Feel free at this moment to picture me, belly sweat–stained and mascara streaked, not just doing the Macarena in the middle of the painfully fluorescent lit hall of my son’s elementary school and in front of the venerable visage of its sweet, dearly departed former principal, but humming the musical accompaniment as well. Not the most traditional recruitment technique, but it got her attention.
“You’re a nut. You know that? Okay, say I join, but”—she hesitated—“well, I can’t promise I’ll make all the meetings.”
My radar raced. Words formed and died on my lips. I didn’t want to risk offending her, but I couldn’t ignore the feeling that she was trying to tell me what I sensed the moment I met her.
It drives me crazy when I do this. I meet a person for the first time and suddenly, inexplicably, know something about them that they didn’t share. Like the fact that they play the piano. Or that they’re a Pisces. Or that they’re the middle child. You know, some detail I’ve no business knowing.
And it doesn’t matter where I am or who I’m talking to. Or not talking to.
One night, Hemingway and I were out to dinner and the waiter, whom we met five minutes earlier for thirty whole seconds, came to deliver our drinks. He put them down, my handsome farmer said thank-you, and I said, “Fray fan?”
“Excuse me?” The waiter looked at me, startled.
“You like the Fray, right?” I was kind of startled myself. I mean, where the hell did that come from?
He clutched his pen and order pad to his chest, inadvertently dotting the pleats of his white tuxedo shirt with little pinpricks of black ink, and backed away like I might bite him. “How’d you know that?”
I shook my head and glanced at my wine. I had no idea how I knew it.111
“Suz, what’ve I told you about scaring the staff?” Hemingway sipped his Stoli and tonic and did his best to calm our wigged-out waiter. “Please excuse my wife. She has gumball-machine mouth. Whatever she thinks comes right out”
“Huh,” he said, eyeing me suspiciously. “I’ll be back in a sec to tell you the specials.”
Needless to say, we never saw him again.
This bizarre talent of mine is no less true of my depression radar, or what I typically call my “been there” buzzer. It’s a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I instantly empathize with and am ready to befriend whomever I’m talking to, and a curse because it’s a heck of a lot more acceptable to blurt out, “You’re an Aries, aren’t you?” than it is to lead with, “My gut says you’re a Lexapro girl.”
Shooting from the hip has its place. But here, in the hallway, with Pam, was not it.
“Don’t worry about getting to all the meetings,” I insisted. “I don’t make all the meetings, and I’m the president.”
She raised her brows and burst out laughing. My stomach flipped; I’d read her wrong. Oh, my God. How mortifying. “I’m so sorry, Pam. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“To what, sound like the guy in the old Hair Club for Men commercials? Remember them? ‘I’m not just the president. I’m also a client!’”
A kindred spirit. And sarcastic to boot. I had to get this mom in the Mafia.
“A wiseass. Good. You’ll fit right in.” I paused. “So what do you say?”
Her hand was on the door. “It might be fun to be part of the . . . What do you guys call yourselves?”
“The Marshall Mafia. It’s what you get when you make a Jersey girl president. Just call me Suzy Soprano.”
“Well, Suzy Soprano, I’ll probably miss the winter stuff.”
“But not because you’re a ski buff, right?”
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m no ski buff either,” I offered. “In fact, from, like, December to March I’m more of a covers-up-to-my-nose, hide-in-bed buff.”
“You?”
I nodded.
“No way. You’re, like, Mrs. Happy.”
“Mrs. Happy. Mrs. Sad. Mrs. Up. Mrs. Down. I’ve been a missus my whole life. And that’s a long time to be married.”
She laughed, and nodded her head in the direction of the class. “And now you’re married to the mob.”112
“They’re a great group.” I looked over to see Dee watching us and waving and smiling as if it were ice-cream-sundae night at the asylum. Wendy joined her and suddenly I felt the need to introduce them. From a distance, of course. “That’s Wendy and Dee doing the Howdy Doody routine,” I said, pointing. “Tracy’s in the back, and Court’s over there, the redhead in the corner. Terri and Stef aren’t here tonight, sloths that they are. If I can’t make a meeting, one of them runs it and it’s fine.”
I had to get her to join. Not just because I needed another body, but because I knew how good it was for my body—and my head—to have to get up, dress up, and show up, especially on those days I’d much rather buy a one-way ticket right down the proverbial rabbit hole. “Really. No one’ll mind. Hell, we hold most of the meetings at my house, and we drink so much chardonnay we don’t know who’s there and who’s not.”
“You’re joking.”
“You got me. We drink merlot.”
“You’re funny.”
“And you’re in, right?”
She was about to reply when suddenly the music stopped, the chatter started, and the Jazzercise class came to a close. Damn, now I’d have to wait until next week to kick Bebe out of her spot on Broadway.
“So what time does Miss Kim in there commence the torture?”
“Seven o’clock. Sharp.”
“And if I’m late . . . ?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You like lunges? Just joshin’. Kim’s more of a jumping-jack kind of girl.”
She pushed open the door. The crisp fall breeze consumed the humid hallway, and I shivered. “Next Tuesday, then,” she called over her shoulder. “Seven o’clock.”
“Sharp!” I shouted. And she was gone.
I peeked in at my pals and gave them the thumbs-up sign. The Marshall Mafia had a new member.
Suzy Soprano strikes again.
Make Mine a Hemingway
A Hemingway Daiquiri, that is. The sophisticated ladies of the Solomon Schechter Day School book club in New Milford, New Jersey, had this yummy cocktail created in honor of my honey. I thought it was particularly prescient of them to realize that not only does my man need a drink; he deserves one in his name, if for no other reason than that he puts up with a woman who actually refers to herself as Suzy Soprano.
It’s a tad more complicated than a Tennessee Snow Cone, but it won’t leave you with Jack Daniel’s breath. You know, the kind that makes your spouse blanch, dogs cower, and kids flee the house should you utter a single syllable before you brush.
Ingredients:
—1½ oz. Appleton White Rum
—½ oz. Luxardo Maraschino
—juice of 1 lime
—juice of ¼ pink grapefruit
—teaspoon simple syrup
Mix everything in a cocktail shaker with ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Then sip and say, “To Hemingway. God help you!”
Chapter Twenty
STAR OF STAGE, SCREEN, AND LIVESTOCK EXCHANGE
As I’ve mentioned several times before, either because I’m getting old and can’t recall I’ve already said it, or because I still, after all these many years, can’t believe it, I am a star of neither stage nor screen.113
I am, however, pretty popular at our local livestock exchange. For the uninitiated, a livestock exchange is where folks go to buy and sell—hold on to your hat now—livestock. I know; I’ve become a real font of farming information.
To be clear, I’m talking about the Livestock Grill, inside the Fauquier Livestock Exchange. Maybe you’ve been there? My friend Kevin’s usually in the kitchen, and there’s typically eight to ten good-size gentlemen camped out around the lunch counter talking business, kidding one another, and clearly enjoying the succulent rib eyes, sizzling burgers, and mouthwat
ering honey-dipped chicken that make a diet addict like me seriously consider saying, “Sayonara, salad.”
But I won’t. Kevin makes a mighty good salad. And if I could just get him to deep-fry it, it would be really delicious.
Anyway, around lunchtime a few weeks ago, I raced in and commandeered four seats: one for each of my three men, and one for me.
I was alternately checking my watch and covertly coveting a massive serving of french fries and the aforementioned honey-dipped creation being devoured way too close for my caloric comfort by one of three large cattlemen to my left, when out of the blue, their behemoth buddy in the middle addressed me.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but are you that woman from the paper?”
You know the work talk, chatter, and general merriment I mentioned earlier? It halted faster than that old E. F. Hutton commercial: “When E. F. Hutton talks, people listen.” And I was E. F. Hutton. Only I wasn’t being asked for financial advice. I simply had to ’fess up, or not, to being “that woman” from the newspaper. And I had to do it with half the lunch crowd and a sweet young waitress watching me.
My brain raced through my recent columns. Oh, dear, what had I said? Had I complained yet again about the cows fornicating in my front yard? Implored the fashion police to crack down on anyone wearing riding pants in public? Moaned about the lack of nightlife in Marshall? Made snide comments about bolo ties and tiny plastic cowboy hats, like the kind on the heads of my hulking inquisitors, and how men the size of Michael Strahan shouldn’t wear either? I couldn’t recall, and all I could think was, Why, oh, why did I have to be a writer? Why couldn’t I have a nice, safe job, like bounty hunter or inner-city schoolteacher?
“Well, that depends,” I replied, smiling, and trying to soften my Fran Drescher–meets–Valerie Harper honk so as not to add “damn Yankee” to their list of reasons to dislike me, if indeed they were keeping such a list. “If you don’t like the woman from the paper, then nope, it’s not me. But if you do . . .”
“It’s her!” exclaimed the man on the end.
“I told you!” said the man in the middle.
“You got that Mustang outside?” asked the man next tome.
Oh, my. They read the piece about the day my Mustang died in the Marshall Shopping Center. Right in front of Anthony’s Pizza and the Movie Gallery. Boy, I miss Movie Gallery. The Redbox in Bloom is nice but the selection’s so slim. Netflix is fine, but my demanding duo needs instant gratification. (“Wait a week? But all our friends saw Borat yesterday!”) Sure, I could drive the twenty minutes to Blockbuster, but by the time I pay for gas and the rental fee, I could buy two one-way tickets to Kazakhstan for my kids.
Clearly the lack of a local video store (and the fact that living in the sticks means we can’t stream squat yet) is something I really could rant about. And maybe I will. But right this second it’s back to my moment of stardom at the Livestock Exchange.
“Nope, the Mustang’s home,” I replied. “But it’s all fixed, in case you were worried.” I smiled, and was just starting to thank him for reading my column when suddenly the conversation around the counter recommenced.
“Figured it was her from her picture.”
“Which paper? The Democrat?”
“Yeah, the weekend one.”
“I read that article. It was pretty funny.”
“She writes mostly girl stuff, right?”
“You callin’ me a girl?”
At that slightly testy second Hemingway arrived with Casey and Cuyler in tow, and someone on the other side of the counter spilled a soda. My kids took their seats, the waitress took our drink orders, and Kevin stopped cooking long enough to clean up the mess and tease the guy who made it. Was I saddened that my fifteen seconds of celebrity had come to a close? Absolutely not. I want as few people as possible watching when I ask for a salad. And a side of fries.
Chapter Twenty-one
MY BIRTHDAY MEANS JACK
“Any birthday is preferable to the alternative, dear daughter.”
This from my mother, paraphrasing Maurice Chevalier, 114 of all people, when I called her to bellyache about my upcoming “big day.” I’d hoped for a virtual hug or a shoulder to cry on. A little of the sweetly superfluous “now, now, don’t go threatening suicide over a number, Suzy” flattery she typically offers and that I’ve come to count on. Just a teeny-tiny, itsy-bitsy bit of sympathy, since I’m turning forty . . . plus. Big plus.
But no. She didn’t utter a single, “Darling, you don’t look a day over thirty!” or even a, “How can you call yourself old? You hold your liquor better than any college coed!” (Which I don’t, but I’d still like her to lie to me.) Instead, she took a hard line when I complained about my smile lines and demanded I consider my crow’s-feet from the French perspective.
The French, for those of you who’ve yet to be treated to this fountain-of-youth factoid, consider forty the old age of youth, and fifty the youth of old age. Puhleeze.
Desperate to forget my crinkly eyes, pouchy lower lids, and the parentheses punctuating my mouth, my disappearing upper lip, slowly but stealthily spreading snout, slowly but stealthily descending derriere, age spots, and the fact that both my forehead and neck can now double as sheets of loose-leaf paper, I raced into my morning Jazzercise class. I would not go gently into that good night. I would disco, disco against the dying of the light!
At least, that was the plan until the class manager115 greeted me with the words, “Susan, you expired yesterday.”
So that accounts for my sudden, overwhelming urge to lie prone in something pine.
Ninety-two bucks later my membership was renewed, delaying, by the miracle of modern checking, my expiration by muscle atrophy, not to mention Botox, Restylane, and Juvéderm overdose, for another two months, and I dashed from the Jazzercise center to the eye doctor. Some-thing was wrong. Very wrong. Things were fuzzy, out of focus. I actually had trouble writing out my check—not an affliction I’ve ever suffered from, no matter how many novenas Hemingway has begged my mother to make.
I was in mega panic mode when I plopped down in the big chair, eyeballed the big E, and cried, “Doc, I think it’s the big C.” To which my wonderful optometrist, who just happens to have a whole Owen Wilson in You, Me, and Dupree thing happening, replied, “Relax, Susan, it’s not cataracts. You’re just ready for readers.”
What’s next? A spot in assisted living?
Oh, no, way worse: a birthday greeting from the AARP.116 That’s right. The American Association of Retired Persons. Oh, my God, the fogies have found me. Let life on the lamb117 begin.
I returned from Dr. Dupree’s still crying over the bright blue Peepers stuffed in my pocketbook, only to discover I needed them to read my mail. There, placed squarely in the center of the kitchen table by the thoughtful old man I married, and complemented by a jumbo-size bottle of Benefiber, a fifty-four pack of Depend Adjustable Underwear, 118 and a box of gingko biloba tablets,119 was a postcard and an introductory issue of the one publication no one willingly subscribes to: AARP the Magazine. Who’s on the cover? Jack Nicholson. Like the prospect of turning fifty isn’t frightening enough.
Of course, the really scary thing is that I actually don’t hit the big five-oh for . . . a little while longer. And yet all of this stuff is happening now.
Wrinkles, readers, achy knees, and patches of gray hair (on my head, too). Forgetfulness, confusion, and a brand-new fear of falling, breaking a hip, and finding myself in the hospital. Without a sweater.
And that’s not the worst of it.
Late-night hot flashes that leave me so drenched that Hemingway swears it’s like sleeping with a soaker hose. Bizarre life insurance solicitations that scream, “Don’t Leave Your Loved Ones in the Lurch!” and slick, four-color brochures pitching gated golf course communities (with on-site nursing care, no less) make me wonder: Is the universe trying to tell me something?
And if it is, maybe I should simply go deaf. It works when Hem’s moaning about
the MasterCard bill, so it should do the trick on the bullies from the AARP.
They can’t have me. Not now, and not in the future. I don’t care if they send me moisturizer and sunblock samples, free pedometers, or packets of trail mix. I don’t care if they send me discount coupons for movie matinees and early bird dinners at Cracker Barrel, cases of BOOST, or a six-month supply of Centrum Silver. I don’t care if they send me boxes of Osteoflex and more Grecian Formula than the Gray Panthers can use in a year. Hell, I don’t care if they send me ruby-encrusted reading-glass chains, cashmere cardigans, or a complimentary Prada purse. (Please don’t send a Prada purse. Please don’t send a Prada purse. Please don’t send a Prada purse.)
No, I’ll never capitulate, not even to couture. Unless, of course, they come across with a pair of the only pumps I’d give a kidney (and maybe a kid) for. And then my birthday will really mean Jack. Not to mention Manolo.
How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Stitches
TO: Friends and family
FR: [email protected]
Date: Sunday, 11:01 a.m.
Subject: Operation: Romance
So, what are you doing for Valentine’s Day? Running to the store for a special card for that special someone and hoping like hell the pickings won’t be especially slim? I’ve been there. In fact, I just got back. That was me in my messy ponytail, mascara-smudged eyes, smelly sweats, and rykäs stinking up Wal-Mart’s card aisle at eight this morning. I passed on those with hearts and rainbows, teddy bears and butterflies, puppies and kittens, but picked up one with a sweet elderly couple holding hands in a field. They look like they’ve been married since before Minuit bought Manhattan, and the expression on the old lady’s face is a cross between love and longing . . . for a pickax. Something about her just spoke to me. Though I wonder what she’ll have to say to Hemingway.
And what about Valentine’s Day night? Are you going to a party? A favorite restaurant? A movie? Or maybe you’re headed to a hotel with a heart-shaped tub, scented candles, and a bottle of bubbly. Personally, I’m thinking of making a romantic batch of chicken cutlets. Or maybe a meat loaf. The McMen really like meat loaf. And to me, nothing says “I love you” like a meal consumed without kvetching.
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