Odyssey In A Teacup (29 page)

I needed to free the turtles; bust a grumpy; pop a squat; send a fax; hang a rat. Oh, wait. Saying the same thing in so many different ways is not really seeing the many shades of grey in a situation. And the pressure was building! I frantically looked around. Oh God, I so needed to take a dookie; lay some cable; drop the kids off at the pool ... Yes, yes! That’s it!
The pool.
Opposite it and peeking out from behind a lush hedge of murraya was a cabana! I backed my way towards it through the shrubbery and looked through its window ...
Hello, God!
Behold, a beautiful porcelain throne with a timber seat and lid.

The remainder of the afternoon passed uneventfully, but what an afternoon it was! And now the crowd was starting to thin out (if that was even possible), I just wanted to go home. So, with Reuben in tow, I walked crab-like along the lounge room wall and towards the foyer. I said
adios
to the fat lady and her pussy in Fernando Botero’s oil painting, and stepped onto the portico, only to be greeted by Lenny and Meg. They’d been caught up in their daughter’s celebration, so this was the first we’d seen of them the whole afternoon. I introduced Reuben and zeroed in on Lenny’s left hand. Yep, a stumpy pinkie. Just as well Ralph hadn’t come. The four of us stood there chatting for about five minutes.

Lenny’s an ebullient sort of guy, who tends to talk with arms flailing wildly. So I decided that was the reason he’d lost his fingertip—too much windmilling during a surgical procedure when the nurse handed him a scalpel. With that established, we said our goodbyes and were just near the steps when I heard a high-pitched voice.

‘‘S’cuse me!’

I whirled around.
Oh no!
There she was, in my face—the Barbie doll.
Ah-ha-ah-ha-ah-ha.
Just breathe, Ruthie ...

Dollface and I stared at each other for a few seconds, she, sizing me up; me, feeling downsized. Then, in a breathy Marilyn Monroe-ish voice she said, ‘I just want to tell you that I really, really admire you for having the guts to dress the way you want.’ Then she lowered her voice (and its timbre) as she added,
‘I am so fucking uncomfortable in this tight piece of shit dress.’

At first, I was dumbstruck. Then I wanted to ask her if she was also as uncomfortable in her tight face, but it would have been rude. What followed, though, was a light-bulb moment. I was overwhelmed by the sharp, unbearable, existential pain that comes of wanting and trying to fit in—a pain that had chafed as a chronic dull ache for all these years. I was struck by the futility of it all and suddenly, I felt a strange connection with this woman.

‘You know, I’m not sure that you and I are so different. I didn’t wear what I really wanted to either,’ I confessed. ‘I admire your honesty, though.’ I smiled at her empathically and turned to leave.

As Reuben and I made our way home, I sat quietly reflecting on the afternoon. I was thrilled that on this Sunday, God had finally made an appearance. Sure, it was only a cameo role; the extent of His intervention had been to guide me to the shithouse, but it was something at least. And the impropriety of the afternoon’s events suggested that Baubo was also making a comeback. Lucky me! Maybe it was because I was willing to grab the bull by the balls that both goddess and God showed up (one fouls; One cleanses).

Reuben jolted me out of my reverie. ‘What are you nodding at?’

‘I’m going to have a weekend away. The bull’s balls need palpating.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:
DOCTORING

As soon as I walked in the door, I called Ralph and shared my ridiculous theory about Lenny’s missing finger. He responded in kind.

‘That’s a fairly clear-cut conclusion.’

I then gave him a brief rundown on the party.

‘Hmm ... sounds like change is in the wind, Ruthie.’

Not particularly fond of change, I felt a knot in my gut. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that!’

‘Well, I’m not surprised. It’s a daunting prospect for someone who fears what the wind can carry.’

I laughed. How could I forget? But it was more a fear of the chaos it can bring than the phlegm. And I knew that this upheaval meant I’d be dipping into the cesspool, so I needed to rally the troops—all three of them.

‘What are you doing next weekend?’ I asked him.

The decision Ralph, Maxi, Vette and I made all those years ago for an annual getaway had never come to fruition. I’d been immersed in the constraints of married life; they lived the carefree single life. Ralph now jumped at the chance to have a few days away together.

I sent emails to Maxi and Vette, who were both overseas on business for the rest of the week. With their increasingly hectic schedules over the years, there had been little time for the four of us to even meet for coffee. It seemed, though, that the planets had aligned. They responded within a few hours and both were available and thrilled at the idea of sharing some quality downtime.

Maxi had worked her way up to editor of the magazine, and Vette had done the training program offered by Myer and was now a fashion buyer for the store. Ralph still did a bit of modelling, but he had taken himself off to university five years earlier, got a psychology degree and worked with a group of psychologists. He had long since stopped doing things in pairs, except for the doublespeak, which now took on an elitist
quality because it had a university-educated edge—in other words, psychobabble bullshit
²
.

This time, I booked a room for each of us at a hotel in Noosa. Ralph and I got there just after lunch on Friday, Maxi and Vette came in around six and we caught up for dinner. They regaled us with stories of their recent trips, but it was an early night because both were a bit jet-lagged.

We were all happy to unwind by the pool after breakfast the next day. The four of us schmoozed for half the morning about their love lives. Serial monogamists the three of them, their experiences seemed intoxicating, where mine were jejune. As dedicated career gals, Maxi and Vette didn’t have much room in their lives for a long-term, committed relationship. And Ralph was still on the lookout for his ‘Twin Flame’. He explained that, according to Plato, a Twin Flame is the other half of each human’s soul that has split away and incarnated into the form of another.

‘Don’t you believe you can have more than one soulmate?’ Vette asked him.

‘Yeah. Not
everything
in life has to come in pairs, you know!’ Maxi and Vette had become privy to Ralph’s OCPD during our Surfers Paradise get-together.

‘Yes, I do believe we can have more than one soulmate, Vette.’ Ralph ignored Maxi’s comment. ‘But I also believe we have only
one
Twin Flame.’

‘Well, I’m self-sufficient, don’t need a man to complete me, so maybe mine forgot to split away,’ said Maxi.

‘I’m self-sufficient too, but I’d still like to think there’s someone out there for me,’ Vette said.

‘Do you really buy that—Plato’s theory?” I asked Ralph. “Isn’t it just the idealistic stuff of fairy tales, you know, looking for “The One”?’

‘Yeah, I do. And I think a lot of people never find theirs, and that many just end up settling.’

Ralph’s observation wasn’t aimed at me but it felt like a stab in the heart. I knew that Reuben was my soulmate, but I’d earlier thought that of Glen. Neither of them felt like the ‘Twin Flame’, though. It seemed that Ralph had just defined another source of nebulous uneasiness I’d experienced early in my marriage. It hadn’t really abated; it just stopped invading conscious thought.

‘So why
don’t
most of us find it?’ asked Vette.

‘Because people stopped listening to their gut and their heart so long ago, and looked outside of themselves instead. They let society make decisions for them; you know, learned to look for someone that ticks all the boxes.’

‘You listen to your gut and your heart, so why haven’t you found your Twin Flame?’ I asked him.

‘Because she’s yet to listen to hers. And until she does, we won’t connect.’ Ralph seemed so positive and hopeful.

‘Well ... I admire your confidence in that, and the fact that you’re really enjoying your single life until you do connect. All of you.’

The three of them saw their love lives as an opportunity to experience the perpetual newness of many firsts (‘first date; first kiss; first shag’, as Maxi put it). I felt stale and I told them so.

‘I envy you guys. I feel like I need to have some newness in my life.’

‘At least you have stability. There’s not a whole lot of that in an industry that’s not really, well ... real,’ said Maxi.

‘Yeah. Our lives aren’t as glamorous as they seem,’ added Vette. Then she thought of something. ‘Back in a sec.’

She disappeared for five minutes and returned with three goodie bags—samples from her trip. Vette always picked up something small for us. A scarf or a handbag for Maxi and me, and a tie or a belt for Ralph.

‘Here’s a small dose of newness for you,’ she said. ‘It’s not going to dramatically change your life, but it’ll put a spring in your step.’

I opened the bag and pulled out a little dress. Elegantly casual in a pink and orange swirl pattern, it was short and sleeveless with a crossover V-neckline and banded empire waist.

‘Wow! This is
gorgeous
. Thanks, Vette.’ I held the dress against me excitedly, but then sighed. ‘If only I’d had this a week ago.’ I told them what I’d worn to Hayley’s Batmitzvah party.

Both Maxi and Vette gasped in horror. I was confounded by their reaction.

‘Wha—?’

‘It’s passé!’
they both yelled at the same time.

‘Why didn’t you buy something new?’ asked Vette.

‘It is relatively new. I’ve only worn it once or twice before.’

‘New as in ... in vogue!’ said Maxi.

‘I didn’t even want to go. Anyway, the point is it said “smart casual” on the invitation. All the other women were in little black dresses and stilettos! Never mind that what I wore is a little dated; does my choice of outfit qualify as a fashion faux pas?’

Vette answered. ‘It’s not a fashion faux pas as such. It’s not the wrong thing to wear ... umm ... it’s just brave or mad to wear the right thing in that particular, er, social setting.’

‘Jesus, enough with the political correctness! Just spit it out!’

Maxi clarified it. ‘You entered a JAP zone, honey.’

JAP is the acronym for Jewish Australian Princess, which is a derogatory term for the stereotype of a Jewish girl who’s overindulged, materialistic, selfish, pampered, neurotic, and usually, from a mega-rich family. A JAP is probably on a par with a WASP.

‘How was I to know that in advance?’

‘Plastic surgeon. Loads of money. Lives in a mansion. Who do you think they’re gonna rub shoulders with?’

‘Plastic surgeon; plastic friends,’ Ralph chimed in.

‘I didn’t even give it a thought. But are you saying if you had been invited, you would have worn a little black number like the rest of them?’

‘Hell no! I woulda worn a fire engine red mini and fuck-me boots! If you’re gonna make a statement, you want it to scream
slut
, not wishy-washy vanilla.’

Maxi’s words hit home. I’d become the thing that had caused me to feel nauseous for most of my life: vanilla. But I was also torn. ‘Don’t you think something conveying slut is a little tragic at our age?’

‘No. B-laaaaand is tragic.’ She drew the word out to make her point. ‘It’s anaemic. Ruthie, you’ve got a gorgeous body, you’re not old—
we
are not old—and you look about ten years younger than your age. You could pull it off.’

Tell that to my mirror.

‘She’s right,’ Vette agreed.

And maybe the mirror had it wrong. All four of us were trim, unlined and had no grey hair (we all dyed). And thanks to Jennifer Lopez—rising star, inflated booty—having a fat arse was a desirable commodity that girls the world over wanted, so Vette was finally happy with hers. But the thrust of Maxi’s comment about dressing like that came down to confidence, and clearly, she hadn’t lost her pizzazz. She broke my train of thought.

‘What’s that look on your face, Brill? You imagining me in that get up?’ She smirked.

Ralph stammered, ‘I ... er ... er ... ’ Then he composed himself. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

He gave her a feigned smile. She didn’t respond, and just as well she didn’t notice him redden as he looked away from us and awkwardly rummaged through his beach bag for presumably nothing in particular, because he came up empty-handed.

‘I’m going for a swim.’

Despite Ralph’s unfailing openness with me, he had been enigmatic at times lately. As Maxi and Vette lay back, eyes closed, soaking up the sun, I watched him as he gracefully dived in. He swam about ten laps then emerged from the shallow end of the pool, model-like—stretching his lean body, facing sunward, and running his fingers through his hair, which he wore in a medium-length slick-back that curled up ever so slightly at the bottom. If he had the longer locks of his youth, he probably would have swung his hair from side to side in slow motion, like in a shampoo commercial.

‘What a wanker.’
Seems Maxi had also been watching. Her murmured words gave voice to my thoughts.

Ralph slowly strutted the length of the pool as women on either side shifted their attention from their magazines and ogled him while he pretended not to notice. He grabbed his towel off the chair and, facing the spectators, made a show of patting dry his waxed chest and belly. So much for the self-professed man of depth—Mr ‘I’m-a-member-of-the-intelligentsia’, my arse! I wanted to yell ‘DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY!’ to shake him out of this ridiculous posturing of his younger days. It wouldn’t have made much difference; Ralph would have complied. He’d see it as an opportunity to showcase his buns ‘n’ guns, which were still ripped and taut from regular workouts. Anyway, at least he’d worked off whatever was bugging him. At the same time, it seemed he’d worked up an appetite.

‘You girls wanna go get a coffee and something to eat?’