by Kaira Rouda
Someday, I’ll go gray. Perhaps I should say I am gray and I’ll let it show. Someday. At this rate, however, that’s not going to be until I’m about seventy-five. I have no guts; I must be a born follower. That was going to change, right now. Things to Change list Number Nine: Take charge of my hair. I was sick of being in here so often, even though I loved Thomas and his humor. I wanted to grow my hair out, and I wanted to lighten it up so the gray didn’t show the next day. Then I could work my way slowly into Linda Evans hair. Ah, just the thought of her hair on Dynasty made me swoon—minus the poofiness, of course. Patrick will love Linda Evans hair; he just doesn’t realize it.
“Thomas, let’s go blonder, and no cut today,” I said assertively. He gave me a look as though I were speaking the French I didn’t learn from our exchange student.
“Not the Linda Evans thing again?” he said as he rolled his eyes.
“Yes, and since it’s my hair and my gray, we’re going to try it,” I said. We were having a standoff, both of us staring at each other through the mirror. Even though Thomas stood behind me, he had pumped up my chair so we were almost at eye level.
“Fine. I guess I’ll just have to fix it when you decide it’s a molto tremendo mistake,” he said and hustled to the back of the salon to mix my new color. I smiled. Change happens one step at a time. I was taking charge of my hair and that felt good.
As Thomas began to apply the poisonous lighter-blonde-to-be goo to my scalp, and after he had asked about Patrick and the boys, I shifted the conversation.
“So, hey, do you know anybody who was or is anorexic?” I asked in my most innocent, off-the-cuff, confiding—though definitely not subtle—Kelly Johnson/Oprah Winfrey voice.
“What? Why? What a weird question. Do you need coffee?”
“No. I’m asking because a friend of mine has a daughter who’s suffering from it and she’s going to live with me—us—for awhile. I just thought maybe finding a woman who’s been through it would be good. Clearly, I’ve never come close to starving to death.” Instantly I made a mental note. T2C Number Ten: Keep self-deprecation to self, at night, while wearing both mouth guards.
“Hello? Beth, your friend? You referred her to me. She told me she had been anorexic. In high school, right?”
I should’ve thought of that myself. “Yes! Beth! You’re right! How is she? I haven’t seen her for years.”
“She’s healthy; her second marriage is a joke—he’s gay, but she doesn’t know it. I used to see him out at all the bars. But anyway, she’s doing well. You should call her. You’ll love what I’ve done with her hair.”
“How can you not tell her that her husband is gay?” I asked, shocked. Equally shocking, which I admitted solely to myself, was how I could possibly call Beth and ask her to help me with Melanie after what I’d done to Beth in high school.
“Because, mio amore, some things people just need to figure out for themselves,” Thomas said. “Oh, and since I let you pick the color, I’m going to demand that we try a little flat iron today. You know, Kelly, you’re probably going to want a straightening treatment. It’s costly, but so worth it. It’ll tame this Midwestern frizz action subito.”
I knew Thomas would have to assert himself after I did. That was okay. My bigger problem was getting up the nerve to call Beth, a friend I’d abandoned in her own time of need. I’d need to genuinely make amends before there was any hope of having her in my life again.
THREE HOURS AND $275 LATER, I HAD A NEW LOOK: LIGHTER blonde, shoulder length, straight instead of my usual waves, and a few bangs that hadn’t graced my forehead since eighth grade. Thomas said they would take six years off my face; I told him they’d better because it would take six years to grow them back out. As I pulled Doug out into the midday Grandville traffic, I nodded to T2C #4 attached to the dash, smiled at my lucky penny, and remembered to call Charlotte. I also remembered I now had a reason to shop. I pointed my trusty steed in the direction of my favorite boutique, Clothes the Loop.
My friend Jennifer, another of the female entrepreneurs I knew, had created the business based on her great eye for fashion and the strength of her personality. Even Kathryn admired the shop’s unique, high-end lines. Then Jennifer received a devastating diagnosis of breast cancer, and an unfortunately too-familiar story of courage unfolded.
Sitting there in my car, I shuddered as I thought about Jennifer’s battle with the disease. My scare had been nothing in comparison, and yet, I knew the black hole of fear that the mere thought of receiving the diagnosis opened up in me. A hole I was still climbing out of, judging by my easy tears and lack of connection with my friends since Christmas.
But, I was getting better, while Jennifer was still fighting for her life.
I am so blessed. T2C #8—Remember my blessings—rang in my mind as I made my way toward the boutique. All of us in Grandville tried to shop here as often as we could afford to. Plus, selfishly, I had been working hard all week, entertaining an ultrathin teenager and trying to staunch my tear ducts, so I deserved a little retail therapy.
I punched in Charlotte’s number and wondered, again, why it was legal to dial and drive. It should not be for me.
“Thanks for finally calling me back! That was a long hair appointment,” she said accusingly. “Look, here’s the situation. I have six houses listed, no assistant, and I’m running myself ragged. I wondered if you would consider helping me. I’d pay you, of course, and we can talk about what you think is fair. Hold on—Stop it girls, or I’ll take away TV rights for tonight. Sorry, Kelly. You know, maybe summer camp is a good idea. Anyway, the first project is Bob Thompson’s house. I just can’t show it the way it is. Okay?”
A paid job! Working with a friend. Perhaps this could be the answer to my life-changes list. I could earn money, thus become financially savvy (T2C #3); I would have a purpose during the day while the kids were at school, thereby having something to talk about when asked (#3); and I could tap into my design skills (#1). I’d never thought about the real estate arena, but many others had. Some, like Charlotte, had found great success. What would it feel like to have a paycheck again? The last paycheck I cashed was the day I took maternity leave and never went back.
“What, exactly, would you want me to do?” I asked as my heart thumped with excitement.
“It’s called staging. I need you to make the house warm and inviting. Staging is like interior decorating, but the point is to get a home sold as quickly as possible. You could do this in your sleep!”
Maybe I could do it in my sleep, thereby saving my teeth from the incessant grinding and minimizing visits to dentist (T2C #2). “Let me think about it, Charlotte. I’m so flattered you asked, but I’m sort of worried about whether I’m truly qualified, as well as the whole working with a friend thing.”
“No, it wouldn’t be like that. You’ll do your thing, I’ll do mine. You bill me your hours. A piece of cake. Besides, it’s so lonely being in business by myself,” Charlotte said. “I work at an office filled with real estate agents, but each one of us is our own business, and there’s really no team spirit at all. It’s brutal competition, even if we’re supposedly on the same side.”
“That sounds tough,” I agreed, pulling into a parking spot in front of Clothes the Loop. Charlotte’s office—the one she was complaining about—was just down the street, but I didn’t tell her I was nearby. Having my own money to shop with could be a very life-changing event. Guilt-free buying could be fabulous.
“It’s brutal. Worse now, with the market the way it is. People are leaving the business and going into other fields. It’s time for me to go for it, and then when the market comes back again, well, it’ll be great. Jim just got laid off from his new job. All the more reason why the girls and I need to be able to take care of ourselves.”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. That’s got to be tough on Jim,” I said. Maybe that was what was bothering her, the topic she hadn’t gotten around to telling me about the other evening.
&nb
sp; “Yeah, it’s tough on all of us. So, help me?”
“Okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Think fast. I have a really important showing in two days at the Thompsons’ house. Out-of-town buyer. Thanks so much! You’re the best!”
Did I just take a job? Jeez. All I did was decide my life had to change, and now it was, faster than I could’ve imagined. I’m a believer in tossing thoughts out into the universe; I just didn’t know the answer would be tossed back so quickly, via cell phone. I needed a new dress.
Inside Clothes the Loop were the same saleswomen Jennifer hired when she was creating the store, a fiercely loyal group who had stayed on to support her business partner, Jacob, who now ran the boutique. He spotted me and started to head my way. I needed to put up my best anti–sales pressure front. Problem was, I didn’t have one. The smallest suggestion and I would impulse-buy. I must’ve got it from my maternal grandma. My mom could withstand all types of sales pressure, but I was a sitting duck.
“Kelly, darling, you haven’t been here in ages,” Jacob gushed, kissing me on both cheeks while giving me a big hug. “We have some of your favorite designers, just in for the summer.”
Quack. Quack. “So good to see you,” I said. “And how’s Jennifer doing?”
“Not much change there, unfortunately,” Jacob said quietly.
I was sure he was accustomed to the question, and that he wished he had something better to report.
“I’ll tell her you were in and send your love. What can I help you find today?”
“Okay, here’s what I need. An outfit or two to impress a fifteen-year-old girl. I’m tragically unhip. Oh, and I may be going back to work, so something semi-professional looking.” I looked at the beautiful and abundant clothing surrounding me. “Two outfits. Really. Don’t let me get anymore than that or Patrick will kill me.”
“He never has, never will. What exactly will you be doing in the working world?”
“You know, I was a great PR person in my day, but now I’m leaning toward something in the interior design arena. We’ll see.”
“Lots of competition in that field, but you do have great taste,” Jacob said. “Head on up to the dressing room and I will pick out some—ah, two—outfits to show the teen you’re a force to be reckoned with!” Jacob turned his attention to the racks while I worked my way through the small store and up the stairs, thinking yes, I do have exquisite taste.
At the top of the stairs stood Rachel White. I need to add her to my list, somehow. Ignore Rachel White. That’s not very empowering, though, and I really don’t want her name on my wall.
“Hi Rachel,” I said, trying to get past her to the dressing room.
“Oh Kelly, so glad to run into you again so soon! Your mouth looks better,” she said, putting her hand on my arm to trap me. “I’ve been meaning to call you. I know you’re busy and all, but we really need to do a baby shower for Mrs. Faller this summer, and since you were the room parent in third grade, you should head it up.”
Rachel’s enormous wedding ring blinded me for a moment, the light reflecting off her owl eyeglasses. Some sort of primal force made me want to smack her.
“Unless you’re too busy?” she said. “I suppose I could gather up some other folks to do it. Where are you going this fall, by the way? You know we all live vicariously through you, all of us stuck here in the bubble just taking care of our kids while you gallivant all over the globe.”
Would it be bad form to punch her right here, in an upscale boutique? If she bled, would she ruin the Oriental rug? Deep down, I decided, I am too nice to throw a punch, and besides, it would hurt. Me. I would indirectly add Rachel to my list after all. Number Eleven: Take self-defense classes. And remember Number Eight. Count my blessings. Here’s one: I am blessed to not be Rachel White.
Instead of hitting Rachel, I simply glared and said, “Mrs. Faller’s friends should give her a baby shower, not the parents of her third grade class from two years ago, don’t you think?” Open-ended, yet firm.
My stomach was churning; I was starting to get an acidic taste in my mouth. I needed to eat lunch. It took a lot out of me to stand up to a militia mom. Especially the general. Maybe I was developing an ulcer? Was that the next step in depression and anxiety after grinding all my teeth away? Did ground teeth cause stomach ulcers—all that fluoride powder down the hatch?
Rachel tilted her head; the store’s canned light danced off her Botox-perfected forehead and glinted off her glasses. “You don’t have time and that’s fine. It was quite obvious from the way you ran the Halloween party that these sorts of things aren’t your forté. What a fiasco! A piñata? Really? Anyway, I’ll handle the shower. I guess you’re busy doing something since the boys are away? I mean, I would just miss Amy too much to ever do that to her.”
Okay. It was getting brutal. If I knew an effective Brazilian capoeira move I’d throw one at her, but I hadn’t even mastered the Brazilian Blowout. Under suburban attacks of this nature, I tended to slink into submission. Trapped just outside the dressing room, face to face with the enemy, I was a wimp. (Note to self: Really need T2C #11.)
“Of course I miss the kids while they’re gone, but it gives Patrick and me a chance to reconnect,” I said, sharing far too much information and knowing it could be spun into a hundred stories of bad mothering and selfishness. What would Patrick say, I wondered, and then smiled. “Actually, Rachel, it’s given us a chance to have some amazing sex. I brought the latest issue of Cosmopolitan to bed with us last night, and well, let me just say—”
“Oh my God,” Rachel interrupted, as aghast as I hoped she’d be. “Really, Kelly? Sharing intimate details of your marriage?”
“My favorite article was all about more than one climax in a single sack session.” It seems unbelievable that in the enlightened twenty-first century women still judge each other’s choices and mock them, just like mean girls on the playground. When would it end? Not with Rachel, ever. She just brings out the worst in me, and I guess I bring out the venom in her.
“Aren’t we both lucky to have solid marriages?” she said, her manicured hand resting on her chin. I hadn’t shaken her with my sex talk, at least not for long. “Did you know Matt and Wendy are getting a divorce? He’s been having an affair for years with his secretary. Wendy just found out. Isn’t that sad?” Rachel tried to lean in and air-kiss my right cheek. “Don’t worry, Kelly. I’ll cover the shower somehow!”
I watched her perfect, Spanx-clad backside retreating as Jacob waved her good-bye and shoved me into the dressing room with a pile of clothes to try. Behind the curtain, finally alone, I pondered my question once again. Did we all simply have too much time on our hands, we Grandville stay-at-home moms? What about the other six million women who stay at home full time? Did all of us use our time to judge one another and feel fortunate, superior even, that we were the chosen ones, able to quit our jobs and be there for our kids? Of course, from the reactions I get, sending them to camp breaks the “being there” rule, at least according to many of the chosen ones. I wondered what the 74 million moms who work outside the home would think about these petty salvos. It was then that I knew I would take the job Charlotte offered. I would join the ranks of women some of my stay-at-home colleagues derogatorily called “weekend moms.”
“Knock, knock,” Jacob said as he threw open the curtain. His arms were bursting with more items on hangers.
“That is waaay more than two outfits, buster,” I said.
“We want you to look great, Kelly. Take a deep breath. You know,” he said, nodding in the direction Rachel had gone, “she never buys a thing. She just drops in, upsets people, and leaves. I’m not kidding. It happens at least three times a week.”
“Ban her,” I said, and pulled the curtain shut. I heard him chuckle, but knew he would do no such thing. Rachel was a potential customer, after all, who might buy something someday—maybe. And in this economy, maybe was good enough. I looked at the new items Jacob had brought me,
loved four outfits, looked down at my watch, saw it was fifteen minutes to camp call time, and did what I always do: grabbed more than I needed and headed for the cash register. I’d look good, but I’d also feel guilty until Patrick got the bill. Then I’d just be in trouble. Working and making my own money was beginning to sound like a really good idea.
It was odd that I’d ended up this way: a vintage housewife living in a modern world. My mom had been a stay-at-home mom, a model of domestic perfection. Perfect house, perfect kids, perfect meals. And then poof! My dad ran off with a neighbor. We thought he spent so much time there because he liked her pool. And the next thing you know, Mom was falling apart. She’d been totally dependent on their relationship. And where had she ended up? At age forty-five she’d found herself looking for a job, with no applicable workforce skills and little alimony.
So why had I allowed myself to follow in her footsteps? I trust Patrick, of course, but what if he starts thinking his legal assistant is hot? What if his assistant is hot? Who is his assistant right now? Oh my God …
“Kelly, you didn’t even show me one outfit. I bet the camel-colored dress looked divine,” Jacob said, interrupting my mental frenzy but not my worry as he started to ring me up. I needed a paycheck, I needed a savings account. What if Patrick cut off my credit cards today?
“Kelly?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll take the blue shirt and the white jeans, too, and well, I’ve got to get going,” I said. I hadn’t tried anything on, and I’d come bursting out of the dressing room like a crazy woman. I knew I looked flustered, but I had a job to start, a husband who may be in love with his assistant, and boys to talk to in Maine. And I would now have more items hanging in my closet with tags still dangling from them, but that couldn’t be helped right now.
I needed to talk to Patrick, really talk to him. About the fact Melanie was moving in this evening and he didn’t even know it yet. And when was I going to tell him about Charlotte’s job offer? About Dr. Weiskopf? I wondered if that was my private business. Is it better to hide my insecurities from my husband? He knows I’m not superwoman; heck, he’s seen my Post-its all over the place. But I want him to think I have things together. That I’m okay, that I don’t need drugs to stop crying all the time.
