ending my self-pity session before it sank lower and sent me binging on junk food.
I trudged off to the living room just as the doorbell broke into its tinny harmony the second time. Taking a moment to compose myself I drew in a breath and then opened the door.
“Shari!” I stepped back to let the first arrival through the door. “Come on in.” At least I sounded perky.
Sharon Novak, aka Shari, was always the first on the scene. She prided herself on punctuality. She claimed it had nothing to do with her ex but I knew differently. Look, when you’re late getting to the airport to take your first real vacation in ten years of marriage and the bastard takes off on your vacation with another woman instead of waiting, well that scars a woman.
“I’ve got the movie!” She held up a DVD case, causing the bag swinging from her shoulder to flop down into the crook of her arm. “ Troy .” She wiggled with anticipation. “Brad Pitt is a god in this movie. Twenty years from now it’ll still be a classic.”
She bubbled with her usual over the top excitement. Maybe her good mood would rub off on me. God knew I needed to shake this gloom and doom. Depression didn’t look good on anyone. Classic or no, a half-naked Brad couldn’t hurt my mood. Except that he was a perfect example of the double standard between men and women in terms of the aging issue. Men got better with age, like wine. Women, on the other hand, were like cheese—aged was good to a degree, then came the mold and the inevitable casting aside.
At least I wasn’t that depressed anymore. Nope, now I was just pissed off.
“Sounds awesome,” I enthused, forcing myself to be swept along by her fervor. I didn’t mention that she’d brought that movie at least twice a year for the past six. Truth was, fair or not, Brad looked pretty damned hot in ancient Greek garb.
Before I could close the door the final two members of our little club, which even after all these years still had no name, bounded up the sidewalk.
“Hey, girl!” This from Donna Ingle, my absolute best friend on earth. She and I went way, way back. Knew each other’s deepest, darkest secrets. Well, most of them anyway.
We exchanged the traditional bear hug. In Texas we didn’t bother with little cheeky air kisses. We hug like we mean it.
Mary Jane reached for me next. “Hey, Jackie. Donna dumped her boyfriend today,” she whispered in my ear before letting go.
Why hadn’t I heard about this? Before I could sulk about it Shari came up beside me and slung her arm around my shoulders. “I didn’t get a hug,” she pouted.
I obliged my neglected friend as I contemplated that Donna, the only one of us who always had a man in her life, had dumped her guy. There had to be a new man in the picture. It just wasn’t possible for Donna to be... singular .
Five minutes later we were ready to eat. Thankfully the weekly host didn’t have to do the cooking. Shari not only brought the movie she carried a Tupperware tub of southwestern style baked beans. Donna brought ribs. Mary Jane, whose surname was in fact Jane but everyone called her Mary Jane because it sounded better than plain Mary, provided her famous southern style potato salad.
Because we were all over forty and fighting off the effects of slowing metabolisms and advancing cellulite we never had rolls or buns. It was the first rule of our nameless club. No bread shall be consumed during weekly confessional. The second rule was that we must read our bible as soon as it arrived each month— More Magazine . Cosmo rated a close second.
We had to stay hip on the latest ways to keep our minds sharp, our bodies sleek, and our sex lives titillating. Most women our age were trying to pretend that sex no longer mattered or that the mere promise of it was enough—which usually meant they still had a husband but
I trudged off to the living room just as the doorbell broke into its tinny harmony the second time. Taking a moment to compose myself I drew in a breath and then opened the door.
“Shari!” I stepped back to let the first arrival through the door. “Come on in.” At least I sounded perky.
Sharon Novak, aka Shari, was always the first on the scene. She prided herself on punctuality. She claimed it had nothing to do with her ex but I knew differently. Look, when you’re late getting to the airport to take your first real vacation in ten years of marriage and the bastard takes off on your vacation with another woman instead of waiting, well that scars a woman.
“I’ve got the movie!” She held up a DVD case, causing the bag swinging from her shoulder to flop down into the crook of her arm. “ Troy .” She wiggled with anticipation. “Brad Pitt is a god in this movie. Twenty years from now it’ll still be a classic.”
She bubbled with her usual over the top excitement. Maybe her good mood would rub off on me. God knew I needed to shake this gloom and doom. Depression didn’t look good on anyone. Classic or no, a half-naked Brad couldn’t hurt my mood. Except that he was a perfect example of the double standard between men and women in terms of the aging issue. Men got better with age, like wine. Women, on the other hand, were like cheese—aged was good to a degree, then came the mold and the inevitable casting aside.
At least I wasn’t that depressed anymore. Nope, now I was just pissed off.
“Sounds awesome,” I enthused, forcing myself to be swept along by her fervor. I didn’t mention that she’d brought that movie at least twice a year for the past six. Truth was, fair or not, Brad looked pretty damned hot in ancient Greek garb.
Before I could close the door the final two members of our little club, which even after all these years still had no name, bounded up the sidewalk.
“Hey, girl!” This from Donna Ingle, my absolute best friend on earth. She and I went way, way back. Knew each other’s deepest, darkest secrets. Well, most of them anyway.
We exchanged the traditional bear hug. In Texas we didn’t bother with little cheeky air kisses. We hug like we mean it.
Mary Jane reached for me next. “Hey, Jackie. Donna dumped her boyfriend today,” she whispered in my ear before letting go.
Why hadn’t I heard about this? Before I could sulk about it Shari came up beside me and slung her arm around my shoulders. “I didn’t get a hug,” she pouted.
I obliged my neglected friend as I contemplated that Donna, the only one of us who always had a man in her life, had dumped her guy. There had to be a new man in the picture. It just wasn’t possible for Donna to be... singular .
Five minutes later we were ready to eat. Thankfully the weekly host didn’t have to do the cooking. Shari not only brought the movie she carried a Tupperware tub of southwestern style baked beans. Donna brought ribs. Mary Jane, whose surname was in fact Jane but everyone called her Mary Jane because it sounded better than plain Mary, provided her famous southern style potato salad.
Because we were all over forty and fighting off the effects of slowing metabolisms and advancing cellulite we never had rolls or buns. It was the first rule of our nameless club. No bread shall be consumed during weekly confessional. The second rule was that we must read our bible as soon as it arrived each month— More Magazine . Cosmo rated a close second.
We had to stay hip on the latest ways to keep our minds sharp, our bodies sleek, and our sex lives titillating. Most women our age were trying to pretend that sex no longer mattered or that the mere promise of it was enough—which usually meant they still had a husband but
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