WHAT HAPPENED TO MY FIRST MARRIAGE OR

THE EFFECTS OF CAMPO PHENIQUE ON LOVE

You need to understand a lot of things for this story to have it's full impact. I had left home when I was a little past the age of sixteen...some called it running away, I called it survival. Of a sort.

There weren't a lot of jobs out there for sixteen year olds, even in the sixties. And, as was often the case, I was just a little too smart for my britches. I tried a variety of things. All extremely low paying. Then, I discovered if I lied about my age, said I could do anything the jobs got a little better. My first "grown-up" job was as a receptionist/typist for a sign manufacturing company. This meant I had to type envelopes to every senior high school in the country and send them information about the "signs" they could purchase for their schools to announce events. This was before databases, they only had a manual typewriter, and I was going crazier.

So, I looked for another position. Needless to say it involved less clothes, an ability to move one's feet to the rhythm, and an ID that said I was 21. All of which were accomplished by the next day and I was on my way to stardom. If you call the Boom Boom Room stardom.

I met a variety of people. Some assholes, some perverts, and some pretty nice guys. And, it's where I met my first husband. Now, you would have thought that if I had been just a little brighter I would have recognized that a topless bar was not the prime place for picking a husband. But, I was filled with insecurities and newly discovering the power of a half-naked woman's body. Not the best combination.

And then I met Donne. Boy, was he a smoothy. Even the spelling of his name was sexy. The best looking man who had ever said more than two words to me (in an Elvis Presley sort of way), muscular, dark hair, dark eyes. He had me at the first sneer. He was also a very smooth talker. I ignored the fact that he drank like a fish. Hell, I grew up with that. I thought everyone did. And we became an item.

Soon it was clear that I could no longer work "in a place like that." So, I quit. I moved in with him and the days of confusion began. He was a heavy duty machinery mechanic and made quite good money and I saw the Donna Reed existence looming in my future. Well, except for a few small things. I couldn't cook, I knew nothing of home-making, and he liked to drink. So we fell into a pattern. Drink at night, fight, he'd go to work, drink at night, fight, and on and on and on.

He was also a pretty macho kind of dude. Or, did you already figure that out. I didn't. It wasn't even a concept back then. Eventually, he insisted on our getting married and I said yes because I couldn't believe anyone else would ever have me. A madcap trip to Vegas and the deed was done.

Part of his macho crap was wearing his coveralls without clothes under them. That way when they were unbuttoned half-way down his chest his muscles and tangle of black hair would show and impress...who? I mean, there were only guys in the shop...Vanity, oh vanity.

This eventually led to quite a rash. With motor oil, solvent and who knew what else being splashed around daily, I'm sure it was quite irritating. And not just a rash, but what I would later in life come to learn was called...jock itch. His balls were so inflamed that they could have been used on a Christmas Tree. But, I had the answer.

Coming from the poor white trash South that I had, there were only three medicines in our house. Calamine lotion, campho-phenique and sulfur and molasses. No shit. So, since I only had one of the three and it being the campho-phenique and having used it for itches all my life, I decided that that was what he needed.

Now, the man may have been beautiful, but not too bright. I convinced him that what he needed was the campo phenique and the itching would stop. Out comes the green bottle, the cotton balls and down comes his pants. I will give him credit, he was a little concerned about it, but, as I was to find out later in life, most men are concerned when anything gets near the family jewels.

I thouroughly soaked one of the cotton balls with campho phenique, told him not to worry, and...and...yes, I took one really wet dab at his balls. He hit the roof. He was up off of the couch, into the shower with cold water running directly on the affected parts and screaming at the top of his lungs. Being as sensitive as I am, of course, I was rolling on the floor. I swear, I didn't know it would have that effect, but, it was hilarious. To me. Not to him. I was picturing him in the shower, hands gripped on the pipe as it came out of the wall, with his feet trying to climb the wall as he strained to get his "privates" closer to the source of the cold water. This sent me even further over the edge.

When he finally came out of the bathroom, with a wild look in his eyes, I was still choking back the laughter. "You did that on purpose!" What? I didn't, I was stupid, yes, but in retrospect I wish I had done it on purpose. "No, no, I didn't know that would happen, it always stings just a little, but then it is better." "You knew exactly what was going to happen, and it's not funny, in fact, I'll show you how 'not funny' it is!"

You know, I should have seen it coming. That right hook. Caught me good. Flat on my ass, but, not surprised. Beatings were a way of life for me. Why should this have been any different. Well, it was. He stormed out of the house, down to his favorite bar--The Red Pussycat (I swear these are the real names of the bars.) And, as I sat there with my jaw in my hand...I started laughing again. You know, there are sometimes that you know are the moments to remember. I packed my clothes, got the hell out of there and never went back. In fact, we were married for six years even though I had only lived with him for three months, and been married only one.

My jaw got better. It was the best thing that ever could have happened on a number of levels. One, I made a commitment to myself that no one would ever hit me again...and they never have. And, two, I could trust myself to take care of myself...I would never become totally dependent upon another person in my life. And, I have. But, the best part was, the knowledge that for the rest of his life, he would be left with the memory of burning balls every time he thought of me.

I still smile when I think of it. How campho phenique ruined my first marriage and taught me some of the best lessons of my life. And yes, I still have campho phenique and calamine lotion in the medicine cabinet.

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(Addendum: Yes, this is true. I did not live a boring life, nor a very safe one. But, at least I can look back and laugh and say I learned some great lessons!)