Page 43 of Good Days Bad Days
“A girl’s gotta eat, and I usually make chili on Saturday, so I thought I’d share. I probably should’ve mentioned it, though. Did you already have dinner?”
“No, no. I just got back from the gym so I’m starving. Would you like a drink?” I consider what I have to offer. Beer and a few bottles of Coke in the fridge. Something stronger in the cupboard. And always, coffee.
“You got a beer?”
“Yup!” I say, relieved. “Old Milwaukee?”
“Obviously,” she says, watching me as I retrieve two cans from the top shelf in the refrigerator. I offer her a glass, but she turns it down, cracking the tab and taking a sip directly from the container. I find myself observing her again, the way she dabs the foam with the back of her hand after taking a long drink. She raises her eyebrows and cocks her head, snapping me out of it.
We both start talking at the same time.
“The chili needs to warm up ...”
“Should we sit down . . .”
We both laugh. She lets me start again and we agree to work at the coffee table rather than the small kitchen counter. We’re presenting thenext season of programming to EBN’s executive board and Hollinger on Tuesday when we get back from the Labor Day break. Betty submitted her ideas, Hollinger pushed a few of his, and Martha has her own strong vision for what she wants to happen in the next six months ofThe Classy Homemaker.
“I’d like to get away from this vapid shit. Like, we both know Betty, she’s not a brainless blonde. Why are we making her seem orgasmic over using baking soda and vinegar to make stainless steel sparkle?”
“What would that look like?” Don Hollinger isn’t eager for a feminist homemaker, no matter how liberated Betty is or becomes.
“I don’t know. Something outside of cleaning and decorating. Like, we could have a segment where women can send in their poetry or other creative projects or accomplishments. And we could teach how to clear a clogged sink or ... or how to change a tire. You know, something to help women become more independent.”
I like the idea, but Martha is stepping outside of what WQRX and Hollinger want for the program. I try to pussyfoot around the issue.
“Have you talked to Betty about these concepts? Because her proposals seem more traditional in nature.”
“I think she’s trying to keep Mr. Hollinger and the executives happy. She can do that, but I don’t want to sit around and keep playing into this ‘women belong in the kitchen’ kind of a thing. It’s so old-fashioned.”
“EBN is old-fashioned.”
“And Mr. Hollinger is old-fashioned and Betty is old-fashioned. I know. So what? We shouldn’t even try?”
“I don’t think Betty’s old-fashioned.” I think of Betty dressed in her Bunny uniform, working a second job that would get her fired. Betty doesn’t show all sides of herself.
“You don’t like saying no to her,” she says, clearly annoyed. I redden. Am I that obvious?
“It . . . it’s not that . . .” I stutter.
“Itisthat. Everyone stumbles over themselves to be that girl’s savior. She knows what she’s doing, don’t fool yourself.” She points atme with her pen, and in some ways I know she’s right. Betty knows she’s beautiful and she knows men treat her differently as a result, but I don’t think she wields her beauty as a weapon or manipulation.
It’s simple. The two women have opposing viewpoints. Betty is willing to be the picture-perfect image of the ideal woman, knowing it’s a facade. Martha wants to shatter the facade of perfection, proclaiming it impossible to attain. Betty is the face of the show, but Martha is the boss and I will always defer to her.
“I think we should try it,” I say, leaving the Betty debate out of my response. “The creative segment thing. Call it ‘Creative Corner’ or something. We could interview people on the show occasionally. Reminiscent ofJanesville Presents ...”
She sniffs and writes something on the legal pad on her lap. “I like that. We can sandwich it in between the ‘Cooking like Mom’ segment and ‘Homemade Solutions.’ Sneak it in.” She scratches at her pad one more time. “And we’ll leave the oil changes for next season.”
I nod and we move on to the next subject on our agenda. The conversation ebbs and flows at a very natural pace, and I find myself more comfortable speaking up as the meeting continues. Eventually, our discussion turns to a more casual tone, when the sound of bubbling chili hitting the hot grate interrupts a dialog on homemade dishwashing detergent.
Martha’s green eyes bulge as she notices the light smoky haze quickly filling the apartment.
“I totally forgot about dinner!” She bolts out of her seat and into the kitchen, turns off the heat, pulls off the lid, and stirs the gurgling liquid. “My God. This might not be salvageable.”
“I’m willing to risk it,” I say, taking out two mugs from my cupboard. “Sorry, I only have one bowl. Will these do?”
“Only one bowl? So it looks like it’s true what they say about bachelors. Do you have more than one spoon?”
“Of course. What am I, a heathen?” In truth, I only have a small collection of cutlery, but I sneak the spoons out of the drawer andMartha doesn’t seem to notice. She fills our mugs, uses a serrated knife to cut the bread into hunks, and then uses the same knife to scrape cheese from the block since my kitchen is “horribly lacking.”
