ONE SMALL STEP FOR WOMANKIND…
THE BOOK OF LAMENTATIONS
Mr. King of the IM
To Babyblues:
Hey Babe, good morning what’s up?
Mr. King of the IM
To Babyblues:
Hi pretty lady …gorgeous day for the beach… how’s life?
Mr. King of the IM
To Babyblues:
Cold shoulder? You… what gives?
Mr. King of the IM
To Babyblues:
Hello hello????? Hey where the hell are you??? THIS IS JOHN…HELLO??
Ellen had taken a vow of silence.
The phone rang again. As Ellen opened only one of her blue eyes, she stared at the answering machine on her night table praying whoever it was would just hang up. Already there were four messages from Dena (Fear calculated the urgency escalating in Dena’s voice), two from Lori, wanting to know the details of what Ellen had worn into the city, one from Tink, in the mood to take a walk on the beach with the dogs, which was girl code for “spill it.” Then there were two from Connie begging for a call back, something about a friend’s daughter getting engaged after a whirlwind online romance, which Ellen interpreted as an attempt to give her hope and crush her at the same time.
Disappointment noted that in the last three days not one of the messages was from Mr. Soup and Salad.
Ellen had taken a vow of speechlessness.
But there was nothing silent in the cacophony of voices in her head. The dog sat stoically at the edge of Ellen’s bed waiting for signs of life and sighed when the phone went unanswered for the fourth time that morning. Ellen abruptly tossed off the covers, grabbed her bathrobe muttering something about chicken fricassee, and tumbled downstairs, dragging the fluffy pillow Disappointment had clutched for the past three mornings.
Ellen had been whirling in the kitchen for an hour, brandishing wooden spoons, piling bowls in the sink, and was now covered in a fine dusting of white flour, when the phone rang again.
“Ma, hi! Jeez, where have you been?” It was Dena – Ellen had finally picked up the phone. A cloud of flour and paprika settled into the receiver’s crevices.
“Hi, Cookie. Oh, all over the place, you know me.”
“Ma, you okay? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Oh, things are good, fine, everything’s fine.” Ellen juggled several onions and a large chopping knife as Fear placed a mental image of Mr. Soup and Salad’s head on the large wooden board that teetered on the blue Formica counter.
“Well – how was your date? What did he look like?”
“Uh, nice, very nice. He looked nice. Everything was very nice.”
“Really? Think he’ll call again?”
Ellen froze. Did she really want him to call again? “Dena, I’m in the middle of making chicken fricassee. Let’s talk later.”
“Ma, it’s eight-thirty in the morning. Isn’t that a bit early even for you? Are you having a dinner party?”
“Oh, I’m sizzling here. Nope, honey, just felt like cooking. Hey, if you cook it they will come, hahaha.”
Ellen pictured Mr. Soup and Salad gagging on a piece of juicy succulent chicken and smiled.
“Ma, where’d you go?”
“I’m right here. Oh… to a charming little place on the East Side. I had the veal. He had soup and salad. He paid for dinner, isn’t that nice?”
Ellen blew kisses into the receiver as she tossed several carrots into the pot of roiling chicken stew. She rushed around the kitchen, wanting to finish and get dressed for her appointment with Karen, side-stepping spilled stewed tomatoes and the truth with the phone dangling from one ear.
“By the way,” Dena said, “I signed you up for Match.com and E Harmony.”
“That’s nice. Love you.” Ellen slammed the phone down. She turned to the refrigerator and with a quick glance at her reflection in its chrome finish mouthed the word, Loser. She stirred the greasy pot and put a lid on it. She raced upstairs to get dressed and tossed off an eat that as a final thought to Mr. Soup and Salad.
The phone rang again.
She would never, ever tell anyone anything again, Ellen promised herself as she reached for the receiver, read the caller ID, and saw Mags’ number spelled out.
“OK, so tell me. I’m sitting here wondering why you haven’t called. You come into the city, you go on a date, and you don’t call me?”
Ellen knew Mags was hoping to swap dating stories. She had just returned from a wild weekend with Don, the divorce lawyer, who she met online, which most likely included a case of cabernet and his motorcycle. Ellen wasn’t up to the competition.
“Fine, the date was just fine.” Ellen was still in her robe and slippers and beyond confused as to what to say and what not to say, what to wear, what not to wear, what to think, and what not to think.
“Fine? That’s it? Just fine? You’re keeping something from me. You bitch, I know you. I want details. Every single one. ”
Ellen caved. “OK, OK. The guy has never been married, has no children, and lives in a studio – with no bed as far as I could tell. I was floored, literally.” Her voice trailed off and she hoped her tone would fill in the gaps.
“What? You wound up on the floor? Ellen, good for you. What a breakthrough.”
“Mags, really, go easy. I just don’t know how I feel. I wait thirty years for this and wind up on the guy’s hardwood floor. I’m not a kid anymore. Thank God he was a vegetarian, I don’t know what I would have done if he had staying power.”
“Oh Ellen, honey – ha ha. Did I ever tell you about my friend Clara? She was in a taxi, dressed to the nines for an event at the Whitney, got the hots for the driver and wound up in his fourth floor walkup on Avenue A. Now he picks her up at the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and they have a standing date on Thursday at four o’clock when his shift is over.”
“Oh great,” Ellen said, “she gets a lover, Connie’s friend’s daughter gets engaged, and I get an anorexic with a case of OCD with an anal-retentive closet of lined up black plastic suit protectors and two new subscriptions to dating services.”
“Ellen, welcome to the Alternate Universe of Single People. I’m proud of you.”
Proud? Inside, Ellen wobbled. Pride was what she had for her children. Pride was what she felt when she went out with her gorgeous dog that rightfully got all the attention. Pride was what she felt when her banana bread turned out perfect, but pride for going home with a stranger who had seduced her with a few weeks of e-mails and phone calls?
Ellen needed time.
Ellen needed to get the hell out of the house and see Karen fast.
She grabbed her keys and turned off the stove. Too many cooks in Ellen’s stew.
“D, get in the car, we’re going to town.”
Divina was elated and spun around the car twice before leaping into the back seat.
Ellen had chosen to dress in gray, with camel and white accents that matched her dog perfectly. Together they made a striking pair. Ellen’s dear friend Harry trained exceptional dogs and had trained Divina well. His motto was: A well-trained dog is a valued companion and a welcome guest. Ellen’s heart’s desire was to be thought of in the same way. She could go to restaurants with her dog (eating alone was still a big problem), get onto a plane with her dog (Ellen could now fly without medication), Divina had a special cape that read, Please Don’t pet me I’m working, and qualified as a service dog, walk down the street with confidence and shop in the best stores in town and not feel excruciatingly invisible in the extravagant milieu of the Hamptons.
Ellen would tell Divina’s story over and over. It needed no embellishment.
“We rescued her at eighteen months old, just stuck in limbo at the kennel, well past the age of perfect puppy.”
“She had no hope, no purpose, no function, no love.”
“She’s mute by choice.”
“She found out early on that the big dogs barked and for her own survival, she had to be cute and invisible.”
Ellen thought it was the perfect metaphor for her own story.
“How old is she?” they would ask.
It was uncanny, the same question every time as though it would somehow define who Divina was in their minds and explain her: who, what, and where.
Thank God they didn’t ask her that, Ellen thought. Ellen understood that age was the defining element. She would waltz through town with her fabulous dog by her side, looking good, with Divina seamlessly taking the heat off of her.
Wait, Ellen thought, she’d go to the bookstore. She needed rules. But what rules – the new rules? The tried and true rules? The bestseller rules? Similar to the post office, Ellen thought there was always the chance she could meet someone at the bookstore. Hadn’t Tink met her boyfriend there? Besides, the Self-Help shelf was lined with bestsellers that had all the information, such as:
-How to Live with the Goddess Within
-How to Catch a Man
-How to Keep a Man
-How to Swim With Dolphins…. With a Man
-How to Let a Man Go
Ellen noted there were precious few books instructing men on how please a woman.
What would be appropriate and hit the mark in her rapidly changing world? Ellen was grateful that the bookstore was in town and on the way to Karen’s office. She could kill two birds with one rock.
She raced through the bookshelves: Here’s the Bright Side; Been There, Done That, Kept the Jewelry; The Intimacy Factor: The Ground Rules for Overcoming the Obstacles to Truth, Respect, and Lasting Love; He’s Just Not That Into You: The No Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys; Eat, Pray, Love; and Memories, Dreams, and Reflections, by Carl Jung, for good measure. She bought them all.
Moments later, Ellen swung into the little parking lot behind the tiny house with its turquoise door. Pink roses trailed over the picket fence that separated the property from the busy street. She was never late for her appointment with Karen. She was never late for anything, except, perhaps, for being prepared for life as a single woman.
Divina settled onto the couch and nestled next to Ellen with an audible sigh. Ellen remained committed to her vow of speechlessness.
After a minute or so of waiting, Karen broke the silence. “How was your trip into the city?”
The dog shot a keen look at Ellen.
“Just fine,” Ellen replied.
Karen waited.
“I went on a date,” Ellen muttered.
Divina stirred on the couch.
“Yes?” Karen waited as the next pause hung in the air between them like the steam from Ellen’s stew.
“Did you go to any museums?” Karen asked.
“No,” Ellen replied in a small voice. “I had veal Milanese for dinner at a nice restaurant and then went home with a strange man and did it.”
Karen paused. “Would you like to tell me more about it?”
“The veal was dry,” Ellen finally answered.
“Ellen, what are you afraid of?” Karen asked softly.
“Everything.”
Divina put her head on Ellen’s lap and let out a groan.
“I’m a single woman,” Ellen said. “It never occurred to me that being single would be so complicated. I was just so hell bent on being unmarried that I never gave it much more thought than that. ”
“I’m just so confused.” Ellen paused. “We’ve talked about this, the voices in my head—telling me what to do. Am I crazy?”
Karen leaned forward and looked at her earnestly. “Ellen, we all have those voices, believe me. Some people call that the ‘Committee.’ They’re the result of lessons assumed in our early developing years. It’s normal, not crazy.”
“Karen, what happened to the real me?” Ellen asked simply. “I remember a me that was feisty and fresh. Where did the real me go?”
“And who do you think is stopping you from being the real you now?” Karen asked.
“Fear—,” Ellen began. “Fear – and Disappointment. It was Monique who made me do it!” With a laugh, she added, “Thank God for her.”
Karen smiled and nodded. “Wasn’t fear what kept you stuck for so many years? Who you are and what you do is strictly up to your own comfort level. Ellen, you’re a free woman now. You’re capable of doing whatever you choose to do without explanation. Only you can determine what’s right or wrong,” she said, as she slapped her notebook down on the side table and leaned over so close to Ellen that both Ellen and Divina jumped.
“Why be afraid? You’ll get it back; just take it one step at a time.”
Ellen sighed with relief. “You know, I think I finally made it to the other side. My friend Jed said the same thing. He said it perfectly: ‘Change is inevitable. Growth is optional.’ I would have to say,” she continued, “practice makes intermediate, more practice makes perfect. I think I finally got the ‘hang’ of it.”
They both laughed.
As the weeks of summer started to fly by, Ellen thought maybe she should try the direct approach: Hi, I’m a Love Addict, anyone interested? Mr. Soup and Salad was quiet, Mr. King of the IM wrote: I’m going to California. I think we should meet when I return. The new guy, Mr. Golf Swing, started to write consistently and promised to start her barbeque, and Ellen went on ten first dates in five weeks.
“Pssst, get over here, now!” Monique hissed at Fear, who was carrying an oversized lime green plastic laundry basket upstairs. Monique stood in the shadow of one of Ellen’s favorite paintings that hung in the narrow hallway.
Ellen had painted it in the other house, back when she had her own studio. It was an eerie study of a house nestled in a bucolic meadow. Surrounded by dark, towering trees, the sky had a stormy effect unlike most of Ellen’s ethereal visions. But the focus was on the house, which had an otherworldly appearance. Ellen had deliberately left it bereft of detail and color. The house stood out in pale grays and whites, looking ghostly and strangely uninhabited.
“Nooo, not now,” Fear quaked. “I’m busy – can’t you see?” she asked as she tripped on the second step.
Monique smiled and put on her best syrupy voice. “I want to talk to you.”
Fear blinked. “What do you want from me?”
“Darling, I’m tired of steering this boat behind the scenes. What am I – some scary creature meant to be kicked under a rug? Let’s just talk. I promise I won’t be mean, OK?”
Fear put down her basket slowly and slunk over with eyes lowered as if to avoid the sparks emanating from Monique’s flashy aqua baby blues.
“I’ve been thinking,” Monique began, “you and I need to work together.”
“We do? What about Disappointment?” Fear was incredulous. Monique was fire – she was melted ice. Monique was brave, she was mice. Every time Monique had an idea, all it meant to Fear was that she was in jeopardy of being exposed.
“Yes, we do, but we can leave Disappointment out of this for once?” Monique insisted. “I mean really, what do you take me for – some wild harlot? Some nasty Jungian shadow named Salome? Remember the boathouse – just who do you think kissed that cute boy? We were all young and innocent, and I am so tired of all of you being so ashamed of me.” Monique’s eyes filled with tears.
“Ohhh, I’m so sorry! It’s all Disappointment’s fault. Please don’t cry!” Fear apparently had no compunction about throwing Disappointment under the bus. “I had no idea you had feelings.”
Monique sniffled. “Well, I do. And I think we girls need to work together or Ellen is fucked. She’ll never get ahead as a single woman – it’s brutal out there. Remember when Ma took me to the beauty parlor? I had such amazing curls.”
Her gaze turned distant. “She made me sit in that chair while that snippy guy gave me what he called ‘The Artichoke.’ All that gorgeous hair falling on the floor – all my curls!! And all he could say was, ‘Aw, don’t cry, it only costs money to cut it. You can grow it back for free.’ You didn’t budge in that chair. Disappointment never uttered a word. I cried for a week. Well, I’ve been stepping out of the shadow, as C.J. would say, and I intend to wear my hair as long as I want – for as long as I want.” Her voice hardened and she sniffed one last time. “Screw anyone who says otherwise. I need you and Disappointment to back me up once in a while, that’s all I’m saying.”
Ellen was just beginning to understand her newest addiction, which was constantly searching for men online. Many spoke of their online addiction, some just held it close, but the compulsion for searching new faces, new bios, and new connections was like eating Godiva chocolate – impossible to stop once you started.
Ellen thought about forming a new group: Online Daters Anonymous. Not only would it be group therapy for the emotionally invested, it would be a great place to meet face-to-face. Her dilemma seemed obvious: continue to search online or pray that she’d find someone the old-fashioned way. She wasn’t sure. Some of the guys on the site began to feel like comfortable old friends, always there when you needed one, at least in cyberspace, but not there to fix her barbeque.
RULE NUMBER TEN: Know yourself, be yourself – all your selves – online and off.