introduced Stan to Lots, who was in a shouting match with Doug about cohabital living. I thrust Lots into a group who were pro-abortion only to discover she was a Catholic, and then propelled her into a conversation with Stella. Stella, a feminist, was shouting at Sonya, who said she was happy staying home and why couldn't Stella accept that!
Liz appeared at my elbow and—nodding toward George—said, “What kind of a jerk would be against neutering animals?”
At the same time, Sonya complained she had a respiratory disorder and couldn't talk to a smoker, so I introduced her to Mary Ellen.
Doug said there wasn't one person at the party who read The New York Times and one woman thought a vasectomy was an operation for varicose veins. Was there no one who had an opinion on the Marvin decision!
When they were seated for dinner, my eyes glanced nervously around the table. Let's see, I had the natural-childbirth advocate next to the minister, the legalize marijuana next to open enrollment, jogger next to environmentalist, antiviolence next to the woman who didn't own a television set, the chauvinist next to the anti-feminist, and the anti-pay-toilet demonstrator next to . . . who else? Lots, who was on her seventh glass of water but couldn't tear herself away from her dinner companion's views.
The only thing I had forgotten was to put my husband, the left-hander, at the end of the table. Luckily, left-handers were pacifists.
Their conversation sounded like the Tower of Babel. Every once in a while words and phrases would surface loudly: “a new concept,” “the bottom line is productivity,” “at this point in time,” “a positive interaction,” “sexual freedom.”
Mayva was right. I needed the stimulation of a cause that would put me on the other end of one of those conversations.
Later, as I was talking with Emily about volunteering a few hours a week at the Save the Whale Sperm Bank, Stella steered me to the sofa and said, “Let's talk.”
She eased herself back into the cushions. “When are you going to take yourself away from all this?”
“I'm the hostess,” I said simply.
“I don't mean the party. I mean all this domesticity.”
I liked Stella. I also knew she never got too choked up over a “nice windy day that was perfect for drying blankets.”
In fact, her wedding linens dissolved in the washer and her marriage dissolved in the courts the same week. She took that as an omen.
Like Helen, my neighbor, Stella had made the transition from the utility room to the board room as easily as napping during a piano recital.
“You're such a success,” I smiled. “I'm so proud of you.”
“And you could be a success too,” she said. “It's a game. Men have been playing it for years. Have you read Looking Out for You-Know-Who by Robby Winner?”
“Stella,” I said, “I just went through that number. It didn't work.”
“How do you know it isn't for you? You couldn't have been serious about breaking out of the mold. Look at you!”
“Now, what's the matter with me?” I asked.
“My God, no one wears a slip any more.”
“That's not true. I know a lot of women who wear slips.”
“Under a see-through sweater? Get serious. Look, babe, why don't you come down next week to my office and we'll have lunch. We can talk some more. Besides, I want you to see where I work.”
I had no intention of following up on Stella's suggestion until one afternoon at the Save the Whale Sperm Bank when I had hung up on my 187th obscene phone call, I called and told her I'd be by around one.
Stella was on the twenty-seventh floor of one of those office buildings that looks like it's awaiting a countdown. Her secretary led me into her office.
I had lived in smaller apartments. A huge desk held a phone with five buttons. There was a wall of bookcases and two African spears that crossed a shield on the wall behind her desk.
“I didn't know you went to Africa,” I said.
“I didn't, sweetie; it's part
Liz appeared at my elbow and—nodding toward George—said, “What kind of a jerk would be against neutering animals?”
At the same time, Sonya complained she had a respiratory disorder and couldn't talk to a smoker, so I introduced her to Mary Ellen.
Doug said there wasn't one person at the party who read The New York Times and one woman thought a vasectomy was an operation for varicose veins. Was there no one who had an opinion on the Marvin decision!
When they were seated for dinner, my eyes glanced nervously around the table. Let's see, I had the natural-childbirth advocate next to the minister, the legalize marijuana next to open enrollment, jogger next to environmentalist, antiviolence next to the woman who didn't own a television set, the chauvinist next to the anti-feminist, and the anti-pay-toilet demonstrator next to . . . who else? Lots, who was on her seventh glass of water but couldn't tear herself away from her dinner companion's views.
The only thing I had forgotten was to put my husband, the left-hander, at the end of the table. Luckily, left-handers were pacifists.
Their conversation sounded like the Tower of Babel. Every once in a while words and phrases would surface loudly: “a new concept,” “the bottom line is productivity,” “at this point in time,” “a positive interaction,” “sexual freedom.”
Mayva was right. I needed the stimulation of a cause that would put me on the other end of one of those conversations.
Later, as I was talking with Emily about volunteering a few hours a week at the Save the Whale Sperm Bank, Stella steered me to the sofa and said, “Let's talk.”
She eased herself back into the cushions. “When are you going to take yourself away from all this?”
“I'm the hostess,” I said simply.
“I don't mean the party. I mean all this domesticity.”
I liked Stella. I also knew she never got too choked up over a “nice windy day that was perfect for drying blankets.”
In fact, her wedding linens dissolved in the washer and her marriage dissolved in the courts the same week. She took that as an omen.
Like Helen, my neighbor, Stella had made the transition from the utility room to the board room as easily as napping during a piano recital.
“You're such a success,” I smiled. “I'm so proud of you.”
“And you could be a success too,” she said. “It's a game. Men have been playing it for years. Have you read Looking Out for You-Know-Who by Robby Winner?”
“Stella,” I said, “I just went through that number. It didn't work.”
“How do you know it isn't for you? You couldn't have been serious about breaking out of the mold. Look at you!”
“Now, what's the matter with me?” I asked.
“My God, no one wears a slip any more.”
“That's not true. I know a lot of women who wear slips.”
“Under a see-through sweater? Get serious. Look, babe, why don't you come down next week to my office and we'll have lunch. We can talk some more. Besides, I want you to see where I work.”
I had no intention of following up on Stella's suggestion until one afternoon at the Save the Whale Sperm Bank when I had hung up on my 187th obscene phone call, I called and told her I'd be by around one.
Stella was on the twenty-seventh floor of one of those office buildings that looks like it's awaiting a countdown. Her secretary led me into her office.
I had lived in smaller apartments. A huge desk held a phone with five buttons. There was a wall of bookcases and two African spears that crossed a shield on the wall behind her desk.
“I didn't know you went to Africa,” I said.
“I didn't, sweetie; it's part
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