Martini Club

I showed up at my Pilates class this morning wearing big sunglasses to help soften the Mahoney Brothers, the tiny guys who were hammering away at my head. (For those of you unfamiliar with 1930’s slang, the Mahoney Brothers are a cute way of saying I was hung over.)

In my usual state of over-sharing, I announced to my class that I was hung over and had barely made it to class while I stumbled around, pulling off my cozy Ugg boots and putting on my non-slip socks. Because there is a sock monster that lives in my sock drawer, I can never ever find matching socks. So today I was wearing one hot pink sock and one blue sock. They are the kind of socks that have a message on the toes, so when you are bending over to touch your toes, you can’t help but read the message. My pink sock said, ‘Be Happy’ and my blue sock said, ‘Be Healthy’. When I do Pilates, I spend a lot of time reading my socks, silently conversing with them, thinking “Ahhh, socks, if only it were that easy! If only I could read my sock that says ‘Be Healthy’ and wham! I would start craving salads with no dressing instead of hot cheesy pizza!

I would read ‘Be Happy’ and feel instantly cheery, forgetting all about the text I got last night from my ex that he had written for some woman he is wooing but accidentally sent to me! Ouch!

If I was a sock designer, my socks might say something like, ‘Muffin Tops are gorgeous!’ Or ‘Forget Pilates–go get a martini! Or ‘He’s not worth it!’ or ‘Goddess!’

When I laid on my machine and started the rolling around that is my favorite part of Pilates, (who doesn’t love a workout that is done while reclining? That’s my favorite kind of exercise!), I couldn’t help moaning, half in pleasure (muscles), half in pain (head). When we got onto our backs, the overhead lights glared right through my sunglasses. I asked our incredibly perky teacher to please lower the lights, and my whole class snickered. I lifted my head, “What? Those insanely bright lights aren’t bothering anyone else?” They snickered again and JJ cheerfully dimmed the lights. See, I told you, even her name is perky.

So let me back up to how I got here—I can only blame one person, actually two, and they are called my Martini Club.

And I have to tell you, those of you going through grieving and loss like me, or those of you just living life cool and breezy, everyone needs a Martini Club. And mind you, you don’t have to drink martinis, or any kind of cocktail. In fact, none of us are big drinkers, and some of us order iced tea or coffee instead of the Hot and Dirty Martinis that we have proclaimed to be our signature drink, mostly because it’s the only martini on the cocktail list at our local tavern. It’s hot and spicy, and the cheery waitresses call us the “Hot and Dirty Girls”, which sends us into giggles every time they say it. We are about as far from hot and dirty as it’s possible to get, unless you are referring to the fact that we might be hot from hot flashes or baking endless batches of cookies and I’m definitely dirty right now because I was carrying a huge bag of flour back to its shelf a few minutes ago and I accidentally threw it into the air, covering me and my entire kitchen in a dusting of flour. This delighted my dogs who stared at me then set to licking the floor before I could stop them, turning the flour dust into paste.

My dogs do love to challenge my non-existent household skills with their mess-making.

And don’t ask me how I ended up throwing a giant bag of flour in the air. Somehow, it started to slip, and my instinct was to throw it up instead of let it drop. That’s why my sister calls me Inspector Clouseau. When I bake at her house, she follows me around with a mop and a hot pad, grabbing falling cookie sheets from the counter and mopping up the flying cookie dough that ends up on the floor.

So yeah, I guess you could say we are hot and dirty, at least I am.

So, last night the Martini Club texts started flying around till we found a time that worked for all of us and I walked over to the local tavern.

I love walking around my picturesque New England town in October. Candles glow in the windows of homes built in 1750, the air smells like burning wood and orange leaves swirl around me like someone is throwing confetti on me (or orange flour).

I live across from a historical house that hosts town events, so the streets this year are often filled with tiny children in witch hats carrying pumpkins in one hand and holding their mother’s hands in the other. And I like to think about those hands and about holding my own daughter’s hand in one hand and my mother’s hand in the other, in a matriarchal chain that has gone on for centuries. My mother has lost her mind after losing my father, probably a mercy so she doesn’t remember he is not next to her after sixty years of never spending a night apart. I miss her, and when I see those little hands, I imagine I am holding my Mom’s hand from across space and time as she’s now in memory care near my father’s burial site. I can see her wedding rings, the golden flower with the diamond in the middle, the perfectly manicured nails, and the soft scars that covered her left hand from the time she touched the stove as a child.

I miss her, and I’m grateful that I am walking to where I can literally reach out my hands and be held by the women in my Martini Club. I hate being so far from my family, but I love raising my kids with these women who are endlessly inspiring as mothers. We are all as different as possible, but are aligned in parenting values and our sassy and irreverent personalities.

We were drawn together by having three daughters of the same age in the same class.

I met Cristie as soon I moved here. She is the mom of three girls—two of which are in the same grades as my baby bunnies. Within a month of meeting her, she asked me to go take “witch pictures” in Salem, and as the camera flashed and we paid $100 for the disc of photos, I thought “I really hope I get to be good friends with this woman or I’m going to have a bunch of photos with someone I don’t even know”.  I need not have worried. When I saw the photos of her making her witch face next to me, and heard her constant stream of hilarious commentary on anything and everything around us, I knew we would be friends. Cristie actually has a PHD from Harvard in creating community (she would correct me and say ABD but I still count it), which is just so perfect because she’s like a warm fireplace in a stone hut in the forest. Everyone is drawn to her warmth and easy going nature, and she has a knack for making everyone feel like she’s their best friend.

The other Martini Club Member is Jacquie. I met Jacquie the night I organized a “Margaritas by the Sea” parent cocktail party for the 4^th grade parents. One parent texted me and said, “Marci! How can I attend “Margaritas By the Sea” when I don’t drink?” I replied, “Darling! You don’t have to drink! I don’t plan to drink that night! It just sounds more fun than “Orange Juice By the Sea” or “Guacamole By the Sea”, although that sounds delicious. I love guacamole.

Anyway, Jacquie looked like an Ohio news anchor but was actually an actress and Ohio casting director, tall and thin with perfectly blown out hair and a scarf tied neatly around her neck. She tossed her gorgeous hair when she talked and I overheard her say she had a house at Sundance. (Don’t worry, I don’t ALWAYS eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, although as a writer and curious person, I can’t help it.)

I interrupted her, “I grew up at Sundance. Where do you live?”

“We live on Buttercup Street next door to Gary…”

“Lamancha?” I interrupted again.

She stared at me. “How do you know Gary?”

“He went to high school with my Dad.”

“You’re kidding.”

And so our friendship began. We both had been involved with the Sundance Film Institute and Festival—she attending and working in the film industry, me working in the Institute office in Santa Monica and at the Festival in Park City for five years. I suppose it is kismet that the first place we invited Jacquie was to Salem to take…wait for it… witch pictures! We took the train from my house the one stop to Salem so we wouldn’t have to park, and it was a warm day so I ended up carrying the heavy faux fur capes that kids had all worn over their costumes. We took photos and Jacquie later said she didn’t know us at all, so she had smiled pretty for the camera, and when she saw the photos, she loved that Cristie and I were making full wicked witch faces. She gleefully told us, “We have to go back! I make a really good witch face!” Jacquie is another one who is an expert at creating community. Her house is always filled with children, and she is devoted to making their world as beautiful as possible.

After our first night out for martinis, the three of us, as different as possible—the Ohio casting director, the Italian comic, and the Rainbow Fairy, we laughed so hard we decided to make it a weekly event.

Now, six years later, we are still discussing our kids, husbands, ex-husbands, entrepreneurial ideas (A purple ice skating rink! A kiosk in Salem selling witch capes! An Art Center! A Girl Power Conference! A film casting company!), and everything in between. We spend Christmas Eve and the Fourth of July together, and after my ex left, it was Jacquie’s husband and son who brought us a Christmas tree and set it up for us because I had never done it alone. And when my father came to live with me, it was Jacquie’s husband, the head of cardiology at the hospital, who swung by to check on my Dad and promptly called an ambulance. It was Jacquie’s husband who came the last time, and hugged me and said, “I know you want to care for him, Marci, but he’s way past that point.” And it was Jacquie’s husband I called from the hospice, while I was pacing in the garden next to a statue of a child blowing bubbles, and I wasn’t sure we should be there. With his soft kind voice, he reassured me that we had made the right decision.

And when my ex abandoned ship a few weeks later, Jacquie and Cristie brought flowers and hugs. And when my best friend’s heart stopped beating 3,000 miles away, they swooped in and took over the kids so I could fly to be by her side and hold her hand, a hand I know as well as my own, the curve of her thumb, the graceful fingers, and hair follicles that look like stars in a dark sky.  

The Martini Club meets in wild blizzards, heat waves, when the sidewalks are covered in pink blossoms or Munchkinland-colored leaves. We meet, order drinks and food, and talk and laugh and cry. In fact, last night I was telling them that as much as I want the divorce over, I’m scared for it to be over. It takes up so much of my mental space, that I’m afraid when it’s over, I’ll be left to think about losing my father and Kim in a much bigger tsunami way. Jacquie lost her father last Fall. She took my hand and squeezed it. “I can’t accept my Dad is gone either,” she said, and handed me her napkin to wipe the hot tears that were spilling down my face.

We have taken our kids to NYC on many theater trips. We all pile into one car and road trip to the city, stopping half way at Rein’s Deli for pickles and bagels. We sing the whole way and rock out to musical theater songs. We share a room and Cristie gives us all matching pajamas and we jump on the bed and scream with laughter and run around the city shopping and laughing and making magic. They cheered me every step of the two years I spent finishing my first novel, Martini Mystery, and they bought a million copies and showed up at my book signings with feathers in their hair and friends in tow.

We couldn’t be more different, but we adore each other, and we are there for each other, and each of us know we stand by the other in any storm. I know their stories, their kids, their brothers and sisters and their parents. Over time, we have found things that really make us laugh. For example we have an affinity for furry balls, and we get endless delight out of cracking 7^th grade level jokes about them, including furry ball puns, gags, and gifts. We present each other with martini socks, and dish towels, and Christmas tree ornaments hand painted with martinis and our names.

Creating community and supportive friendships is key to surviving the slings and arrows of life, especially when those slings and arrows are carrying nuclear grenades with them. So, Dr. Marci is handing out a prescription to those of you out there who are dealing with darkness, to create your own Martini Club. Drink whatever you want, but remember everything tastes better in a fun glass with a cute umbrella and people who get you.