You Cannot Mess This Up

by Amy Weinland Daughters

  “Do they work?” Lisa asked, managing to speak despite wearing the largest bowed blouse I had ever seen in my life.

  “Well,” Patty replied, “I’ve already lost four pounds.”

  Though I remembered my mom taking those candy things, all I could think of now was what an unfortunate name for a product … seriously, “Ayds.” That’s just not right. And slurping it down with a cup of coffee? That sounded wrong on a bunch of different levels. Come to think of it, I couldn’t ever remember people walking around with bottles of water in the ’70s. How in the hell were these people staying hydrated?

  The other thing that shocked and alarmed me was the number of people smoking. An actual haze blanketed nearly every square foot of both rooms. The many ashtrays, which had been standing ready, were already half-filled. Packs of Winstons, Camels, Kools, Kents, Pall Malls, and Vantages littered the flat surfaces of both rooms. While everyone puffed away, I wondered if all these people’s stuff smelled like cigarette smoke: Their hair, their polyester clothing, their chest hair, their rattan furniture, their velour seats.

  Mom made her way over to the group. She was noticeably relaxed, so much so that she almost seemed like a different person. Putting her arm around me, she asked, “Are you ladies getting to know Amy?”

  “Yes,” Patty responded as the others nodded. “So how was your Thanksgiving, Sue?” she asked.

  “We almost had a fight break out at the end of dinner,” Mom said.

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” Joyce said, carefully turning her head as not to disturb her turban. “Steve’s dad had too much to drink, got lost on his way to the bathroom, and peed in the pantry.” This sent up shrieks from the pleased listeners. “He went right on the dog’s Gaines-Burgers … Luckily they were individually wrapped.”

  “Did anyone see him doing it?” Lisa asked.

  “Yes,” Joyce said with a twinkle in her eye, “Steve’s bitchy cousin Wendy walked in on him and screamed.”

  “Did she see IT?” Patty asked, verbalizing what we were all thinking.

  “Oh yes she did!” Joyce said. “To soothe her nerves afterwards, she downed three crème de menthes and then proceeded to tell everyone exactly what it looked like.” This sent us all into hysterics.

  “Well, I don’t have anything that good,” Patty said. “But, my mother-in-law was constipated this morning, and she asked if I would help her with a suppository …”

  This shocked everyone, even Joyce, who was still pretty damn sure she had won the round.

  “Wow …” Lisa said, taking time to reposition the huge paisley bow protruding from her gray blazer-jacket. “Ours was really normal … makes me wish I had been at one of your houses.”

  “Oh, no, girl …” Joyce said. “You didn’t have to clean up that pantry. Be so thankful.”

  “Has anyone read that book on the bestseller list …?” Lisa asked, changing the subject.

  Before she could say anything else, Patty said, “You mean The Thorn Birds? The one by that Australian woman?”

  Lisa tried to reply, but this time I cut in, completely forgetting where I was. “Isn’t that a miniseries? I didn’t know it was a book too?”

  “What?” Mom said. “A miniseries? I haven’t heard anything about that!”

  “Yeah,” I murmured, wishing I could Google When did The Thorn Birds miniseries air? and Did an Australian woman write a book about it first?

  Trying to recover, I added, “Maybe I read they were going to make it into one.”

  “I guess it would be a good movie …” Patty said. “It’s a beautiful story, one of the greatest romance novels of all time, it covers three generations of a family in Australia.”

  “Oh,” I said stupidly, “I just thought it was about a hot priest who breaks his vows to sleep with a woman he’s in love with … I didn’t know it covered that many years.”

  Clearly, I was from 2014, a time where people watched the movie rather than read the book, or even knew there was a book.

  “I was talking about The Women’s Room by Marilyn French,” Lisa said, annoyed.

  “Oh, what’s that one about?” Patty said.

  “Well,” Lisa said, with an air of confidence, “it’s the most important book about feminism in history. It’s about intelligent women in the 1950s who left their careers and aspirations to be married, eventually only to be left out in the cold by the time their husbands divorced them a couple of decades later.”

  “What?” Patty said. “That sounds awful and, well, interesting. Is it good?”

  “I picked up a copy,” Joyce cut in, “and, frankly, it’s the most boring thing I’ve ever tried to read. I couldn’t even get through the first chapter and on top of that, I had to hide it from Steve …”

  “I found it fascinating,” Lisa said, becoming defensive. “It’s important for every woman to read.”

  “It’s crap,” Joyce said. “And who cares about all that feminism stuff? It’s not right. Women are just fine where they are, at home.” Glancing around the tight circle, her eyes fixed on me. “Well … I know what you are doing is different,” she said. “But overall, we’ve got it pretty good.”

  “Maybe that’s true,” Lisa said coolly, placing her hands firmly on each side of her gray-and-red plaid skirt. “That is, until our husbands no longer want to be married to us and we have no way to support ourselves. That’s what the book is about.”

  “Well, I never got to that part,” Joyce said. “I do understand what an important issue that is, but all I got out of it was a bunch of inappropriate graffiti on some nasty bathroom stall wall. The main character had gone crazy and was pretending like whomever had written the words, on the stall, were having a conversation, with her. While all the time, she just sat there, fully clothed, on the actual toilet …”

  “Perhaps you should reexamine it,” Lisa said. “Did you know that in Louisiana, that’s the state next to ours in case Steve didn’t tell you, that there is still something called a ‘Head and Master Law’?”

  Silence. Yes, this was news to all of us, from all decades.

  “It gives husbands complete legal control over the property of a married couple,” she continued, pleased that she had finally gotten everyone’s attention. “Just last month, the Supreme Court declined to review its decision to uphold the law …”

  “That’s scary …” Joyce blurted out, not allowing her to continue. “But that’s L O U I S I A N A, lots of crazy Cajun stuff goes on over there, who knows what they’re doing in those swamps!”

  “The state line is less than two hours from where you are standing,” Lisa said, riled up. “We know people from there— they are living under this law and have very few rights.”

  “Well,” Joyce said, smirking, “then don’t move there, and, if you already live there, move away.”

  “I need a drink,” Lisa said, looking at Joyce like she was from another planet.

  “I’ll get you one, Lisa,” Mom chimed in.

  “She thinks she’s so smart,” Joyce remarked after Lisa was out of earshot. “Just because she went to Southern Methodist University suddenly she’s a modern-day genius. I’ll tell you what,” she continued, snidely. “You don’t need a degree in political science to separate the goddamn colors from the whites and add the goddamn Cheer into the washing machine.” Patty looked stricken and backed away as Joyce continued to rant, “I went to the goddamn University of Houston for two years and that’s just not good enough when you read all those important books and go to those goddamn meetings at the goddamn library.

  “I’ll tell you one goddamn thing,” she nearly shouted, as Patty’s drink began to quiver. “She’s still got to come home, after the goddamn meeting about voting is over, and cook a goddamn tuna and noodle casserole, and have Wednesday-night sex with her husband and iron the goddamn sheets.”

  She spun around twice, almost magically, until she was directly facing Patty, who was unfortunately too timid to move away. Pointing her finger directly in Patty�
�s face, Joyce slowly, methodically spoke, pure contempt oozing from every word. “I’ll tell you ladies one thing, I may not be the smartest bitch at this party, but I’m the happiest.”

  Marching off, she had both hands on her turban, keeping it in place.

  Silence.

  Looking over at Patty, I nodded and said, “Ummm, wow, I’m sorry about that …” Before I could continue apologizing for something I had no control over, she smiled agreeably and thanked me, slowly backing away.

  “I think I see my neighbor, Jean …” she said, her voice trailing off.

  Looking around, I realized I didn’t know anyone else in the room. Eager to distance myself from, well, everyone, I turned and went up the two steps into the breakfast room. Thankfully, it was empty. Leaning against the bookshelf, I reached down for my notebook. As I scanned the room to see if anyone was watching, I noticed a folded over piece of loose-leaf filler paper sticking out from between the cookbooks. I grabbed it, hoping no one was watching, and immediately recognized Mom’s handwriting. It was one of her poems.

  “Look to the East – Look to the West.”

  North and South too – Which is the best?

  Catch a glimpse of little Nanny two shoes,

  Either way, you will not lose.

  What in the hell was she talking about?

  His beautiful profile excels quite a bit,

  Any way you look at it, the baby is a hit.

  Look at that little snaggle tooth there,

  Sticking out just a tad under his nostril hair.

  Now usually he rests on the orange chair,

  Snuggled on his “A” blanket with care.

  He loves his “A” so it is easy to see,

  He speaks of her often as he itches his knee.

  Look at those little eye balls nestled just so,

  On each side of his crevice below.

  Take a gander at those ears of fluff,

  Crimped delicately into a perfect puff.

  Oh my Good Lord, she was writing about the dog. The poem was about the freaking dog.

  What more can I say,

  As I stare in wonder on this day

  The beauty overwhelms me oh so much

  And my heart feels a tender touch.

  You can’t make this stuff up.

  Shoving the paper back onto the bookshelf, I pulled out my notebook and sloppily wrote, “Look through old boxes for Mom’s poems. Ask Rick and Kim. Have something published, or just printed, for Christmas. Ask Mom what was on my Christmas wish list. Find the Green Bible. When did water bottles become a thing?” Turning the page, I added, “When did The Thorn Birds become a miniseries? Read the novel. Look on Netflix. Look up The Women’s Room on Amazon. Cliff Notes? Louisiana Head and Master Law, what is it? When did it go away?” And, finally, “Ask Mom for Patty, Joyce and Lisa’s last names. Look up on Facebook.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  IT HAPPENED IN THE CONSERVATORY …

  Wandering back into the kitchen, I recognized the parents of one of the neighborhood gang. These people had always come across to me—as a youth—as the most upstanding of citizens. She was a tall, elegant lady from Mississippi and he was a balding oilman from the south of Houston.

  I had spent a fair bit of time at their house growing up, and seeing them here, now, after throwing back a couple of cocktails, made what was already a surreal situation seem even more bizarre.

  I was either going to have to stop drinking or limit my interaction to people who were strangers.

  “Oh, you’re the writer lady … the sports writer lady.” Mrs. Crane said, somehow managing to look fabulous in her long plaid skirt that stretched from what seemed like her lower bra line to the linoleum. You couldn’t tell where her top ended and her skirt began because of the green velvet vest she was wearing over a red turtleneck. Christmas had come early at the Crane’s.

  So, I’d been upgraded on the shock scale from writer to a sports writer. It was late enough and I had had enough to drink that my patience with the time-warp players was in quick decline. I wasn’t going to justify my position again. If I did, it would likely just give them all something more to talk about.

  In between heavy draws on her Salem—which should have, but didn’t really subdue the sense of class she exuded—she introduced me to her husband. “This is Jim,” she said in her thick southern accent, touching his shoulder. “He’s an Oil Executive.”

  The way I remembered it, Jim was in oil, but the title of “executive” was somewhat diminished in my adult mind because of that one Saturday afternoon I had visited his office, with his younger daughter, a school friend. It consisted of only two rooms: his desk, a secretarial station with a lumbering Telex machine, and a couple of fake plants.

  Jim stood a hulky six feet two and was dressed in a harvest-gold velour shirt. A zipper with a large circular pull stretched from about halfway between his nipples to his neck. If he had been wearing matching pants, he could have camouflaged himself on the living room carpet. The parts of his hair that remained were thick and bushy, as were his generous eyebrows. They were almost magical. Again, his man bulge was displayed proudly, leaving less room for the imagination of the lady folk. There was no doubt of who wore the pants in this relationship.

  Jim and Toni seemed far less concerned with my employment status than others had. They just wanted to talk about how they were giving their sixteen-year-old son their Pontiac Grand Prix. “Yes, it’s a cream-colored, two-tone 1974 model,” Jim said proudly. “It’s a fine automobile.”

  “Jim,” Toni cautioned, “Little Jimmy MUST be careful if he’s going to drive that car, it’s so small.”

  If I was right, the 1974 Pontiac Grand Prix was about twenty-seven feet long, meaning little Jimmy—who, the way I remembered it, was at least six-foot-four—would have far less to fear than would the neighborhood trash cans, mailboxes, and fire hydrants.

  “Oh God, Toni,” Jim said, taking a lusty swig of his Lowenbrau. “That boy will be absolutely fine, he’s almost a man now.”

  “Well, he may be big enough to be a man,” Toni said, sipping on a glass of Black Tower wine, “but he still leaves ballpoint pens in his jeans pockets and he still needs help with his math homework.”

  Just then, another man joined us. “Hey, Jim!” he said, clapping Mr. C. on the back in a masculine fashion. “And, hello to you, Toni,” he said, almost slyly, changing his demeanor to lean in and gently kiss her on the cheek. “I haven’t seen you two in forever.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Wayne,” Toni said.

  “And, who do we have here?” he asked, taking me by the elbow. I wondered if all this touching was really necessary. It was almost like the men were supposed to pet the women, or were allowed to and nobody seemed to care. It was a subtle, unwritten amendment to the rules of engagement. It wasn’t necessarily that I had a problem with men touching me, I just wanted to pick and choose the touchers and pass out bottles of hand sanitizer as necessary. These people knew nothing about ninety-nine percent antibacterial protection, liquid hand soap, or anything other than chunky bars of Lava and Dial. Oh yeah, and Camay, the naked wildflower-sex soap.

  After being introduced to Wayne as the “professional girl,” which made it sound like I might look wildly attractive in an extremely short skirt—I could totally go for that—he began rifling around in the front pocket of his red-and-white tartan pants. I think they were supposed to look like wool, but they were a double-knit fabric that was stretchy, itchy, and probably flammable. Up top he was wearing what I guessed was meant to be a fisherman’s sweater, with knitted cable and diamond patterns.

  Wayne was decent-looking despite the get-up and had what was perhaps the best head of hair in the room. And, he was trying to pull an oversized item out of his pants. Before you get the wrong idea, it was apparently an electronic item he was fishing out, which was shocking—at least to me—due to the severe lack of personal electronics at this party. In this specific wrinkle of time, every smartphone
was canceled out by a pack of cigs. Finally managing to get the item out in the open, Wayne placed it directly in Jim’s face, nearly scraping his generous-sized nose. “LOOK what I bought!”

  “Is that a …?” Jim asked, excitedly.

  “YES IT IS!” Wayne shouted, before he could finish. “It’s an Olympus Pearlcorder SD2, with the optional pop-in FM tuner.”

  “My God, I’ve never seen one of those up close!” Jim said, almost salivating, as if he were seeing an Apple watch for the first time.

  “What does it do?” Toni asked, almost in a mystified state.

  “Well,” Wayne started, literally puffed up with pride, a move that freed more of his trapped chest hair. “First, it’s a mini-cassette recorder, with a two-hour recording capability … AND—”

  “Do you mean you can record two hours on that little, itty, bitty tape?” Toni cut in, southern accent on the full.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wayne huffed, “it surely will … AND it has pop-in accessories, including extra speaker power and THIS little ol’ FM tuner, which allows me to listen to music, and record it, wherever I am.” To demonstrate, he snapped the small tuner in and out of the bottom of the device.

  “And it’s so compact!” Jim chimed in.

  “Yes, sir, it is,” Wayne continued. “The entire unit is not much bigger than a hand and a half!”

  A crowd had started to gather, each asking to hold the device and each wanting a demonstration.

  “Well, those are what we call ‘voice actuators,’” Wayne explained to one mesmerized individual. “They prevent waste in recording by sensing when audible sounds begin and end.”

  All I could think, obviously, was how far technology still had to come. In 1978, Wayne was wowing a throng of upper-middle class professionals, and their spouses, with a device that would record two hours of audio and play FM radio stations through a tiny, scratchy speaker.