January 2
Could more of YOU PL-EASE offer advice to two single women whose lives are suddenly crashing in chaos? HELP. Zoe and Sophia, BFFs for thirty years,  find themselves unexpectedly cast into the world of re-creation and redefinition after decades of being faithful wives to George and Marty. They need advice from anyone willing to offer it. For instance, what advice would you give your BFF IF SHE HAD TO CHOOSE BETWEEN TRAVELING TO CALIFORNIA or FLORIDA TO MEET A MATCH.COM DATE (in January from New Hampshire, remember). Any advice you can give to Zoe would be helpful, but this is the advice Sophia gave her.

One late afternoon in early December Zoe and her dog Sparky drove through a snowstorm to meet a Match.com date for an early dinner in Portsmouth. Apart from working at her high-powered job as a contracts negotiator in the entertainment field, Zoe spent most of her time driving to meet dates.  As she drove, Zoe wondered whether all this traveling was worth it. The guy she was meeting, Oscar, was a professor at the university, and although he was good on paper, in person he looked and sounded like Mike Tyson with a bulked-up build and a high voice, which was more than off-putting to Zoe.

She decided to call Sophia to see what she was up to later. Zoe hoped like hell Sophia wasn’t sleeping at Sophia’s Exeter house for Sparky’s sake. She wanted to see Sophia, but her dog Sparky couldn’t manage the steps since his stroke, and he involuntarily crapped and peed everywhere—an attribute neither Sophia nor any of Zoe’s Match.com dates embraced fondly. Sophia answered her cell right away.

“Hey, Sophie, whacha doin?”
“Hey, Zo. I’m staring out the window.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“A couple of hours.”
“What were you doing before you were staring?”
“Driving, Zo. That’s mostly what I do these days, drive and stare.
“Are you doing any writing, Sophie?”
“No. But I did go to the gym this morning and to the tanning bed.”
“What are you getting a tan for, Sophie?’
“I don’t know. I do my Buddhist meditations in the tanning bed, so it doesn’t matter, does it, Zo?”
“Whatever makes you happy, Sophie.”
“Do you think Pema would say it’s okay to meditate in the tanning booth?”
“What the fuck else have you done today, Sophie? You are cracked.”
“I’m going shopping later.”
“You don’t have any money, Sophie.”
“I only buy cheap shit.  No big deal. Whatchu up to?”
“I’m meeting Oscar for dinner,” Zoe said. “Where are you sleeping tonight?”
“Marty’s staying at his girlfriend’s this week, so I’m at the lake house. You wanna sleep over?”
“I do,” said Zoe.

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January 1

Could more of you PL-EASE offer advice to two single women whose lives are suddenly crashing in chaos?HELP. Zoe and Sophia, BFFs for thirty years, find themselves unexpectedly cast into the world of re-creation and redefinition after decades of being faithful wives to George and Marty. They need advice from anyone willing to offer it. For instance, what advice would you give your BFF who said to you, “I AND I DON’T NEED A THERAPIST.  WE HAVE GOOD TIMES. ” Any advice you can give to Sophia would be helpful, but this is the advice Zoe gave her.

Every few nights Zoe and Sophia slept at each other’s houses, just to help with the transition– from being goodly wives who rubbed their husband’s backs in bed, brought their husbands dinner on a silver tray, also in bed, and who wrapped their long, lithe limbs around their husband’s bodies at night–to the shimmering fifty-something women who slept alone (more or less). On one evening just before Thanksgiving, Sophia decided to sleep at Zoe’s house, and for the occasion, Sophia bought the first bottle of scotch she had in months. Scotch was the tithe that bound during the first six months after Zoe’s marital split, when she camped out at Sophia’s house while Marty and Sophia were still together. In early June Zoe moved back to her own house, just five miles up the road.  But there was little difference—both women owned marital homes built in the 1700s when Thomas Jefferson walked the earth—and both houses sat on large wooded lots on the same lake.

However–they had one other option. After Sophia put her hands around Marty’s neck one night in September, applying no pressure at all, she begged him for the truth about his affair with his “business partner,” Fugly. For an hour Sophia lay next to him then decided that she was either going to throw herself in front of oncoming traffic outside, or she was going to ask the question she knew the answer to–but dreaded hearing–with all her heart. Her choice of nights was a good one since Marty suffered from really bad diarrhea and lay to her left, rolled into a fetal position.

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