How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  “Oh, hell no! I remember this assignment,” she says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you saved it.”

  “Me too!” Teresa says. “That was a fun one. I have mine, in my memory box.”

  “Of course you do,” says Lynne. “I threw all that shit away. Just boxes of crap.”

  Teresa shrugs. “I thought it would be nice for my kids someday.”

  “Yeah, not anything I will ever have to worry about,” Lynne says, reading the list, and then turning it over to read their notes. “We were sure something.”

  “Teresa, I don’t remember your list, what was on it?” I ask her, sipping the sweet wine.

  “Nothing surprising.” She chuckles. “I wanted to have a great husband, four kids—two boys, two girls—a nice house. I wanted to take over family holidays from my mom, do some volunteer work for the church, maybe work part-time when the kids were in school. And the two of you said that you couldn’t think of one thing to add for me, by the way!”

  “You failed so miserably!” Lynne says sarcastically. “Three boys and no girls?”

  Teresa’s face gets a bit sad. “We lost a little girl second trimester about a year and a half after Antony was born, and then two more first-trimester miscarriages. Decided our blessings were plenty, and stopped trying.” Her eyes shine a bit brighter.

  “Oh, honey, so, so sorry for that. It must have been so hard on you guys,” Lynne says, squeezing her hand.

  Teresa shrugs. “I have three healthy boys who are turning into lovely young men. They are plenty. Someday I’ll have daughters-in-law and maybe granddaughters. What about you, Lynne, do you remember anything on your list?”

  “I think I said I would go into advertising, make my first million before I was thirty, and marry Wesley Snipes. And, Teresa, you said Wesley and I would have three goddamn kids, and, Eloise, you said I would open my own firm.”

  “Mmm. Wesley Snipes,” Teresa says. “Blade. I mean, damn. These children and their Robert Pattinson nonsense, they do not know from sexy vampire.”

  We laugh. “Well, Wesley aside, things seem to be going well for you,” I say.

  Lynne shrugs. “I beat my million deadline by a year, and perhaps if I had married Wesley instead of Mr. So-Very-Wrong I wouldn’t be single now. But I can’t complain.”

  “So funny. The way we thought things would be by the time we were forty, and now, we just have eight months,” Teresa says. “Things are so different.”

  “We should make new lists!” I say, joking, refilling everyone’s glasses. “What we should do before we turn forty.”

  “Yeah,” Lynne says, laughing. “And add in our stuff for each other like we did last time.”

  Teresa smiles. “And then we should make a bet that we have to do it all before we actually turn forty or . . . or . . .”

  “Or we have to run naked down Michigan Avenue,” I say.

  “Or we have to donate a lot of money to something!” Lynne says.

  Teresa suddenly gets a look on her face. “We should do that.”

  “What?” Lynne asks.

  “That. We should remake our lists together, and have to do them before our birthdays or we should have to donate, like, five grand. In Mrs. O’Connor’s name.”

  “You’re serious?” I say, suddenly thinking this isn’t funny anymore.

  “Why not?” Teresa says. “Look, my life is good, but there is stuff that could be better, and things that I want to do but don’t ever bother to start. I presume you both have some things you could see improving upon. Why not try together? Why not use each other to get motivated? Maybe God gave us back to each other because we are stronger together, because we have things to do and become that we need each other for. What’s the worst thing that could happen? We’ll hang out a lot; do some things that scare us a little with some good friends at our backs? One or more of us will be a little poorer to the benefit of something good?” Her face suddenly goes from serious to sly. “You ladies chicken? Know you can’t beat me?”

  Lynne makes a clucking noise. “I do believe this crazy bitch has just thrown down a gauntlet. It’s like she doesn’t know us at all.” Her mouth twists into an evil grin.

  “You people are drunk,” I say, a pit opening up in my stomach.

  “Prolly,” Teresa says. “But that sounds like you are a wuss.”

  “Well, you know, all that competitive fire went out of her back in the day,” Lynne says wickedly.

  “Fuck you both. You’re on.” Good Lord, why did I say that? Because it’s what I would have said twenty years ago. When you are with the people who knew you twenty years ago, a part of you reverts to being that girl. And right now, I wish that girl would shut the hell up.

  “Okay, bet. How many things have to be on the list?” Lynne asks.

  “We each have to do three things for ourselves, and one from each of the others,” Teresa says. “That is only five things to accomplish in eight months, which should be doable.”

  “Okay. If we all get it done before the birthdays, no one has to be out of pocket. Anyone who doesn’t make it in time has to write that check. But we each have to make a list of six things for ourselves, and two things for each other. We each get to pick which of the things from the other girls we have to do, but the other two get to pick from our list the other three things, so that we can’t set ourselves up for easy stuff, and we can’t sabotage each other.” Leave it to Lynne to establish rules and prevent cheating.

  “The other two get to vote whether something can get crossed off the list, so there has to be some sort of proof,” I say, head spinning.

  “This woman is having Sixteen Candles flashbacks,” Lynne says. “Gonna make us show her someone’s underwear in the bathroom for a dollar.”

  “No, that’s a good idea,” Teresa says. “And we have to have a joint birthday party of some kind—that is the deadline for the lists. Checks get written that night.”

  “Go get some paper, El, this thing is on,” Lynne says, and in a daze I walk over to the sideboard and get some paper and pens. “You can’t think too much, and you can’t couch this shit in surface crap. We’ll know. Deep-down, serious life goals and dreams and things that need doing, or it won’t be worth it.” She holds out her pinky. Teresa links her forefinger around it and sticks her pinky out. I link it with my forefinger, and Lynne connects us with her forefinger around my pinky.

  “Three-way pinky swear,” Lynne says. And we each make eye contact with the two others and shake. And then we start to write.

  • • •

  I wake up shockingly early in light of the fact that the girls didn’t leave till nearly one. I’m also surprisingly not really hungover—just a little dry mouth and the slight twinge of a headache. I get dressed, and Simca and I head out for her morning walk. We get home, and I grab a yogurt and fill her bowl with kibble. And then I look at the sheet of paper on the kitchen counter.

  To Do Before Forty—Eloise

  1. Find a new hobby that has nothing to do with food or cooking.

  2. Create real book proposal for cookbook, and send to at least ten literary agents.

  3. Find a new athletic endeavor that doesn’t hurt my knee, but keeps me more active.

  From Lynne for Eloise: Do something social out of the house at least once every other week, and at least once a month it must be something with strangers . . . a tour, a class, places to potentially broaden your circle of friends.

  I picked that one since her other suggestion was to join some sort of women’s networking group, which sounded awful.

  From Teresa for Eloise: Start actively dating . . . at least fifteen real dates total.

  Since her other suggestion was to look into maybe freezing my eggs, it was like choosing between root canal surgery and food poisoning, but Marcy keeps telling me how easy it is to get dates these days with all the online options, s
o I figure I can suck it up and just get through them.

  • • •

  God help me. I push the sheet aside. I can’t even begin to think about what I’ve gotten myself into.

  “Simca? Your human is a complete moron.”

  And my pup looks up at me as if to say, “Well, duh.”

  Five

  My girl, it’s too, too wonderful!” Lawrence says, sipping from a mug of Japanese honey ginger tea. “I adore everything about it.” He runs an elegant hand through his thick, wavy salt-and-pepper hair, ice blue eyes twinkling behind glasses with thick black rims.

  “Of course you do. Because you know you’ll hear all the downsides of my dating foibles, you evil thing.”

  His corgis, Philippe and Liagre, come trotting into the dining room, and as usual, Philippe curls up at Lawrence’s feet and Liagre comes to sit with me. I reach a hand down and scratch between his soft ears. Lawrence’s corgis are of the pale, apricot-colored, stumpy-tailed type so often seen with Queen Elizabeth, while my Simca is a tricolor who never had her tail docked. More of a peasant corgi, if you will. But they are all adorable.

  “Well, one must have some small bits of joy in one’s dotage, darling.” He winks. “I can’t say I’ll be disappointed to hear how that part of your challenge is moving along. I’m happy to help, you know, plenty of fix-up opportunities.” He grunts as Philippe insists on being pulled up into his lap. They might look small, but they weigh a ton.

  “Yeah, I’m going to have to take you up on that, scarily enough. Because I cannot begin to think about what online dating would even look like.” The idea of dating at all makes my stomach turn over. But at least if Lawrence is fixing me up, there is a bit of safety net. Liagre sighs and rests his head on my foot.

  “Done. I will reach into my little black book and you should expect your phone to begin ringing tout de suite! What about the other girls, how do their lists look?”

  “Well, Teresa wants to bring a little bit of the fun back to her marriage now that her boys are old enough to fend for themselves most of the time, so one of hers is about doing one thing a month to spice up her marriage. She also wanted to find some stuff outside the home to work on, so she has to volunteer once a month for something, and she has to find a part-time job before the time is up.”

  “All seems smart and positive.” He takes a sip of the hot, spicy, sweet tea.

  “My goal for her was to broaden her palate, since ninety percent of what she eats and feeds her family is Italian, and the rest is burgers and American fare. Apparently her eldest went to a friend’s house for a sleepover and they went out for Thai food and he ordered a burger. So I’m going to take her on some foodie adventures around town and teach her to cook some fun stuff.”

  “An open mind and an adventurous spirit are gifts you can give your children. I like that one. What was Lynne’s for her?”

  “To get more involved in the financial end of her life. She is one of those wives who has no idea how much money her husband makes, where their investments are, or how they are doing on saving for retirement and the kids’ college, so she has to take a course on basic household finances and financial planning and learn how to fully participate in managing those parts of their life.”

  “Very practical. A good list. And for Lynne, queen of all the massive successes?”

  “Well, for herself, she of course wants her business to grow, so she set a goal to land at least one seven-figure client. She also has been thinking that she should put down roots, since she hasn’t ever owned her own home. In California she rented; then when she was married, she moved into his house; and now she is renting again. So she has to buy a place. And she wants to give back more, so she has to join the board of a charity.”

  “Wow. I like it—make no small plans.”

  “That’s Lynne. But I think she has some of the hardest stuff. Teresa has her signing up for one of those top-end executive matchmaking firms, and I have her getting a dog!”

  “You didn’t.” Lawrence claps his hands in delight.

  “I did. I said she needs someone to be accountable to, and some source of unconditional love in her life while she is waiting for the matchmaker to find her a man.”

  Lawrence whistles under his breath. “These lists of yours certainly are ambitious. You couldn’t have thought of anything simple? A bit of dandelion fluff on the wind?” He does know how to turn a phrase.

  “Well, each of us at our own level. Lynne will probably have her whole list knocked out in the next month, knowing her. More tea?”

  “Please.” He hands me his mug and I take it into the kitchen. I love this kitchen. It is small but perfectly appointed, with a stunning Aga range and hood in a lovely pale lavender, with charcoal gray cabinets that have polished-nickel hardware and white marble counters. I refill both of our mugs with the spicy, sweet elixir and rejoin him at the dining table.

  “Okay, down to business,” I say, handing him the mug and pulling open my notebook. “What are you thinking for Halloween this year?” We just have a couple of weeks till the holiday, and Lawrence is famous for his Halloween parties. I get to plan and execute all the catering prep, but then hand it off to hired help the night of so that I can be a guest at the party. He always hires Marcy’s friend Alex to do the night-of cooking, and he and I work really well together, so I never have to stop enjoying myself to help in the kitchen.

  “I think last year we went for spooky elegant. We should go the opposite direction, and instead go for fun versions of street food! What do you think?”

  “I think I love you. Especially since I won’t have to make eight thousand black blinis with orange salmon roe.”

  “They were delicious . . .”

  “Of course they were. They were also a pain in my substantial ass. How many are we this year?”

  “Probably thirty to forty over the course of the night.”

  “Okay, and is there a costume theme?”

  “Classic Chicago. Whatever that means to someone, from Al Capone to Michael Jordan to Marshall Field and the Everleigh sisters, to dressing up like one of the lion statues from the Art Institute.”

  “Terrific. So we should celebrate Chicago street food. Mini Chicago dogs, mini gyros, mini Italian beef sandwiches, little deep-dish pizzas . . .”

  “Exactly my thinking, smart girl. But be sure to acknowledge the diversity of our fair city—we have Chinatown and Pilsen and Little Italy and the South Side . . . with street food we can do little tastes from all of our wonderful cultures.”

  “True enough. Let me play with some ideas and send you a menu to look at in the next day or so.”

  “And dear Marcy will come, yes?”

  “Of course. She and I will have to figure out our costumes.”

  “Well, for once, maybe be a pretty girl? Your costumes are always hilarious, but now that you are on the dating market, it wouldn’t kill you to wear a dress. Just for practice.”

  “I’ll think about it. Anything else you want me to do for the party? Special requests?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Will it be the usual suspects?” Lawrence has a wide rotation of friends that he cycles through for his monthly dinner parties, but Halloween is special. I often think he uses it as punishment if someone has offended him in some way; it is a clear dig to not get an invitation. And he is always gathering new people, so sometimes there is fresh blood to liven things up.

  “Mostly. You’ll probably recognize at least three-quarters of the guests from the dinners or last Halloween. I’m not inviting any of the ones with the boring spouses this year . . .” Last year there was a strange black hole of boredom right at the center of the party where a group was gathered making awkward small talk and listening to one wife monologue about her terrible job, while someone else’s bland husband talked about lawn maintenance. I myself was cornered for the bett
er part of an hour listening to some blowhard who fancies himself a natural-born chef tell me about all the amazing twenty-course dinner parties he is always having, where everyone tells him he is better than any fine-dining tasting menu in town. Lawrence told me later he got sucked into one of the ghastly events last year, and that the guy’s food is as inane as his conversation. Guess the fun ones will have to stay home with their dull spouses this year.

  “Can’t say I’ll be disappointed with that.”

  “None of us will, darling, none of us will. Good Lord, dog, you are giving my lap pins and needles.” He puts Philippe back onto the floor with a thud. “What do you have for the rest of your day?”

  “I’m taking dinner to Mrs. O’Connor’s husband tonight—just going to check in on him.”

  “You are a kind girl. I know he will be glad for the food and the company.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Well, I think we have all we need here . . . thank you as always for the provisions, my darling. I will look forward to the menu for the party, and will see you next week, same time?”

  “Same Bat-time, same Bat-station,” I say with a grin. Lawrence once confessed to a fantasy about Adam West in his blue Batman outfit.

  “Scoot, you evil girl, or I will give your number to every single man I know under five foot five.”

  I throw my hands up in surrender and gather my notes. I give him a kiss on his cheek and head out of the gorgeous apartment into a perfectly sunny and brisk fall day, thinking about what I should make for Glenn for dinner.

  • • •

  That, dear girl, was the best meal I’ve had in months. Bless you,” Glenn says, rubbing his little belly with a satisfied grin.

  “Glad you liked it!” I say. “Sure you don’t want another helping?”

  I made a classic French blanquette de veau, an old-school veal stew with a white wine sauce, served over wide pappardelle noodles that I tossed with butter, lemon zest, and chives, and some steamed green beans. I also made a loaf of crusty bread using the no-knead recipe that everyone is doing these days and is so simple and so delicious.