The Spinster Sisters Read online

  Five years ago, the spunky sisters were in very different places in their lives. Jill was tackling the world of marketing from the bottom, leading focus groups for a research firm. Jodi was cobbling together a living from freelance writing for local Chicago print media and teaching journalism at Columbia College. Jodi’s marriage to her college sweetheart had crumbled, and she found herself suddenly single before her thirtieth birthday.

  “It was frightening,” Jodi says. She is a short, curvaceous woman with wild brown curls and piercing blue eyes, and she is simple and frank in her delivery. “I’d never expected to be back out in the dating world. But I found that while I had no regrets about my marriage, I significantly regretted the feeling that I had lost my twenties focused so exclusively on a relationship. I felt perhaps I would have made smarter choices had I been more independent.”

  Jill is a taller, slimmer version of her older sister, with hair more wavy than curly, and eyes a shade closer to green than blue, but with the same porcelain skin and the same wide smile. There is an identical cadence to their speech, Jill’s voice a hair deeper in tone. “We went to a family friend’s wedding, the bride and groom both twenty-five. Jodi looks at me during the reception and says that she feels like grabbing them and telling them not to do it, to live twenty-five first.”

  Jodi interrupts her sister. “So Jill asks me what I meant by that, and I started this mini rant about what I would have done differently. By the time the reception was over, we had outlined the idea for a book.”

  Their first literary collaboration, Living Twenty-five, was written in the evenings and on weekends and celebrated being young and adventurous and playing the field; encouraged devotion to one’s career but not one man; and suggested that women put matrimony on the back burner. They gave it to their aunts for content advice (Ruth) and editing (Shirley). When the elder Spingolds gave their final approval, Jodi and Jill put together a proposal and sent it to a publishing magnate who had spent a week in Chicago under Ruth’s tutelage some twenty years earlier and had stayed in touch ever since. The publisher jumped on the book, and the sisters embarked on their new adventure.

  The real whirlwind began when they were invited, shortly after the publication, to appear as guest speakers for a local Jewish twenty-something charity event. One of the attendees was a well-connected socialite visiting from New York, who upon returning to the East Coast touted the sisters as her own little discovery to all of her wealthy and powerful friends. Within weeks there were invitations to appear at similar events in New York, Boston, and D.C., and the word of mouth began to take hold.

  Their easy banter and complementary public speaking styles made them a hot ticket on the lecture circuit and landed them the radio show with a small Internet station. A call to fill in last minute for an AWOL celebrity on the Oprah show did what it does for any book—sent it rocketing up the bestseller charts and selling out at bookstores. The business grew exponentially over the next two years, with the second book debuting at number seven on the New York Times bestseller list. “No new Harry Potter book that week,” Jodi makes a point of noting. The show got picked up by satellite radio, Jill’s merchandising fetish returned with a lucrative vengeance, and Spinster Inc. was quickly an industry to reckon with.

  The second book, The Thirty Commandments, became a bible to single women in their thirties. The company name is both alliterative (Spingold/Spinster) and a way of reclaiming the moniker and taking the negative connotation out of it. Jodi and Jill are having the time of their lives. “Chicago is a great playground for two successful women in the prime of life,” Jodi says with a wink. And things are only looking up. There is some discussion of a possible television show, and the third book, Facing Down Forty (targeted at women in their mid to late thirties and encouraging them to create a list of forty things they want to do before turning forty, and then finding ways to do them), is coming together smoothly and will be out in time for the summer. Both sisters were listed in Chicago magazine’s annual Most Eligible issue last summer but are closemouthed about their romantic lives.

  “You’ll just have to see if we’re in there again next summer!” Jill says with a twinkle in her eye.

  This charmed life for charming women doesn’t come without a price. Conservative family values organizations claim that the Spinster Inc. message is antimarriage and pro-promiscuity and undermines the importance of the stay-at-home mother as a representation of all that is right with the American family. For every message of thanks received from the Spinster website, there is at least one calling their work shameful, and at least a few times per week, one that is actually threatening. “We have appropriate security measures in place.” Jodi shrugs off the hate-mail issue. “We believe in our message, a part of which is that every woman should make up her own mind and be her own person. We aren’t antimarriage; we are simply against women feeling as if they are a failure or less than a woman if they choose not to marry. We aren’t against women being stay-at-home mothers, as long as it is their choice and desire to pursue it, and not because they feel it is expected of them. Anytime you attempt to empower someone, there will be someone who would prefer them submissive. And in this country, the right to publicly disagree with an opinion is sacred. We respect these organizations’ right to voice their message and wish they were more respectful of our right to voice ours.”

  Detractors or no, the business continues to be lucrative and offers a nice lifestyle for all four Spingold women. They were able to purchase a gorgeous three-flat up the block from the house they grew up in and, after an extensive renovation, moved everyone into the new digs: Jodi on the top floor, Jill on the second floor, and the aunts, now in their early seventies, on the first floor. It is a house full of independent women, depending on each other.

  I accept a coveted invite to meet the aunts at the Palmer Square residence and find myself immediately drawn to these very different women.

  “We couldn’t be prouder of them,” says Ruth, a tall, slim, elegant woman with short, spiky red hair and strands of chunky beads over a long, black dress. “We know their parents are watching over them.”

  “Goodness, yes,” pipes in Shirley, a good six inches shorter than her sister, with a grandmotherly air and silver hair in a neat chignon. “They work harder than you can imagine, sometimes twelve, fourteen hours a day. Frankly, I don’t know how they do it.”

  We don’t know how they do it either, but their fans are sure glad they do.

  “They give you permission to put yourself and your need for personal development ahead of creating your identity in relation to other people, especially romantic partners,” says Paige Andrews, who started as a shared executive assistant for both sisters and has moved up within the organization and now serves as the director of operations for the company. Paige approached the sisters after hearing them speak shortly after the first book was released, and offered her services. The sisters took a chance on the young woman, who was just a year out of college. Now twenty-eight and in a position usually reserved for people with both graduate-level educations and years of practical experience, the pretty redhead is humble about her meteoric rise.

  “They took me at my word when I promised to work very hard, not just for them but also true to the spirit that the company was started with. They have supported me, encouraged me, and inspired me.”

  This sort of loyalty seems par for the course. Everyone one encounters with even the smallest professional connection to the Spinster Sisters has shown a fierce respect for both women. Their primary business philosophy, to hire strong, intelligent women and then let them do their jobs without micromanagement, seems to be paying off. The fact that they pay at the high end of the industry scale for all positions, offer full benefits to all employees, tuition reimbursement for continuing education, and a healthy bonus structure doesn’t hurt their reputation as good employers.

  For Jodi and Jill, it seems that they are taking the whole thing in stride.

  “We are so ble
ssed,” Jill says. “We do what we love, there are constantly new challenges to keep things interesting, and we get to do it as a team.”

  “We wonder sometimes if we’d have ended up here if the accident hadn’t happened,” Jodi says, “but we like to think that we would have! As it stands, we know we have pretty powerful guardian angels, and we just hope we’re doing them proud.”

  I think there’s little doubt of that.

  For information on their speaking engagements, to read excerpts from the books, or to check in on the Spinster blog, log on to their website, www.spinstersistersinc.com.

  The End of an Era

  How many times have you suppressed your own will in the beginning of a relationship, just to find that down the road it has rendered you powerless to change the pattern? It is essential from the beginning of a relationship to be clear about what is important to you. If you want sleepovers, buy him a spare toothbrush and make your wants known. If you need your space, don’t respond to every phone call and e-mail in the beginning; he’ll think you’re pulling away when you stop in a few weeks. Human behaviorists say it only takes three weeks to establish a habit. Use the first three weeks of any new relationship, romantic or platonic, to create habits that won’t need to be undone later.

  —From The Thirty Commandments by Jill and Jodi Spingold

  The alarm on my cell phone sounds a shrill beeping, which wakes me with a start. I roll over to shut it off and look at the time: 4:30. Crap. I roll back over and nudge the snoring gentleman next to me.

  “Abbot. Wake up. You gotta go.”

  He grunts and throws an arm over his head.

  I poke him in the ribs. “Abbot, I mean it. I have to get ready.”

  He bolts up, rolls over quickly, and traps me beneath him. Then he kisses me deeply. “You’re delicious, you know that? I have half a mind to make you my prisoner.” He kisses the side of my neck, below my ear. Sigh. He’s pretty delicious himself. I poke him again.

  “I’d credit you with less than half a mind at the moment. You know the rules, mister. If I’m going to let you drag me away from work in the middle of the afternoon, then I have to be able to keep my evening free to catch up. Besides, I have to be downstairs for cocktail hour in thirty minutes, and with what you’ve just done to my hair, I need primp time.” I push him off me and throw back the covers.

  “Yikes!” He yelps, snatching at the blankets. “No fair!”

  “Up you get, lover. No fooling.” I grin at him and then get out of the bed, stretching.

  “Fine, fine. I give up.” He gets out of bed. “First dibs on your bathroom.”

  “Of course.” On his way by, he kisses the side of my neck and smacks me on the ass.

  I throw the blankets back over the bed and put on my bathrobe. I have to admit, there is something so wonderfully decadent about a midafternoon romp, I feel perfectly wicked. The fact that Abbot is a skilled lover doesn’t hurt matters. Never underestimate those banker types, ladies, they may seem stuffy and conservative, but I find they can be shockingly delightful in the bedroom. But despite his numerous charms, I do have to make sure Abbot knows that my rules aren’t made to be broken. Not even by someone who knows where my G-spot is.

  I hear the toilet flush and the sink running. Moments later, he reappears, salt-and-pepper hair slightly damp, face pink, grin as wide as all get-out. Boys, even forty-eight-year-old boys, always get that cat-that-swallowed-the-canary look after sex. It is at once adorable and infuriating.

  “Where are my briefs?” he asks, wandering around my bedroom.

  “Psst,” I say. He turns to see me dangling them off one finger.

  “Thanks, darling.” He dresses while I watch. Abbot Elling IV is a classic mergers and acquisitions guy. Conservative in dress, moderate in politics, sort of pasty from spending all his time in boardrooms, fit enough but not overly muscled. He looks like Anderson Cooper’s older brother. Well, maybe cousin. He doesn’t have Anderson’s chiseled handsomeness; he’s more like a Xerox of a Xerox, a little fuzzy around the edges. Not bad-looking, just not striking. But smart as anything, quick-witted, and excellent company. He shares my passions for theater, old movies, Impressionist art, and Sunday crossword puzzles. He makes a perfect martini. He’s more devoted to my orgasm than his own. The only thing he can cook is an amazing spaghetti Bolognese, which is about the best thing I ever ate postfling at midnight or for a hangover-cure breakfast. Plus he spoils me rotten.

  I’ve been seeing him for four months, ever since he ran into me in the lobby of my bank. Literally. Came around a corner like a bat out of hell, juggling a briefcase and a BlackBerry, and slammed into me. Lucky for me, I’m only five three and far from a lightweight, so my center of gravity is close to the ground. This makes me something like a Weeble, and Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down. They do, however, shriek like a banshee and lose control of their overstuffed purse-cum-briefcases. The shrieking echoes off the bank walls with a decibel level somewhere in the U2 concert range, and the bags send their contents skittering across the marble floors with astonishing speed. Abbot, to his enormous credit, made sure I was all right and then assisted me in collecting my personal items, including fetching my tampon case from under the chair of a bemused security guard.

  I liked his efficiency and his warm hazel eyes, and when he offered coffee to make it up to me, I suggested that it was at least worth a dinner. He agreed and took me to Kiki’s Bistro the next night, and over Dijon stewed rabbit and a perfectly chilled Côtes de Provence, we began. So far he has been lovely. A little pushy at times, and with a tendency to be unknowingly condescending, but I always call him on both, and he’s quick to apologize. Plus, he sends flowers the next day every time we sleep together, which, tough broad though I may be, makes me all gooey. I think he’s got Robert Daniel’s florist on retainer.

  He finishes dressing, folds his tie and puts it in his pocket, then looks at me. “Tell me again why I can’t come to the sacred, super-secret cocktail hour? I’m dying to meet these aunts of yours.”

  “Sorry, family only. Besides, you know the aunts are off-limits. I’m not interested in sharing you.” It’s my standard reply. I learned early on in my reentry into dating that bringing boys home to meet Ruth and Shirley was not a good plan. My aunts are the kind of older women whose laughter is so infectious, stories so entertaining, cooking so delicious, that they seduce everyone who meets them, and that makes giving a guy the boot that much more difficult. Guys always tried to win over the aunts in order to more firmly ensconce themselves in my life, and that makes things messy when you tire of their attentions. I hate messy.

  I made the rule hard and fast after I came home one afternoon to find a recently exed boy sitting in my aunts’ parlor, playing three-handed gin and scarfing down vanilla tea cakes with Ruth smirking and Shirley beaming. I think, though they would never tell me so, that they are split on their hopes for my romantic future. Ruth, I believe, is thrilled that I am following in her stilletoed footsteps, never without a decent bit of male companionship but not attempting to secure a permanent future for anyone but myself. Shirley was sadder to see my marriage end and would like to have me find someone the way Jill has, someone she can cook for. I think deep down she may be somewhat regretful that after breaking off her engagement to Mr. Not Right Enough, that the one she was saving herself for never showed.

  “Fine, fine,” Abbot says, resigned. “You make the rules.” He smirks at me, as if he knows that someday he will break me down.

  “Yep, I do.” I smirk back at him, knowing that he won’t ever succeed. “C’mon lover, I’ll walk you out.”

  I escort him to the back door off my kitchen. He shakes his head.

  “Really, darling, this back door business bothers me. Why on earth can’t I leave from the front like a normal human being? It makes the whole thing feel so illicit.”

  “First, because the last thing I need is Jill bumping into you when she gets home from work or the aunts catching you on your way
out. And for your information, sex at three o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday is reasonably illicit for those of us running businesses. Walk it off.” I kiss him and open the door. Then I put my tough-girl persona aside for a moment. “Thanks for a lovely afternoon, Abbot, really. You are the best abductor ever.” I turn my face up to him.

  He leans over and kisses my lips softly. “Thank you back. I rely heavily on the Stockholm syndrome for your complicity. Dinner Saturday?”

  I mentally look at my BlackBerry screen for Saturday. Full up. “Can’t. How about Tuesday?”

  He shakes his head, assuming appropriately that I have another date, but with the good taste not to pry. “Done. I’ll make us a reservation at MK.”

  “My favorite. I’ll speak with you over the weekend sometime.” I hold the door open for him.

  “Okay. Have a good cocktail hour.”

  “Will do.” He cups my face in his hands, kisses me deeply, then turns away. I watch his silvery hair disappear down the back stairs and then head back inside.

  My own hair, a mop of brown curls, has not fared nearly so well from the afternoon’s attentions. It looks very much as if I have attempted to comb it with an electric mixer. I check the clock: 4:42. Gotta boogie. I jump in the shower, wet my hair down, and give myself a thorough scrub. I have that slightly bruised postsex feeling that makes me feel so alive. As if every inch of my skin is attuned to some mild electric charge in the air. After a quick towel-dry, the hair goes up in a ponytail, I jump into a pair of lounging pants and a sweater, throw on my slippers, and head downstairs. On the second-floor landing, I knock on Jill’s door.

  “It’s open . . . ,” she calls out. I open the door.

  “Cocktail time, let’s go,” I say. She appears from out of her bedroom. She is wearing a cute outfit: little gray tweed skirt, lavender blouse, fabulous bronzed leather boots. Her hair, which unlike mine is just sort of gently and perfectly wavy and never, damn her eyes, frizzy, is tucked behind her ears as usual. Simple makeup, our mom’s diamond studs. It makes me feel very frumpy. Actually, Jill frequently makes me feel a little frumpy. She is built like Dad was, tall, long legs. She has the most amazing clavicle I’ve ever seen and never struggles with her weight. I, on the other hand, seem to most favor Grandma Spingold, short, round, heavy of hip and breast, like a Russian farmwife, and just sniffing too deeply as I walk by a bakery can add a pound to my ample frame. The fact that Jill also got the good hair seems like insult to injury. It’s a good thing she is my favorite person and best friend, or I might have to hate her.