This article
originally
appeared in Columbus Monthly September, 2001
The Days of Wine
and Girl Talk
By Sally Fingerett
Illustration by Mario Noche
In
my mind, life's about truth, honesty, devotion, loyalty, consistent
spirituality and treating your art like it's a business, and your business
like it's an art. After that, it's about face time. Networking at lunch.
I'm remembering
how I loved those Wednesday lunches with my gal pals. Four of us would
come together from extremely different places in our lives, and spend
an hour or so sharing. Of course, now there's "The View,"
"Sex and the City" and all these girl gatherings. But back
in 1981, there was a once-a-week date at T.G.I. Friday's at the corner
of Henderson and Kenny where we four women would kick back, shake it
up and lay it down. While waiting for the girls one Wednesday, I wrote
the following on a napkin. One draft, no changes.
I'm
having lunch with the ladies.
The kind who are proud to be crazy.
They swear that they '11 never have babies,
So there'll be plenty of time for lunch.
They
all had day jobs, and of the four, I was the only one who could show
up in sweat pants and linger until they'd all gone. A writer, I'd sit
and listen, incredulous as they told their stories. Napkin after napkin
I'd write.
I'm
here at the cafe alone with my tea.
I wait for the girls so patiently.
They come straight from the office,
Towing a briefcase, I couldn 't have picked stranger company.
These
were powerful women with "agendas." I never fully understood
what that meant back then. But I was sitting with them, reaching my
fork into their salads and sharing one dessert between the four of us,
all the while complaining about our weight. We were women with ideas,
direction, intelligence, motivation and, of late, some considerable
amounts of cash. And we would spend it at lunch.
After
some pressure I break down,
I join in their white wine, just this round
We toast an honest man we know.
We buy and linger, in lipstick and linen,
Losing and winning as we come and as we go.
I can
barely recall how we all met. One of us knew another one of us, and
then brought in another and…We varied in ages, marital status and
career paths. We sold real estate, we audited businesses, we were radio
announcers and one of us was a composer who dabbled in prose. We shared
our personal pressures and horrors. We were intimate, though we had
nothing more in common than just being women.
Sandy
at forty is learning to give.
She's Irving with roommates instead of her kids.
She's always grieving, hardly believing
She once was a mother and a wife.
We were
each other's therapists, marriage counselors, trying desperately to
offer observations, not criticisms. We'd calmly listen when no one else
would. We'd offer tissues, and phone numbers of really great cleaning
ladies. We'd dish out advice like it was a cashmere blazer on sale from
Bloomingdale's. Who wouldn't want that?
Jeanie
checks back with her service.
Missing a call makes her nervous.
She finds excitement in pounding the pavement,
A slave meant for happy hour.
The Wednesday
before Thanksgiving we decided to let it all go. Mixed drinks at lunch.
How wicked was that? Whoever had to return to their office would do
so with a solid supply of breath mints. For those of us with free afternoons,
we would head home to sleep it off. Three of us were leaving town to
visit miserable families we couldn't stand. Let the games begin.
After
some pressure I kick back.
To hell with your white wine, gimme a shot o'Jack
Let's toast the heartache we all know.
We lolly and linger, like lipstick on linen,
Losing and winning as we come and as we go.
How those
girls would harass me over my lack of makeup. On these Wednesdays, I
would set my alarm clock for 10:30 am, having been up all night writing.
I would barely find the energy to wash my face, brush my teeth, throw
on something I hadn't previously slept in. Once there, I'd stare into
space with coffee while they'd rush in, late, harried, apologetic and
full of creative reasoning why they needed a white wine. "And can
you hurry that?" I would sit back and marvel at how these female
powerhouses had been awake for some six hours to my one. They'd done
more in four hours than I'd do all week. Their vitality amazed me. I
found myself wanting whatever it was that they had.
Makeup.
They had makeup, lots of it, well dispersed and expertly applied. One
day, I merely mentioned that I would be interested in changing my look.
I wondered out loud if they might help me with some makeup tips. This
off-the-cuff statement was met with an overwhelming round of joyous
whoops, and all three lunch companions opened fire at once. "You're
so pretty, it won't take much, just some base and...." "You're
eyes are fantastic. All you need is a little...." And finally,
"Let me call my girl, she'll get you going."
We collectively set the date for my makeover. We would have our Wednesday
lunch at the food court at the mall. It was agreed that I should experience
this "transformation" at the department store cosmetic counter
where all the ritzy movers and shakers purchased their products. What
a hoot! We laughed, I spent, it was grand.
Twenty
years later, I'm now on a first-name basis with the Clinique lady and
the MAC girl. I sit and posture at any number of finer restaurants,
and, when I drink a toast to life, and go to wipe my MAC "Huetopia"
lips on a linen napkin, I'm reminded of my girls, my friends, my teachers.
I miss them all. I might have lost track of them, but I know I've not
lost them. They're in my heart as sure as they're on this page. Girls,
I know you're out there. Let's do lunch? I sold this article to Columbus
Monthly, so I'm buying!
I'm
having lunch with the ladies,
The kind who are proud to be crazy.
