fair.

We wanted to include the baby in our first look photographs and when Felix laid eyes on me in my Anne Barge long sleeved, floral, sheath gown with a diamond encrusted headband and floor length veil. Little Trevor was fast asleep in the crook of my arm. When Felix walked up to me in a custom made, Ralph Lauren black tuxedo with tails and a white tie. He had tears in his eyes and a big smile on his face. Photographers and videographers were all over vying to capture all of our perfect moments together. Our nuptials were exchanged under a huge tent by the water in back of the property.

But, that was so, so, long ago. I am surprised that I even recall or remember. What I do recall and what I do remember are the hurtful moments when our children turned their backs on us and moved on to live the lives that Felix and I so comfortably set them up for. So much money was shelled out to them, and having a Kennedy pedigree gave them the confidence and rise to excellence that so many went without. With that use came abuse and we spent many a night bailing Trevor out of jail for drunk driving and having all records of the incidents disappear. We settled all of Terrance’s assault and battery cases, out of court. When Terry got caught trying to sell meth to an undercover cop, we pulled strings and made that go away. Teagan wanted to drop out of high school and be home schooled. Guess who paid for that? And, when Tatum; the baby of the family, took a liking to Cocaine and almost died from smoking a speed ball in some junkie’s bathroom; it was Felix and I who paid for her hospital bills and lengthy and cushy stay at one of the best rehab centers in America. Kids aren’t cheap, but ours were a particularly, damaging, financial drain. I agree with my husband. Our work is done. They don’t need us and they certainly act like they don’t want either of us in their spoiled, privileged lives. We have no one to blame but ourselves.

Felix and I invited our five friends over for dinner to discuss our plans. We prepared our famous Nantucket Clam Bake with Lobster, Little neck clams, corn on the cob, homemade clam chowder, roasted red potatoes, homemade coleslaw and my famous strawberry shortcakes with homemade whipped cream. One look at the spread and what we were serving, eyebrows were raised and my best friend who I flew out said, “Okay. What’s up? Somethings going on.”

“Sit.” I said to them all and went around with a silver platter that had glasses of my signature drink: Cherry Phosphate Vodka Bottle Rockets and pin joints.

“Sharing dope?” Franklin asked as he picked up a joint. “Now I know something’s up.”

“We do have a small announcement.” I said after everyone had either a drink or a joint or both. “But we are going to tell all of you about it after dinner.” I went back into the kitchen to help Felix after our guests were seated comfortably on the open patio drinking and smoking.

“You look amazing.” My husband tells me as he stirs a large stock pot of clam chowder that he made from scratch. I was wearing a strapless, cauliflower blue, bohemian maxi dress with a fit and flare silhouette and a western belt slung low over my hips. My feet were bare like everyone else’s. Felix and I had a pretty strict, “No Shoes in the house” policy. We felt that people were more relaxed without shoes and then access to the beach was effortless.

“You look handsome.” I smiled up at him as he leaned down to kiss me. When he did I tasted clam chowder. “Is this a new shirt and pants?”

“Yeah. Like it?” He looked nervous.

“I do.” I admired his willingness to take a chance with fashion. Felix normally sticks with the basics. White or black fitted tees, or a white button down, navy, camel or black khakis and either a pair of black Doc Martens, white Vans or a pair of Flip-Flops. Now I am looking at him in a short sleeve navy button down with embroidered pink flamingos all over and a pair of pink khakis with the cuffs rolled up.

“Thank you.” He smiled. The timer went off. My shortcakes were done. He handed me two oven mitts that looked like sharks and I took the baked delicacies out of the oven and placed them on the island to cool. Felix looked at me and I nodded.

“Dinner’s ready!” He called and soon our kitchen was filled with good friends showering us compliments to us and filling their bowls and plates.

As we sat around our rustic, walnut wood plank kitchen table with reed votive candles lit, eating a Nantucket feast; our attorney Mark was blunt and got straight to the point that was on everyone’s minds.

“What is going on?” He asked. “You two better not be getting a divorce.”

“We’re not getting a divorce.” Felix reassured our guests.

“We’re going away.” I said.

Everyone looked puzzled. I allowed my husband to elaborate. “We’re going to do a bucket list of sorts.”

“Clarke Kennedy. What is your husband talking about?” My best friend, Sal asked.

Felix got up and grabbed the Conde Nast Best Bars article from our kitchen junk drawer and brought it to the table. He handed it to Sal. “Read it and pass it around.” He said as he leaned back in his chair and rested his chin stubble with gray, into his hand. Sal read it and passed it to Mark Fredrichs who read it and passed it to Becca Jensen, my agent who then passed it to Parker Downs, my publicist who read it and passed it to Felix’s best friend, and California governor, Joel Donovan.

After everyone read the article there was silence. Becca shifted in her seat and spoke first. “Are you two out of your mind?”

“No.” I looked at Felix and he smiled at me.

“We’re pretty sane.” He said.

“I don’t understand.” Sal said. “Midlife crises?”

“No.” I said.

Felix leaned forward. “It’s more of a reality check.”
“I don’t follow.” Joel said, looking at everyone. “Does anyone else follow?”

Parker finished his drink and said, “I get it.”

“You do?” We all said turning to him.

“I do.” He said. “Let me explain.”

“The floor is yours.” I said. Felix put his arm around me and I leaned into him.

Parker stood up and addressed us all.

“As your publicist, I think what you two want to do is genius.”

“How so?” Joel asked.

“Clarke has a new book coming out and so does Felix.”

“And?” Becca asked.

“The international bar crawl could host book signings and readings.”

“I see.” Becca said.

“We can call it, “Clarke After Dark.”

I got up and slowly began clearing the dirty dishes and handing them to Felix who was in the kitchen ready to fill the dishwasher.

“High Velocity is promoting itself. The buzz about it pre-release is ridiculous.” I said to Becca. I said to them all. “You know that.”

I went around the table and stacked plates with silverware on top then neatly placed the soup bowls into one another. Felix received my offering of dirty dishes as I prepared the strawberry shortcakes for dessert. When I had prepared seven, I walked them out and placed each one in front of our guests. Felix refreshed everyone’s drinks and was holding five eight by twelve, sealed manilla envelopes.

“What are those?” Sal asked as I went around the table and placed an envelope next to their dessert.

Flex and I sat down. “An escape plan.” He smiled.

“You all know that we have rotten children? Right?”

“Aw, don’t say that.” Parker said. “They’re just occupied.”

“Occupied? They’re rotten.” Felix said. “And what’s worse is that we made them that way.”

“We all spoil our children.”

“Not like we have.” I said. “Your kids call, stop by and you most likely can remember when was the last time you held or played with your grandchildren.”

“We had the means and gave our kids everything, and in return they gave us silence, attitude and heartache.”

“Don’t you all get quiet now.” I said.

“You know it’s true.” Felix added.

Mark was devouring his dessert and looked up when no one else was eating. “What do you want us to do about it?”

“Funny, you should ask.” I said. “Please open your envelopes.”

Everybody looked at each other.

“Please.” Felix urged.

We sat back, ate our desserts and waited. Five. Four. Three. Two. One…

“What the fuck is this?” Sal asked. “A Non-Disclosure Agreement?”

“Yeah. What the hell?” Joel asked.

“Are you two insane?” Becca asked.

“What are you two thinking?” Mark asked.

“So, it’s not a publicity stunt?” Parker asked.

“No.” I said.

“What is going on?”

I looked at Felix and he smiled at me.

“We’re selling the house, getting rid of all of that we don’t need and spending our children’s

inheritance.”

A collective, “What?!” was exclaimed by all of our guests.

“Felix and I are going to do that bar crawl.”

Another round of “What?” filled the room.

“What’s the non-disclosure for?” Parker asked quickly, lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply then exhaled his puff into the air.

The room became quiet and all eyes were on myself and Felix. I heard my husband clear his throat. Then he stood up, placed his hands upon the table and leaned forward. Next, he spoke in a threatening tone, “Not a word of our plans leaves this room, gets told to our children or is released to any form of social, print or digital media.”

Mark leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his broad chest. “What do we get out of it?”

I left the table, went into the study and came back with a tote bag. Then I walked around the table and placed hand wrapped, navy blue spooled envelopes in front of each guest.

“Go ahead. Open them.” Felix said, sitting back down. I sat back down next to him and we watched one by one the expressions on our guests’ faces as they realized that they were now two-hundred thousand dollars richer.

“What the fuck?”

“Clarke?”

“For fucks sake, Felix?”

“Yes, everybody.” Felix said and paused.

“That’s hush money.” I added as I poured myself another glass of wine.

No one at the dinner party objected to signing the non-disclosure and keeping their mouths shut after we showed them what we were offering. So now with our secret safe with a few, it was time for us to get ready to renew our vows, put the house up for sale, rid ourselves of things that would no longer serve us and prepare to be free as we secured our private jet tickets to Milan, Italy where we would be staying at the Four Season Hotel Milan and sipping hand crafted and creative cocktails at the mysterious 1930 speakeasy. We had our badge and codeword. It was attained easily when Felix contacted them and dropped the Kennedy name, and when they found out that I was his wife, our access to the impossible was granted.

In the mix of all of this change, we had a vow renewal ceremony to plan. Felix insisted on paying for everything and he surprised me one night on the patio with news that all of our children and grandchildren would be attending our vow renewal ceremony. I should have been happy and in tears but I was not. I was apprehensive and bitter. Now I’ve told you just the tip of the iceberg of what my children are capable of. I have a little bit of time to myself while Felix is away speaking with the realtor and I have the house to myself. I feel like I need a drink or two to tell you these embarrassing, scarlett A family tales that ring with a brutal truth and finally made Felix and I want to dissolve all relationships with the kids and our bratty grandchildren. You go get yourself something to drink and I will meet you on the back patio.

My God. Look at that sunset. I will miss California and this house, but Felix and I have been bitten by the travel bug and its venom is intoxicating. New people to meet. New sights to see. New cuisines to savor and new ways to be human. No more Mom and Dad. No more Grandma or Grandpa. Just Clarke and Felix as we were in the good old days. We will both be writing on the road and that will be a first, but the two of us adapt well to change, so it shouldn’t be a problem. I have my laptop and Felix has his Vintage Royal Quiet Deluxe portable typewriter with a case. Now, back to my children. I’ve got my drink; a nice, chilled, German Weihenstephaner Hefe Weissbier beer. I fell in love with it during a trip to Germany on a book tour. I like its craftsmanship, its decades old history and its taste is remarkable.

As I stretch out on the hammock on the back patio with my beer, gaze out at the picturesque Pacific Ocean, I hate to dirty this moment, my moment at just as Clarke; not Mom, not Grandma, not even Wife or New York Time Bestselling Author, just Clarke daughter of Isaiah and Pearl Brown, born in central Illinois. Clarke who had an ideal, storybook childhood in a Victorian house with a white picket fence; I try to recall what went wrong in my formative years. I come up with nothing. My parents loved me and gave me space when I needed it.

As their only child, we had a lot of firsts. First words. First steps. First day of nursery school. Tentative first day of kindergarten when I met Sal. Awkward first day of junior high where I met Becca. Proud first day of high school because I was going to graduate early and go to the east coast to Nantucket Island. Mixed in between all of those firsts were additional first times I fell in love with books and storytelling, first attempt to write my own stories, first kisses, first heartaches, first happenings of being bullied, first fight, first college application, first college acceptance, and first time away from home.

I loved my parents fiercely and I assumed that when I had children of my own the feelings of love that I had for my parents would be showered upon me, like I showered upon them. I truly believe in my heart that if Felix wasn’t a Kennedy all the kids would have grown up without sitting in the comfortable lap of luxury we provided and greedily enjoying the spoils we lavished upon them that they soon began to want and crave daily. When both of my parents died last year in a train wreck on their annual trip to Chicago, I was shocked. I was lost. I was devastated. I did not eat. I barely slept. And I pulled away from Felix who was so desperately trying to bring me back to life. The kids gave me their condolences and that was that. I could begin to smell their want for their inheritance as I got older. I told this to Felix and he said that wasn’t true. He became a believer last Christmas when we did not receive a card or any kind of phone call from our children.

Something had to change. Felix and I were miserable and began to think, “Why should we wallow as they turned their back on us. We raised them. No one died. Our work was done- and if they wanted to have nothing to do with their own father who gave them their cherished Kennedy last name, and their mother who nurtured them for nine months and then suffered long childbearing hours in order to give them life- they all were more ignorant than I thought. I thought I was going to tell stories about them but the more I think about all of the times, they let me, they let us down, I am overwhelmed with crying spells that are slowly turning into moments of wrath and utter regret. I get out of the hammock and go into the kitchen to retrieve another beer.

Soon we will be free and our ungrateful children will be sitting on the sidelines, dumbfounded. But first, Felix and I are going to go out with a bang when we renew our wedding vows in La Jolla Cove, California. All of the kids are coming and they are bringing the grand kids, too. Only Felix, I and five others will know that this will be the last time they see us and the financial handouts will be coming to a halt. We worked hard for this money. Why should our children be the only benefactors of it? So, enough talk about our little rugrats.

Yesterday I made an actual advent calendar on our phones, counting down the days until Felix and I depart from LAX on a direct, private jet and fly into the arms of Milan and into the exciting temptation of the unknown, all while shedding the heavy, heavy, weight of our parental responsibilities. If our kids don’t give a fuck about us, then why should we have any more fucks to give about them? We’re old. Our youth is gone, and we just want to live, love and be happy, again. Then I saw that saying, “Live. Laugh. Love.” on a rose gold throw pillow at some high end shoppe, as corny as it is; its message rang true to me and I bought it. I’ll use it on our plane rides when I close my eyes and dream about places seen and unseen. Its words will give me comfort and direction as we travel to the places on our list and explore what it really means to be human again, focused and free.