Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome, which in and of itself is not that uncommon in the greater metropolitan area of Philadelphia. But usually in the wake of a beautiful man at the supermarket, there is a beautiful woman, dashing all your hopes that he is secretly searching for you instead of a good zucchini. But this man was tall, dark, handsome and suspiciously alone. I watched the minute hand tick by on the giant clock at the front of the room. Tick after tick, he remained solo. He had a boyish look about him. Too put together to have picked his gray sweater and jeans off the top of the pile, too disheveled to have put more than five minutes into the overall appeal of the look. His hair was messy. His chin had a bit of scruff, which made up for the bit that receded. He had a very good watch on (I’m a sucker for anything shiny). In other words: he was perfect. He was so appealing I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a man that walked in to join him.
The minute hand finally hit 7pm and a sprite, tiny sprig of a woman walked in and closed the door behind her. You would hardly guess she ate at all, let alone cooked. She began to make her way to the front of the room where a giant island stood waiting as her podium. Her presence quieted my nerves- mystery man was still alone and he was smiling at me.
“Looks like we’re on our own.” His teeth were very white. I got nervous and squished my lips together into an awkward smile. Say something Chloe. Say something.
“Yeah.” Stupid.
“Good evening class. Welcome to Cooking to the Next Level. I’m Alex & I’ll be guiding you through eight classes of culinary fun.” She blathered on for a couple of minutes about what we could expect to learn in the coming classes. I focused my eyes on her but behind their trained gaze my brain was busy lamenting that my response to a gorgeous man’s one liner was “yeah”. And by the prolific commentary flowing from our teacher, it seemed it would be ages before I’d get the chance to redeem myself.
“We’re going to learn how to take your basic sautéing, stocks and sauces and turn them into practical but gourmet dishes….” He was facing forward and paying attention to Alex as she spoke. Was he actually, of his own accord, interested in this? I was impressed.
“We’re even this week, perfect,” Alex said. I glanced around. The number of people in the class, save my missing partner, was a perfect eight. “Let’s pair up.” She walked around the room and pointed at the people she was putting together. “You two together,” she said pointing to Mr. Handsome and me. Of course I loved Alex from the beginning. She was an excellent judge of pairing, which, I can only assume, is a skill that lends itself to cooking as well. And, just between you and me, I didn’t care if Mel never came to this class.
Mr. Handsome collected his things and came around to my island smiling. “Hi. I’m Christian.” He set his stuff down and offered a handshake. I took it. “Chloe.”
“Nice to meet you Chloe.” He surveyed the room. “I don’t come to these types of things often,” he said. “Well, not alone I mean. “ Damn. His supermarket wife is around here somewhere. I knew it.
“Me neither. I’m doing it with a friend but she couldn’t make it tonight.” He smiled and nodded his head amiably. Alex was explaining how the use of the room was going to work….we all have to be responsible for the condition of the room before we leave tonight… and much like the school of my younger years, I tuned out the minute she mentioned cleaning up. I leaned in to my partner and said quietly, “If you don’t really cook, why are you here?”
“I bought this as a gift for my girlfriend. We were gonna do it together but she bailed.”
“Aww. “ Lucky me. “She’ll come next week, I’m sure”, which I was positive of because my luck could only stretch so far.
“No. I mean we broke up.” And the bright shining light of happiness cast a spotlight on me once again. “But I figured I paid for the class, so I might as well come. You never know.”
“I’m so sorry.” Blatant lie. Of course his singleness elated me. “I’m impressed that you thought of this though. It was nice of you.”
“Don’t be. It was my hairdresser’s idea. She said it would show that I was creative and interested and putting in effort for together time. Sophia said it was a dollar short and a day too late.”
“Well, it might work out to be fun anyways.”
He smiled at me. “I think so.” I was vaguely aware of Alex, mid room, encouraging the class to open our recipes to the second page but I chose to let my focus detour on Christian’s pearly whites. His smile was not just beautiful because he was last year’s Jcrew model. It was beautiful because it was genuine. He was not just tolerating this discussion. He was enjoying it.
“I just want to warn you,” he whispered, leaning into me and looking intently at Alex, “ I’m knew to this. I may be a bad partner.” Stop. Here’s the thing: life has a way of giving you the answer long before you’re ready to acknowledge it. I read somewhere that your body can sense what is good and bad way before your brain actually reaches the same conclusion. You’re body heats up in response to that which it senses is going to result in a negative outcome. What a shame we don’t pay attention to our heat sensors. We could save ourselves a great deal of time. But heat can be read two ways: 1) foreshadowing and 2) lust. I chose the latter and said, “I’m a pretty good cook. I can carry some weight.”
“Not too much, I hope. I like to think I carry most of my own weight.” Even better.
“For those of you who’ve already made this dish, I think you’ll be surprised what a difference a little added spice and texture can do to the stuffing.” Alex was at her podium. We had talked right through her entire lecture and landed unpreparedly at “Let’s begin.”
“I think we’re on page two. That means we’re making stuffed peppers, asparagus with squash aioli and French endive salad,” I said.
“With added spices and texture,” he said.
“With added spices,” I concurred with a giggle.
“You want to take the asparagus, I’ll take the salad and we’ll do the peppers together?”
“Sounds good,” I said. He walked across the room to the communal refrigerator and retrieved the ingredients we would need. When he came back to the island he said, “I was worried about this class but it’s turning out to be really fun.”
“It is,” I confirmed. We shared a smirk. The kind that embodies more than our spare words had allowed; a knowingness. I broke contact and glanced around the room to check the progress of our classmates. “I see boiling water and chopped veggies going on. I’m pretty sure we’re on the right track,” I said.
“We better be. I’m trusting you to keep us on the straight and narrow. I wouldn’t want to head down a dangerous path on the first day of class. If the teacher hates me already it’ll be like high school all over again.”
“Were you a trouble maker in high school?”
“No but I was easily led.” He met my eyes before looking away and saying, “Beautiful women can do that to me.” I blushed immediately. Was he referring to me? Panic. What do I say? This was the part I was so bad at. Instead of letting a perfectly fun, sexy statement roll by like I deserved it, I inevitably retort with something cutting like don’t be juvenile or, “I don’t see any of those here.”
“Well I see two for sure.” I raised an eye to his face but refused to look entirely at him. “You,” he said matter of factly, then made a dramatic stretch to look around behind me and said, “And that red head over there.” My head swiveled, perhaps a beat too fast. She was akin to a ginger haired Gisele Bundchen. Her Amazonian display dwarfed my 5’5 frame and my freshly highlighted hair felt extra Sandy with a bit too much root next to her flowing red locks. Should I have put more make up on? Chloe, your insecurity is showing. Shut up. I slapped his shoulder. “She’s Oh-kay”.
“She’s hot.” He emphasized hot with such force you’d think he’d just picked up a pan at 400 degrees with no gloves on. In response, I chopped my onions with equal, if not more vehement, force. “She’s pretty,” I said flatly.
“Don’t feel threatened,” he grinned,” I said you were beautiful first.” Can the pleasure of successful flirtation even be described? The clashing banter of wit and sex resulting in high wave frequencies that take a regular evening from passive to frenzy, have not a name to aptly depict the hypnotic passion they inspire. Making matters more intense, he was gorgeous. I could practically heat this entire Philadelphia block with the spike in my pheromones. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Besides,” he said, “She came with someone. She’s taken. And you’re here with me.”
“Love the one your with? Gee thanks.”
“No. Love the one who’s beautiful AND single.” Single. Wait. I wasn’t single. No, I had Stanley. Shit. My pheromones had just been shot down with metaphoric Tommy guns made of dry humor and lead weight.
“I’m actually not single,” I said with less enthusiasm than any comment I’d made all night.
“Oh,” he said in that way men do where, unlike women, they can’t hide their disappointment behind buoyancy and with one word make clear their regret at the turning tide of events. “How come the lucky guy isn’t doing this too? You said you had a girlfriend coming to take the class with you.”
“His hairdresser didn’t tell him to,” I shot at him. My venom was well aimed. I regretted it the second I watched his head droop.
“Touché,” he said. I stopped my chopping and raised a hand to his shoulder, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound so mean.”
“No no. It’s true. I’m here alone because I was a lousy boyfriend.” He ripped his freshly washed lettuce and placed it in the bowl Alex assigned for everyone’s endive salad. “So how long you been with him?”
“Six years.” I paused. “But it hasn’t been going well for a while.” In general, I consider myself expert at deflection. But when I said this I couldn’t remove my own despondence. Why? Why did I just put that information out into the world? I hadn’t said that out loud….ever.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He said it softly and I got the feeling he meant it much more than when I made the same reply to his break up. I shrugged and said nothing in response. “You going to do something about that?” I shrugged again. Speechless. I could not meet his eye. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be your cooking partner even with….what’s his name?”
“Stanley,” I said.
“Stanley,” he repeated, a half sigh accompanying the name. “I’ll be your cooking partner even though you have Stanley. We just can’t have sex now.” He laughed and right then, I knew. I didn’t want to have Stanley. I knew it like you know that someone is about to deliver bad news. I knew it like you know lightening is going to strike after an ear cracking slap of thunder. I didn’t love him. I was going to fall in love with the devilishly wonderful man before me and there was nothing I could do about it. Half truth. There was nothing I was going to do about it because he saw me – All the Way. And for the first time, in a long time, I felt the remembrance of the pieces of me I had so pragmatically instructed myself to view as superfluous and let go of.
When my two minute self-growth movie clip rolled by and my new Julia Robert’s self looked back at this moment, I would know that the core of relationship failure comes down to this: You cannot be in love with a person who doesn’t see you - doesn’t hear you even though they’re listening - doesn’t understand you even though you’ve explained yourself in detail. Toleration is a coping skill and, in excess, cannot happily be a replacement for love. Thus, my relationship was deteriorating long before the JCrew model chopped a pepper next to my abnormally heated body.
But I wouldn’t know all this until later, when a bittersweet parting that night sent me on a confused detour to the Barnes & Noble self-help section. “Get Some Manners”, a book I shyly plucked from the bookshelf and thrust under an InStyle magazine to discourage witnesses from believing I was the kind of woman who actually needed therapy, was the true beginning of the DLA. It cracked open the façade and gave me the strength to realize the life I wanted. All the Way is a small term for such a large definition. In the end, the petite phrase stands as a paradigm for truth, value and what’s real. But right then, all it really meant was my life was going to fall apart. You know that saying, it’ll get worse before it gets better? All The Way kind of works like that. A systematic destruction of a very strong Discount Life before the dawn of a solid rebuild. But when I left Christian that night, each of us turning the keys to our own cars, no infractions committed despite the yearning, all I was really thinking was that I was crazy. That I was alive and vibrant and tingling and absolutely, no holds bars – Crazy. And, that logic aside, next Thursday couldn’t come soon enough.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Mr. Mouse
There’s a mouse in my house
He’s a terrible louse
A varmint, a vagrant
A foe in my stead
He nibbles the trash bags and winds up my thread
Mr. Mouse, as he’s called,
Does not want a cookie
He likes peanut butter on sticks and dog food made sticky
‘Twas the night before Tuesday and lo’ and behold
The whole house was sleeping and Mr. Mouse felt quite bold
He skittered, he scampered
He dove from nook to nook
He stole from the tea jar
A regular crook
To scare and confuse you, he comes from the cupboard
But the piano’s his home
His safe Mother Hubbard
When his belly is full, thick with sugar and sweets
He gather’s his scraps and heads back to the keys
He thinks I don’t notice the tiny marks he’s left
But the C and the E keys have paw prints like clefts
I beg you, BE GONE!, Mr. Mouse from my house
You’re frightening, you’re furry
You give cause for shouts!
You wake me at night from the pleasantest dreams
You lurk in the shadows and bite all my things
This cannot go on, we cannot be friends
If you stay, I declare, my sanity won’t mend
Please listen, please see, curl up somewhere else
The world is quite open, a big pot that melts
Mr. Mouse, leave my house
It’s my one solemn plea
Best wishes , bon voyage
And please, leave the key.
He’s a terrible louse
A varmint, a vagrant
A foe in my stead
He nibbles the trash bags and winds up my thread
Mr. Mouse, as he’s called,
Does not want a cookie
He likes peanut butter on sticks and dog food made sticky
‘Twas the night before Tuesday and lo’ and behold
The whole house was sleeping and Mr. Mouse felt quite bold
He skittered, he scampered
He dove from nook to nook
He stole from the tea jar
A regular crook
To scare and confuse you, he comes from the cupboard
But the piano’s his home
His safe Mother Hubbard
When his belly is full, thick with sugar and sweets
He gather’s his scraps and heads back to the keys
He thinks I don’t notice the tiny marks he’s left
But the C and the E keys have paw prints like clefts
I beg you, BE GONE!, Mr. Mouse from my house
You’re frightening, you’re furry
You give cause for shouts!
You wake me at night from the pleasantest dreams
You lurk in the shadows and bite all my things
This cannot go on, we cannot be friends
If you stay, I declare, my sanity won’t mend
Please listen, please see, curl up somewhere else
The world is quite open, a big pot that melts
Mr. Mouse, leave my house
It’s my one solemn plea
Best wishes , bon voyage
And please, leave the key.
The Discount Life: Step Three (cont'd)
On Wednesday night the weather was officially cool. The whole of the house carried a nip that sent me running for my coziest sweater. Outside, people burned fireplaces and the air smelled of pastimes and cinder. I left the kitchen window open, the chill grazing my skin, a reminder that my favorite season was here. In the spirit of the DLA I was planning a meal to rival my fondest memories: chilly fall evenings, opening the front door to a warm home, the smells of something delicious wafting up to greet your nose. I’d kill two birds with one stone: I’d be working on Step #3 and Stanley would be pleased to come home to something warm and wafting. After a half hour of carefully combing the myriad cookbooks that typically went unopened on my shelves (when you make the same dishes over and over there’s hardly a need for cookbooks) I settled on Chicken Pot Pie. I was even going to make the crusts. A real chef would; Judy would never rely on Pillsbury for her masterpiece. Besides, like tomatoes, vegetables and chocolate chip cookies, food was better when it was fresh and not stored, shipped and packaged for consumption thousands of miles away.
It was 5:30 when I spread my ingredients out on the counter, placing the glass and silver bowls next to their corresponding counterparts, and stood back to admire my pre-cooking display. Martha Stewart, move over. I applauded my own organized, artfully displayed cooking preparations. Judy herself probably couldn’t lay it out better. The recipe said the pie took 35 minutes to prepare but a half hour into the pie crust making – I had the feeling they lied. What they should have said was 35 minutes to prepare- post dough. I timed it all perfectly for 35 minutes: the chicken was boiling in the pot, the gravy and vegetables sautéed and simmering in the dutch oven. The pie dish was glazed, floured and ready for assembly. But the damned pie crust was crumbling under my fingers and the rolling pin kept smooshing it into the counter top. Southern Living said “spread a thin layer of flour on the area in which you plan to roll your dough”. A thin layer? What a crock. I had used a half a bag at least to roll two pies and my organized Martha Stewart kitchen, previously of magazine quality, was now covered in flour and gravy, the spoon handles dripping on everything beneath us as we danced from pot to pot. I tried not to care. I was having fun. So what if the chicken was drained, ready and getting cold and the gravy was solidifying into a pudding-y layer at the top? I had made pie crust, hadn’t I? It was messy but it was all the way.
It was 6:30 when Stanley opened the front door and said, “Mmmmm, what’s that smell?” He sounded pleased and I was surprised to feel my heart leap with a modicum joy in response to his preemptive praise. My dreams of greeting him at the door with a short glass of brandy, a pie in the oven and a spotlessly cleaned kitchen were dashed but June Cleaver put too much pressure on us anyway. I had still managed to make a delicious, home cooked meal and Stanley wouldn’t know the difference.
I was placing the pie dough in the plate when he came in to pour himself his brandy. “Smells great. What are you making?”
“The Ultimate Southern Chicken Pot Pie.” I smiled. “That’s what the recipe calls it. I think I’m going to call it my Discount Life pie.”
“What?” He kissed me, a graze across the cheek, closed lipped and fast, then took a drink of the brandy in his hand.
“My Discount Life pie.” He looked at me quizzically. “Remember the violin? The running? My theory?”
“I don’t think you fully explained a theory to me. You just said you wanted to play the violin.” Half truth. That was not the whole of our violin conversation but I chose not to harp on the issue. I hadn’t fully explained the theory, he was right.
“Well its all part of this theory I’ve developed. The Discount Life. Selling yourself short because its easier. Not having goals or not working on them because you’ve already accepted to less. So learning to cook is a goal too and I’m making a pot pie from scratch. A whole pie, not a half assed pie. Maybe that’s what I’ll call it – Not a Half Assed Chicken Pot Pie.”
He nodded his head and said, “Can’t wait.” He walked over to the stove and stirred the gravy pot. “This stuff’s been ready for a while, huh?” His toned was raised, it sounded light and not exceptionally accusatory but it didn’t seem to matter. My brain registered first, his disapproval, and second the tonality of his statement. I instructed myself to let it go and respond lightly.
“Yeah. I got the timing off. That’s part of my “Learn to Cook Better process: Get. Timing. Right.” I took the gravy spoon from his hand, picked up the pot and emptied it into the dutch oven, stirring until the innards of my glorious pot pie emerged.
“This better be good. You’ve ruined your sweater for it.” I looked down. He was right. My chocolate brown wrap around was covered in white flour.
“It will be,” I said, ladling the pot pie mixture into the pie plate and covering it with a second layer of pie dough. “All that matters is that it tastes good.”
“Of course it’ll taste good. You cook fine.”
“I want to get better though, you know? Not just fine. But really good. And try something new. I like the challenge.” He was quiet as he observed the counter from left to right. I calculated the cynicism on his face. If the mess I had made of this kitchen was indicative of the cooking challenges expected ahead, his face said he wasn’t certain it would last long. “I signed up for a cooking class at Philly Cooks. It’s downtown. I signed you up too. Thought we could do it together.” I put the pie in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.
“Downtown is kind of far from my work.” Isn’t it funny how a small statement, timed just right, can mean nothing at all or the difference between happiness and heartbreak?
“Well, it doesn’t start until 7. You’re off at 6. You could make it.”
“It’ll be tight.” He sipped his brandy.
“It’s only one night a week.” He sipped again.
“What kind of cooking class is it? Like a couples class?”
“No but I thought if we did it together it kind of would be.” Noose. Neck. Pull. Come on Stanley, get on board with this. "It’s called “Cooking to the Next Level: From Beginner to Intermediate.”
“I don’t know that I can even cook beginner.”
“But I can. I could help you.” He was pensive for a moment, his mouth pursing. The tiny leap I’d felt when he’d walked through the door earlier had evaporated, reflexively, to his indirect aversion to my idea. The homeless man was right. Stanley didn’t want to cook. That was my thing. I was pushing him and that wasn’t fair. “I mean, you don’t have to do it. It was just an idea. I could easily go by myself and we could do something else.” I put the pot and utensils in the sink to soak and began wiping the counters and stove. Stanley stood on the opposite side of the kitchen table, arms folded across his chest save his brandy hand. He was stoically processing my offer. I waited. He took a little longer than necessary.
“Really, its not a big deal to cancel your registration. I should have talked to you about it before I made the plans anyway. I can go myself.”
“I just don’t really care about cooking like you.” I nodded, holding my gaze steady. Clearly, wiping flour from every surface in my kitchen required an intense, unbroken stare. I wanted to say but I care and you should care that I care. But I didn’t want to have to explain how love works, so I scrubbed the counter and said, “I understand.”
“We could do something else. I’ll look into something,” he said. His smile was so big his optimism almost masked his guilt.
“Okay, ” I said, tossing the rag in the sink. The kitchen was clean, the pots were soaking and the pie was rising beautifully.
“Okay. Perfect.” Perfect, I thought silently, but if you’d heard it out loud you’d have thought I intended to maim him. He walked over and patted my shoulder again, pecked my cheek and said, “I can’t wait to taste this Discount Life pot pie.” He emphasized the Discount Life as if it were funny. “When’s it going to be ready?”
“Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes,” I said, backing away from him. “I’m going to go change my clothes. You’re right – I made a mess of my sweater.”
“We’ll have to get you an apron.” I winked my eye and pointed a finger at him. “We’ll have to do that. Smart thinking.” He smiled, pleased with himself, and I went upstairs to change.
“So did it taste good?” asked Mel. I called her immediately following dinner. It was never actually said that I needed chat therapy but her careful inquisitiveness suggested she understood it inherently.
“Yeah. It did. But you know? Pillsbury dough tastes good too and it’s a lot less work.”
“But you did it. That’s all that matters.”
“True. I did it. And I’m proud of myself. I just might choose to make my discount life pie with Pillsbury next time.” She laughed. “And that’s not Discount Life behavior because now that I’ve done the real thing I know, in this case, I’m satisfied with less.”
She laughed again. “Did it inspire Stanley? Is he excited about your cooking class?”
“Uh – No. No, he decided he would rather do something else together.”
She said, “Oh”, in that way that women do where the one word expresses all of surprise, judgment and pity simultaneously. “What did he suggest?”
“Nothing yet. He said he’d look into something.”
“Has he looked into Ireland yet?”
“No but its only been a couple of months and Ireland is different. It’s a big deal and we don’t really have the money. This will be easier.” I wanted to add, I hope but didn’t.
“Of course. Yeah. Hey, maybe he’ll make a big night of it – go all out. Take you to the symphony, a gourmet dinner…the works.”
“That would be fantastic. You should tell him,” I giggled. “We haven’t done that in a while.”
“Jack did that for me last week...”. I listened to her story about how Jack took her to a lecture of her favorite author, Joyce Carol Oates. Mel was a literary enthusiast and Jack, quite the opposite. But he saw a poster advertising the author’s coming on his bulletin board at work. Afterward he took her for a quiet dinner, not the most expensive of restaurants but one that someone told him had the best Lemon Meringue Pie. Mel’s favorite dessert. I felt a pang that might have been considered jealousy if it wasn’t being applied to my best friend. I could never be ugly envious of Mel but I could admit to wanting what she had in her relationship. “It was simple, I know but I really had a good time.”
“I’m so glad. That was thoughtful of Jack.”
“He wins a few points every now and then,” she said wryly. It was meant as a joke but if you listened carefully you could hear satisfaction in her voice. No underlying statements masked by clever words or put on exuberance. She was content.
“So hey, not to change the subject, but I’m going to. I told Stanley I could get the registration for his portion of the cooking class back but I can’t. I just didn’t want to make him feel bad. So I have this extra spot. You wouldn’t want to do it, would you?”
“What night is it?”
“Thursday nights at 7. It’s downtown.”
“Yeah, that would be great. I’d love to. Jack will be so happy I’m learning to cook something else besides spaghetti.”
“Are you sure? Don’t feel obligated. I know its kind of far away from your house.” I myself, felt obligated to say this since Stanley had made the very point an issue earlier.
“Don’t be silly. I don’t mind driving to do something fun. It’ll be great. When does it start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oooo, no can do tomorrow. I have plans I can’t get out of. Next week though?”
“Sure. And I’m meeting that homeless guy on Sunday, if he shows up. My first Discount Life Anonymous meeting.”
“Can I come? I want to meet the homeless man. “
“His name is Tucker and absolutely. I don’t know what we’ll talk about but you can come, certainly.”
“You could talk about your pie dough lesson,” she said brightly. “ How you discovered that discount life is different for different people. Pillsbury’s fine for you but not Judy…” she trailed off.
“We’ll see,” I said. “See you Sunday.” We finished the conversation with the usual goodbyes. When I hung up the phone Stanley called up the stairs, "Who's that?"
"It was Mel," I answered. "She's going to take the cooking class with me."
"Perfect," he said. Perfect, I thought again.
Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome...(* stay tuned for the next enstallment: Chloe meets Mr. Handsome & Tucker brings a friend...)
It was 5:30 when I spread my ingredients out on the counter, placing the glass and silver bowls next to their corresponding counterparts, and stood back to admire my pre-cooking display. Martha Stewart, move over. I applauded my own organized, artfully displayed cooking preparations. Judy herself probably couldn’t lay it out better. The recipe said the pie took 35 minutes to prepare but a half hour into the pie crust making – I had the feeling they lied. What they should have said was 35 minutes to prepare- post dough. I timed it all perfectly for 35 minutes: the chicken was boiling in the pot, the gravy and vegetables sautéed and simmering in the dutch oven. The pie dish was glazed, floured and ready for assembly. But the damned pie crust was crumbling under my fingers and the rolling pin kept smooshing it into the counter top. Southern Living said “spread a thin layer of flour on the area in which you plan to roll your dough”. A thin layer? What a crock. I had used a half a bag at least to roll two pies and my organized Martha Stewart kitchen, previously of magazine quality, was now covered in flour and gravy, the spoon handles dripping on everything beneath us as we danced from pot to pot. I tried not to care. I was having fun. So what if the chicken was drained, ready and getting cold and the gravy was solidifying into a pudding-y layer at the top? I had made pie crust, hadn’t I? It was messy but it was all the way.
It was 6:30 when Stanley opened the front door and said, “Mmmmm, what’s that smell?” He sounded pleased and I was surprised to feel my heart leap with a modicum joy in response to his preemptive praise. My dreams of greeting him at the door with a short glass of brandy, a pie in the oven and a spotlessly cleaned kitchen were dashed but June Cleaver put too much pressure on us anyway. I had still managed to make a delicious, home cooked meal and Stanley wouldn’t know the difference.
I was placing the pie dough in the plate when he came in to pour himself his brandy. “Smells great. What are you making?”
“The Ultimate Southern Chicken Pot Pie.” I smiled. “That’s what the recipe calls it. I think I’m going to call it my Discount Life pie.”
“What?” He kissed me, a graze across the cheek, closed lipped and fast, then took a drink of the brandy in his hand.
“My Discount Life pie.” He looked at me quizzically. “Remember the violin? The running? My theory?”
“I don’t think you fully explained a theory to me. You just said you wanted to play the violin.” Half truth. That was not the whole of our violin conversation but I chose not to harp on the issue. I hadn’t fully explained the theory, he was right.
“Well its all part of this theory I’ve developed. The Discount Life. Selling yourself short because its easier. Not having goals or not working on them because you’ve already accepted to less. So learning to cook is a goal too and I’m making a pot pie from scratch. A whole pie, not a half assed pie. Maybe that’s what I’ll call it – Not a Half Assed Chicken Pot Pie.”
He nodded his head and said, “Can’t wait.” He walked over to the stove and stirred the gravy pot. “This stuff’s been ready for a while, huh?” His toned was raised, it sounded light and not exceptionally accusatory but it didn’t seem to matter. My brain registered first, his disapproval, and second the tonality of his statement. I instructed myself to let it go and respond lightly.
“Yeah. I got the timing off. That’s part of my “Learn to Cook Better process: Get. Timing. Right.” I took the gravy spoon from his hand, picked up the pot and emptied it into the dutch oven, stirring until the innards of my glorious pot pie emerged.
“This better be good. You’ve ruined your sweater for it.” I looked down. He was right. My chocolate brown wrap around was covered in white flour.
“It will be,” I said, ladling the pot pie mixture into the pie plate and covering it with a second layer of pie dough. “All that matters is that it tastes good.”
“Of course it’ll taste good. You cook fine.”
“I want to get better though, you know? Not just fine. But really good. And try something new. I like the challenge.” He was quiet as he observed the counter from left to right. I calculated the cynicism on his face. If the mess I had made of this kitchen was indicative of the cooking challenges expected ahead, his face said he wasn’t certain it would last long. “I signed up for a cooking class at Philly Cooks. It’s downtown. I signed you up too. Thought we could do it together.” I put the pie in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.
“Downtown is kind of far from my work.” Isn’t it funny how a small statement, timed just right, can mean nothing at all or the difference between happiness and heartbreak?
“Well, it doesn’t start until 7. You’re off at 6. You could make it.”
“It’ll be tight.” He sipped his brandy.
“It’s only one night a week.” He sipped again.
“What kind of cooking class is it? Like a couples class?”
“No but I thought if we did it together it kind of would be.” Noose. Neck. Pull. Come on Stanley, get on board with this. "It’s called “Cooking to the Next Level: From Beginner to Intermediate.”
“I don’t know that I can even cook beginner.”
“But I can. I could help you.” He was pensive for a moment, his mouth pursing. The tiny leap I’d felt when he’d walked through the door earlier had evaporated, reflexively, to his indirect aversion to my idea. The homeless man was right. Stanley didn’t want to cook. That was my thing. I was pushing him and that wasn’t fair. “I mean, you don’t have to do it. It was just an idea. I could easily go by myself and we could do something else.” I put the pot and utensils in the sink to soak and began wiping the counters and stove. Stanley stood on the opposite side of the kitchen table, arms folded across his chest save his brandy hand. He was stoically processing my offer. I waited. He took a little longer than necessary.
“Really, its not a big deal to cancel your registration. I should have talked to you about it before I made the plans anyway. I can go myself.”
“I just don’t really care about cooking like you.” I nodded, holding my gaze steady. Clearly, wiping flour from every surface in my kitchen required an intense, unbroken stare. I wanted to say but I care and you should care that I care. But I didn’t want to have to explain how love works, so I scrubbed the counter and said, “I understand.”
“We could do something else. I’ll look into something,” he said. His smile was so big his optimism almost masked his guilt.
“Okay, ” I said, tossing the rag in the sink. The kitchen was clean, the pots were soaking and the pie was rising beautifully.
“Okay. Perfect.” Perfect, I thought silently, but if you’d heard it out loud you’d have thought I intended to maim him. He walked over and patted my shoulder again, pecked my cheek and said, “I can’t wait to taste this Discount Life pot pie.” He emphasized the Discount Life as if it were funny. “When’s it going to be ready?”
“Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes,” I said, backing away from him. “I’m going to go change my clothes. You’re right – I made a mess of my sweater.”
“We’ll have to get you an apron.” I winked my eye and pointed a finger at him. “We’ll have to do that. Smart thinking.” He smiled, pleased with himself, and I went upstairs to change.
“So did it taste good?” asked Mel. I called her immediately following dinner. It was never actually said that I needed chat therapy but her careful inquisitiveness suggested she understood it inherently.
“Yeah. It did. But you know? Pillsbury dough tastes good too and it’s a lot less work.”
“But you did it. That’s all that matters.”
“True. I did it. And I’m proud of myself. I just might choose to make my discount life pie with Pillsbury next time.” She laughed. “And that’s not Discount Life behavior because now that I’ve done the real thing I know, in this case, I’m satisfied with less.”
She laughed again. “Did it inspire Stanley? Is he excited about your cooking class?”
“Uh – No. No, he decided he would rather do something else together.”
She said, “Oh”, in that way that women do where the one word expresses all of surprise, judgment and pity simultaneously. “What did he suggest?”
“Nothing yet. He said he’d look into something.”
“Has he looked into Ireland yet?”
“No but its only been a couple of months and Ireland is different. It’s a big deal and we don’t really have the money. This will be easier.” I wanted to add, I hope but didn’t.
“Of course. Yeah. Hey, maybe he’ll make a big night of it – go all out. Take you to the symphony, a gourmet dinner…the works.”
“That would be fantastic. You should tell him,” I giggled. “We haven’t done that in a while.”
“Jack did that for me last week...”. I listened to her story about how Jack took her to a lecture of her favorite author, Joyce Carol Oates. Mel was a literary enthusiast and Jack, quite the opposite. But he saw a poster advertising the author’s coming on his bulletin board at work. Afterward he took her for a quiet dinner, not the most expensive of restaurants but one that someone told him had the best Lemon Meringue Pie. Mel’s favorite dessert. I felt a pang that might have been considered jealousy if it wasn’t being applied to my best friend. I could never be ugly envious of Mel but I could admit to wanting what she had in her relationship. “It was simple, I know but I really had a good time.”
“I’m so glad. That was thoughtful of Jack.”
“He wins a few points every now and then,” she said wryly. It was meant as a joke but if you listened carefully you could hear satisfaction in her voice. No underlying statements masked by clever words or put on exuberance. She was content.
“So hey, not to change the subject, but I’m going to. I told Stanley I could get the registration for his portion of the cooking class back but I can’t. I just didn’t want to make him feel bad. So I have this extra spot. You wouldn’t want to do it, would you?”
“What night is it?”
“Thursday nights at 7. It’s downtown.”
“Yeah, that would be great. I’d love to. Jack will be so happy I’m learning to cook something else besides spaghetti.”
“Are you sure? Don’t feel obligated. I know its kind of far away from your house.” I myself, felt obligated to say this since Stanley had made the very point an issue earlier.
“Don’t be silly. I don’t mind driving to do something fun. It’ll be great. When does it start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oooo, no can do tomorrow. I have plans I can’t get out of. Next week though?”
“Sure. And I’m meeting that homeless guy on Sunday, if he shows up. My first Discount Life Anonymous meeting.”
“Can I come? I want to meet the homeless man. “
“His name is Tucker and absolutely. I don’t know what we’ll talk about but you can come, certainly.”
“You could talk about your pie dough lesson,” she said brightly. “ How you discovered that discount life is different for different people. Pillsbury’s fine for you but not Judy…” she trailed off.
“We’ll see,” I said. “See you Sunday.” We finished the conversation with the usual goodbyes. When I hung up the phone Stanley called up the stairs, "Who's that?"
"It was Mel," I answered. "She's going to take the cooking class with me."
"Perfect," he said. Perfect, I thought again.
Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome...(* stay tuned for the next enstallment: Chloe meets Mr. Handsome & Tucker brings a friend...)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Discount Life: Step Three Cont'd
Two days later I got out the running shoes. You know, the ones meant for that marathon I saved them for, and decided to take a run. Given that my previous running experience was limited to that Lowman’s sale to beat an ugly woman trying to steal my Cindy Crawford heels…I told you about those…amazing, I decided to start out small. Three miles. Nothing I couldn’t handle. The girl on the cover of Runner’s World does three miles in her sleep. If nothing else, I have made a job out of doing everything girls in magazines do. This would be easy.
Six blocks later. Running was not easy. I stopped, bent over, heaving like I’d just run an hour for my life. I checked my watch. You have got to be kidding me. It had only been five minutes. Five. Was the Runner’s World girl on crack? I had to do better than that. Otherwise owning the shoes was a complete disgrace. I jogged for 10 more minutes (I may have stopped for a breather once or twice but the same people weren’t around so it didn’t matter) and then copped a squat on a bench in front of the courthouse steps. Rocky had climbed those steps in victory. I was passively inclined to sit and stare at them.
“You thinking about Rocky?” asked a scruffy looking man at the opposite end of the bench.
“Doesn’t everyone who sits here?”
“Most folks try to run them. So they can say they done it.” His coat was reminiscent of army green but appeared brown from caked dirt. His beard was long and grey. His eyes were rimmed and heavy.
“I’ll never be Rocky. So no need to run the steps. And that would be cheesy.”
“A little bit of cheesy is sometimes good, right? Reminds you to have fun.” He smiled. He was missing a tooth on the bottom left of his mouth. He scooted down toward me and held out his hand, “Tucker Whitfield. Nice to meet you.” He had on those gloves without finger tips even though the weather was just starting to cool. “Chloe. Nice to meet you too.” I couldn’t help but flinch a little when I accepted his grasp.
“You run often?”
“First day. See how I’m sitting on this bench? I’m dying out there.”
“You’ll get better. Just keep on it. You’ll be running one of those marathons before you know it.”
I smiled. “It’s a goal.” A someday goal by the looks of it.
“Goals are good. I had goals once,” he ran his hand up and down the outline of his body like Vanna White gestures to the lit up letters on Wheel of Fortune,” its pretty easy to put them aside. Don’t do it.” He was homeless, I guessed. I had never really talked with a homeless person short of do you have change and my saying only a dollar, which is a complete lie but, I suppose, a dollar was all they were worth to me.
“What happened to your goals?” I asked.
“I’m an alcoholic.” I chuckled. A completely inappropriate response brought on my truth and nerves. He laughed back and said, “You laughing because it’s funny or because its true?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s just that you always hear that homeless people aren’t necessarily homeless because they have a drinking problem. That they… fell on hard times and all that. And here you are saying your homeless because you’re an alcoholic. I just find it comical.”
“I never said I was homeless.” My heart stopped in my chest. Oh God. He was right. He never had.
“I, I…uh…well,”. It would be great if the cement in front of me would morph into a black abyss and come to swallow me whole, saving me from my entitled, assuming blunder. God if life could be that easy.
“I’m just putting you on the spot. Of course I’m homeless. Look at me.” He laughed again and I smiled cautiously. “I’m a drunk and it ruined my life and now I’m homeless. That’s all.”
“What did you do before you were …homeless?” I made being homeless sound like an occupation. Like a choice rather than an unfortunate. The whole of the conversation so far felt like a B movie where every line out of my mouth drove me farther and farther into disgrace.
“Nothing great. I worked in music stores. Sold pianos, drums, guitars. Played some myself. A few night bars. Then the drinking got the better of me.” He paused. “How about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a violinist.” The white lie danced on my tongue like the after taste of sugar. It was saccharine and delicious. I was a violinist but that was a half truth. I couldn’t leave it like that. The Discount Life wouldn’t permit it. “I’m a violinist but right now I work as a receptionist for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”
“Sticking around music. That’s good.”
“I’ve got this theory that says it’s not all that good.”
“I’m all ears.”
“It’s called the Discount Life,” I stopped. Why would I subject a man with obvious extensive troubles to my minor under achieving life gripes? “It’s not that great, I don’t know why I brought it up.”
“Just tell me and let me decide if it’s great or not.” I hesitated and then I told him. “My friend sees it like a twelve step program. He calls it the Discount Life Anonymous. Says I should start an organization.”
“I’d join. Sounds like it could be a real experience. Might be fun.” He smiled and the vacancy from his missing tooth glared at me. The old Chloe would never have shaken hands with a man as dirty as this but the new Chloe found something endearing in him. He was listening to me.
“Well so far I’ve given up ten very good pairs of shoes, played a very sloppy violin and almost died on my first day’s run. The fun hasn’t exactly started yet. But it’s an interesting challenge.”
“I think it’s good of you for thinking outside your box. What step are you on?”
“Step three: Work on Goals.”
“What’s step four?”
“I don’t know. I’m kind of making them up as I go along.”
“Want some company?” It was odd but I felt a strange kinship to this man. It wasn’t just that we occupied the same bench but that somehow, despite our separate worldly paths, life had derailed us, sending us here, at this moment, to the very same place, on the common ground of giving ourselves the short end of the stick. Two souls united by a bench and the ubiquitous Discount life.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love some.”
“Okay. So what’s step one?”
“Clear out your life.”
“Done,” he laughed. “I’ve got nothing.”
“You don’t have a cart somewhere?” I slapped his shoulder playfully and hoped he’d take it as a joke.
“No cart. I have a box over on 10th street but I’m perfectly happy to give that up. It’s got nothing but rags and dirty magazines in it.” I glanced at him with raised eyebrows. “Awww come on. Homeless men have needs too!” He threw his hands up in the air. “What’s the second step?”
“Create goals. And the third is, of course, get to work on goals.”
“Ok. So what did you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Step One, step two. What happened?”
“I cleared out my life. Twice. The first time I wasn’t being very honest with myself, which is classic Discount Life behavior. The second time I cleared out my closet and got rid of all the stuff I’d felt attached too that wasn’t really helping me be who I want to be. Stanley says it doesn’t look any different but I see a difference.”
“Who’s Stanley?”
“My partner. We’ve been together for six years. We live together.”
“Well girls do tend to have too much stuff.”
“I did. I did. But I got honest and got rid of a lot. And then I wrote down my goals. Well, Andrew helped me write them actually and now I’m working on them,” I said cheerily. “I played the violin, I took a run, I signed us up for a cooking class –“
“Who’s us?” he cut me off.
“Me and Stanley.”
“Oh. I wasn’t sure if you meant you and Stanley or you and Andrew.”
“No. No. Me and Stanley. His idea of cooking is to open a box of Hamburger Helper. The cooking class should be good for both of us.”
“But learning to cook sounds like your goal.”
“Right…” I said it like a question, drawn out so as to express so what?
“I’m just saying….”he trailed off. “But I’m sure you know him well enough to know.”
His insight struck me like a fist. I knew my goals but what were Stanley’s? I shook it off. “Guess I’ll have to ask him for his goals.”
“And me for mine. I’ve got some thinking to do. When should we meet again?” He really wanted to do this with me. I was touched and, if I let myself think it, amazed by the power of humanity. The sameness that we all carried within our differences.
“How about next Sunday morning?” I said. A week from today if he decided to show.
“Done deal.”
“Alright then. It’s a DL date.” I stood up, preparing myself for departure and proffered a hand shake.
“Looking forward to it.” He shook my hand and pointed to the stairs. “You gonna run ‘em?”
“Not today. We’ll make it a someday goal.” I smirked at my own Judy-ism.
He laughed. “Okay. See you Sunday.” I jogged off in perfect formation until I rounded the corner of 1st street and knew I was out of his sightline. Baby steps, right? I walked the rest of the way home.
Six blocks later. Running was not easy. I stopped, bent over, heaving like I’d just run an hour for my life. I checked my watch. You have got to be kidding me. It had only been five minutes. Five. Was the Runner’s World girl on crack? I had to do better than that. Otherwise owning the shoes was a complete disgrace. I jogged for 10 more minutes (I may have stopped for a breather once or twice but the same people weren’t around so it didn’t matter) and then copped a squat on a bench in front of the courthouse steps. Rocky had climbed those steps in victory. I was passively inclined to sit and stare at them.
“You thinking about Rocky?” asked a scruffy looking man at the opposite end of the bench.
“Doesn’t everyone who sits here?”
“Most folks try to run them. So they can say they done it.” His coat was reminiscent of army green but appeared brown from caked dirt. His beard was long and grey. His eyes were rimmed and heavy.
“I’ll never be Rocky. So no need to run the steps. And that would be cheesy.”
“A little bit of cheesy is sometimes good, right? Reminds you to have fun.” He smiled. He was missing a tooth on the bottom left of his mouth. He scooted down toward me and held out his hand, “Tucker Whitfield. Nice to meet you.” He had on those gloves without finger tips even though the weather was just starting to cool. “Chloe. Nice to meet you too.” I couldn’t help but flinch a little when I accepted his grasp.
“You run often?”
“First day. See how I’m sitting on this bench? I’m dying out there.”
“You’ll get better. Just keep on it. You’ll be running one of those marathons before you know it.”
I smiled. “It’s a goal.” A someday goal by the looks of it.
“Goals are good. I had goals once,” he ran his hand up and down the outline of his body like Vanna White gestures to the lit up letters on Wheel of Fortune,” its pretty easy to put them aside. Don’t do it.” He was homeless, I guessed. I had never really talked with a homeless person short of do you have change and my saying only a dollar, which is a complete lie but, I suppose, a dollar was all they were worth to me.
“What happened to your goals?” I asked.
“I’m an alcoholic.” I chuckled. A completely inappropriate response brought on my truth and nerves. He laughed back and said, “You laughing because it’s funny or because its true?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s just that you always hear that homeless people aren’t necessarily homeless because they have a drinking problem. That they… fell on hard times and all that. And here you are saying your homeless because you’re an alcoholic. I just find it comical.”
“I never said I was homeless.” My heart stopped in my chest. Oh God. He was right. He never had.
“I, I…uh…well,”. It would be great if the cement in front of me would morph into a black abyss and come to swallow me whole, saving me from my entitled, assuming blunder. God if life could be that easy.
“I’m just putting you on the spot. Of course I’m homeless. Look at me.” He laughed again and I smiled cautiously. “I’m a drunk and it ruined my life and now I’m homeless. That’s all.”
“What did you do before you were …homeless?” I made being homeless sound like an occupation. Like a choice rather than an unfortunate. The whole of the conversation so far felt like a B movie where every line out of my mouth drove me farther and farther into disgrace.
“Nothing great. I worked in music stores. Sold pianos, drums, guitars. Played some myself. A few night bars. Then the drinking got the better of me.” He paused. “How about you? What do you do?”
“I’m a violinist.” The white lie danced on my tongue like the after taste of sugar. It was saccharine and delicious. I was a violinist but that was a half truth. I couldn’t leave it like that. The Discount Life wouldn’t permit it. “I’m a violinist but right now I work as a receptionist for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”
“Sticking around music. That’s good.”
“I’ve got this theory that says it’s not all that good.”
“I’m all ears.”
“It’s called the Discount Life,” I stopped. Why would I subject a man with obvious extensive troubles to my minor under achieving life gripes? “It’s not that great, I don’t know why I brought it up.”
“Just tell me and let me decide if it’s great or not.” I hesitated and then I told him. “My friend sees it like a twelve step program. He calls it the Discount Life Anonymous. Says I should start an organization.”
“I’d join. Sounds like it could be a real experience. Might be fun.” He smiled and the vacancy from his missing tooth glared at me. The old Chloe would never have shaken hands with a man as dirty as this but the new Chloe found something endearing in him. He was listening to me.
“Well so far I’ve given up ten very good pairs of shoes, played a very sloppy violin and almost died on my first day’s run. The fun hasn’t exactly started yet. But it’s an interesting challenge.”
“I think it’s good of you for thinking outside your box. What step are you on?”
“Step three: Work on Goals.”
“What’s step four?”
“I don’t know. I’m kind of making them up as I go along.”
“Want some company?” It was odd but I felt a strange kinship to this man. It wasn’t just that we occupied the same bench but that somehow, despite our separate worldly paths, life had derailed us, sending us here, at this moment, to the very same place, on the common ground of giving ourselves the short end of the stick. Two souls united by a bench and the ubiquitous Discount life.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love some.”
“Okay. So what’s step one?”
“Clear out your life.”
“Done,” he laughed. “I’ve got nothing.”
“You don’t have a cart somewhere?” I slapped his shoulder playfully and hoped he’d take it as a joke.
“No cart. I have a box over on 10th street but I’m perfectly happy to give that up. It’s got nothing but rags and dirty magazines in it.” I glanced at him with raised eyebrows. “Awww come on. Homeless men have needs too!” He threw his hands up in the air. “What’s the second step?”
“Create goals. And the third is, of course, get to work on goals.”
“Ok. So what did you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Step One, step two. What happened?”
“I cleared out my life. Twice. The first time I wasn’t being very honest with myself, which is classic Discount Life behavior. The second time I cleared out my closet and got rid of all the stuff I’d felt attached too that wasn’t really helping me be who I want to be. Stanley says it doesn’t look any different but I see a difference.”
“Who’s Stanley?”
“My partner. We’ve been together for six years. We live together.”
“Well girls do tend to have too much stuff.”
“I did. I did. But I got honest and got rid of a lot. And then I wrote down my goals. Well, Andrew helped me write them actually and now I’m working on them,” I said cheerily. “I played the violin, I took a run, I signed us up for a cooking class –“
“Who’s us?” he cut me off.
“Me and Stanley.”
“Oh. I wasn’t sure if you meant you and Stanley or you and Andrew.”
“No. No. Me and Stanley. His idea of cooking is to open a box of Hamburger Helper. The cooking class should be good for both of us.”
“But learning to cook sounds like your goal.”
“Right…” I said it like a question, drawn out so as to express so what?
“I’m just saying….”he trailed off. “But I’m sure you know him well enough to know.”
His insight struck me like a fist. I knew my goals but what were Stanley’s? I shook it off. “Guess I’ll have to ask him for his goals.”
“And me for mine. I’ve got some thinking to do. When should we meet again?” He really wanted to do this with me. I was touched and, if I let myself think it, amazed by the power of humanity. The sameness that we all carried within our differences.
“How about next Sunday morning?” I said. A week from today if he decided to show.
“Done deal.”
“Alright then. It’s a DL date.” I stood up, preparing myself for departure and proffered a hand shake.
“Looking forward to it.” He shook my hand and pointed to the stairs. “You gonna run ‘em?”
“Not today. We’ll make it a someday goal.” I smirked at my own Judy-ism.
He laughed. “Okay. See you Sunday.” I jogged off in perfect formation until I rounded the corner of 1st street and knew I was out of his sightline. Baby steps, right? I walked the rest of the way home.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Discount Life: Step Two & Three
Step Two: Establish Goals
1) Run a marathon
2) Go to Scotland
3) Become a chef, I liked to cook, why not?
4) Become a violinist again
5) Actually, pick up the violin, its been so long the case has dust on it
6) Cut Dairy Out of My Diet (it makes my skin so itchy and my stomach, well, we won’t go there)
7) Learn to knit a scarf
8) Call Mom and Dad once a week, they are, after all, good parents
9) Find Italian Boyfriend with Villa and move to Lake Como
10) Host a dinner with place cards
11) Sky Dive
12) Actually Read War & Peace
13) Try Veganism
14) Try Buddhism
15) Become Crafty (ie- Martha Stewart)
16) Save Money, it seems to make the world go round
17) Become Poly-lingual (Russian, Mandarin, etc, etc.)
18) Buy a skirt with a slit in it and wear it
19) Get a new job
20) Get a new life
Turns out, when you sit down to write your goals there’s a lot more of them then you think. My list wasn’t what I expected. I needed to talk this out. I needed my friends. But Mel was spending the weekend in Connecticut with her parents and Jack was, of course, with Mel. I wasn’t quite ready to subject Stanley to my hair brained scheme. I was afraid he wouldn’t understand. Might make another joke of it again. So I decided to call Andrew, my long time always there when you need him, tell him everything and feel good about it friend.
We met for lunch at his place on a gorgeous September Saturday. He ordered take out and we sat out on his porch with our legs stretched out on the ratty wicker furniture his mother had given him when he graduated from college. Six years later, we were still eating Mexican take out from our laps and laughing through glasses of sangria that rocked alarmingly when they were set down on the unsteady wicker end tables.
“I should get rid of these,” he said. “There not impressing the ladies anymore.”
“Did they ever impress the ladies?”
“Well, the young ones. But not the real ones.”
“That’s slanderous. Young ones can be real. I was always very mature.”
“Yeah, well, don’t brag. Not everyone is amazing. But yeah. I probably should up the ante on my pad. I’m growing up now, I guess. Getting old.”
“You sound dismayed.”
“Naw. I don’t think words like dismayed. I’m just ready. For the next phase. Maybe find someone. Settle down a bit.” I felt a strange tug at my heart when he talked like this. Unidentifiable but remarkable all the same. I had known Andrew since we were in college. He was the life of the party. The glue from years past. He deserved this someone, whoever she may be. But in the deepest recesses of my subconscious heart, I didn’t like her already. She would sit here on a Saturday afternoon and eat my take out and drink my sangria, take my friend away from me and leave me on my porch, alone. She would take my place and I would have to let her so that my friend could move on to his next phase. Something like sadness swept over me.
Andrew said, “What?”
I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing. I was just thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.” I smiled wider this time. One must maintain cheer. “I’ve never heard you be so quiet. Must be thinking something big…”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
“Yes. Which is why, I presume, we’re sitting down to sangria and cheese. Go ahead. Spill it.” I told him about my theory and how it applied to me. About how I’d settled for so much and there was nobody to blame for it but me. That everyone did, all the time, but I was taking steps to stop myself from continuing the pattern of complacency.
“Sounds like you’re ready for the next phase too,” he said. The unidentifiable pang tugged at my heart again. I did not like this next phase stuff. Next phase implied leaving what we had. I liked what we had. I had always been uncomfortable with change but this change in particular implied I could no longer have Andrew as I had always had him. It was disheartening.
“I wouldn’t say next phase. I just want to be a better me and to be, complete, I guess.”
“Yeah. Next phase. Moving on, moving up. I get it.” He munched on his taco. His bites made loud crunching sounds. He chewed a bit with his mouth open and said,” I like it. You’re right. We do discount ourselves sometimes. I do it with women all the time. Never quite pick the ones I want ‘cause there’s another bird in my path.” I wanted to say Seriously. Stop with the girl talk. This discussion is not about your love life. Instead, I said, “I think we’ve all done something like that.”
“I want something real next time. Like you and Stanley.” Tug. Tug. Me and Stanley. Real. I suppose, for many people that was very true. Stanley and I were a numerical fact. One, instead of two. Quantifiable. Living together. My calculated thoughts went unspoken and we were quiet for a minute. “So what’s the next step?” He asked.
“I’m trying to write down my goals but they’re getting crazy. I need some help filtering.”
“I am up for the challenge. Hit me.” I bounced the list off of him and we laughed through a short hour of my insanities.
“You can’t actually become a chef and a violinist. Not as careers. So how about you write learn to cook. That’s better. And since when do you want to Sky Dive? You hate heights.”
“Face your fears?”
“Yeah but be reasonable. You don’t have to go crazy just because you want to have goals.”
“People sky dive Andrew.”
“You are not the same as all people. Be honest with yourself Chloe. You hate heights. But if you want to face that fear how about a hike or something? Like Grandfather Mountain. That’s reasonable.”
“Where’s Grandfather Mountain?”
“North Carolina. I’ve done it a couple of times. And there’s this awesome town at the top. Blowing Rock. We could make a trip of it, if you wanted to."
“Maybe,” I said, “Unless I decide to sky dive.” We continued like this until we wrote a list that sounded effective and plausible. We settled on the following:
1) Practice the violin and take steps toward making it a career
2) Run a marathon (or a half – remember to be reasonable)
3) Learn to Cook
4) Try different types of wellness (dietary, spiritual or otherwise)
5) Call Mom and Dad weekly
6) Travel (preferably to Scotland)
7) Explore new interests (reading, languages, crafts, etc. – Andrew says to remember that I don’t have to become professional at all of them)
8) Save Money
9) Buy a skirt with a slit in it and wear it ( also applauded by said friend)
10) Hike Grandfather Mountain (or go Sky diving)
“Well, you’re on your way. Now what?”
“I guess I get to work on some of the goals.”
“This is like a twelve step program. The Discount Life Anonymous.” It was, I supposed. A twelve step program to finding yourself. The concept was interesting.
“Kind of,” I said, if it works. “I’ll let you know how it goes.” At the top of the list I wrote “The Discount Life Anonymous”. At the end of the list I added a number 11: start my organization.
Step Three: Get to Work on a Goal
When I picked up the violin, the case was covered in dust so thick it had a saturated stick to it. My fingers left deep marks where their grip had broken the greasy seal. I waited until I was completely alone. Even the neighbors had gone out. It was a Sunday and I was ready to cross one of my goals off the list. I chose Bach for his beautiful melodic lines. Soft, sweet, sad, incumbent. The first note was scratchy. The second, sloppy. The third, fourth and fifth became more and more fluid, until the whole of the piece came flooding out of me like a love confession. All this time, I’d been waiting for just the right moment and when I finally allowed myself that the perfect moment to sit down and great and old friend didn’t exist, the mounting emotion surged out of me like I’d been waiting years to express it. I had. Six to be exact.
I played the tune like a record on repeat, until I had the first two pages memorized. I was so excited I called Mel. When I got her message machine I left her something breathy, childish.
“Mel it’s me. I just finished playing the violin. Can you believe it?! Bach….It was amazing. I mean, we knew I liked playing the violin but…this was just, it was like. It’s been so long. It was…oh I can’t explain it. Call me. I’m so excited! Bye.”
I tried my mom and dad but got their message machine as well. Fancy that, I finally call them and they’re busy. They call me so much you’d think they never left their house – like hermit crabs that only scamper out of their shells when it’s convenient to make a point.
I looked at the phone and thought about calling Stanley. He might enjoy knowing I’d done this. I stared at the handle briefly and ignored the rising tension in my body. Why was I nervous? I picked up the receiver and called him. He had gone golfing with two guys from his work early that morning. The phone rang several times. He didn’t answer and something like relief washed over me. My DL secret was still mine.
I reached for the phone and at last decided to call Andrew. I hesitated. Why was I so remiss to keep this to myself? Was it any less valuable if only I knew that I’d memorized the first movement of the famous Bach piece. Yet somehow I needed to declare it. Like I couldn’t cross it off the list until I’d screamed from a metaphorical mountain top: I DID IT. So I dialed the number and was pleasantly surprise when I heard, “Hey there, what’s up?”
“I played the violin.” I said it flatly and in a rush. Coolness was never one of my attributes.
“Awesome. You can cross it off the list now right?”
“Right.”
“Perfect.”
“What are you doing?”
“I…uh…I’m with someone. “ Tug, Tug. It was a woman. I could tell by the way he didn’t just say it matter of factly. A typical male, he always said everything with an absolute air of perfunctory. When it came to women, he drew out his sentences.
“With someone? Someone like a woman?”
“Yeah. I decided to take your advice. Stop discounting myself and…” he trailed off.
“And?” I sounded impatient. I heard it in my own voice and the tone alarmed me. Curb your emotion. It’s just a girl. He’s had plenty. But something felt different this time. He sounded different.
“And she’s standing right here so I can’t talk about her right now…” he laughed nervously and I heard her laughter in the back ground too. Flirting. Flattering. They were sharing this moment. He didn’t say anything else and he didn’t hang up either. We were all just present, our thoughts hanging like from a string in mid air. Whose will the wind break first? Mine.
“Oh okay well, I’ll let you go then. I just had a minute. Wanted to share my violin thing.”
“That’s really great Clo. I’m excited for you. Let me know when you cross another one off, ok?”
“Okay”, deafening pause, “Bye.”
“Bye.” He hung up quickly and my shoulders slumped as I put the phone down. Already, she was in my wicker chair drinking my sangria. Tug. But I wanted Andrew to be happy. This was the price of change I guessed. No more Discounts meant that people would find themselves following new paths. Unreasonably I thought, He was mine. Was. Tug. The truth of that was hard to bare. I pushed Andrew and discount girl away from my mind and turned back to the violin. I played Tchaikovsky. Sad, slow. It felt good to play him. I messed up the notes left and right but I didn’t care. It felt right.
Stanley came home in the middle of page three. “Wow, you’re playing?” I haven’t heard you play in forever.” I stopped to study his expression. “What brought this on?”
I didn’t answer immediately but instead cocked my head to the side and scrunched up my face. A playful expression that said I’m thinking. I should really tell Stanley a little bit about The Discount Life. He deserved that. So I said, “Remember when I cleared out my closet?”
“Did you find the violin in there?”
“No. But it started something in me. It wasn’t just cleaning out the closet.”
“Ohh-kay. What else was it then?”
“It was kind of metaphorical, you know? Of my life. I wanted to whittle down the junk so I could find what I treasured. The closet was just a start really.”
“What you treasure. So the violin?” He wanted a point by point discussion.
“The violin is one of the things I want. I used to play really seriously. I guess…I guess I stopped right around the time we got together.”
“You played some. I’ve heard you play.” There was something defensive in his tone.
“Yeah. I did for a while.”
“So are we moving to New York to turn you into Ishtak Perlman?” He was the only violinist people knew.
“No,” I laughed,” Baby steps. Maybe I’ll join a lower level orchestra.”
“You work for an orchestra you know.”
“I know but they’re done auditioning for violinist’s this year and they’re Philadelphia’s best. Maybe in the spring I’ll audition for them.”
“Sounds good,” he reached out and patted my shoulder, like football buddies who smack each other around to express affection. “ Good luck,” he said, pinning a closed lip kiss on my dry chapped lips. He turned, walked into the bathroom and closed the door. I felt a tear begin to well up in the corner of my eye. I focused on the ceiling and pushed it back in. One. Must. Maintain. Cheer.
1) Run a marathon
2) Go to Scotland
3) Become a chef, I liked to cook, why not?
4) Become a violinist again
5) Actually, pick up the violin, its been so long the case has dust on it
6) Cut Dairy Out of My Diet (it makes my skin so itchy and my stomach, well, we won’t go there)
7) Learn to knit a scarf
8) Call Mom and Dad once a week, they are, after all, good parents
9) Find Italian Boyfriend with Villa and move to Lake Como
10) Host a dinner with place cards
11) Sky Dive
12) Actually Read War & Peace
13) Try Veganism
14) Try Buddhism
15) Become Crafty (ie- Martha Stewart)
16) Save Money, it seems to make the world go round
17) Become Poly-lingual (Russian, Mandarin, etc, etc.)
18) Buy a skirt with a slit in it and wear it
19) Get a new job
20) Get a new life
Turns out, when you sit down to write your goals there’s a lot more of them then you think. My list wasn’t what I expected. I needed to talk this out. I needed my friends. But Mel was spending the weekend in Connecticut with her parents and Jack was, of course, with Mel. I wasn’t quite ready to subject Stanley to my hair brained scheme. I was afraid he wouldn’t understand. Might make another joke of it again. So I decided to call Andrew, my long time always there when you need him, tell him everything and feel good about it friend.
We met for lunch at his place on a gorgeous September Saturday. He ordered take out and we sat out on his porch with our legs stretched out on the ratty wicker furniture his mother had given him when he graduated from college. Six years later, we were still eating Mexican take out from our laps and laughing through glasses of sangria that rocked alarmingly when they were set down on the unsteady wicker end tables.
“I should get rid of these,” he said. “There not impressing the ladies anymore.”
“Did they ever impress the ladies?”
“Well, the young ones. But not the real ones.”
“That’s slanderous. Young ones can be real. I was always very mature.”
“Yeah, well, don’t brag. Not everyone is amazing. But yeah. I probably should up the ante on my pad. I’m growing up now, I guess. Getting old.”
“You sound dismayed.”
“Naw. I don’t think words like dismayed. I’m just ready. For the next phase. Maybe find someone. Settle down a bit.” I felt a strange tug at my heart when he talked like this. Unidentifiable but remarkable all the same. I had known Andrew since we were in college. He was the life of the party. The glue from years past. He deserved this someone, whoever she may be. But in the deepest recesses of my subconscious heart, I didn’t like her already. She would sit here on a Saturday afternoon and eat my take out and drink my sangria, take my friend away from me and leave me on my porch, alone. She would take my place and I would have to let her so that my friend could move on to his next phase. Something like sadness swept over me.
Andrew said, “What?”
I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing. I was just thinking.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.” I smiled wider this time. One must maintain cheer. “I’ve never heard you be so quiet. Must be thinking something big…”
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
“Yes. Which is why, I presume, we’re sitting down to sangria and cheese. Go ahead. Spill it.” I told him about my theory and how it applied to me. About how I’d settled for so much and there was nobody to blame for it but me. That everyone did, all the time, but I was taking steps to stop myself from continuing the pattern of complacency.
“Sounds like you’re ready for the next phase too,” he said. The unidentifiable pang tugged at my heart again. I did not like this next phase stuff. Next phase implied leaving what we had. I liked what we had. I had always been uncomfortable with change but this change in particular implied I could no longer have Andrew as I had always had him. It was disheartening.
“I wouldn’t say next phase. I just want to be a better me and to be, complete, I guess.”
“Yeah. Next phase. Moving on, moving up. I get it.” He munched on his taco. His bites made loud crunching sounds. He chewed a bit with his mouth open and said,” I like it. You’re right. We do discount ourselves sometimes. I do it with women all the time. Never quite pick the ones I want ‘cause there’s another bird in my path.” I wanted to say Seriously. Stop with the girl talk. This discussion is not about your love life. Instead, I said, “I think we’ve all done something like that.”
“I want something real next time. Like you and Stanley.” Tug. Tug. Me and Stanley. Real. I suppose, for many people that was very true. Stanley and I were a numerical fact. One, instead of two. Quantifiable. Living together. My calculated thoughts went unspoken and we were quiet for a minute. “So what’s the next step?” He asked.
“I’m trying to write down my goals but they’re getting crazy. I need some help filtering.”
“I am up for the challenge. Hit me.” I bounced the list off of him and we laughed through a short hour of my insanities.
“You can’t actually become a chef and a violinist. Not as careers. So how about you write learn to cook. That’s better. And since when do you want to Sky Dive? You hate heights.”
“Face your fears?”
“Yeah but be reasonable. You don’t have to go crazy just because you want to have goals.”
“People sky dive Andrew.”
“You are not the same as all people. Be honest with yourself Chloe. You hate heights. But if you want to face that fear how about a hike or something? Like Grandfather Mountain. That’s reasonable.”
“Where’s Grandfather Mountain?”
“North Carolina. I’ve done it a couple of times. And there’s this awesome town at the top. Blowing Rock. We could make a trip of it, if you wanted to."
“Maybe,” I said, “Unless I decide to sky dive.” We continued like this until we wrote a list that sounded effective and plausible. We settled on the following:
1) Practice the violin and take steps toward making it a career
2) Run a marathon (or a half – remember to be reasonable)
3) Learn to Cook
4) Try different types of wellness (dietary, spiritual or otherwise)
5) Call Mom and Dad weekly
6) Travel (preferably to Scotland)
7) Explore new interests (reading, languages, crafts, etc. – Andrew says to remember that I don’t have to become professional at all of them)
8) Save Money
9) Buy a skirt with a slit in it and wear it ( also applauded by said friend)
10) Hike Grandfather Mountain (or go Sky diving)
“Well, you’re on your way. Now what?”
“I guess I get to work on some of the goals.”
“This is like a twelve step program. The Discount Life Anonymous.” It was, I supposed. A twelve step program to finding yourself. The concept was interesting.
“Kind of,” I said, if it works. “I’ll let you know how it goes.” At the top of the list I wrote “The Discount Life Anonymous”. At the end of the list I added a number 11: start my organization.
Step Three: Get to Work on a Goal
When I picked up the violin, the case was covered in dust so thick it had a saturated stick to it. My fingers left deep marks where their grip had broken the greasy seal. I waited until I was completely alone. Even the neighbors had gone out. It was a Sunday and I was ready to cross one of my goals off the list. I chose Bach for his beautiful melodic lines. Soft, sweet, sad, incumbent. The first note was scratchy. The second, sloppy. The third, fourth and fifth became more and more fluid, until the whole of the piece came flooding out of me like a love confession. All this time, I’d been waiting for just the right moment and when I finally allowed myself that the perfect moment to sit down and great and old friend didn’t exist, the mounting emotion surged out of me like I’d been waiting years to express it. I had. Six to be exact.
I played the tune like a record on repeat, until I had the first two pages memorized. I was so excited I called Mel. When I got her message machine I left her something breathy, childish.
“Mel it’s me. I just finished playing the violin. Can you believe it?! Bach….It was amazing. I mean, we knew I liked playing the violin but…this was just, it was like. It’s been so long. It was…oh I can’t explain it. Call me. I’m so excited! Bye.”
I tried my mom and dad but got their message machine as well. Fancy that, I finally call them and they’re busy. They call me so much you’d think they never left their house – like hermit crabs that only scamper out of their shells when it’s convenient to make a point.
I looked at the phone and thought about calling Stanley. He might enjoy knowing I’d done this. I stared at the handle briefly and ignored the rising tension in my body. Why was I nervous? I picked up the receiver and called him. He had gone golfing with two guys from his work early that morning. The phone rang several times. He didn’t answer and something like relief washed over me. My DL secret was still mine.
I reached for the phone and at last decided to call Andrew. I hesitated. Why was I so remiss to keep this to myself? Was it any less valuable if only I knew that I’d memorized the first movement of the famous Bach piece. Yet somehow I needed to declare it. Like I couldn’t cross it off the list until I’d screamed from a metaphorical mountain top: I DID IT. So I dialed the number and was pleasantly surprise when I heard, “Hey there, what’s up?”
“I played the violin.” I said it flatly and in a rush. Coolness was never one of my attributes.
“Awesome. You can cross it off the list now right?”
“Right.”
“Perfect.”
“What are you doing?”
“I…uh…I’m with someone. “ Tug, Tug. It was a woman. I could tell by the way he didn’t just say it matter of factly. A typical male, he always said everything with an absolute air of perfunctory. When it came to women, he drew out his sentences.
“With someone? Someone like a woman?”
“Yeah. I decided to take your advice. Stop discounting myself and…” he trailed off.
“And?” I sounded impatient. I heard it in my own voice and the tone alarmed me. Curb your emotion. It’s just a girl. He’s had plenty. But something felt different this time. He sounded different.
“And she’s standing right here so I can’t talk about her right now…” he laughed nervously and I heard her laughter in the back ground too. Flirting. Flattering. They were sharing this moment. He didn’t say anything else and he didn’t hang up either. We were all just present, our thoughts hanging like from a string in mid air. Whose will the wind break first? Mine.
“Oh okay well, I’ll let you go then. I just had a minute. Wanted to share my violin thing.”
“That’s really great Clo. I’m excited for you. Let me know when you cross another one off, ok?”
“Okay”, deafening pause, “Bye.”
“Bye.” He hung up quickly and my shoulders slumped as I put the phone down. Already, she was in my wicker chair drinking my sangria. Tug. But I wanted Andrew to be happy. This was the price of change I guessed. No more Discounts meant that people would find themselves following new paths. Unreasonably I thought, He was mine. Was. Tug. The truth of that was hard to bare. I pushed Andrew and discount girl away from my mind and turned back to the violin. I played Tchaikovsky. Sad, slow. It felt good to play him. I messed up the notes left and right but I didn’t care. It felt right.
Stanley came home in the middle of page three. “Wow, you’re playing?” I haven’t heard you play in forever.” I stopped to study his expression. “What brought this on?”
I didn’t answer immediately but instead cocked my head to the side and scrunched up my face. A playful expression that said I’m thinking. I should really tell Stanley a little bit about The Discount Life. He deserved that. So I said, “Remember when I cleared out my closet?”
“Did you find the violin in there?”
“No. But it started something in me. It wasn’t just cleaning out the closet.”
“Ohh-kay. What else was it then?”
“It was kind of metaphorical, you know? Of my life. I wanted to whittle down the junk so I could find what I treasured. The closet was just a start really.”
“What you treasure. So the violin?” He wanted a point by point discussion.
“The violin is one of the things I want. I used to play really seriously. I guess…I guess I stopped right around the time we got together.”
“You played some. I’ve heard you play.” There was something defensive in his tone.
“Yeah. I did for a while.”
“So are we moving to New York to turn you into Ishtak Perlman?” He was the only violinist people knew.
“No,” I laughed,” Baby steps. Maybe I’ll join a lower level orchestra.”
“You work for an orchestra you know.”
“I know but they’re done auditioning for violinist’s this year and they’re Philadelphia’s best. Maybe in the spring I’ll audition for them.”
“Sounds good,” he reached out and patted my shoulder, like football buddies who smack each other around to express affection. “ Good luck,” he said, pinning a closed lip kiss on my dry chapped lips. He turned, walked into the bathroom and closed the door. I felt a tear begin to well up in the corner of my eye. I focused on the ceiling and pushed it back in. One. Must. Maintain. Cheer.
The Women
For Kylie, Natalie, Sadie & all the little girls yet to come:
Little girl, know this: when the sky comes falling down, when your heart is in a million pieces and your sanity drained, when you’re body rips open in birth, it’s the women who hold your hand and bring you back to life.
Little girl heed this: the perfect mate does not exist. Know that now and save yourself the trouble of trying to breathe him into existence. Breathe, instead, life into yourself. The men will come and there will be many. Some will be great. Some will be boys. All of them will teach you something. They will all say they will be there for you. But it’s your women that will truly keep that promise. They will hear your heart weeping silently and answer your call at midnight. They won’t just take your strength: they’ll give it.
Little girl see this: my women are amazing. My women grow new life, making plans all along they know they will have to carry through themselves. They care for their girls like they are holding their own hearts in the palms of their hands: lovingly, absolutely, resolutely. My women beat cancer and ward off financial strife. My women wear football stripes under their eyes so their friend doesn’t have to wear bandages alone. They come to a strange apartment and eat spaghetti with wine so their friend can find peace over a giant pot of marinara. My women clean like mad. My women never let a week go by without telling each other how much they are loved. They come every Wednesday and share the gab of the week. My women make delicious quesadillas and eat pints of pistachio ice cream and make a bed with fresh cotton scented sheets for their friend’s rest. They spend the day curled up and crying just because it was needed of them. My women love often and well and they always tell the truth.
Little girl practice this: truth is at the heart of it all. You can be whoever you want to be as long as you are truthful. You will hear this over and over. You will ignore it because you want to meet everyone’s expectations. Because disappointment is easier than confrontation. Because you’re not sure you can. You will feel that your mistakes have cost you so much time. But you are always where you are for a reason. The world is still turning. Be truthful to yourself.
Little girl hear this: Steel Magnolias are not born – They’re made. That which does not kill us only makes us stronger and you will need every ounce of your spirit to find that strength. Life is one big test of will & optimism but you will not face it alone. Because we are your women. We will offer a hand when you fall and help you learn to stand back up. We will hold your hand in ours when you’re scared. We’ll rub your back when he said he would and didn’t, when he’s found someone new and the pain is too great. We’ll stand and cheer from the sidelines when you cross each new threshold. We will love you Little Girl, no strings attached, because you were born to us. We are yours from here until eternity; try to remember us as you grow.
Little girl, know this: when the sky is its brightest blue, when your heart is bursting in joy and happiness, when you’re body is healed and healthy, it’s the women who hold your hand and walk with you through life. We are your human footprints in the sand. We are never without each other and you are never without us. Walk with us Little Girl, we love you.
Little girl, know this: when the sky comes falling down, when your heart is in a million pieces and your sanity drained, when you’re body rips open in birth, it’s the women who hold your hand and bring you back to life.
Little girl heed this: the perfect mate does not exist. Know that now and save yourself the trouble of trying to breathe him into existence. Breathe, instead, life into yourself. The men will come and there will be many. Some will be great. Some will be boys. All of them will teach you something. They will all say they will be there for you. But it’s your women that will truly keep that promise. They will hear your heart weeping silently and answer your call at midnight. They won’t just take your strength: they’ll give it.
Little girl see this: my women are amazing. My women grow new life, making plans all along they know they will have to carry through themselves. They care for their girls like they are holding their own hearts in the palms of their hands: lovingly, absolutely, resolutely. My women beat cancer and ward off financial strife. My women wear football stripes under their eyes so their friend doesn’t have to wear bandages alone. They come to a strange apartment and eat spaghetti with wine so their friend can find peace over a giant pot of marinara. My women clean like mad. My women never let a week go by without telling each other how much they are loved. They come every Wednesday and share the gab of the week. My women make delicious quesadillas and eat pints of pistachio ice cream and make a bed with fresh cotton scented sheets for their friend’s rest. They spend the day curled up and crying just because it was needed of them. My women love often and well and they always tell the truth.
Little girl practice this: truth is at the heart of it all. You can be whoever you want to be as long as you are truthful. You will hear this over and over. You will ignore it because you want to meet everyone’s expectations. Because disappointment is easier than confrontation. Because you’re not sure you can. You will feel that your mistakes have cost you so much time. But you are always where you are for a reason. The world is still turning. Be truthful to yourself.
Little girl hear this: Steel Magnolias are not born – They’re made. That which does not kill us only makes us stronger and you will need every ounce of your spirit to find that strength. Life is one big test of will & optimism but you will not face it alone. Because we are your women. We will offer a hand when you fall and help you learn to stand back up. We will hold your hand in ours when you’re scared. We’ll rub your back when he said he would and didn’t, when he’s found someone new and the pain is too great. We’ll stand and cheer from the sidelines when you cross each new threshold. We will love you Little Girl, no strings attached, because you were born to us. We are yours from here until eternity; try to remember us as you grow.
Little girl, know this: when the sky is its brightest blue, when your heart is bursting in joy and happiness, when you’re body is healed and healthy, it’s the women who hold your hand and walk with you through life. We are your human footprints in the sand. We are never without each other and you are never without us. Walk with us Little Girl, we love you.
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