Authors: Janis Thomas
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Family Life, #General
Something New (10 page)
I am still mad, but my anger has lost its steam since the problem has been resolved. I explain to him what’s happened, outline the plan for the evening, and quash his objection to Greg’s being responsible for our children even for a short time.
“He’s my cousin’s husband,” I say. “He’s not going to let
anything happen to our kids. Grandma Phyllis would come back to haunt him, and you know how afraid he was of her.”
“Bowling, burgers, and Boomers, huh?”
“You only have to be there for the Boomers portion. Consider yourself lucky.”
He sighs. I am receiving a lot of phone sighs today.
“My dinner should be done by eight since the CEO is like a hundred,” he says. “I’ll meet them all at Boomers and bring the kids home.”
“Thanks,” I say. It is only one word, but it’s full of gratitude, not venom. Jonah always comes through. “I appreciate it.”
“I’m sorry for what I said about book club. I know it’s important to you.”
“You weren’t wrong about the wine and gossip,” I acknowledge. “But there is a bit more to it than that.”
“I know,” he says. But he doesn’t mean it. I can tell. And he isn’t really sorry. But at least he said it. When it comes to men, apologies are big even when insincere.
“I love you,” he says, just as he always does before hanging up.
“You, too,” I reply automatically. Then I hang up and head back to my cheese balls.
Four dozen perfectly golden-brown and highly aromatic cheese balls line the kitchen counter behind me. I sit in front of my computer, staring at the
Ladies Living-Well Journal
registration page, racking my brain for a decent username. I have tried several:
Forty-Something, Forty-Something-And-Fabulous, Forty-Something-And-Somewhat-Fabulous,
but all of those have been used. The problem is that the username
is also the domain name for the blog, so my username has to be completely original and not something that has been used by any other person on the Web. Like I understand any of this.
I sigh and blow out a breath, determined not to be undermined by a lack of imagination. And suddenly, my fingers are flying over the keyboard, almost as if they have minds of their own. I glance at the flashing cursor and read the name I have typed into the rectangle.
SomethingNewAt42.
I like it. I send up a silent prayer as I hit the return key, then wait an interminable thirty seconds before I am rewarded with the legend:
Congratulations, SomethingNewAt42. You have successfully registered for the
Ladies Living-Well Journal
blog competition!
Great. I have a username. Now all I need is an idea for a blog.
I browse through the blog templates and come to one that somehow speaks to me. I sift through the many background choices at my disposal and purposely pass over the ones I would ordinarily pick: the flowers, the smiley faces, the fruit bowls and wine. This blog is something new for me, after all, and I don’t want the look of it to represent the old me. Settling for a sunset image across the top and no background image at all, I click the Save button, then go to my preferences. Once I have selected them, I am directed to my blog’s home page, where I am instructed to write a brief description of the blog’s theme or purpose. I purse my lips, stand up quickly, stretch my neck, and hear an alarming number of cracks. Then I sit back down and stare at the flashing cursor.
Okay. Here goes.
SomethingNewAt42
HOME PAGE
I have just popped my blog-writing cherry, everyone, so please be gentle with me. I had no intention of entering this competition in the first place—it was thrust upon me by a meddling and overeager relative who shall remain nameless until exposing her serves my purpose. The $10,000 prize is a fairly good motivator, although money alone cannot inspire a person to do something completely foreign, unnerving, and downright ridiculous. Actually, the catalyst for me dusting off my writing chops was a simple statement made to me earlier today that has been reverberating around in my brain:
If you stop trying new things, you might as well just stop.
Okay, so maybe it is a little clichéd, but the underlying truth of those words continues to haunt me hours later. Perhaps because of my current state of mind.
I am a forty-two-year-old wife and mother who has become trapped in a constant state of complacency. When I took on the roles of wife and mother so many years ago, it seems I stopped allowing myself to play any other part. I stopped playing me. I used to be spontaneous. I used to belt out “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road” at the top of my lungs in the middle of a crowded shopping mall for no apparent reason. I used to do cartwheels, albeit bad ones, on my front lawn, right in front of the postman. I used to jog to the beach and jump into the ocean in the middle of winter, the cold water stinging every inch of my body, just to
feel the wonder of being alive on the planet. I don’t do any of those things any more. And today, for the first time in a long time, I actually recognized that fact and asked myself why.
That’s not to say that I haven’t enjoyed motherhood and wifedom. I am fairly confident that I have done an okay job in both categories; that is to say, my children won’t need too much therapy and my husband hasn’t left me yet for a young blond bimbo. But I don’t necessarily want “wife” and “mother” to be the only two things that define me. If that sounds selfish, then so be it. After being a wife and mother for more than thirteen years, a little selfishness would definitely be something new.
What I guess I’m trying to say is that I’m writing this blog for me. I may suck at it. I’m not even exactly sure what I’m going to write. More than likely, my posts will be decidedly non-earth-shattering. I may not end up being defined by my blogging efforts, but at least it will be something new. And for a woman of my age and circumstances, something new sounds pretty fucking great.
Am I allowed to curse on this blog? There are no rules about swearing in the guidelines, and the
Ladies Living-Well Journal
isn’t exactly the
Christian Science Monitor
, but still. It does seem a little on the conservative side. Well, fuck it, I decide. This is my blog, and if I want to curse like a sailor, I’ll bloody well do it. Am I empowered now, or what?
My moment of self-satisfaction comes to a screeching halt when I realize that I still have no idea what to write for the actual blog itself. I take a deep breath. Exhale. Close my eyes. Breathe in again. Try to forget how much I despise failing. I open my eyes and place my fingers over the keys. I click the
New Post tab and watch as a blank text box appears on the screen. Shit.
I get up and pace around the kitchen, looking for things in my surroundings that will inspire me. Nothing. I drink a sixteen-ounce bottle of Evian in one long swallow and nearly heave it back up, then contemplate writing about the dangers of drinking too much water. That’s crap. I absently pluck one of the cheese balls off the sheet pan, finding it cool to the touch, and take a bite, just for tasting purposes. Definitely the best batch I have ever made; sharp, zesty flavor, perfect mouthfeel. Still chewing, I return to the computer and let my hands rest over the keyboard. Without thinking, I begin to type. My fingers start to move, slowly at first, then picking up speed. And within a minute, I am completely immersed in the creation of my first blog post.
Oh, I have missed this, this creation thing. Writing was always therapy for me, whether or not I was being paid to do it. And now, I feel my juices simmering. The sensation is fantastic. I almost don’t care if my blog is any good. Just to be writing again is…is…is…
I glance up at my title and hiccup with surprise. Oh well, I think. I don’t need the ten grand anyway. This is for me. Fuck the rest of them. I keep on going.
First Post: March 16, 2012
SomethingNewAt42
MEN ARE CHEESEBALLS
Heard that before? Of course you have. But if you think I’m trying to be funny, I’m not. I mean it in the literal sense. I actually believe the comparison has merit. And I should
know. I just spent the last hour making cheese balls. Real ones with English Cheddar and Romano, and boy, are they good.
This
time.
Let me expound for a moment. About the cheese balls: You have a bunch of random ingredients. Some cheese balls are made with English Cheddar, some with Gouda. Roquefort or Camembert or any old kind of bleu you prefer. Some have a combination of two or three cheeses. But the cheese is the main thing, right? Men have a single main ingredient, too. Their
maleness
. It comes with the territory. (Okay, transvestites don’t count.) Their maleness is the force that guides them and informs their entire makeup. It is their base, so to speak.
So, with cheese balls, along with the main ingredient, you have a plethora of spices to choose from. Salt and pepper sort of go without saying. I like to use paprika. Garlic, onion powder, maybe cumin or curry. Men have different spices, too. All kinds of spices. Like what they wear and the sports they watch and how much they drink or curse or pray, how careful they are with their grooming practices. Their good habits and bad. And, like the ingredients for cheese balls, all of the spices get mashed up with the main ingredient. There you have the dough. You roll the dough up into balls and put ’em in the oven, but you never really know what you’re going to get until you pull your sheet pans out.
Sometimes they’re crisp and golden, like the ones on my counter right now, and sometimes they are absolute duds. We’re talking hockey-puck time. Men, too. Sometimes a man can have all the right ingredients, but when you cook him up, he just turns into ooze on the pan. Man ooze. And not the good kind, if you get my drift. And other times, you pop him in the oven and he comes out all hard and crusty. And just like cheese balls, sometimes you try the
exact same recipe that came out perfectly the first time and it comes out completely inedible the second. Men are like that.
I really don’t have any advice for you about how to choose a cheese ball recipe, or how to tell whether a particular man’s ingredients will turn him into a golden-brown puff of heaven. I just thought I would point out the striking similarity between two such seemingly dissimilar things. But, hey. This comparison is not necessarily an insult. Some cheese balls come out perfectly, just right, delectable in every way. And so do some men. Though, for the most part, my money’s on the cheese balls.
I reread what I have written and wonder if there is any way I can unenter this goddamned competition. I mean, cheese balls? Come on! Then I read the post a second time and think,
Ah, what the hell
. And before I can stop myself, my index finger clicks the Publish button, and my post is sent into the digital universe.
Seven
•
J
ill’s
house is even more immaculate than usual, all manner of dust, dirt, and grime having been eradicated by Isabella, her German/Irish/El Salvadorian cleaning woman. Isabella comes every Friday and spends an extra two hours on book club Fridays to make certain that every surface, including the tile and hardwood floors, is clean enough to eat off. I find this very comforting, especially since every now and then one of my cheese balls happens to roll off my plate and onto said floor, and I have no problem picking it up and popping it into my mouth without even so much as a cursory wipe.
My kids were more than excited about the prospect of hanging with their cousins and “Uncle Greg” tonight, since they know that he has a habit of letting his attention wander and they will pretty much be able to get away with anything. I gave Connor a stern talking to about keeping an eye on his
younger siblings, and he managed to make it the whole way through my lecture without yawning once. I reminded them that their dad would be meeting them at Boomers to do his parental bit, and warned them to absolutely stay away from the gory, blood-spattering zombie-killing games that I insisted would give them all nightmares if they dared play them. Each of my three angels nodded solemnly. I can’t be certain, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they were all crossing their fingers behind their backs.
Now I am working on my first glass of wine while I try to artfully arrange the food trays on the kitchen counter. I fan out the lovely gold-trimmed beverage naps—these do
not
have lilies on them—and set them between the ice bucket, in which a Chardonnay chills, and the bottle of organic red that is now open and “breathing.”
Jill comes into the kitchen with a flourish, wearing a breezy peach-and-yellow blouse that beautifully complements her complexion, and a pair of white cotton slacks. She has applied just the right amount of makeup and her hair falls casually about her shoulders. Jill always looks smashing for book club, which fascinates me. We are, after all, meeting with our female friends. So unless she’s hiding from me a girl-crush she has on one of the members, I just don’t get the point. Oh, I know it’s tied into her Southern roots and her need to be the perfect hostess. But still. Part of the reason I enjoy book club so much is that I don’t have to look a certain way or try to impress anyone. Admittedly, I did take a few extra minutes this evening to assess my appearance. After all, you-know-who lives next door and should I run into him whilst taking out the trash, I want to be confident that I don’t look like a homeless person rummaging through the bins.
“You look great,” I tell Jill, and she beams.
“So do you. Wow.” She reaches for her own wineglass and looks at me appraisingly. “You never wear makeup to book club. What’s the occasion?”
“It’s part of my reinvention thing.”
She nods. “You’ve been doing the treadmill, too. It shows.” I smile to myself but say nothing.
She is just pulling a batch of spanakopita out of the oven when the doorbell rings. It’s only twenty to seven, and it is rare for anyone to show up this early, but perhaps one of our cohorts has had an exceptionally long week and is jonesing for a libation.