memoir Archives - Laurel McHargue - Author/Podcaster/Public Speaker

Auguste Rodin’s The Kiss*

Everyone remembers their first, right? Mine was David. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was the very model used by Michelangelo for that famous piece, so to speak, that stands contemplatively gazing down the halls of the Loeuvre. He was such a stud muffin that I felt compelled to taste his lips, or any other part of him that might happen my way. And so I set about to hasten the inevitable. As he rode his bike past my house one day, muscles pumping, body glistening in the sweltering August sun, I called him over. He came, hesitantly, and stopped ever so close to me. I could hear his heart beating as he assessed me quizzically. I told him I needed to share a secret, and that he would have to come closer. As his face came closer to mine, I closed my eyes and did it—I planted a big juicy one smack-dab in the middle of his forehead, which sent him careening away on his bike yelling, “Cooties! Cooties! EEEEW, I got cooties!”

So O.K., he wasn’t really the model, I didn’t actually notice the presence of any muscles on his 7 year old body, and I’m quite convinced now that it was my heart beating feverishly in my 4 year old breast; but hey—I knew what I wanted, and I went for it. Had I kept my eyes open, I may have tasted those fresh lips; but clearly, David was not ready for the lusty passion that drove me to my fateful deception that day. Yet despite his clamor, I know that I saw a furtive smile cross his face as he looked back at me standing on the sidewalk (I wasn’t allowed into the street or I may have chased him down) with a smug grin on my red, freckled face. Yes, I had a secret all right—A kiss is a wondrous thing, and ahhh, the spoils of victory are sweet!

Fortunately, subsequent smooching would yield far more favorable reactions from suitors.

*(from: http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.musee-rodin.fr/sites/musee/files/styles/zoom/public/resourceSpace/785_8b7d48c24803c47.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.musee-rodin.fr/en/collections/sculptures/kiss&h=1202&w=800&sz=80&tbnid=Ny6M5FhcBhvkjM:&tbnh=101&tbnw=67&zoom=1&usg=__zgcvoZPJWsVpQHTv7H6QdXEUPno=&docid=kUtiUlRlTuLonM&sa=X&ei=EVtPUfavBIGFyQGE0YHQBQ&ved=0CGUQ9QEwBg&dur=367

I found the following in a very old Word Document I had written back in 1997 when I thought I might start an autobiographical series using the pen name “Ruby Malone.” I’m thinking of continuing what I started, but using my real name this time.

I was christened Ruby Lee Malone by parents who should have known better, who should have known that a child named Ruby would require more than the usual attention. I tell people I got my name because I was born with pouting red lips, but I think it had more to do with the strawberry birthmark by my belly. More likely still, Moe (that would be Dad) took one look at me and thought of all the gems he’d need to feed, clothe, and someday marry off all his girls. I earned my middle name from my Mom, Loretta Lee Malone, who we are all convinced married Dad for the punch-line name she would secure—Letta Malone. Putting the importance of names aside, however, I would be introduced as “daughter number 4” to more people than I care to remember, which I now credit for pushing me into my “look-at-me” life. I probably would have been O.K. had it not been for “daughter number 5,” a blond, blue-eyed, diaphanous creature who came into this world to torment me for my plainness. Alas, I would have to live with, and some day learn how to love the woefully average face that scorned the inventor of mirrors. And I would.

So now I’m inviting you to share some adventures on my quest for the meaning of life, a quest born from a burning desire to find myself (the self behind the face), to figure out what a puny being like me was sent here to accomplish, to become more than just “daughter number 4.” Some adventures will be way cool—others, steamy hot—some more yet, simply life itself. I discover the meaning, the “truth,” the reality, in snippets each day. My truth, of course—my snippets. You may just say “Hogwash!” now, and never return; after all, what can a broad named Ruby teach someone like you? Not much, I would venture to say; so all you hogwash types take a hike now. But do come on back when your curiosity gets the best of you, or when you just need to escape from your own truth for a while.

Come see me weekly for an update on some way cool steamy hot life. Next week I will “tell all” about the power of a kiss. Until then, why not do a bit of your own research on the topic?

Yours truly,

Ruby