Have a Nice Guilt Trip Page 10

  My girlfriend and I wanted to start off on the right foot, so on New Year’s Day, before we went to a movie, we decided to get dinner at a popular vegetarian restaurant in the East Village. We took a seat at a tree-stump tabletop and opened a menu with as many folds as a road map, including a back page labeled “glossary.”

  In retrospect, this was the first red flag.

  But we are young. To us, red flags are life’s accessories, like a cute scarf.

  The second warning sign, also unheeded, was the group of ballerinas who were seated after us.

  “How did you know they were ballerinas?” my boyfriend interrupted, when I was telling him the story later. “Did they walk in so gracefully?”

  “No, they were starved and limping.”

  My friend and I were starving as well, so we didn’t waste time trying to decode the menu. As soon as the waiter came over, we gave our order. My friend chose cauliflower soup and a vegan “Reuben” sandwich, and I decided on the seitan special, whatever that is.

  “Would you like any basics?” the waiter asked me. He was tall and thin, with his hair buzzed on the sides and fluffy curls at the top, like a human bean sprout.

  “Basics?”

  He sighed. “Basics are sides of vegetables to add to your dish.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Definitely the sea vegetables.”

  My brain immediately jumped to the image of a sea cucumber, which I’m pretty sure is a giant slug. “Um, maybe I’ll go with the kale.”

  “It’s and/or, so I’ll put you down for two orders of kale.”

  “I have to get two?”

  “It’s and/or,” he repeated, as if this explained everything. “So you can get kale and kale, kale or something else, or kale and something else. And/or.”

  Pretzel logic, gluten-free.

  I opted for the kale AND lentils.

  After what felt like forever, our food finally arrived. My friend received a cup of soup and a half-Reuben the size of a tea sandwich. I got a dish with a wet pile of steamed greens and brown beans.

  “That sandwich looks small,” I said, squinting to see it better.

  “Yeah,” my friend answered. “Yours looks … healthy.”

  She ate her tiny food in roughly four bites, I ended up pouring balsamic vinegar on mine to make it more palatable. We wanted to be good, but even good girls have their limit. We snagged the attention of our waiter.

  “Could I get the other half of this sandwich?” my friend asked sweetly.

  “I’m sorry, we can’t do that,” said the waiter.

  I couldn’t help myself. “Seriously?”

  “Well, I’ll have to check with our kitchen,” he said.

  “Also, I know you guys are busy, but is my entrée coming soon?”

  “Did you order something else?” he asked, now looking like a surprised bean sprout.

  “Yes, I ordered the special. These were just the basics.”

  Francesca’s a woman, not a rabbit! (The ears are fake.)

  He looked at me blankly.

  It was and/or, I wanted to cry!

  “Let me see what we can do.” It was like he had never encountered two women so hungry. Like we were the Hungry Hungry Hippos, gobbling all the soybeans he could shoot at us.

  By the time the waiter rustled up some more spartan food for us, we had to leave to make the movie. We paid—“Sorry, cash only”—and escaped.

  At the movie theater, we approached the snack counter. I glanced over my shoulder, in case the ballerinas were behind us again.

  “Should we get candy?” my friend asked.

  We looked at each other.

  I got the Raisinets, it has antioxidants. She got an Almond Joy, it has nuts.

  For now, that would be good enough.

  They Call Alabama the Crimson Tide

  By Lisa

  Spontaneity is a great thing.

  But not for Mother Mary.

  You would think I would have known this by now, but in fact, I didn’t learn it until Daughter Francesca and I went for an impromptu visit.

  Which was too impromptu.

  It all started back on New Year’s Eve, when I called Mother Mary at midnight, as we do every year. God knows when we started this practice, but I’ve been doing it for several marriages, no matter where I am or what I’m doing on New Year’s Eve. To be real, I’m never doing anything on New Year’s Eve, so calling my mother is the highlight of the night.

  So during our most recent conversation, we wished each other a Happy New Year, but then Mother Mary says something she never says: “I miss you.”

  I thought I had the wrong number.

  My mother and I love each other, but it’s not always smooth sailing twenty-four/seven, and I’m trying to figure out exactly what about our fights she misses.

  Still, I say reflexively, “I miss you, too,” but after we hang up, I realize that I actually do miss her. And it being New Year’s Eve and all, I get a little misty. My remaining drops of estrogen leak from my eyes, and I begin to wonder how many years I have left to fight with my mother.

  Because I could go any day now.

  So by the end of the week, I’m calling Francesca, then some airlines and hotels, and the very next weekend, we’re booked on a plane to Miami to visit Mother Mary. Of course, when you book a flight that late, the only seats available are in first class, but I can work with that. It’s nice to have a treat once in a while, and I have only one mother to fight with.

  Also it turns out that the only hotel available is crazy expensive, and I stay there only on book tour, when my beloved publisher is paying. But then again, the visit is spontaneous, so beggars can’t be choosers. Never mind that I’d be the only beggar at this swanky hotel, but I can work with that, too, because you-know-who deserves it.

  That would be me.

  I deserve it.

  But Francesca is surprised. “Mom, that’s not where we usually stay.”

  “No,” I tell her, “but it goes to show how much we love Mother Mary, that we’ll force ourselves to fly first-class and stay in a fancy hotel, all for her.”

  Francesca’s eyes narrow. She wasn’t born yesterday, nor was my mother, who freaks out when I call to tell her about our upcoming visit.

  “You’re staying where?” she explodes, incredulous. And then she adds, “Why are you coming down anyway?”

  I blink. “Because you said you miss me.”

  “Oh hell,” she mutters, but doesn’t elaborate.

  Fast-forward to Friday night, when Francesca and I are checking in to the swanky hotel, knee-deep in a crowd of cranky travelers. I slide my credit card across the desk, which is when the clerk slides back a form that shows the room rate increasing a third on Saturday night then doubling on Sunday night.

  I look up from the form. “You’re kidding, right?”

  The desk clerk lifts an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  “I understand that the rate increases a little over the weekend, but it costs twice as much on Sunday night?”

  “Yes,” the clerk answers, simply.

  Francesca snorts. “What, does the room get bigger?”

  Proud of her, I nod. “Yeah, does it turn into Versailles? Or do I just own it outright?”

  Nobody laughs except Francesca and me. The travelers behind us begin to grumble, and I feel too embarrassed to ask any more questions, much less refuse to pay, and I know there are no other hotels available anyway. Then I look around and realize that everyone else is wearing either red or green, which I had thought was a nice holiday touch, but the mood isn’t Christmass-y at all. In fact, it’s downright hostile.

  It’s only later that I learn that my spontaneous visit is on the weekend of the Orange Bowl, and the hotel is raising its rates because the big game is on Monday night. All weekend, Miami is overrun with battling Alabama and Notre Dame fans, and after a few dinners with Mother Mary and Brother Frank, I learn that the Fightin’ Irish have nothing on the Fightin’ I
talians.

  Still Francesca and I had fun, and so did Mother Mary and Frank, so we’re glad we went.

  But we’re glad we’re home, too.

  Roll, Tide.

  Unreal Estate

  By Lisa

  I have an old house, which I love.

  And hate.

  I’m one of those people who says I love old houses.

  But I lie.

  I’m beginning to accept the truth, which is:

  Old houses are a pain in the back porch.

  This realization strikes me every year when the weather turns cold. My house has stone walls that are incredibly thick, which means that come October, it’s freezing inside. Today it was seventy degrees outside, and fifty in my house.

  So you say, turn on the heat, right?

  I can’t.

  Because my house has radiators, which hiss, clang, and bang. I can’t hear myself think when the heat is on. If you talk to me on the phone when I have the heat on, you’d think someone is breaking and entering.

  So I heat my house by hot flashes.

  That’s the only way you can live in an old house. If you are an old house.

  By the way, it’s no more habitable in summer, when the weather turns warm. I can’t open any windows, because their sashes are broken.

  Yes, my windows have sashes.

  Don’t ask me why or even what that is. My windows are from an era when dresses had sashes, and I guess they went sash-crazy.

  Luckily, my door doesn’t have a corset.

  But it’s hung at an angle, like all the doors in the house. Either the doors have shifted or the floors have, but there isn’t a right angle to be found in the house. When you walk around my house, you feel drunk. And if you’re drunk when you walk around my house, you’re in deep trouble.

  After a margarita, I need a designated driver to get to my bedroom.

  How did I get myself into this mess, er … I mean, old house?

  Let’s talk turkey.

  I always thought that the world divided into two groups: people who like New Construction and people who like Old Houses. It’s like Democrats and Republicans, except the disagreement is over something that really matters.

  Like an attached garage.

  Furthermore, to be perfectly honest, I always sensed hostility between the New Construction people and the Old House people.

  Each thinks the other is a snob.

  The Old House people look down on the New Construction people as not being classy, as if it’s more high-rent to have heating you can hear.

  And the New Construction people look down on the Old House people as being dirty, because they prefer what’s essentially a Used House.

  It’s like New Construction people think that Old House people are filthy, and Old House people revel in their colonial filth.

  To be fair, all of this could simply be PTSD from my second marriage. Thing Two was an Old House person, and I was a New Construction person, albeit secretly. I kept my preference to myself, as I sensed it wasn’t as ritzy, so when we looked at old houses, I fawned over the deep windowsills that would look so great with a windowseat, which I would never use, as I’m not a cat.

  All I really wanted was a family room.

  Because in an Old House, there’s no place for the family to be, except around the hearth.

  Where’s the hearth? Take a right at the butter churn. Don’t trip over the spinning wheel.

  So of course, my second marriage being the picnic that it was, we ended up with an Old House and no family room. I lived in my Old House for years until I subtracted a husband and added a family room.

  Yay!

  My solution since then has been to take my Old House and constantly remodel it, thus changing it into New Construction.

  Or Old Construction.

  Like me.

  I Want a Name When I Lose

  By Lisa

  Weeks later, I’m still recovering from my visit with my mother.

  She’s Earthquake Mary.

  And I’m having aftershocks.

  I have written about how love and worry bind Mother Mary and me, in that she and I always worried about Francesca, when she was a baby. Well, times have changed, and now Francesca and I are worried about Mother Mary.

  Why?

  No reason, aside from the fact that she’s eighty-nine and alone all day, while my brother is at work. Francesca and I worry that she could fall, or choke on food, or any number of things that Mother Mary and I used to worry about with baby Francesca.

  The trip down to Miami only made us more worried. For example, when I was leaving the hotel to go pick up Mother Mary, she called me on the phone. “Help!” she said, her voice trembling.

  “What happened, Ma?” My heart started to pound. “What’s the matter?”

  “I need you!”

  I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. “I’m on my way, but what is it? Should I call 911?”

  “Don’t be silly. I can’t change the channel on this damn remote.”

  Whew.

  So I exhaled.

  Until I found out that after we hung up, she left the house, went to the next-door neighbor’s, and asked him to come over and change the channel for her. That made me worry even more. I told her, “Mom, why didn’t you wait until I got here? You could have fallen on the sidewalk.”

  “I didn’t fall.”

  “But you could have.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “But I’m worried about you.”

  Mother Mary waved me off with a frown. “I don’t need you to worry about me.”

  “I can’t help it,” I tell her, raising my voice. “I love you!”

  I don’t add, she’s the one who taught me that love and worry are the same thing, and the way you show someone you love them is to yell at them.

  The more you love, the louder you yell.

  That’s why if you drive past any house containing Scottolines, you’ll hear screaming.

  It’s not murder, it’s love.

  We’re going deaf BECAUSE WE LOVE EACH OTHER!

  Anyway to stay on point, the three of us go out to dinner, but the incident with the remote control occasions the umpteenth version of this conversation:

  “Mom, why don’t you move up north, with me?”

  “No.”

  “But I’m home all day. We could be home all day together.”

  “No.”

  “But, if you had a problem, like with the remote control, you could tell me. You should move up north with me.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” Mother Mary scowls deeply, which is when I realize we’re talking about a different kind of remote control.

  In fact, we’re having remote control issues.

  Mother Mary has the control.

  I have the remote.

  So I let it be, for this round. I know I’m not the only one trying to come up with the best solution for where an older parent lives, and I’m lucky enough to still have a mother around to worry about.

  Or yell at.

  So we talk again about her getting a Life Alert, but she says no. Mother Mary doesn’t think she needs it and she hates pendants.

  I yell, “BUT IT’S NOT ABOUT THE PENDANT!”

  “I SAID NO!” Mother Mary yells back.

  After our testy dinner, she actually agrees to go to see a movie with Francesca and me, which I suspect is her way of saying I’m sorry for not wanting to live with you.

  Works for me.

  Francesca reads through the movie listings on her phone, trying to lighten the mood, though I’m cranky and Mother Mary is crankier.

  We buy tickets for Les Misérables because we are Les Misérables.

  We go to the movie and sit down in a little row, three generations of unhappy Scottolines, now with popcorn and Raisinets.

  But in time, my mood improves, and so does Mother Mary’s. Rapt and teary, we get swept up in the movie, because it’s almost as dramatic as we are.

&n
bsp; Three generations of fun

  And at some point, Mother Mary rests her head on my shoulder and falls asleep, like a small child.

  I stay as still as possible, so she stays asleep.

  The yelling may be over, but the worry abides.

  And the love.

  Thought Bubbles

  By Lisa

  You’ve probably seen the Dove soap commercial in which a forensic artist sketches a woman according to her own description and she looks terrible, and then sketches a second picture of the woman according to a description of her by a stranger, and she looks great.

  Who is surprised by this?

  Not me.

  I could’ve told you that women are their own worst critics. I also could’ve told you that forensic drawings make everybody look ugly.

  But that’s not my point herein.

  The tagline of the campaign is, “You Are More Beautiful Than You Think.” And everyone is hailing this as a profound way to look at women’s self-esteem, or for women to look at their own self-esteem.

  I don’t agree.

  I think it really doesn’t matter if you’re beautiful or not.

  Let’s be real.

  I don’t need a forensic sketch to tell me what I really look like, because I have a mirror. And to tell the truth, every time I look in the mirror, I have the exact opposite reaction:

  I thought I looked better than that.

  It’s not like I have a big ego or think that I’m especially attractive. But I can tell you that when I look in a mirror, it’s a disappointment. So I don’t even want to think about what would happen if I ran into a forensic sketch artist and he started drawing me. I might take his pencil and stick it where the sun don’t shine.

  In other words, my own personal tagline should be, “I’m Not As Beautiful As I Think.”

  But who cares?

  I’m not a model.

  I’m a writer, a mother, and a fifty-seven-year-old woman. Bottom line, I’m fine with how I look, even though I’m not beautiful.

  And all I want from Dove soap is to get me clean.

  When did a soap company get to be our national therapist?

  I wish Dove would get out of the self-esteem business and figure out how to get me even cleaner, longer. Or how to make soap with more suds, because I like a lot of suds.

  Dove, don’t flatter me by telling me I’m not only beautiful, but more beautiful than I think. Because I wasn’t born yesterday, and I don’t look it.