on the treadmill, hoping against hope that the endorphins my body will release will drag me out of this self-pitying, self-flagellating place. I am sweating profusely to the sounds of Aretha Franklin’s Greatest Hits. Slowly, I do start to feel better. I am burning calories. I am doing something good for me. I am a powerful entity in the universe. Okay, so doing the treadmill doesn’t exactly elevate me to universal power status. Still. Two out of three ain’t bad.
After close to an hour of this punishment, I walk on spaghetti legs to the phone and dial my cousin’s number. I know I can’t put it off any longer. Jill is hosting tonight’s literary soiree and is counting on me to be her wingman. Or woman. As picture perfect as her house is, as anal-retentive as she is when it comes to plating appetizers or proffering stemware, she is completely insecure about having company. She rarely entertains because it is the one time when she second-guesses every single choice she makes, from the wine selection to thecocktail napkins to the damn hand towels adorning the vanity in the bathroom. One party will send her to her shrink twice a week for a month.
“I put out the
lily
hand towels last night, Doctor! Don’t you see? Mona Emmerson’s mother died seven months ago and her favorite flowers were lilies. Can you imagine how those hand towels must have made Mona feel? She’ll never forgive me! And for God’s sake, I served cocktail wieners! How could I? Liza Pierce’s husband just lost his penis in a freak combine accident! Liza took one look at the wieners and burst into tears!”
I myself don’t stress about throwing a party. My feeling is this: If there’s a lot of alcohol and the food is delicious, no one will care that they have to dry their hands on a torn, mud-stained beach towel haphazardly slung over the shower stall in the bathroom. Give people enough booze and they wipe their hands on their own clothing, anyway.
“Are you bringing the cheese balls now or later?” My cousin doesn’t bother with a hello. She knows it’s me from her Caller ID and is getting right to the point.
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” I tell her. “Which do you want first?”
She hesitates briefly. “It’s not about the cheese balls, is it?”
“No,” I assure her. “You’ll have your cheese balls. You just won’t have me.”
“
What?
” she shrieks into the phone.
“I can’t make book club tonight. Don’t worry. I’ll drop off the cheese balls later.”
“No!” she cries. “You can’t be serious! You are not missing book club, Ellen. You will be here tonight or I will disown you as my cousin,
forever
!”
“I can’t! Jonah conveniently forgot about a
very important
dinner with a
very important
client. It’s too late to get a sitter.”
I don’t even suggest that I bring the kids to book club. One of the first rules the seven of us made when we started the club was that children were not allowed. No exceptions. Not even when Sandy Herman’s husband got into a car accident that crushed his right leg thirty minutes before book club was to start. Sandy called up to explain what had happened and to ask if she could bring her son, Peter, because, of course, Ralph was in emergency surgery. (The fact that she even considered coming to book club instead of going to the hospital to be with her husband was discussed with great fervor during the first ten minutes of the meeting. Shock, surprise, and disdain were quickly replaced by complete understanding and acceptance when all of us realized that book club was as integral to our lives as caffeine. We agreed that we could go days without our husbands, but not a day without coffee.) But Sandy’s request to bring Peter was categorically and unanimously denied. Sandy showed up forty-five minutes late, sans Peter, explaining that she’d left him with her mother-in-law at the hospital. When we asked her how Ralph was doing, she shrugged and gulped
After close to an hour of this punishment, I walk on spaghetti legs to the phone and dial my cousin’s number. I know I can’t put it off any longer. Jill is hosting tonight’s literary soiree and is counting on me to be her wingman. Or woman. As picture perfect as her house is, as anal-retentive as she is when it comes to plating appetizers or proffering stemware, she is completely insecure about having company. She rarely entertains because it is the one time when she second-guesses every single choice she makes, from the wine selection to thecocktail napkins to the damn hand towels adorning the vanity in the bathroom. One party will send her to her shrink twice a week for a month.
“I put out the
lily
hand towels last night, Doctor! Don’t you see? Mona Emmerson’s mother died seven months ago and her favorite flowers were lilies. Can you imagine how those hand towels must have made Mona feel? She’ll never forgive me! And for God’s sake, I served cocktail wieners! How could I? Liza Pierce’s husband just lost his penis in a freak combine accident! Liza took one look at the wieners and burst into tears!”
I myself don’t stress about throwing a party. My feeling is this: If there’s a lot of alcohol and the food is delicious, no one will care that they have to dry their hands on a torn, mud-stained beach towel haphazardly slung over the shower stall in the bathroom. Give people enough booze and they wipe their hands on their own clothing, anyway.
“Are you bringing the cheese balls now or later?” My cousin doesn’t bother with a hello. She knows it’s me from her Caller ID and is getting right to the point.
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” I tell her. “Which do you want first?”
She hesitates briefly. “It’s not about the cheese balls, is it?”
“No,” I assure her. “You’ll have your cheese balls. You just won’t have me.”
“
What?
” she shrieks into the phone.
“I can’t make book club tonight. Don’t worry. I’ll drop off the cheese balls later.”
“No!” she cries. “You can’t be serious! You are not missing book club, Ellen. You will be here tonight or I will disown you as my cousin,
forever
!”
“I can’t! Jonah conveniently forgot about a
very important
dinner with a
very important
client. It’s too late to get a sitter.”
I don’t even suggest that I bring the kids to book club. One of the first rules the seven of us made when we started the club was that children were not allowed. No exceptions. Not even when Sandy Herman’s husband got into a car accident that crushed his right leg thirty minutes before book club was to start. Sandy called up to explain what had happened and to ask if she could bring her son, Peter, because, of course, Ralph was in emergency surgery. (The fact that she even considered coming to book club instead of going to the hospital to be with her husband was discussed with great fervor during the first ten minutes of the meeting. Shock, surprise, and disdain were quickly replaced by complete understanding and acceptance when all of us realized that book club was as integral to our lives as caffeine. We agreed that we could go days without our husbands, but not a day without coffee.) But Sandy’s request to bring Peter was categorically and unanimously denied. Sandy showed up forty-five minutes late, sans Peter, explaining that she’d left him with her mother-in-law at the hospital. When we asked her how Ralph was doing, she shrugged and gulped
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