the digital universe.
• Seven •
J ill’s house is even more immaculate than usual, all manner of dust, dirt, and grime having been eradicated by Isabella, her German/Irish/El Salvadorian cleaning woman. Isabella comes every Friday and spends an extra two hours on book club Fridays to make certain that every surface, including the tile and hardwood floors, is clean enough to eat off. I find this very comforting, especially since every now and then one of my cheese balls happens to roll off my plate and onto said floor, and I have no problem picking it up and popping it into my mouth without even so much as a cursory wipe.
My kids were more than excited about the prospect of hanging with their cousins and “Uncle Greg” tonight, since they know that he has a habit of letting his attention wander and they will pretty much be able to get away with anything. I gave Connor a stern talking to about keeping an eye on hisyounger siblings, and he managed to make it the whole way through my lecture without yawning once. I reminded them that their dad would be meeting them at Boomers to do his parental bit, and warned them to absolutely stay away from the gory, blood-spattering zombie-killing games that I insisted would give them all nightmares if they dared play them. Each of my three angels nodded solemnly. I can’t be certain, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they were all crossing their fingers behind their backs.
Now I am working on my first glass of wine while I try to artfully arrange the food trays on the kitchen counter. I fan out the lovely gold-trimmed beverage naps—these do
not
have lilies on them—and set them between the ice bucket, in which a Chardonnay chills, and the bottle of organic red that is now open and “breathing.”
Jill comes into the kitchen with a flourish, wearing a breezy peach-and-yellow blouse that beautifully complements her complexion, and a pair of white cotton slacks. She has applied just the right amount of makeup and her hair falls casually about her shoulders. Jill always looks smashing for book club, which fascinates me. We are, after all, meeting with our female friends. So unless she’s hiding from me a girl-crush she has on one of the members, I just don’t get the point. Oh, I know it’s tied into her Southern roots and her need to be the perfect hostess. But still. Part of the reason I enjoy book club so much is that I don’t have to look a certain way or try to impress anyone. Admittedly, I did take a few extra minutes this evening to assess my appearance. After all, you-know-who lives next door and should I run into him whilst taking out the trash, I want to be confident that I don’t look like a homeless person rummaging through the bins.
“You look great,” I tell Jill, and she beams.
“So do you. Wow.” She reaches for her own wineglass and looks at me appraisingly. “You never wear makeup to book club. What’s the occasion?”
“It’s part of my reinvention thing.”
She nods. “You’ve been doing the treadmill, too. It shows.” I smile to myself but say nothing.
She is just pulling a batch of spanakopita out of the oven when the doorbell rings. It’s only twenty to seven, and it is rare for anyone to show up this early, but perhaps one of our cohorts has had an exceptionally long week and is jonesing for a libation.
“Want me to get it?” I ask, knowing she will say no. A perfect hostess never lets another guest open the door. It would be
trés gauche
.
Jill shakes her head and slides the sheet pan my way, wordlessly asking me to plate the apps, then heads for the front door. The phyllo triangles burn my fingertips as I transfer them to the serving tray. I can just hear Jill’s lilting voice wafting in from the foyer. A moment later, she appears in the kitchen followed by none other than Ben Campbell.
I jerk with surprise, sending the sheet pan and the half-dozen spanakopita I had yet to plate flailing through the air and onto the
• Seven •
J ill’s house is even more immaculate than usual, all manner of dust, dirt, and grime having been eradicated by Isabella, her German/Irish/El Salvadorian cleaning woman. Isabella comes every Friday and spends an extra two hours on book club Fridays to make certain that every surface, including the tile and hardwood floors, is clean enough to eat off. I find this very comforting, especially since every now and then one of my cheese balls happens to roll off my plate and onto said floor, and I have no problem picking it up and popping it into my mouth without even so much as a cursory wipe.
My kids were more than excited about the prospect of hanging with their cousins and “Uncle Greg” tonight, since they know that he has a habit of letting his attention wander and they will pretty much be able to get away with anything. I gave Connor a stern talking to about keeping an eye on hisyounger siblings, and he managed to make it the whole way through my lecture without yawning once. I reminded them that their dad would be meeting them at Boomers to do his parental bit, and warned them to absolutely stay away from the gory, blood-spattering zombie-killing games that I insisted would give them all nightmares if they dared play them. Each of my three angels nodded solemnly. I can’t be certain, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they were all crossing their fingers behind their backs.
Now I am working on my first glass of wine while I try to artfully arrange the food trays on the kitchen counter. I fan out the lovely gold-trimmed beverage naps—these do
not
have lilies on them—and set them between the ice bucket, in which a Chardonnay chills, and the bottle of organic red that is now open and “breathing.”
Jill comes into the kitchen with a flourish, wearing a breezy peach-and-yellow blouse that beautifully complements her complexion, and a pair of white cotton slacks. She has applied just the right amount of makeup and her hair falls casually about her shoulders. Jill always looks smashing for book club, which fascinates me. We are, after all, meeting with our female friends. So unless she’s hiding from me a girl-crush she has on one of the members, I just don’t get the point. Oh, I know it’s tied into her Southern roots and her need to be the perfect hostess. But still. Part of the reason I enjoy book club so much is that I don’t have to look a certain way or try to impress anyone. Admittedly, I did take a few extra minutes this evening to assess my appearance. After all, you-know-who lives next door and should I run into him whilst taking out the trash, I want to be confident that I don’t look like a homeless person rummaging through the bins.
“You look great,” I tell Jill, and she beams.
“So do you. Wow.” She reaches for her own wineglass and looks at me appraisingly. “You never wear makeup to book club. What’s the occasion?”
“It’s part of my reinvention thing.”
She nods. “You’ve been doing the treadmill, too. It shows.” I smile to myself but say nothing.
She is just pulling a batch of spanakopita out of the oven when the doorbell rings. It’s only twenty to seven, and it is rare for anyone to show up this early, but perhaps one of our cohorts has had an exceptionally long week and is jonesing for a libation.
“Want me to get it?” I ask, knowing she will say no. A perfect hostess never lets another guest open the door. It would be
trés gauche
.
Jill shakes her head and slides the sheet pan my way, wordlessly asking me to plate the apps, then heads for the front door. The phyllo triangles burn my fingertips as I transfer them to the serving tray. I can just hear Jill’s lilting voice wafting in from the foyer. A moment later, she appears in the kitchen followed by none other than Ben Campbell.
I jerk with surprise, sending the sheet pan and the half-dozen spanakopita I had yet to plate flailing through the air and onto the
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