I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool Page 10

  The American Dream

  Lisa

  You may remember that I wrote previously about wanting to add a little room onto my kitchen so that I could look at a blooming garden instead of a stainless steel wall.

  I went back and forth about whether I was entitled to spend money that was supposed to be for my retirement on a home renovation that I might not even live to see, since I am half-dead already, at sixty-one.

  Well, thanks to your wonderful encouraging emails and also my innate selfishness and inability to delay gratification, I am building the garden room, and we just broke ground.

  And rapidly thereafter, we ran into a wall.

  Literally.

  They dug a big hole for the concrete pad and found an underground wall, which of course led to heavy orange equipment and costly change orders, but I’m not complaining.

  I’m getting my garden room and praying I live long enough to enjoy it.

  My current dilemma is typical of the kind of thing that construction presents, which is that as soon as you fix one thing, you need to fix another.

  As in I thought it would be nice to have a little fenced-in area around the garden, so the dogs could enjoy the garden, too, and hang out with me when I weed.

  Wait, that’s a lie.

  I don’t weed anymore.

  I used to weed, in fact I was becoming vaguely compulsive about weeding, but then I realize I had to quit cold turkey, mainly because it was making me crazy, a job that is never ever done like making your bed, another job I ignore.

  Plus I realized that summer is only three months long and even weeds can’t grow that much in three months, so what I’m doing now is waiting the weeds out. They can take up residence through August, because that’s all that’s left, but they’re going to be dead by September.

  Joke’s on them.

  So there you have it.

  Weeds grow in my garden.

  Guess what?

  The world didn’t end.

  In fact, I’m going to call my garden room my weed-and-garden room, and it will still be great to have, even if I don’t get to retire until 2085.

  To stay on point, I thought it would be fun to have the dogs run around the garden, but there is no fence there, and they can run onto the driveway or even the street. So I’m going to put up a fence, and what I’ve secretly always wanted is a white picket fence.

  Am I a walking cliché, or what?

  I grew up hearing all about the white picket fence, and knowing that it meant you were supposed to be married, have 2.3 children, a dog, and a cat. Then later, the white picket fence became a dumb thing to want, signifying oppression of all sorts, or bourgeois taste in general.

  To this, I plead guilty.

  Because I want a white picket fence. Even though I’m divorced twice, live alone, have one cat who won’t speak to me, and five dogs—one of which is in a wheelchair and a diaper and still manages to poop on the floor.

  That’s the kind of talent that runs in the Scottoline blood.

  I called up a fence guy and told him I wanted a white picket fence. He told me the prices were very reasonable, except they doubled when we got to the white part. “What’s the deal?” I asked him.

  “It’s really expensive to paint a white picket fence, and it’s a lot of trouble and expense to maintain. You should just get the cedar. That’s what everybody does.”

  “But whoever heard of a cedar picket fence? It’s not the same thing.”

  “You’re right, it’s not. It’s half as much money.”

  “But a white picket fence is the American dream. The fences are supposed to be white picket, not cedar picket. These are clichés for reason. I know, I’m a writer.”

  The fence guy didn’t laugh. “I still think you should get the cedar. Everybody else does.”

  I gave up, looking at the costs. “Okay,” I said.

  I gave up on the white picket fence.

  Like everybody else in America.

  But you know what happened next, because you get who I am as a person, as a woman, and as a spendthrift in general.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wanted a white picket fence. I pictured it with white climbing roses and a trellis, which would add to its cost, and as we all know, the goal is for me to spend every last penny of my retirement fund.

  The climbing roses would be dripping petals over a lovely trellis, with blooms the exact hue of the fence itself, which would be white.

  A soft white, like cream.

  My American Cream.

  Friends, I’m writing that check, right now.

  The View from the Ferry

  Francesca

  That weekend in August, it felt like the city had a fever about to break.

  The moment you stepped outside, the heat made you weak, and the humidity made you woozy. It made you mad it was so hot, and that anger gave you the little energy you needed to get wherever you had to go.

  I knew I was in for it when it felt this way at eight in the morning. My friend and I had made plans to spend the day at Rockaway Beach, since being outdoors and not near a body of water seemed unthinkable. My friend was biking to the beach from her apartment in Brooklyn, while I planned to take the 9:30 A.M. ferry for the first time.

  This is why New York City residents flee in August. In the dead of summer, the city becomes a hot box of sun-reflecting asphalt and concrete. Tall buildings block the breeze, and the humidity has nowhere to go but hang heavy. The smells of the city, never the most appealing bouquet, are magnified, with each scent conjuring its solid form as clearly as if you’d stepped in it.

  The streets were relatively deserted. My missing neighbors were either hiding in the air-conditioning or, I imagined, decamped to their beach rentals or European holidays. Work demands had conspired against me this summer, so I wasn’t getting any vacation, and today’s beach day-trip was my consolation prize. As I passed each empty block, drops of self-pity formed like beads of sweat.

  I had to take the subway to South Seaport. Underground, it felt like a convection oven. Once inside the subway car, weak air-conditioning whirring provided some relief, and as the car was almost empty, I spread out my limbs like a starfish and tried to think cool thoughts.

  As the 1 train rattled farther downtown, more people got on. Two Muslim girls wearing pastel hijabs got on and started giggling about something on their phone. At the next stop, a couple who looked of Indian descent boarded with a young child in a stroller. The baby perked me up a little. He had big brown eyes with eyelashes long enough to cast shade, and he casually hung one leg out of the stroller to catch some air.

  I feel ya, kid.

  The mother and I shared a smile.

  It’s typical to see New Yorkers of different races, religions, and ethnicities, speaking different languages, so I assumed they were residents. But when a family of very tall Germans boarded sporting backpacks, classic tourist giveaway, I remembered that I was on a train headed toward several major tourist destinations: the 9/11 Museum and the ferry dock to visit Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.

  I’ve lived here for eight years and I haven’t visited either spot.

  My mom and I are always talking about visiting Ellis Island, but we haven’t gotten around to it. I made a mental note for her next visit.

  My guess was confirmed once we emerged above ground at South Seaport to more of a crowd than I thought, and my fellow subway riders joined the people surrounding the tour guides who camp out at this station. I always want tourists to have a fun time, so I felt sorry for the infernal weather and wondered if they regretted coming this time of year. But the mood of the crowd was happy and excited. I weaved around people cracking open brochures and guidebooks and walked the opposite direction in the blazing sun to the pier for the Rockaway Beach ferry.

  I was among the first in line to board, and I snagged a seat on the upper deck, where I hoped the most wind would hit once we got moving. I had given up worrying about my frizzed hair or sw
eaty upper lip, as everyone looked equally wilted and shiny. The communal grossness bred solidarity.

  And you could feel the collective mood lift once we lurched off the dock and got onto the water. The breeze was refreshing, and people who had previously been sour and silent perked up into chatter and taking photos. A woman took a seat next to me, looking rather elegant in a green sarong. Feeling the friendly mood, I complimented her.

  We got to talking, an easy conversation about the weather, New York City real estate, books, and eventually what we did for a living. I told her I was a writer, and she said she wanted to write a book.

  She was a human-rights lawyer at the UN representing the needs of refugee children. She was a refugee herself; she had spent much of her early childhood in a refugee camp fleeing the Bosnian War, before immigrating to the United States with her parents. She said she also wanted to write a children’s book about a refugee child, so that some of the children she works with wouldn’t feel so alone, and so that they would know their story could have a happy ending like hers did.

  The city I’m lucky to call home

  A happy ending in America.

  And did I think that was a good idea for a book?

  I was awestruck. I told her I thought it sounded like a wonderful book, and she should absolutely write it.

  We pulled past Governor’s Island, and the Statue of Liberty came into view.

  The sight gave me a chill.

  That morning, I was desperate to get out of the hot, sticky, smelly city that New Yorkers flee in August.

  And now I was looking at the symbol of hope, opportunity, and acceptance for so many.

  I glanced back to the beautiful, shining, city I was lucky to call home.

  Everything looked so different from the ferry.

  For the Win

  Lisa

  I don’t know where to begin.

  But here we go.

  You may recall that Francesca and I were asked to make an appearance on Ladies’ Night at the Philadelphia Phillies, attend a fun party with Phillies fans before the game, and I was invited to throw out a ceremonial first pitch.

  So behind the scenes, as soon as I got this news, I felt two things at once.

  Excitement and panic.

  The excitement is easy to describe. I’ve lived in Philadelphia all of my life, and I love the Phillies. I grew up with the Phillies, and the game was always on in our house and every Sunday when we would visit my Uncle Rocky, Uncle Mikey, and Uncle Dominic.

  The Flying Scottolines have a long history of watching other people do strenuous things.

  My aunts watched, too, but they would have the TV on in the kitchen, while they were making gravy.

  Sunday was not a Ladies’ Afternoon.

  By the way, as much as we loved the Phillies, The Flying Scottolines never went to the games because that would have required leaving the couch.

  A dream come true!

  Also, we would eat Sunday dinner during the game, and ravioli doesn’t travel easy.

  In my family, the only thing that trumps the Phillies is carbohydrates.

  So to stay on point, the panic of being asked to throw out the first pitch is that I don’t know how to pitch.

  I Googled “how to pitch” online and came up with videos that talked about “pitching mechanics,” “thumbs down,” “full windup,” “pronate your throwing hand,” and you get the idea, a “nightmare.”

  AW!

  I told my friends that I was going to be throwing out the first pitch, and they sent me videos of people younger and more male than I am throwing terrible pitches, but that only made me worry more. I immediately went into hyperdrive, buying a mitt and a ball, and vowing to practice every day, which did not happen.

  Mainly because I have a job and it does not involve learning to pitch.

  And also I went on book tour where I pitched my book, which is not the same thing.

  Luckily, I’m working on a book about a baseball player, and I was researching it with the Great Valley High School baseball team, and Coach Matthew Schultz, and the guys were kind enough to give me a pitching lesson. Plus, my best friend and assistant, Laura, came over with her teenage sons, Shane and Liam, who are not only great young men but great baseball players, and they both gave me pitching lessons.

  Bottom line, I had a pitching staff of thirty.

  For one woman, and one pitch.

  Why?

  Because on Ladies’ Night, there was one thing I wanted not to do, at all costs:

  I didn’t want to Throw Like A Girl.

  I wanted to overcome all clichés.

  I didn’t want to embarrass all womankind.

  I wanted to represent those of us with ovaries.

  In short, I wanted to reach the plate.

  And I wanted the ball to go straight.

  No pressure.

  Anyway, to make a long story short, Ladies’ Night was amazing, starting with Francesca and me getting real Phillies jerseys with our names on the back, which were long enough to cover my butt.

  Yay!

  Then we went to our pregame event, partied with a huge crew of Phillies fans, and met the great radio host Jim Jackson, and all the time we were kept on schedule by the incredibly adorable and efficient Catherine and Vanessa, who made sure that I got to the field on time for the first pitch.

  The Phillies Organization is well organized.

  Heading out for my first Major League appearance

  A home run of a daughter!

  They should run the country.

  And then there I was, on a gorgeous summer night, standing in front of the pitcher’s mound before God-knows-how-many Phillies fans at Citizens Bank Park. The stadium is way bigger than it looks on TV, especially if you’re standing all alone, at its center.

  I felt like an ant in the middle of an empty spaghetti bowl.

  A girl ant.

  Then the Philly Phanatic, whom I adore, took home plate to be my catcher.

  And it was my moment of truth.

  Deep breath.

  I tried to remember everything that my pitching staff had taught me.

  And I threw the ball, which amazingly, went all the way to the Phanatic’s oversized glove and didn’t even bounce! And not only that, it went straight and not to either side like 50 Cent, Michael Jordan, or even Gary Dell’Abate from the Howard Stern Show!

  Yay!

  Baba-booey!

  Amazing!

  Thanks so much to my coaches, and most of all, to the Philadelphia Phillies, who even won that night!

  So in the end, I didn’t Throw Like a Girl at all.

  I Threw Like a Woman.

  Back to School

  Lisa

  Okay, summer is over and we’re collectively bummed.

  The consolation prize is school supplies.

  No, I’m not twelve years old.

  But I still love school supplies.

  If I could buy a protractor, I might be the happiest person on earth.

  Or even a pencil case, which I can’t justify since I don’t even use pencils.

  Or how about a ruler, an old-school wooden one, but I don’t measure even my waist anymore.

  But still, maybe I could buy a pencil case and put things in it, like a laptop.

  Nothing makes me happier than a fresh pack of printer paper, even though I can’t remember the last time I printed anything.

  And I need new printer ink, so I can put it into my printer and let it dry up.

  But truly, I do love new legal pads, canary yellow and ready for fresh litigation.

  Please tell me I’m not the only alleged adult who feels this way.

  Who finds her internal clock geared to the school year, even though she’s not a student anymore, and even though the student she raised has grown up and moved to New York City.

  It’s just that at this time of year, I usually find an excuse to get myself into Staples, where I lose three hours browsing three-ring notebooks.

&nbs
p; I look at every type of Post-it available and choose carefully which colors will change my life, or failing that, organize me better.

  I’m thinking that the lure of school supplies, as you get older, has more to do with a wish for organization and productivity.

  In other words, the mental riff is something like, the air is turning colder, and I’m getting back to business.

  No more fooling around.

  Summer is for losers, and fall is for winners.

  Now I’m going to make myself into a winner, and get things done!

  I’m going to write things down and do all the Things on my Things To Do List.

  And for that I need, obviously, pink index cards, double-sided tape, binders in different colors, and special dividers with tabs you can see through and perforated white inserts that are too small to fit your handwriting.

  Also multicolored file folders for bills I never file.

  And a desk organizer for paper clips I use to pick my teeth.

  A metal easel with a giant pad for plotting novels, though I have never outlined a single one.

  My surprise endings come as a surprise to me.

  And of course, pens.

  I don’t think it’s because I’m a writer, I think it’s because I’m a human being in September, but the fact is, I have a primal urge to go out and acquire pens.

  I’ll spend an hour in the pen aisle in a quest for the perfect pen, searching through an array of fine-point, medium-point, and big-ass-point pens.

  Also called bold point.

  Guess which one I picked.

  I identify.

  And not just because of the aforementioned ass, but because I’m not a fine-point kind of girl. I’m not subtle or delicate.

  Nor am I middle-of-the-road, neither here nor there, so medium doesn’t appeal to me.

  I like the biggest point possible, to make the biggest point possible, and also, frankly, so I can read it.

  Because I’m not twelve years old.

  So of course what always happens is that I buy a bag of pens, bring them home, and think they are perfect, so perfect that I practically hoard them, and then, God knows how, I can’t find them anymore.

  Every September I buy too many pens and yet somehow, I can never find a pen in my house.

  The other day, I had to write a check and I went to three different rooms looking for a pen, and ultimately I found one in my purse.