I Regret Nothing: A Memoir Read online

  For now, I’ve completed two items on my list, I own more end tables than I’ll ever need, I have music that keeps me stimulated and a hobby that keeps me moving, plus I’ve discovered the smug sense of satisfaction of having finally, finally gotten one up on Martha.

  And that’s a great thing.

  11.

  ITALIAN FOR DOUCHE BAGS

  “How goes the list?” Stacey asks.

  Fletch and I are out to dinner with Stacey and her doting husband, Bill. Bill’s a real Southern gentleman, always opening doors and pulling out chairs for her. He’s exactly the kind of man you hope your friend will marry, even if you’re more of an “I can open the damn door myself, thanks” kind of gal. Stacey quickly got used to being spoiled and once in a while when we ride somewhere together, I have to poke my head back in the car to say, “Let yourself out, princess.”

  Stacey and Bill spend most weekends at her family’s home up north, which isn’t that far from us, so we’ve met up at a nice restaurant in Libertyville, a town that’s halfway between the two places.

  I reply, “Considering we’re always talking about having dinner here, but this is the first time in almost three years that we’ve actually done so, I’d say pretty good.”

  I recently added say yes to friend face-to-face time to my bucket list when it dawned on me that I was allowing social media to take the place of a social life. All of the tweets/Facebook/Instagram/Tumblr/etc. can make it feel like I’m among pals, and the give-and-take can be amusing and engaging, but I’ve come to realize this isn’t “real” and there’s no substitute for actual interaction. The difference between social media and a social life is the difference between eating a marshmallow Peep and dining on a tomahawk-cut rib eye: one is substantial and nutritious; the other is just a momentarily satisfying puff of sweetened air, offering no long-term benefits. I can enjoy the fluff, but I can’t subsist on it.

  Back in Chicago, Stacey and I lived within walking distance for four years. Our long-standing joke was that we never actually walked to each other’s house, but we appreciated having the option. I used to see her all the time, like if one of us was running to the grocery store, we’d call the other to tag along. Plus, we had weekly luncheons with the girls and our usual Wednesday night Bravo date, where we’d get together to watch housewives or hairdressers or chefs yell at one another, depending on which show was on. The best part was, she was always up for an adventure. Sometimes our adventures entailed going to the cobbler to have a pair of boots reheeled or dropping off dry cleaning, but still.

  Stacey and I grew so close because we were in each other’s house almost every day, whether she was bringing over an extra piece of banana cake or I was stopping by to return her meat thermometer. Couple proximity with zero children and a million shared interests and, bam!

  Best friends forever.

  It’s not that I don’t equally adore all my friends who have kids, but it’s a challenge to book time with them because they’re so busy. Spontaneity flies out the window the minute one buys their first car seat.

  Now my home is twenty-five miles north of Stacey, which means sometimes I can be at her house in half an hour, unless there’s traffic, in which case it takes an hour and a half. I’ve gone from seeing her almost every day to once a month if I’m lucky.

  I miss Stacey, and sitting here across from her, I can’t imagine why I’d ever have taken a pass on getting together.

  “Well, then, cheers to your yesses!” She raises her glass of wine and we all toast.

  “Cheers to this not being Irish dancing,” I say.

  A few weeks ago, right when I began to Say Yes, Joanna mentioned that she was heading up to Milwaukee for her daughter’s Irish dancing competition. She was sure I’d decline, but figured since she had to drive past my house anyway, she’d extend the invite.

  When I told her I wasn’t allowed to say no, she was delighted. Did I want to spend my Saturday surrounded by little girls with oddly curled wigs and way too much red lipstick? No, but neither did Joanna. The most important part of friendship is being there during the times that are boring, annoying, or hard.

  “Oy, how’d that go?” Stacey asks.

  “The morning was kind of cool because all the girls were in these little slippers and they just hopped around to the sound of lutes. Like, light and lithe and kind of magical. But then, after lunch, those five hundred little girls all donned their tap shoes at the same time. They were banging away so hard that the walls began to shake. How does seventy-six pounds of nine-year-old make that much racket? I told Joanna, ‘I bet this is what Afghanistan sounds like.’”

  Fletch interjects, “You didn’t tweet that, right?”

  “Not on your life,” I responded. This is another reason I’m trying to wean myself off of social media; there’s too much room for misinterpretation. For example, I have oceans of respect for the armed forces and years ago when I made my checklist about my ideal man (are you sensing a checklist theme here?) “ex-military” was in my “would really like to have” column. When we met, I was thrilled to learn Fletch was former active-duty army. Because military service is so important to me, I donate generously to veterans’ charities, have sent many care packages to those serving overseas, and always mark Memorial and Veterans’ Day by hanging our flag at half-mast. And I vote for politicians who are like-minded in terms of armed services, so there’s no question on how much I respect each and every branch.

  Joanna appreciated my little quip, but that’s because she understands my intentions. Even though I thought my remark was clever as it juxtaposed the agonizing ballet of battle versus little girls in embroidered dresses banging around on a stage by an ice rink, I didn’t dare share this thought because I didn’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to explain how no, really, I swear I support the military.

  How does an innocuous observation like, say, “There sure are a lot of Subarus up here in Seattle,” so quickly devolve into an angry mob demanding to know why I hate lesbians? What? How did— where did—what?? This bizarre telephone-game interpretation social media engenders has become flat-out insanity. When did everyone begin to take everything so seriously on these sites? Personally, wouldn’t the fact that my home page boasts a photo of my cat wearing a tiny sombrero be a small clue as to my irreverent nature?

  Overreactions to what should be completely inoffensive make me so crazy. And at what point did “clicktavisim” take over for actually trying to do good? I mean, people can retweet about hunger awareness until their thumbnails fall off, but if they really wanted to do something that would help feed people right this damn minute, they’d go to the grocery store and load up their cart with shelf staples like peanut butter and pasta, dropping everything off at their local food bank.

  (Sidebar: If you try this—and I hope you do because you’ll feel AWESOME afterward—be sure to grab a few items that kids like. According to the man at the Northern Illinois Food Bank, most of those who’ve lost their SNAP benefits are families with small children. As much as they appreciate the stewed tomatoes and canned pinto beans, I’m sure they’d love a bag of Goldfish crackers or a few Hershey bars so they can feel like the other kids in their class, even for a minute.)

  (Additional sidebar: Was that soapbox-y? If so, I apologize, but I’m sick of others who equate posting about doing good with actually having done it. Also, if a supermarket sweep isn’t in line with your budget, giving your time is equally important.)

  At this point, our server swings by to tell us about the specials. She’s not a terribly skilled waitress because she keeps trying to give us every other table’s drinks and on her last stop, she spilled the better part of Table Twelve’s martini down Fletch’s back. But considering that I myself was a terrible waitress, I’m sympathetic.

  After she rattles off the list, I’m torn between the pork loin with caramelized onions and the swordfish, so I ask how
the swordfish is prepared.

  She responds, “I like fishes.”

  “Um, okay,” I say. “I’ll have the swordfish then.”

  She takes the rest of our order, which includes salads and appetizers, and then wanders off without collecting our menus. On her way to the kitchen, she plows into a busboy.

  “Was that weird?” Bill asks. “It’s not me—that was weird, right?”

  “I wonder if she’s delayed somehow,” Stacey speculates.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I got that vibe, too. ‘I like fishes.’ Really? Then bless your heart, sweetie. Well done.”

  Fletch’s eyes twinkle as he smiles at us over the rim of his craft brew. “Uh-huh. Delayed. That’s what she is.”

  “Anyway,” Stacey says. “What’s next on your list?”

  “Well, I start Italian lessons next week,” I say.

  “Ah, molto bene!” Bill cheers.

  “I know, I’m really excited. All summer long I’ve been using an Italian workbook to get familiar again and I just bought Rosetta Stone. I had the budget to buy either that or a home laser hair removal kit. So, I figured I was going to embrace my Italian heritage and leave my mustache alone. Oh, stop rolling your eyes, Fletcher. I still wax.”

  Our waitress materializes at our table again with a big tray full of frozen drinks and drafts.

  “I definitely didn’t order anything blue,” Stacey says, waving the frothy concoction away.

  “Wait, was blue an option?” I ask. I’m charmed by any blue cocktail. Fact.

  “None of these drinks are ours,” Bill says, gesturing toward all the full glasses on the table. “We’re all fine with what we have, thank you.”

  The waitress cocks her head like a German shepherd trying desperately to understand if he heard the words “doggie park” correctly. She looks at all of us for a solid thirty seconds and then, without saying a thing, tries to give the six drinks to the two-top behind us.

  Bill says, “Wow. She’s not good at this.”

  “That poor thing,” Stacey says.

  I chime in, “I know, right? I just read this book about traumatic brain injuries and—”

  Fletch puts down his glass and shakes his head at all of us. “She’s shit-housed.”

  “What?” We all look at Fletch.

  Our mouths agape, Fletch continues. “Oh, yeah. Hammered. Blotto. Cockeyed. Crapulous. Sauced. Wrecked. Tanked. Pixelated. Three sheets to the wind. All sloppy and no joe. Do you not see it? The slurring? The giggling? The stumbling? And she smells like a gin mill.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I assumed that was the martini all over your back.”

  “I have a martini all over my back. Was that not a big hint?” Fletch is far more amused than he is aggravated. “The three of you are the worst detectives ever.”

  “That’s so funny,” I say. “I was a drunken waitress in college—you’d think I’d be better at spotting it now.”

  “Yes, but that was at Purdue,” Stacey replies. “The context is off. You don’t actually expect to see this in a non-college-town restaurant with cloth napkins and a selection of artisanal cheeses.”

  “What do we do?” I ask.

  Bill puts down his napkin and stands up. “I’ll handle this. Let me say something to the manager. Excuse me.”

  We return to our regularly scheduled conversation. “So, are you doing private lessons or classes at Lake Forest College?”

  “Neither. I definitely didn’t want to be with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds and private lessons were expensive. I found a group and it works out to about ten bucks an hour for twelve lessons.”

  She fist-bumps me. “Nice!”

  Bill returns with an odd look on his face. “Well, I spoke with the manager.” He sits back down and places his napkin in his lap.

  “And?” Stacey asks.

  Bill nods slowly, like he’s trying to come to terms with something. “He’s drunk, too.”

  When our entrées arrive before the salads or appetizers, Bill then has a word with the hostess. She appears to be about eight months pregnant and is absolutely mortified by our experience. She instructs a busboy to drive both the manager and the waitress home and has the bartender take over our table. Everything works out and the rest of the night is a happy blur of old friends, laughter, and conversation.

  The swordfish, by the way, is delicious.

  When we say our good-byes, we make definitive plans to do this again very soon. Not here, but definitely somewhere.

  Saying yes has already proven to be a fine idea.

  • • •

  The rest of the summer passes by in a flash because I’m so tied up with working on furniture and saying yes to garden walks and lunches and farmers’ markets. My friend Becca tries to trick me into babysitting but I explain that she’s my friend, not her kids, so I’m able to skate out of it.

  Not only has saying yes been a lot fun. I believe that upping the social portion of my life is actually helping my goal of losing twenty pounds.

  In the scheme of things, twenty pounds will make a difference for me only psychologically, as I doubt I’ll even be able to see the results. Yet I can’t not be satisfied as the numbers on the scale finally, finally trend downward, no matter how slightly.

  I love when a plan comes together!

  For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been telling Fletch that my class feels too good to be true.

  But I should have realized that when something seems too good to be true, it generally is.

  I’ve spent each week in excited anticipation of Monday night because I’m so eager to learn. I spend tons of time practicing on my own, whether it’s using my computer discs or playing the Italian language version of MindSnacks on the iPad. (BTW, I just learned that “the shin” is “lo stinco” in Italian and that word makes me giggle every time.) Also, my circumstances are far different from when I studied Italian in college as I no longer have to make the choice between attending class or working a lunch shift to pay my rent.

  I’m learning for my own pleasure and it’s so gratifying.

  I adore my instructor, too, which adds to the whole experience. La mia professoressa Donatella doesn’t just grill us on vocabulary and grammar. As a native Italian she’s able to offer us an understanding of the country as a whole. She figures what good is speaking a language without a concept of the culture, too? She says we’re not trying to stuff in as much vocab as possible to pass a standardized test. Rather, we’re all here because we eventually want to go to Italy, so we’re picking up the lingo and the skills that will help us best navigate. Donatella explains that context is so necessary when teaching adults, so that’s a good piece of her focus.

  For example, a few weeks ago we spent the final fifteen minutes of class honoring Giuseppe Verdi’s two hundredth birthday. We discussed the great composer and his impact not just on Italy, but the music world in general. I love Verdi’s operas because he wasn’t afraid to go dark, like when (SPOILER ALERT) everyone dies in the pyramid at the end of Aida.

  Donatella gave us the Italian lyrics to the aria we were listening to, along with the English translation, and we followed along. I left class that night really feeling as though I’d learned something significant. Then, because Joanna’s a fan, too, we had something entirely new to discuss over lunch.

  In fact, I enjoy my class so much, I’ve taken to arriving a few minutes early to chat with the other participants. Years ago, I saw the foreign film Italian for Beginners and although I wasn’t looking to find love, I did hope to make some new local friends like in the movie, and thus far, this feels really possible.

  I’m happy that the movie was, in a small way, prophetic, because everyone in class seems so engaged and interesting. Like the woman who sits across from me—she mentioned how her baby was born at two and a half pounds when that same baby had just come home f
rom college to celebrate her twenty-first birthday!

  I also quite like the gal who sits on my side of the conference table. She has to miss class in a few weeks because her son is getting married—on 11/12/13. Or how about the adorable young Moroccan couple who already speak so many languages that sometimes they forget their Italian and answer in Spanish or French? Their collective cuteness slays me.

  I can’t believe how fast time goes by in class, either. I remember practically growing old and dying in some of my college courses, but here the hour passes in a wink and I wish I had so much more time.

  Of course, I should have known there’d be una mela marcia (a bad apple) in our midst.

  There’s an older couple who sits at the end of the table, clad in weird sweatshirts and elaborately framed glasses. The husband’s attendance has been sporadic for the past few weeks, first due to work schedules and then to this being cold and flu season. (It’s not an accident that I sit as far away from these two as possible, FYI.)

  We begin every class by going around in a circle and greeting one another. As most of us are super-geeked to be there, our responses are basically Italian variations on “I AM FRIGGING SPECTACULAR, THANK YOU FOR ASKING!!!!” But I’ve noticed that the wife of this couple has been saying she’s cosi cosi, which means so-so. Except she can’t seem to just say cosi cosi; for four weeks running, she’s insisted on asking what the word for so-so is before she can give her response.

  Um, number one, write that shit down so you don’t have to ask every week; number two, we don’t actually care how you are because that’s not the purpose of the exercise—just say you’re molto bene so we can get on with the class; and number three, stop giving us the big sigh before you ask what so-so means, all right? It’s abundantly clear you’d like to discuss your troubles at length and that is not okay. This is Italian class, not therapy, so if you’re compelled to talk about all your feels, please consult an appropriate professional. I paid for a full sixty minutes of this class and every minute you waste being cagey about your emotional health is a minute I’m not learning.