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 •
Jill’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.
“Want me to get it?” I ask, knowing she will say no. A perfect hostess never lets another guest open the door. It would be trés gauche.
Jill shakes her head and slides the sheet pan my way, wordl
essly asking me to plate the apps, then heads for the front door. The phyllo triangles burn my fingertips as I transfer them to the serving tray. I can just hear Jill’s lilting voice wafting in from the foyer. A moment later, she appears in the kitchen followed by none other than Ben Campbell.
I jerk with surprise, sending the sheet pan and the half-dozen spanakopita I had yet to plate flailing through the air and onto the tile floor. The pan hits with a hearty clang and the spanakopita make no sound at all.
God, I am so glad I put on lipstick.
Ben grins. Really, what else can he do? “Hi,” is all he says.
I collapse to the floor to gather the fallen appetizers, using a napkin to sweep up the phyllo crumbs. “Hi,” I say, my focus firmly fixed on the tile.
“This is my new next-door neighbor, Ben Campbell,” Jill says nonchalantly, as though my toppling over hors d’oeuvres happens all the time. To Ben she says, “And this is my cousin Ellen. Don’t mind her. She’s kind of a klutz.”
Thanks a goddamn lot! I think.
“Good to see you again,” Ben says as I haul myself to my feet. I throw the spanakopita away, despite the spanking-clean floor, and set the pan next to the sink. With nowhere else to look, I finally meet his eyes.
“You, too.”
Jill cocks her head in my direction, and although I am not looking at her, I can feel her speculative gaze.
“We’ve actually met several times,” Ben says.
“Ben’s son, Liam? He’s on Matt’s soccer team,” I explain.
He furrows his brow and looks at his watch. “What’s it been, eight hours since our last rendezvous?”
“We ran into each other at Trader Joe’s.”
“Your cousin had the decency to show me around the store,” he adds.
Jill nods and says, “Ah. Well, Ben just came over to give me his wife’s regrets. I invited her to join tonight, but she can’t make it.”
“Duty calls,” Ben says, then shrugs. “She’s working on the wetlands suit.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but I see Jill’s eyes go wide. “Wow. That’s major!” she says, clearly impressed.
I guess I ought to brush up on local current events. Are the wetlands suing somebody, or is somebody suing the wetlands, and how would that work anyway? How does a piece of land instigate a lawsuit in the first place? Uh-oh. I need more wine.
“Well, I know you’ve got people coming,” Ben says. “I’ll get out of your way.”
“No, no!” Jill exclaims. “The girls won’t be here for another fifteen minutes, at least. Have a glass of wine.”
He shakes his head regretfully. “The boys are waiting for me. Pizza night, you know.” He turns toward the foyer, then glances back at me. “By the way. How’d the cheese balls come out?”
I smile modestly and let Jill do my bragging for me.
“They are the best she’s ever made, Ben, really! Here. Try one.” Using silver-plated tongs, she daintily and deftly lifts one of the golden orbs from the tray and places it on a napkin. (My Auntie Pam would be proud.) She then puts the napkin in his waiting hand. Without the reverence Jill so clearly thinks is due, he grabs it and tosses it into his mouth. I watch him as he chews, note his slight pause as the flavors hit his taste buds. He shakes his head, chewing more slowly now, as if savoring every second that my cheese ball graces his tongue.
Am I sweating? Very definitely.
“That is amazing,” he finally proclaims, then gives me one of those direct gazes. And yes, it has the same impact this time as it had before. “You’re good.”
Must be the oven, I tell myself, resisting the urge to fan myself.
“Thanks. Secret family recipe.”
“I better go before I steal the whole tray.”
“Take another,” Jill insists, tongs at the ready.
“No, really, thanks,” he tells her, then shifts his focus to me. “But if you have any left over, you know where to find me.”
“What the h-e-l-l was that?”
“What are you talking about?” I say, injecting as much innocence into my tone as I possibly can. Which isn’t much, I’m afraid. I’m feeling too pleased with myself and my cheese balls. It wouldn’t matter anyway because Jill is on to me.
“I’m talking about you and my hubba-hubba next-door neighbor. Since when are the two of you so chummy?”
“For God’s sake, Jill, I just met him last week, in front of your house.” Was it really only last week? I feel as if we’ve been “running into each other” for ages. “We talked a little at soccer practice, that’s all. And I ran into him this morning at Trader Joe’s.”
She nods knowingly. “And?”
“And nothing!”
“I know that look, Ellen,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me sharply. “You had that look on your face for two hours after we saw Australia.”
All right, I admit, it was a terrible movie, but the scene where Hugh Jackman dumps a bucket of water over his torso kind of hit me hard.
“I do not have that look,” I tell her. I couldn’t possibly, since I’ve never seen Ben Campbell dump a bucket of water over his own torso, but I’m starting to conjure up a pretty good image in my brain just about now.
Stop, I tell myself. This will come to no good. I’ll start comparing Ben’s hypothetical wet torso to Jonah’s nonhypothetical and very un-Australia wet torso, and then I won’t ever be able to look at Jonah’s naked body again, let alone allow it on top of me. Crap.
“He likes you,” Jill says, and I suddenly feel like I’m in a Judy Blume novel.
“He does not!” I say.
“Look.” Jill is suddenly serious, so I quickly take a large gulp of wine in preparation for what’s about to come out of her mouth, because I know I won’t like it. “I know you have this whole low self-esteem thing going—”
“I do not!”
“But you are a beautiful woman who only occasionally wears sweats with holes in them.”
“Stop.”
“And when you take the time to pluck your eyebrows—wow!”
“Shut up.”
“Plus, you’re very smart and witty—”
“Jill—”
“What I’m saying is—”
“Don’t—”
“It is not completely out of the realm of possibility for a totally hot man to be attracted to you. Seriously, why wouldn’t he be?”
Oh, let me count the reasons, I think.
“For one, he’s married. To a totally brilliant environmental lawyer. For two, I’m married…to Jonah.”
“Hey, Ellen, I’m not saying you should jump his bones or anything. But a little flirtation with someone whose name you do not share is never a bad thing. Trust me.”
I look at her, totally agog. I have known Jill my whole life, and I have always known that she is a coquette of the first order, but she has always vehemently denied it, telling me that I confuse “flirting” with her intrinsic Southern charm (even though she left the South when she was still in diapers). This is the first time she has ever admitted this to me.
“Sometimes,” she says, “a little extramarital flirtation is the only thing that gets me through the day.”
I am about to delve further into the topic when the doorbell rings. Seven o’clock on the dot. The book club ladies have arrived.
Jill’s living room is abuzz with the chatter of the seven of us as we partake of wine and appetizers and—yes, Jonah—gossip. The first hour of book club is always about mingling, catching up, and drinking wine. Right now, Mia Franklin is talking excitedly to Sandy Herman about this fabulous hair-straightening product she found at Nordstrom. I know for a fact that Mia’s African American locks have been subjected to a pantheon of chemicals in order to smooth out their kinks, and I am surprised that she still has any hair left on her head. Regan Stillwater and Liza Pierce are giggling about the new produce guy at the local Vons. Regan has apparently taken to surreptitiously knocking over assorted fruit and vegetables
just to watch him bend over and pick them up. Mona Emmerson is trailing Jill like a Sherpa, helping her transfer the platters from the kitchen to the coffee table, chirping about how much she loves the plain gold-trimmed napkins because they are so elegant.
I give Jill a wink and she covertly rolls her eyes at me while simultaneously thanking Mona for the compliment.
The seven women who make up this club, myself included, are very different, with varied life experiences and outlooks, but we all share the same love of books. And our differences are actually what make book club so entertaining. We have never all agreed on a book, not once. I think that’s what keeps us coming back. We often joke that if we ever do, that will be a sign that book club is officially over.
Mona is older and comes across as a bit conservative, and she doesn’t like any book that has expletives in it on principle, no matter the genre. She has three grown kids and four grandkids, volunteers for her church, makes quilts, and has been married to the same man for close to forty years.
Mia, on the other hand, is a brash former social worker and current high school principal who tells it like it is and doesn’t take shit from anyone. She and her husband Sidney have two kids, one boy and one girl, who are both out of the house already (because she started squeezing them out when she was twenty) and both of whom salute her like a drill sergeant whenever they come for a visit. (I should mention that the salute is always followed by a hug.)
Liza Pierce has lived in Garden Hills her whole life. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, she’s never left the country. She has the full-time job of refereeing her four kids, whom she drives around in her metallic green Freestyle with the family-of-six decals in the back window, and a part-time job working for her husband, who cleans air ducts.
Sandy is in her late forties, with a husband and a teenage son. She works as a department manager at the local Kohl’s and spends her days dealing with high-strung shoppers who bleat and screech and throw tantrums when their scratcher coupons reveal that they got the fifteen percent discount instead of thirty percent. (Though she says her employee discount makes it all worthwhile.)
Something New (9781101612262) Page 8