I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places Read online

  As a bridesmaid at a bachelorette party, you are part-dance-partner and part-security-guard to the bride-to-be. You want the bachelorette to have a VIP experience, and you are the velvet rope. But in order to do that, you have to master the art of bar sign language.

  Last weekend, ten friends and I celebrated my BFF’s bachelorette at a beachside bar. On the dance floor, we formed a protective circle around the bride-to-be, ready to wrangle, distract, and if need be, repel incoming males.

  It didn’t take long. That plastic tiara and sash is like the Bat Signal for single dudes.

  A man came up behind one of our friends and put his hands on her hips. No words, no introduction, just a butt grab.

  Classic creeper move.

  She swiveled out of his reach to give him a hint, but he simply stepped forward and replaced his hands. Then she turned to face him and shook her head. He pouted—does that work on any woman that’s not a guy’s mother?—and attempted to draw her in again.

  She held up her left hand and pointed to her wedding ring.

  The caveman gave a nod and walked away. As if the faraway husband’s proprietary claim was more compelling than the live woman’s refusal.

  It’s the bro-code of troglodytes.

  Trog-code.

  We need a similarly effective gesture for unmarried girls. Maybe I could just point to my bare ring finger, and that could be the accepted sign for “my fake husband says I’m not into you.”

  Then there was a weird couple who kept “bumping into” us. The man was dancing with and kissing his girlfriend, and yet he simultaneously tried to grind up on each of us.

  If that was their sign language, we didn’t get it—and we didn’t want to.

  Now listen, you have to work hard to offend an attendee of a bachelorette party; we’re a generous bunch, especially a single one like me.

  I was a gazelle faking a limp.

  But I drew the line at truly offensive behavior. What’s an example of that? Oh say, when a drunk guy sneaked up behind me and started making out with my shoulder.

  “Heh-eyyy,” I said, gently pushing him back by his forehead.

  He took this greeting as an invitation to throw his arms around me.

  “Give me some space,” I said, but the music drowned out my words. So I made karate-chop hands showing a gap between them.

  Middle-school dance chaperones got some things right.

  He flashed his palms and nodded in what I thought was agreement.

  But when I turned my back, he went full-starfish on me—suctioned to my back and seemingly with five arms.

  I spun around and acted out each word of, “Stop” (traffic cop), “touching” (bear-claw hands), “me” (double-thumbed point at self).

  He feigned confusion and came at me with Frankenstein arms.

  I found myself playing charades on the dance floor. “YOU ARE BEING TOO GRABBY. YOU’RE GRABBY.”

  Anyone looking would have wondered why I was doing an angry version of the chicken dance in this guy’s face.

  But he got my message: “GO AWAY.”

  (The shove to the chest helped.)

  Finally, a guy made a polite approach with a smile and an extended hand, the universal sign for “shall we dance?”

  And dance we did. For an average bar, this guy was Fred Astaire, but built like an NFL wide receiver.

  I was twirled, whirled, and dipped.

  How many of us have endured a clumsy dip? At best, I’m usually doing a deep backbend, supporting myself by my back leg, just trying not to break my neck.

  This was a proper dip: unexpected, secure, and a total thrill.

  After that, I was the grabby one.

  But the final skill of the bachelorette crew is to know when to call it a night. I said good night to my new friend, and I helped round up our giggly, wobbly girlfriends for a final headcount.

  As we piled back into our party bus, a friend asked me about the guy, “You gave him your real number? Girl.”

  A man who can move like that?

  I might even let him graduate to words.

  Tan, Don’t Burn

  Lisa

  I’m trying to understand when suntan lotion got weird.

  I remember the days when baby oil and vinegar counted as suntan lotion.

  Yes, you read that correctly.

  The Flying Scottolines used to go to the Jersey Shore for two weeks every summer, and Mother Mary would mix baby oil and red wine vinegar in a bottle before we left for a day at the beach.

  I have no idea where she got the recipe.

  Maybe the Mayo Clinic.

  Or the Mayonnaise Clinic.

  Anyway, we would slather on baby oil and vinegar, dressing ourselves like a salad. I even used to put lemon juice in my hair, so I was certifiably edible.

  Of course, with only condiments for protection against the sun, we turned bright red.

  And we thought we looked great.

  Like Beggin’ Strips, with feet.

  I don’t think it ever occurred to us to use store-bought lotion. We were like Amish, but Italian.

  We passed up Coppertone, which came in only one SPF, -5.

  And we would never spring for Bain de Soleil, which squirted like orange toothpaste from a tube. It was the fancy suntan lotion, for rich and/or French people.

  Not for Bain de Brigantine.

  The only problem was, as good as our sunburns looked, they hurt like hell.

  We would hurry to the drugstore for jars of Noxzema, which only made us hurt more, though we smelled less fattening.

  After the pain subsided, we started peeling, which we thought was totally fun.

  How?

  Telling you would be oversharing, but why stop now.

  By the way, if you’re eating breakfast as you read this, please stop. That is, stop eating. You should never stop reading, especially if you’re reading anything I write.

  Anyway the overshare is that my father’s back used to peel the worst of all of us, and so at night, Brother Frank and I would have a lot of fun peeling the skin off his back for him.

  Ewwww.Okay, in our defense, this was before the Internet.

  There weren’t a lot of things to do, back then.

  TV only had three channels, and for us, peeling each other’s backs counted as entertainment.

  Sometimes my dad’s skin peeled off like eraser rubbings, but other times, it came off like potato chips.

  Score!

  I’m not trying to gross you out, I’m telling you this because I was reminded of the eraser rubbings last week, when I started to use one of these newfangled suntan lotions, all with an SPF higher than balsamic.

  One was a lotion that claimed to be “lightweight,” so I slathered that everywhere.

  Because I want to be lightweight.

  Especially if all I have to do is put on lotion.

  But ten minutes later, I happened to touch my arm, and I noticed that there were eraser rubbings everywhere I had put the lotion.

  Which made no sense.

  I’d used the lotion so my skin wouldn’t peel, but the lotion was peeling.

  And without any of the bright red fun.

  So I washed it off. Then I tried another kind of suntan lotion, which I sprayed on. By the way, I don’t know when spray cans started being okay. Maybe it’s kosher to destroy the ozone layer to keep it from destroying you.

  This second type was a “sport” suntan lotion, and my idea of a great sport is spraying myself with suntan lotion.

  The can allegedly had “AccuSpray,” but when I aimed it on my back, the lotion fogged everywhere, coated my hair, and glued my ponytail to my neck, which is always a good look for a single girl.

  So I washed that off, too.

  I ended up with the third kind of lotion, called Water Babies.

  It was “Pediatrician-Recommended,” so I think it was perfect for me.

  The SPF matched my age.

  Bain de Senior Citizen.

  Protect
the Candle

  Lisa

  I just hung up the phone, having said no to going out to lunch.

  And about an hour ago, I said no to a speaking engagement that would’ve been wonderful.

  And yesterday, I said no to somebody who wanted to invite me to drinks and dinner at a local golf club.

  Do you think I’m being negative?

  On the contrary.

  I’m being positive.

  Because I’ve come to realize that my time really is precious.

  Not only in monetary terms, but more in its scarcity.

  And I’ve come to realize that every time I say no to someone else, I am saying yes to myself.

  What am I talking about?

  Let me explain, because if I have any accumulated wisdom in all these decades, it is this:

  You need to protect the candle.

  What does that mean?

  Here’s where I got the image, and it’s not overly impressive. It’s not from great literature, but from old-fashioned scary movies.

  Remember those movies, where the family is in the dark mansion at night and they hear a noise, and it’s in Victorian times, so there’s no electricity. In the next scene, a beautiful woman with a long braid and wearing a cotton nightgown will invariably grab a candle, light it, and walk around the house in the dark, cupping her slim, elegant hand in front of the candle’s flame.

  Think Nicole Kidman during a power outage.

  She cups the candle for obvious reasons, so the candle won’t blow out, since it’s a fragile thing and could be extinguished by the slightest breeze, not to mention some terrifying ghost.

  And for some reason, as my writing career progressed, I began to feel the squeeze of lots of obligations and requests, barking like dogs in the yard.

  I’m not complaining, because I know how lucky I am, but truth is I think my life is exactly like yours in this respect.

  You might have a job that you need to do, or you have a child you want to devote time to, or an elderly parent that needs your attention. Or you simply want to set fifteen minutes aside every day to do yoga, start your own book, or cook an incredibly complicated French recipe.

  In the lives of modern women, there is a constant tension between the things we want to do and the things we ought to do, and it’s impossible to balance these things.

  Especially when, at least in my case, I’ve spent a lifetime confusing the things I want to do with what other people want me to do.

  I’m a people-pleaser, from birth.

  But as time wore on, and my nerves got more frayed than they needed to be, I thought as many people as I pleased, I really never got to please myself.

  To do whatever I wanted to do.

  Even if what I wanted to do was clear my head and write my book, which is my actual job.

  People who don’t work at home don’t get that home is work.

  And finally, after decades of this madness, I came to the realization:

  I have to protect my candle.

  My candle was the stories I wanted to tell, in my books.

  And what I started to do was to say no to anything that wasn’t those things.

  My image at all times was the woman in the nightgown with the long braid, cupping her hand in front of her flickering candle.

  And even though it sounds simple to say no, it wasn’t, not for me.

  People asked repeatedly, which I came to realize was pressure.

  Others became angry at me when I said no.

  I lost a few acquaintances, and one or two friends.

  I missed out on some boring parties, and some great ones.

  But the more I protected my candle, so that I spent my energy and time on what I loved, the happier and happier I got.

  You may be more enlightened than I, in which case you might be rolling your eyes by now.

  But if you’re like me, I hope you take my advice, because it is the only thing I know for sure:

  Protect your candle.

  And what is your candle?

  Whatever you want to do.

  Trying tai chi.

  Reading a novel.

  Writing a novel.

  Learning Spanish.

  Watching Real Housewives.

  Sunbathing.

  Whatever you want, it’s completely up to you.

  Something you love.

  And then, make that the thing you say yes to, every time.

  If you have to do a job that isn’t your candle, give time to your candle every day.

  Protect that time like a maniac.

  Put your hand in front of the flame and don’t let anybody blow your candle out.

  Give yourself the permission to say no to the requests of others.

  To disappoint them.

  To even make them angry.

  If they get mad at you because you did something else that you wanted to do more, you don’t need them in your life.

  And the interesting thing is that the more things you say no to, you feel that you are paring your life down, but you’ll be expanding it, because the time you give yourself allows you to grow in new directions, which arise organically from something you truly love to do.

  And in time, you may come to the same realization that I did recently.

  Which is that the candle isn’t a project at all.

  The candle is you.

  Unhappy Madison

  Lisa

  It has come to this:

  I love golf.

  The only problem is, golf doesn’t love me.

  So I picked up the phone, called a bunch of golf courses, and finally found an instructor who would take me as a beginner.

  He had no idea how much of a beginner I was.

  Until I showed up the first day, and he had to unwrap the cellophane off the putter, which I had missed.

  And since then, I’ve made every mistake in the book.

  My first lesson set the tone, because when I was getting ready at home that morning, I had the first question every woman has:

  What to wear?

  I had been working and hadn’t had a chance to go buy golf clothes, but I figured, how different could golf clothes be from normal clothes?

  Answer: Different.

  For example, it was a sweltering ninety degrees outside, so I put on a nice pink tank top, gray gym shorts, and running sneakers.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong.

  I drove to the golf club and parked at the appointed place, which turned out to be the driving range. I got out of the car, grabbed my bag of clubs, and hoisted them over my shoulder, then surveyed the crowd lined up at the driving tees.

  I was the only woman.

  I was also the only tank top.

  Gym shorts.

  And running shoes.

  My instructor turned out to be a handsome young golf pro named John, who flashed me a friendly smile, introduced himself, and shook my hand.

  To which I replied, “Am I dressed funny, or is it just that I have ovaries?”

  He wasn’t sure whether or not to laugh, because he wasn’t used to me yet. He answered, “You might want to get a pair of golf sneakers.”

  “Okay, will do.”

  “Also, please don’t take this the wrong way, but your shorts are too short.”

  I felt my face flush. It had been a long time since I felt like a whore in public.

  Maybe since hot pants.

  Please tell me you remember hot pants.

  You don’t? Well, they looked like a satiny version of my gym shorts, which I don’t think were that short, reaching the middle of my thigh. Showing off my upper thigh isn’t on the agenda, unless one of your favorite foods is cottage cheese.

  “Really?” I asked him, dry-mouthed with embarrassment. “These are normal gym shorts.”

  “Yes, but golf shorts should go to your knee.”

  “Oy,” I said.

  Which is a lot more polite than, “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  John cleared his throat. “Also,
if you’re going to wear a sleeveless shirt, it has to have a collar. If it doesn’t have a collar, it has to have sleeves.”

  “So a tank top is a no-go?”

  “Correct.”

  “Can I stay even though I’m dressed wrong?”

  “Of course. You didn’t know. Just next time, it would be great if you dressed appropriately.” John gestured to my golf bag. “I can carry that for you.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, because I was Making A Point. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I can’t carry my own bag.

  “You sure?” John asked.

  “Yes, no worries.”

  By the way, I always say “no worries” when I really mean the exact opposite.

  I wish there were an expression for women like me, which would probably be, “Worries.”

  Anyway, John took off across the beautiful green grass, and I quickened my pace to keep up.

  John said over his shoulder, “Please don’t run, it tears up the grass.”

  “Oh, oops!”

  So I felt not only like a whore, but I felt like a stupid whore.

  “Also,” John said gently, “lower your voice.”

  “Sorry.”

  Well, you get the idea.

  I was a golf virgin, but somehow I ended up feeling like a stupid, loud whore.

  But that was then and this is now.

  John turned out to be the nicest guy in the world, in addition to being a superb instructor. I am loving golf, even though I’ve had only five lessons.

  Which is four more than you need to figure out that golf is an impossibly difficult game.

  Even for a well-dressed woman, like me.

  Breaking and Rentering

  Francesca

  I always feel like a creeper in a rental house. Unlike the pristine blankness of a hotel room, a rental house is covered in proof of someone else’s ownership. Just walking around the rooms feels like snooping. You’re sleeping in someone else’s bedsheets, browsing someone else’s books, eating someone else’s leftovers.

  You’re like a benevolent burglar.

  Which is part of the fun!

  As long as the house doesn’t fight back.

  The week of July Fourth, four friends and I stayed in a house that seemed booby-trapped. The house used everything short of poltergeists to communicate hostility to our being there.

  My friend’s boss had rented the house and was letting her use it for a week as a work perk. When we first arrived, we saw a note he’d left for us: