What Would Oprah Do (13 page)

As I followed her to the back, I was expecting something magnificent, something worth hurrying me past the orchids. But Vivian stopped at a table in the back with rows of little brown pods with tiny bits of green poking through. Vivian took a deep breath and smiled. I tried to muster up some enthusiasm, but it was basically little clumps of dirt wrapped in netting. “I don’t get it.” I said.

Vivian didn’t seem disappointed. “You will.” She said. “These are moonvines, and they are the show stopper of my garden come summer.”

When I got home there was no use putting it off any longer. As much as I wanted to wait till I had Christian there as a reinforcement, I started reading the book on beading. As I read the same page over and over again, too bored to focus, I tried to remind myself that it would be fun when I started beading. I found myself looking for a distraction, laundry to put in the wash, anything else to do instead. Overwhelmed by looking at the bag of beads beside me, I tried to figure out what Oprah would do. She would do this bead by bead.

Two hours later, I have finally made progress. I don’t know when I turned into this person who can’t get it together.

That’s the thing about losing your direction. When it’s hard to figure out where to go, it’s always easier to be still. I can’t afford to be still. Sometimes when I’m still, I find myself wondering what my life would be like if I was married to James. And whenever I slide down that slope I picture being married to the person I thought he was, not the person he turned out to be.

Either way, I’ve gotten through the basics of threading and knotting
. I want to call it a day having reached my goal to finish the first two chapters of what feels like monotonous homework. Luckily I’m saved by the bell. Kay texts me when the school day ends. She’s on her way over. As I put two martini glasses in the freezer to chill, I wish that this could be my life: toodling around and being social. Maybe it will be, when I’m “Out of the strain of the doing, into the peace of the done.” as Julia Louise Woodruff put it.

By the time Kay arrives my condo is perfectly readied for company. My plants are still alive and everything, even the mail, is in its place. My home has never been so organized because now I welcome the distraction of made up tasks. I have gone through my closets and gotten rid of all old clothing, using Oprah’s clutter experts advice of getting rid of everything that you don’t need, use
, or want. I have to confess, I have held on to a pair of size six jeans that I doubt my size twelve ass will ever fit into again. I know that if I ever get back to the weight of my early twenties, I will want new jeans. But getting rid of my once favorite denim feels like giving up on the possibility that my body will ever look like that again.

“What smells so good?”
Kay asks.

“That would be the candles.”
I had fancy candles that I was waiting to burn or use for a gift when I needed one on short notice. After I found one beginning to melt in the closet, I’m no longer trying to save them for special occasions. Maybe it’s better to redefine what special is. Because no matter how often Kay comes over, it should always be treated as special anyway.

Today the scent of lavender and vanilla is especially appropriate since Kay and I are having a
n at-home spa evening. In need of some cosmetic maintenance, it seemed the perfect idea when I found baskets full of sample size products while cleaning out my bathroom closet. I’ve gotten out my foot spa for our pedicures, and the products are displayed on the coffee table, organized by body parts. While I shake the martinis, Kay starts going through them. “How are we going to do this?” Kay asks.

“I figure we should wash our hair in the sink first. I’ve got a tea tree scalp shampoo and deep conditioning treatments. There are two
slightly damp towels in the dryer. I’ll turn it on, so they’ll be warm. We can wrap those around our heads to let the conditioner soak in while we do our toes.” Kay nods. I can tell she’s surprised that I’ve thought this out. Normally I come up with a plan, and she has to work out the logistics since there’s always something big that I’ve overlooked.

Even though we splash water all over my bathroom floor, we have sufficiently revitalized scalps according to the label on the shampoo packet. Wrapped in warm towels, our hair is hopefully being fortified with deep conditioner. We even delay our martinis to steam our faces over bowls of hot water with something labeled ‘purifying facial sauna’ soaking in it, although it looks like a bunch of crushed leaves and smells like rosemary. It says it will open pores and release impurities, but mainly I’m aware of how uncomfortable it is to bend my neck over the bowl. After the allotted three minutes of our facial steam
, we debate whether it’s worth it to put the purifying mask on our faces before we go on the balcony to smoke.

Finally Kay says, “We’re going to smoke regardless. This either helps or it doesn’t.”

We sit on my balcony with the mint green mask on, smoking and sipping our drinks. I’m making a list of what to do next. Unlike my other to
-do lists, with things like ‘pick up dry cleaning’ and ‘sort out your future’, this is fun to me, and will actually get done in a timely manner.

“
Pedicure, manicure, eye treatment cream.” I read them aloud. The towel on Kay’s head begins to flop over, weighed down by the wet hair conditioning underneath.

As she straightens it
, Kay asks me, “Do you ever get tired of this stuff? Wonder what the point is?”

I don’t have to think about this. “Nope, I know what the point is. Deep conditioner works. My hair is going to look good all week.”

“Not that,” she says, again repositioning her towel, “All of it. The deep hair conditioner lasts for one week. You don’t do it, and then it’s done. It’s constant maintenance.”

“I like this stuff. It smells good. It feels good, and even the things that I don’t see immediate results from, I feel proactive when I use them.”
It’s true. I don’t do these things, like the anti-aging treatments, out of fear of what will happen if I don’t use them. I enjoy them. I’m a girly girl, and I like that I smell like one, that my skin is soft from exfoliating regularly in the shower, and moisturizing after. I wish the anti-cellulite creams worked, but that would be a miracle.

“I thought you wanted to do this.”
I say, as it occurs to me that Kay isn’t enjoying this.

“No, I do. I’m having fun with you. I didn’t mean it like that. It just pisses me off a little bit that there’s an expectation to do all of this. Like tonight, we’re just doing part of the maintenance. I still need to use my teeth bleaching kit again, get my hair cut and colored, a keratin treatment, my brows threaded, and a bikini wax. All this on top of the stuff I do almost every day, like shaving my legs and styling my hair.”

“Well if you don’t have money for laser hair removal or want to be hairy, you have to shave.”
I try not to envy Kay. Lately I’ve wanted to go to the salon with the same intensity of a chocolate craving when I have PMS.

Kay shook her head, causing the towel to fall forward again. “I don’t even mind doing this stuff. I’m used to it. It’s just that here I am, doing all of this stuff all the time, and it’s unfair. Because this is the truth; tomorrow I could meet an overweight man, with a bald head and excess hair everywhere else. As long as he’s smart, employed, makes me laugh and feel special, he’s met the basic criteria of what he needs for me to find him attractive. For me to get that same man’s attention, I have to do all of this,” she motions with her pointer finger from the towel on her head to her toes which are fanned out with purple foam separators, “plus be smart, successful, and have a sparkling personality.”

I thought about
our couple friends and realized how true that really was. “That’s kind of depressing.” I said.

As if she was laying down a trump card, Kay added, “And that doesn’t include summer, when we’re getting our hair highlighted and trying to stay tan while using sun block.”

“I take that back. That’s really depressing.”
I drank the last sip of my martini. “I’ve lost my will to beautify. Do you want to skip the pedicures and just drink martinis?”

“Hell no.”
Kay answered, and then a grin spread across her face. “I need a pedicure. I have a date tomorrow night.”

Dear Oprah,

My friend Vivian has a banana tree. I was asking her why it’s called a banana tree since it doesn’t produce bananas. She said that the tree would produce bananas but where we live, the temperature isn’t quite right. She digs it up every fall and stores it inside for the winter, replanting it every spring. The fact that this same tree in a different location would produce bananas, makes me wonder if that’s how I am right now. And if I’m in the wrong place, how do I know where to go? Is it literally geography, or is it something within me?

Are you having the same struggle? You were on Keeping Up With the Kardashians. I’m not judging, but really, I don’t think you would have done that a few years ago. I hope you’re on the right path for you. No pressure, but I’m counting on you for some answers.

I’m ashamed of myself for not knowing what to do, and not trusting that my life is in God’s hands. It feels conflicting to me though. I’m responsible for my life, for bringing what I want into fruition. Am I supposed to plug along even when I
can’t hear any guidance from above? Do I assume I’m on the right path? Part of me knows that I should be quiet and still and listening for the guidance, but for how long? Frankly, time is not on my side.

Regards,

Cates

P.S. Your hair looked so good on last night’s Where Are They Now. I feel like I could use a change too. 

Usually I delay starting each day by getting online. You can pass a lot of time on the internet, even when you’re trying not to. It always puts a damper on my morning because it’s a constant reminder that I was supposed to be married now. I still get emails from every wedding service imaginable, despite all of my efforts to unsubscribe. They taunt me with offers of personalized wedding favors, veil styles for every bride, and drawings for honeymoon packages. Grateful that I’m going to Vivian’s today, I don’t check my emails.

Whenever I walk into Vivian’s house the smell is different, but always of something that makes my mouth water. Buddy comes to greet me before leading me back to the kitchen, his favorite room in the house. There are pies on the stove top and more on trivets on the counter, and some still in the oven. I can’t pinpoint the smell. Vivian is milling around in her pantry, pulling out spices to hold them closer to the light. She reads the labels and puts them back.

“Perfect timing,” She says to me. “For the life of me, I can’t find the cinnamon.” I start to walk toward the pantry, and notice the cinnamon is already on the counter.

“It’s here.” I answer, holding up the bottle.

“Well I declare. If it was a snake it would have bitten me.” She laughs at herself and mixes the cinnamon into a bowl of sugar. Before I ask she answers, “Ladies Guild Bake Sale. This is for the apple pies. The rutabagas are already cooling.”

“Rutabagas?”
I know my grandmother used to make them, but I don’t remember anything else about them.

“I don’t know what the south is coming to when a southern girl doesn’t know about rutabagas. Rutabagas are a root vegetable. These are from the garden, the very last of this season. They look like a turnip, but when you bake them with a lot of sugar…”
I must be making a face because Vivian starts over. “Think of them like you would sweet potato pie. Trust me, they’re good.”

They must be good because she has made at least ten of them. She puts the cinnamon mixture on the apples with a scoop of butter on top before placing them in the oven. She sets the timer for an hour and says, “Let’s get to gardening!”

Vivian has four big baskets full of bulbs. I hazard a guess, “Tulips?”

“No, you plant tulips in the fall, and that’s probably why a lot of people think that’s when you plant bulbs. Bulbs flower most of the year though, and spring is when you plant a lot of them, especially my favorites.” There’s a note card on each basket: canna lily, dahlia, gladiolus, and iris. I can picture all but the canna lily, so I ask Vivian what they look like.

“They’re tall, grow anywhere from three to six feet. They have a stalk base, so not a popular cut flower. They come in different colors, but those are red. They will bloom all summer long, so I grow them just to enjoy here in the garden.”

Vivian sets the bulbs in position, for me to follow behind and plant them while she finishes her pies. She tells me it’s not that important where they go since they each have their own row, as long as they’re spaced so that the roots have room to spread. She sees this as instinct because to her it is. I have a feeling that if she saw what my instinct would be, she wouldn’t be
encouraging me to trust it.

Buddy sits beside me, watching me dig each little hole like it’s the most interesting thing he’s seen, like he hasn’t watched this over and over again his whole life. Every so often he licks my pants leg and looks away, sneaking in his kisses.

She asks me how my home spa evening went. I tell her Kay’s theory on maintenance and men. Vivian doesn’t slow down for a minute. She keeps placing the bulbs in the spaces that will become their new homes, all the while shaking her head.

“Women have been doing that forever.” She says. My mind flashes to my last Brazilian wax. As if she can sense that I think I know something she doesn’t, she shakes her head again. “You know, go back as far as you like…from the Asian women binding their feet, to not that long ago when women were wearing corsets and crushing their own ribs, women have been torturing themselves in ways that men would never consider. Times won’t change…” Vivian moves to the next row. I’m waiting for her to say something prolific about how change will come when women need to set their own standards for beauty, when she starts speaking again. “…And anyone who tells you that times have changed probably needs a history lesson.”

Two hours later I have planted all of the bulbs. As I wash my hands, coffee is brewing and Vivian is spooning baked apples into small bowls for us. It smells like Christmas. The apples are caramelized and tender, melting in my mouth. “I have a favor to ask you.”
Vivian says.

“You know how to pick your moments
. Ask away.” I think she is a genius. She could probably feed her baked apples to any threatening country and get them to give up their nuclear power plants.

“I’m going to the Women’s Guild Annual Retreat after the bake sale. I was hoping you would stay here with Buddy. It’s just two nights. Don’t feel bad if you want to say no. Betty would do it, but frankly, Buddy would prefer you.”

Elated, I could hardly wait the twenty four hours to start my weekend with Buddy.

When I g
ot home I packed a bag, so excited to be staying at Vivian’s. I need the bag by the door as a reminder that I’m leaving. It’s not that I don’t like my place, I do. I bought it as a single girl’s condo with a five year plan. I got a great deal on it, and had figured that in five years I would have equity to turn it over and make a little profit. With my interest only loan this had seemed like such a smart idea, and cheaper than renting. With the market in deep decline, real estate jargon for the shithole, it is worth even less than I paid for it 6 years ago.

It’s still a great condo for a single girl; small, near the nightlife, no yard to maintain, and neighbors who’d hear me scream if someone broke in. The problem is that I don’t want single girl life anymore.

I’ll wait for the right person. I don’t want to be with someone for the sake of not being alone. But as far as I can see it’s just me, and I’m tired of waiting for the house I want. Between the feeling that these walls are closing in on me and the loneliness that has sat on my chest since the break up, it’s hard for me to be still here. The house I want matches the life I thought I’d have by now. The life I want includes a fireplace and room for a dog and twenty other things that don’t fit into 700 square feet. Now that I’m tethered to my condo, I don’t like being here.

It’s not just me, these things happen to single women everywhere. If there were a Murphy’s Law of Single Girl Real Estate it would be this: As soon as you buy a home you will meet Mr. Right and he will have a better house. It happened to Lainey. After she finally bought her cozy house she met the man she would marry
. Then she spent the next year trying to unload her newly beloved home like it was a burden.

Telling myself that I can’t make excuses and complain to myself about my condo, I decide to try the basic beading technique in chapter three. Like my own
babysitter I have given myself permission to meet Jill at the pub after I complete three strands. I pray that it doesn’t take long to do that, and remind myself that if I make a lot of money I can rent my place out and live somewhere else.

The wire for the beads is hard to bend. The book’s illustrations shows adult hands, making these teeny tiny knots after each bead is on, but even with pliers I can’t get it to work. My hands feel like they’re two sizes too big, and half as strong as they need to be for this task. After two hours I have small puncture wounds on every finger, like pen dots where the wire has poked into me. I only have half a necklace done, but I don’t give a shit.

There has to be a better way to do this, and I know I’m not going to figure it out tonight. Knowing I can’t afford to go out, I invite Jill over for drinks.

“Let’s go out.” she says. As tempted as I
am, one look at the bills on the counter and I have to tell her that going out isn’t an option. “I’ve got it.” She says. I know she means it, but I feel like a bad date. I don’t know how many times she has said this since I got laid off, but if feels like too many.

Jill d
oesn’t want to go to the pub, “Somewhere nice.” she said, so I meet her at the wine bar Kay likes. When I get there I scan the bar looking for Jill, but don’t see her until I notice her hand waving me over. Her hair, normally light brown and shoulder length is now a deep shade of chocolate level with her chin. Her face, always with such minimal, natural makeup that you can hardly tell she is wearing any, is now old Hollywood glamour. Replacing the neutral toned suits that fill her work wardrobe is a black sheath dress. I sit and study, like I’m playing a game of photo hunt between this person and the Jill I know. She has black liquid eye liner, shimmery gold eye shadow, and dark red lipstick with a shine like glass. It’s possible that she’s wearing fake eyelashes.

If it were anyone else, I would be telling them how fabulous they look. But this is Jill, who has never worn this much makeup in her life, not even to prom or a costume party. “What’s going on?”
I ask.

“I just felt like something different.”
She says this like I don’t know her, like I don’t know that this is more than being in the mood for something different. Because I’m her friend, because the eye liner doesn’t keep me from seeing that her eyes are sad, I let her get away with this for now.

We order wine. Even though they have beer, Jill says that she wants to share a bottle with me. She tells me about her work week. She’s worked at the same office for so long that I know all of her office’s gossip well enough to follow along like it’s a reality show just for me. Despite the fact that normally this would be truly entertaining for me, it’s hard to focus.

I get distracted by trying to decide whether she looks more like a mannequin or if with her hair slicked back, more like the girls in a Robert Palmer video. As I’m debating the difference between the two in my head, Jill says, “So, tomorrow’s going to be a long day for me. How’s it going with the hats?”

I shake my head in response, and instead tell her that I’m going to dog sit for Buddy. I tell her that Vivian and I sowed seeds for the herb garden, listing them off: dill, thyme, sage, marjoram, chives, lavender, and sweet basil. Surprised by my own excitement I tell Jill about how we also have a variety of mints, and that Vivian has put me in charge of them. I didn’t know there were so many varieties, even a chocolate mint. I’m most excited about the pineapple mint.

Vivian can tell what everything is by looking at the plants, but she still uses plant markers because she likes the way they look. They’re small posts that you stick in the ground, and they have a copper band at the top. You take a wooden skewer, using it like a pencil, and write on them, engraving the copper. I’m going to name the row of mint ‘Mojito Avenue’.

The waitress comes over and refills our glasses, which aren’t empty, from the bottle on the table. I hate it when they do that because I can’t keep track of how much wine I’ve had.

Either I’ve bored Jill with what I thought was fascinating herb chit-chat, or she’s finally ready to tell me what’s really going on. Something different, my ass.

Finally she breaks the silence,
“Steven and I are over.”

“That’s great!”
I say this not only because married men shouldn’t be dating, but because this cheating asshole would no longer be keeping her from finding someone worthwhile. As soon as the words leave my lips I see her face fall. There isn’t a physical transformation strong enough to overpower the visibility of her disappointment. I hear Lainey in my head reminding me that when you’re heartbroken, how it’s broken doesn’t make it less or more. Pain is pain.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t know…”
My voice trails off as I realize all that I didn’t know. I didn’t know that she cared about him so much, that she wasn’t always prepared for this to end, or that it would hurt deeply when it did. All she had said was that she knew he was never going to leave his wife, and I had assumed everything else.