Something New (9781101612262) Page 11

  By now, after having mulled it over all afternoon, ad nauseam, I am convinced that I was hallucinating at the soccer field. Ben Campbell and I were not having a moment. It was all in my mind. And I fear I made a fool of myself, standing there wide-eyed and slack-jawed, gaping at him like a stroke victim because I actually thought he was looking into me. Like it was Some Enchanted Fucking Evening at the Soccer Game.

  So now, if I were to ascertain his phone number by whatever means are at my disposal—like, for example, the phone book or the online white pages, or my cousin Jill (which I would never do), or even a private detective—and then actually call him, he would take one look at the Caller ID, which of course would say Ivers, and let the call go straight to voice mail. He would then turn to his wetlands-loving wife and explain that it was that Ellen woman from soccer. He would shake his head with dismay. She comes across as normal at times, he’d say, but after the game today, and the way she looked at me, I don’t know, I really think there’s something wrong with her. To which stain-fighting aficionado wifey would reply, You know, I got that feeling, too, honey; let’s go have sex!

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” I explode at the frozen lasagna on the kitchen counter in front of me. “Get a grip!”

  I toss the entrée into the preheated oven and stomp over to my computer; yank out the chair, which scrapes across the tile floor; and sit down with a harrumph. Jonah’s laughter and cries of protest and Matthew’s delighted yelps float into the kitchen from the living room. Apparently, their Wii bowling battle has begun. The lasagna cooks for approximately sixty minutes. Okay, an uninterrupted hour in front of my computer. I take a deep breath and log on to my blog.

  The tracking number at the bottom of the screen tells me there have been exactly 2,649 hits on my blog. My heart does a sudden thump-thwack in my chest as I consider that almost three thousand people have read my blog. Jill was right; most of the comments are positive. I scan them quickly, stopping to read a few. Clairabelle49 writes: I sure wish I had checked all the ingredients before I got married! Maybe my cheese balls will turn out better! And GotUpAndWent1 says: You are SO right! Except cheese balls actually taste GOOD! And Hihohiho17 comments: Thought ur blog would be cheesy ;) but u really make a good comparison. Looking forward to ur next post.

  Excitement builds within me, and I feel laughter bubbling up from my stomach. How crazy is this? Yesterday I was a mere housewife hiding from her family on the toilet, and today I am a full-fledged blogger with the hits and comments to prove it. I look down at Sally, who has parked at my feet, and say to her, “How cool am I?” Her reaction is a less than enthusiastic chuff, followed by a snort and a heavy sigh, but I know she is elated on the inside.

  My own elation and self-aggrandizing last only about ten seconds, however, before panic sets in. What now? What am I supposed to follow the Cheeseballs with? Women are Cream Puffs? Might not win me too many fans from the Ladies Living-Well Journal. Some other food/people comparison? Perhaps I should think outside my own box and write about inanimate objects. Like my mother-in-law. Or my hatred of cell phones, or how I secretly play the Wii when the house is empty.

  I feel my stomach muscles tighten, and I consider shutting down my computer and logging a couple of miles on the treadmill, just to clear my mind. But I quickly reject that course of action, because I know that if I don’t come up with some idea, any idea, I’ll be out of the competition. It’s not as if I am harboring any delusions about winning, but this blog contest is my “something new,” the foundation on which my entire reinvention has come to rest. I have been on a roll, feeling good about myself (except for the whole Ben Campbell/soccer debacle) and if I don’t work something up in the next, oh, six hours and fifty-two minutes, my momentum will come screeching to a halt. My treadmill time will dwindle, my cosmetics will go untouched for so long they’ll start to get that funky smell, and I’ll be back to eating Pop-Tarts by Monday.

  Wait! I desperately try to corral my thoughts before they crash through the barn. Inhale. Good. Exhale. Better. I have always been aware that my inner monologue is like an express train in the New York City subway system, but at this moment I am forced to acknowledge that the mental masturbation has gotten completely out of control. Just this afternoon alone I must have jerked off at least a million brain cells. And I cannot afford to lose them, especially when I’m looking at thirteen blog posts in thirteen days.

  Okay. I did it yesterday. I can do it again. Just relax, Ellen, and write. Just put your fingers on the keys, like you did yesterday. Remember how good it felt? Yes. Just like that.

  My fingers are poised above the keyboard and just as I am about to type my first word into the text box, Jonah pokes his head through the doorway.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I do my best to mask my annoyance at the interruption. Jonah has no idea what I’m doing, and I have no intention of telling him. It would open up another one of those marital cans of worms that are better left sealed. He would want to know why I am blogging for the first time, and I would have to explain the whole reinvention thing to him, and he would then pepper me with questions about why I feel the need to reinvent myself and what could possibly be missing from my life that I need to fill with such drivel, and I would have to lie and say “Nothing’s missing, Jonah,” and he would be somewhat mollified but would still want to read my blog, just to be “supportive,” and I would have to let him, and then when he actually got around to reading it, he wouldn’t get past the title before all hell would break loose.

  “Dinner’ll be ready in about an hour,” I answer before he can ask.

  “Great.” He peers at the computer, but fortunately, with his forty-five-year-old eyes, he cannot make out what is on the screen. “Are you finally doing your Facebook profile?”

  A synapse fires inside my brain.

  “Hello?” he says, since I haven’t answered him.

  “Yeah. That’s it. My Facebook profile. Doing it right now.”

  “Excellent!” he beams. “Friend me when you finish.”

  “Can husbands and wives be friends?” I ask innocently. Jonah is about to reply when he realizes I’m kidding.

  “Dad!” Matthew calls. “I’m gonna unpause the game!”

  “Coming!” he replies, loudly. Then to me, he says, “I was going to let him win to boost his confidence, but I think it’s better for his development if I teach him how to accept being completely slaughtered.” He winks.

  “OC Parenting just called. They’re giving you a medal for father of the year.”

  He laughs heartily, a familiar and comforting sound to my ears. He blows me a kiss, then disappears. A moment later, the muted sound of the Wii resumes.

  I turn back to the computer and within seconds I am swept away.

  Second Post: March 17, 2012

  SomethingNewAt42

  I HATE FACEBOOK

  Call me a traitor to my generation, but it’s true. I hate Facebook. I know there are others out there like me, they just don’t have the guts to admit it. But there is something very liberating about being able to admit it, and not just in the covert confines of a confessional at church. If I didn’t think my husband would instantly have me committed to the local psychiatric ward, I would run outside, stand in the middle of the street, and shout at the top of my lungs, I HATE FACEBOOK.

  My husband is the one who has been pushing me for months to join. He thinks it will spruce up my dreary social life. (Thanks so much, babe!) My strident refusal pains him, causes him to question our marriage, and even inspired him to buy me a book on how to cope with menopause. But the truth is, I have absolutely no desire to reconnect with any of my high school compatriots. I attempted to do that at my twenty-five-year reunion only to discover that the past should stay in the past where it belongs and that, for the most part, young assholes simply grow up to be old assholes. The friends I have kept from Ralph Springdale High are still my friends because our bonds go way beyond that gray brick institution I couldn’t wait to
be released from.

  And then there’s this business about “confirming” and “ignoring” friend requests, which, in my opinion, instantly transports all Facebook members back to high school anyway. It’s like a giant online clique. I imagine that one ignored friend request might result in suicidal thoughts by a less than self-assured person. “Why didn’t she confirm me?” one might ask. “What’s wrong with me?” And out come the sleeping pills. And then there are those friend requests from people you’ve never heard of before, like Bandookhi Gimlakhi from India. What do you do with Bandookhi? He could be an ax murderer who, unless confirmed, will hunt you down, ascertain the easiest way to gain entrance to your home, and stand over your bed while you sleep, knife in hand, shrieking, “I will not be ignored!”

  Not to mention the whole “my friend list is bigger than your friend list” thing. That pesky relative of mine, who continues to remain nameless, has 573 friends. 573! She is friends with everyone from her gynecologist to the janitor at her kids’ school. I mean, come on! I like my gynecologist. I even like Mr. Jimmy, who refers to himself as the Cleanup Commando. But I do not want to know what either of them had for breakfast.

  And that’s another thing. Who cares what you had for breakfast or that your infant just upchucked all over your new L. L. Bean Parka or that you just had a Brazilian? Maybe, instead of posting about every little occurrence in your life, you should just go out and get a life. Really. Turn off the computer. Put your Internet-capable phone in its charger and go outside. Breathe some fresh air. Take a walk. I dare all of you to do this. Then, when you start to get the shakes from being away from your silicon blankie and megabyte breast, you can come back and post on your wall, to the amazement of all of your Facebook friends, that you just did the most extraordinary thing! You freed yourself from the WWW and became a part of the real world, if only for a moment. You can do it! Good luck!

  Not three seconds after I finish polishing the post, the oven timer goes off. I am suddenly, acutely, aware of my surroundings: of the savory aroma of lasagna permeating the air, the way the light has dimmed in the kitchen from the onset of dusk, the muted silence that fills the house. I feel as if I have awakened from a glorious fit of creativity and my senses are more alive than they have been for a long time.

  I click the Publish button, then stand and stretch and head for the oven. The cheese on the lasagna is golden brown and bubbling as I set the pan on the granite counter. Wandering through the shadowed house, I turn on lights, taking in the warm homey feel of each room as it becomes bathed in light. At the archway between the dining and living rooms, I pause and lean against the doorjamb. Jonah and Matthew are both sprawled on the couch, side by side, heads flung back against the cushions, hands clutching the Wii remotes, fast asleep. I stare at them, memorizing the moment with my mind’s camera. I don’t need my Nikon. This image will be emblazoned in my brain forever.

  I have many such moments like this. And as I watch their chests rising and falling in unison, I realize that when I rummage through the memories of my life with my family, most of the images that rise to the surface are not of the big events or the milestones. The images that come to mind are ones like these. Simple and pure and so wonderfully real that my heart aches with gladness. I love my husband and my children. I love my life. I even love the fact that both Jonah and Matthew are drooling onto my favorite sage green suede couch.

  Well, that last part maybe not so much.

  • Ten •

  Of course, all that gooey love business can evaporate in an instant. The next few days are a flurry of meltdowns, arguments, tantrums, and overall discontent in the Ivers household. The only good thing to come out of this block of time is that I have plenty of material for my blog. Bridget Jones, that contemporary literary icon, comes to mind every so often; her philosophy is that when your love life is terrific, everything else in your life falls spectacularly apart. And that is true for me. Only, it’s not my love life but my reinvention that’s on track.

  I am up to four miles a day on the treadmill and am conscious of the way my thighs jiggle less than they did three weeks ago. I have reinstated my nightly Lines-Be-Gone regimen. I am eating healthfully, choosing fresh fruit and vegetables over processed snacks and limiting my carb intake, albeit surreptitiously at dinner, where Jonah seems to be itemizing and calculating my caloric intake as though he is preparing for an anorexia intervention. And I am faithfully writing my blog every day like clockwork, allowing myself fifteen minutes to read my comments before delving into the creation of the new post. (Each day, with each new post, I see that my hits are increasing steadily, and although I still haven’t sampled my competitors’ posts, I am more than pleased with my efforts.)

  But over this next week, my familial relationships are as strained as Israel and Palestine, and, like the United States, I feel powerless to do anything about it. Each subsequent day brings forth a new conflict with a different family member, and by the end of the week, I am ready to dip into my top-secret emergency fund and head for the Mexican border. (My emergency fund is not ample enough to afford me a luxury resort, but as long as the shithole motel I land in has Wi-Fi so that I can write my blog, I’ll be good.)

  I don’t feel the need to recount every detail of every moment of every day, so instead, I am chronicling the specific incidents and subsequent blog posts that made up my week. Right now my blog is the only thing that’s keeping me sane, so in deference to the P that stands for post, I’m writing about piqued progeny, pugilistic partners, and petulant pretties.

  Sunday, the official first day of the new week, and the day that God apparently took a union-mandated, much-deserved break, was the start of what I will surely label My Week from Hell if ever I get around to writing my memoirs.

  I am sitting in the living room, channeling my inner goddess by attempting to mend a hole in one of Matthew’s favorite T-shirts. If I were my own mother, I could perform this task one-handed, blindfolded, in my sleep while simultaneously juggling six dinner plates. But I am me. Therefore, I have only managed to make the hole bigger and punctured my left index finger in five places.

  I am sucking on said finger when Jessie enters, fresh from her overnight with McKenna, and informs me that she will no longer tolerate the consumption of animal products in our home.

  “I’m a vegan,” she announces with conviction.

  I immediately pull my finger out of my mouth, worried that she will castigate me for drinking animal blood, even though it’s mine.

  “Since when are you a vegan?” I ask.

  “Since last night. McKenna’s a vegan. And her mom and brother, too. We had Tofurky and this soy berry ice cream that totally rocked. And not one living creature had to sacrifice its life or offspring in order to satiate my carnivorous lust.”

  My first thought is of Ben Campbell and his wife’s penchant for tofu. My second thought is that Jessie is never going to spend the night at McKenna’s again. “Satiate my carnivorous lust?” Do people actually talk like that, and in front of eight-year-olds?

  “So from now on, I’m only eating things that didn’t have to die.”

  She gives me an earnest look that is well beyond her age. And this is the moment when I fuck up completely as a mom. I make the supreme mistake of not giving my daughter even one iota of validation. Instead, I turn her mandate into a joke.

  “Well, you’re going to be pretty hungry then, Jess,” I say. “You don’t eat what I make, you starve.”

  Her eyes glisten with unshed tears and she glares at me as if I, alone, am responsible for shoving grain down the throats of gaggles of innocent geese to fatten their livers for my personal consumption.

  “Fine, then. I’ll starve.”

  Third Post: March 18, 2012

  SomethingNewAt42

  I EAT MEAT

  So sue me. Every kind of meat known to the supermarket refrigerated section. (I stop short at Fear Factor fare because I have never seen horse intestine featured on a menu at a five-star r
estaurant.) But I love it. I love masticating on a nice hunk of bloody beef. It confirms my place in the food chain: at the top.

  I have never ascribed to the belief that we are what we eat. If that were true I would be known as Prime Rib au Jus with Horseradish Sauce. But what is wrong with enjoying my superiority over the rest of the animal kingdom? We human beings may not be long for this planet, but while we are here, we should definitely exercise our rights. And one of those rights is that we get to eat whatever we goddamned please.

  My child, whose name and sex will remain a mystery to you to protect the innocent, told me today that he/she has become a vegan. First of all, what kind of stupid name is that? It sounds like a creature from another planet. Now, someday, our species may have to relocate to another terra firma, and in that case the title vegan gets my vote, because I can’t imagine there will be too many cattle ranches inhabiting Mars. But here? As long as there’s grass for grazing, there will be beef and milk in my fridge. As long as there’s corn and grain sprinkled over the dusty pens of the rural farmlands, there will be boneless chicken breasts and dozens of eggs in my fridge. And my child may starve, but he/she will only be served dishes from a menu that the highest form of intelligence on earth deserves. Meat.

  Don’t get me wrong. I am not against tofu. Tofu has its place in my world, right there next to enemas and oil changes. Not necessary all the time, but occasionally the need arises. I especially like my tofu deep-fried with a rich and fattening sauce poured over it to mask its lack of flavor. But it should not be consumed regularly. “Experts” wax on about how red meat is bad for your cholesterol, your colon, your heart. But don’t be fooled about the miraculous benefits of tofu. No matter what a vegan may tell you, tofu is dangerous. Too much soy can cause five-year-old girls to menstruate and little boys’ balls to creep back up into their groins. Does that sound healthy to you? That nameless relative of mine once made a tofu cheesecake for a dinner party, and although I have to admit it tasted fine, the next morning I woke up to find that I had three new coarse black whiskers on my chin.