Aunt Erma's Cope Book (7 page)

a house divided

against itself

cannot

stand one another

I MISSED ME. When I had been my own best friend, I didn't have to dress up, go out, or sit around all night listening to someone else talk.

All I had to do was get up every day and take my emotional temperature. Did I love me more today than I did yesterday? Was I really in command of my own life? Could I con myself out of doing the hand laundry for another month?

I had heard about the Me-too-me-first phase. It happened to people who read too many how-to books and became terminally strange. Was it possible I had become too obsessed with myself?

If it was, maybe—by mingling in the world of what's happening—I could find a cause that appealed to me. What better way than to give a party? I'd simply invite a couple dozen friends and during the course of the evening, some cause or project would strike my interest and I could direct my energies away from myself.

As I made out the guest list, I reminisced about the days when you simply called up your friends, put a ton of food on the table, set out the booze, and let it happen.

All that had changed.

If we invited John, we had to invite three other smokers who could stand with him defiant and unified against the rest of the room.

Stella drank only vodka, twelve guests were “into white wine,” and the rest of them sanctimoniously hoisted French water with a twist of lime.

Eight were vegetarians, three would eat nothing from the sea because it was tainted, and fifteen were on diets.

Lois drank eight glasses of water with her diet and had to have a straight shot at all times between her and the bathroom. Mary Ellen still had to weigh her portions on a postal scale. Elaine ran to test her urine every time she ate a carbohydrate, and Jerry brought her own concoction consisting of seaweed, olive oil, goat's milk, and cantaloupe which she stored in a Tupperware container in the refrigerator.

I couldn't seat a runner next to a lump, a nuclear proponent next to an environmentalist, a gun-control advocate next to a hunter, or a childless-by-choice next to a breast-feeder.

There should have been an easier way to get a handle on what was happening in the world and find a niche for myself.

When I saw Marj come in wearing a fur coat, I tried to propel her away from Liz, but not before Liz said in a loud voice, “My dream is to see an animal walk into a party some night dressed in a cape made out of Marj!”

I guided her into a conversation with George, who was arguing with Stan about the busing issue. I introduced Stan to Lots, who was in a shouting match with Doug about cohabital living. I thrust Lots into a group who were pro-abortion only to discover she was a Catholic, and then propelled her into a conversation with Stella. Stella, a feminist, was shouting at Sonya, who said she was happy staying home and why couldn't Stella accept that!

Liz appeared at my elbow and—nodding toward George—said, “What kind of a jerk would be against neutering animals?”

At the same time, Sonya complained she had a respiratory disorder and couldn't talk to a smoker, so I introduced her to Mary Ellen.

Doug said there wasn't one person at the party who read The New York Times and one woman thought a vasectomy was an operation for varicose veins. Was there no one who had an opinion on the Marvin decision!

When they were seated for dinner, my eyes glanced nervously around the table. Let's see, I had the natural-childbirth advocate next to the minister, the legalize marijuana next to open enrollment, jogger next to environmentalist, antiviolence next to the woman who didn't own a television set, the chauvinist next to the anti-feminist, and the anti-pay-toilet demonstrator next to . . . who else? Lots, who was on her seventh glass of water but couldn't tear herself away from her dinner companion's views.

The only thing I had forgotten was to put my husband, the left-hander, at the end of the table. Luckily, left-handers were pacifists.

Their conversation sounded like the Tower of Babel. Every once in a while words and phrases would surface loudly: “a new concept,” “the bottom line is productivity,” “at this point in time,” “a positive interaction,” “sexual freedom.”

Mayva was right. I needed the stimulation of a cause that would put me on the other end of one of those conversations.

Later, as I was talking with Emily about volunteering a few hours a week at the Save the Whale Sperm Bank, Stella steered me to the sofa and said, “Let's talk.”

She eased herself back into the cushions. “When are you going to take yourself away from all this?”

“I'm the hostess,” I said simply.

“I don't mean the party. I mean all this domesticity.”

I liked Stella. I also knew she never got too choked up over a “nice windy day that was perfect for drying blankets.”

In fact, her wedding linens dissolved in the washer and her marriage dissolved in the courts the same week. She took that as an omen.

Like Helen, my neighbor, Stella had made the transition from the utility room to the board room as easily as napping during a piano recital.

“You're such a success,” I smiled. “I'm so proud of you.”

“And you could be a success too,” she said. “It's a game. Men have been playing it for years. Have you read Looking Out for You-Know-Who by Robby Winner?”

“Stella,” I said, “I just went through that number. It didn't work.”

“How do you know it isn't for you? You couldn't have been serious about breaking out of the mold. Look at you!”

“Now, what's the matter with me?” I asked.

“My God, no one wears a slip any more.”

“That's not true. I know a lot of women who wear slips.”

“Under a see-through sweater? Get serious. Look, babe, why don't you come down next week to my office and we'll have lunch. We can talk some more. Besides, I want you to see where I work.”

I had no intention of following up on Stella's suggestion until one afternoon at the Save the Whale Sperm Bank when I had hung up on my 187th obscene phone call, I called and told her I'd be by around one.

Stella was on the twenty-seventh floor of one of those office buildings that looks like it's awaiting a countdown. Her secretary led me into her office.

I had lived in smaller apartments. A huge desk held a phone with five buttons. There was a wall of bookcases and two African spears that crossed a shield on the wall behind her desk.

“I didn't know you went to Africa,” I said.

“I didn't, sweetie; it's part of the trappings.” She slid her glasses (the size of goggles) back over her head, giving her a Marlo-Thomas-in-the-convertible look.

“How long have you been wearing glasses?”

“I don't. Look, will you stop acting like Penny meeting Sky King for the first time? It's what I've been telling you. It's all in Robby Winner's book. You have to look like success and play the game. The tan came from a sun lamp so my clients will think I have the security to vacation in Florida during the winter. I never sweat because I wear lightweight clothes all year round and keep the thermostat at sixty-two. Coffee?” she asked.

I nodded. Her secretary brought in one cup and set it down in front of me.

“Aren't you having any?”

She shook her head. "An urgent bladder is a sign of weakness. I never indulge. You use all the tricks, honey.

That chair you're sitting in ... it's three times smaller than mine and has a soft cushion that makes you sit lower than me. Gives me an advantage. The books are all paneling. This desk set wasn't presented to me in appreciation by anyone. I just had a plaque engraved last week and it looks like I'm a recipient of something."

“Are you saying all of this is contrived, right down to your attache case?”

“The insides smell like egg salad,” she shrugged. “I cannot believe you are so naive,” she chided. “We're competing in a man's world and it's serious business . . . well, maybe not all of it.”

“You know something,” I said, leaning closer.

“No, I was just thinking about an office party we had the other night that was rather interesting. Kay had to take Mark home.”

“Who's Mark?”

“You saw him when you came in. He's the little red-haired secretary to Ms. Hamstein in Research and Development.”

“You mean he had too much to drink?”

“Kay told me he was running around with a Cadillac hood ornament in his hand, shouting 'Anyone here lose a Krugerrand?'”

“Is he married?”

“Of course he's married. He probably should be at home with the kids anyway. He doesn't have to work. His wife has a good job, but it's an ego thing.”

"I think office parties should be legally outlawed.

What purpose do they serve?"

“Kay says it's a nice thing to do, but I don't know. Women turn into beasts when they've had a drink or two. Can you imagine those women executives plying all those struggling male clerks with drinks they're not used to? Why, even Cecil Frampton was discoing all over the place. Oh, he's got a nice figure all right. Hides it under those leisure suits. But by the end of the evening he was calling Ms. Hathcock ... get this . . . GLORIA! And Debbie was cruising around. Marriage certainly hasn't settled her down.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“I'll tell you what's wrong. She left with the new office boy and she is old enough to be his mother. There is really something pathetic about a woman who refuses to act her age. Oh sure, it may be a way out of the mail room, but he has to live with himself.”

There was a silence as she shuffled through her handbag looking for her lipstick.

“I had a big week,” I said. “I color-coded my leftovers.”

You had to give it to Stella. She certainly had made the transition from plastic plates to power city. But she was the exception. Most of my friends didn't have such a flashy set-up. One worked in the school cafeteria, another passed out sausage samples in a supermarket, another sold real estate, and Kathy was a Girl Friday for an insulation contractor.

I rarely saw Kathy any more. She lived by a timetable. Even her headaches were scheduled. The sun never set on an empty Crock Pot. She left the house at seven, returned at four-thirty, and her domestic schedule never missed a beat.

Kathy had certainly changed. When I knew her, she was possibly the most unorganized homemaker to ever come down the pike. She was always running out of staples like meat, milk, and toilet paper. Her gas gauge was always on E and her children were never born when she thought they were going to be. She had possibly the only twelve-month pregnancies in the history of obstetrics. Her return to the labor market was a surprise to us all. It happened one afternoon when she returned from the orthodontist. She and her husband talked it over and they decided that no way could he support two overbites on his salary.

We occasionally talked on the phone (where she answered mechanically, “Brunwilder's Insulation, Kathy speaking”), but I hadn't been to visit her since she returned to work. I didn't know the place.

Just inside the door was a large mirror. Over it was a lettered sign that read STRAIGHT TEETH MEAN SACRIFICE.

The house was decorated in Early Memo. You couldn't see the refrigerator door for the instructions on it.

NOW HEAR THIS. . . . When the floor becomes adhesive, MOP IT.

There is no known navy-blue food. If there is navy-blue food in the refrigerator, it signifies death.

Setting the table is not considered child abuse.

Anyone eating an entire can of albacore white tuna packed in water for a snack must be prepared to work out financial arrangements.

An open refrigerator door and the furnace going at the same time are incompatible.

Look upon one glass carried from your bedroom to the kitchen as “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Today is a new day. Throw away something off the countertop.

The dog's business is everyone's business. Even when you don't see it, clean it up.

In the utility room was another memo:

You are standing in a utility room.

Clothes are washed, dried, and ironed here.

Hand washables left over ten years will be sold.

Spaghetti inside the washer can be traced.

Small brown dots on clothes that smell like a wet possum should be dealt with immediately.

Match every sock with something. Color, texture, and size is not important.

Do not shake; out gym clothes as they trigger the smoke alarm. Process them immediately.

Do not take the chill off the room by turning the iron to the COTTON setting.

One pair of jeans is considered a “mini” load.

Clothes do not have feet. They cannot skip, run, or walk. They must be carried to your respective bedrooms.

The bathroom memo read:

Towels in the bathroom are yellow. REPEAT. Yellow. If they appear in any other color, drop them into the nearest clothes hamper.

A word about gravity. A shampoo bottle when lying on its side with the cap off will eventually empty into the drain. Just because there's 55 pounds of hair in the drain, there is no need to shampoo it.

Flushing is an equal-opportunity job. Simply press finger firmly on the lever and push. If water “runs” longer than 15 hours, jiggle lever gently.

Hair dryers left on and shut up in a drawer serve no purpose. Turn them off.

The management requests you conserve towels. No more than one for hair, one for the right arm, one for the left, and one for the body. Somewhere, there is a war on.

The mystery of disappearing soap has been solved. A discovery made in 1903 revealed soap, when submerged in water, will dissolve.

FIFTY-MINUTE SHOWERS CAUSE ACNE.

After visiting with Stella and Kathy the thought of going home was depressing. My surroundings didn't exactly have the stamp of success written all over them. My meat always overthawed and ran down the stove. There was a mountain of “hand washables” in the utility room with baby sweaters near the bottom. Someone had written in the dust on the coffee table, “For a good time call Leah 555-3049.” I cannot remember when there was a pencil by the phone.

Why didn't I take pride in my work? Homemaking, if you did it right, was just as creative, just as vital, and just as professional as what women were doing outside the home. Besides, it was one of the few jobs left where you could have an urgent bladder and not lose respect.