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

  You get the idea, even if Harrison Ford doesn’t.

  So how does the driverless car get where it wants to go?

  The Delphi website says that the car has “four short-range radars, three vision-based cameras, six lidars, a localization system, intelligent software algorithms and a full suite of Advanced Driver Assistance Systems.”

  Cheater.

  If I had all that stuff, I could drive myself around, too.

  Oh. Wait.

  Plus I don’t know what a lidar is, and I don’t care. I don’t need any lidars to drive my car. All I need is a fresh cup of coffee, my phone, something to eat, and a dead mouse in a water bottle.

  You may recall the time I was driving, drank a dead mouse, and almost crashed into a divider, a cyclone fence, and a Wawa store.

  Because I’m a human being.

  And therefore unworthy of being a pilot.

  I’m loving this principle of eliminating humans to reduce error, and I’m wondering if we could apply it in other situations.

  For example, I’m pretty sure that both of my marriages would have been an astounding success, if I hadn’t been in either one of them.

  Also, I think the country would be running better if we eliminated the human beings in government.

  Oh wait. There aren’t any.

  What if we just took the human beings off the planet and let Earth run itself?

  Let’s see, the air would smell better, the water would run cleaner, the ground would remain unpunctured, and the animals would be safe.

  Just the way we found it.

  Before we started driving.

  Nah.

  Conditional

  Lisa

  Every woman has a hair history.

  Or is it a hairstory?

  Let me tell you mine, then I’ll get to my point.

  We began, as always, with The Flying Scottolines, and growing up, we all used the same bathroom, which contained exactly one bottle of shampoo.

  Head & Shoulders.

  By the way, none of us had dandruff.

  Those white spots on our clothes were lint.

  I can’t explain why Mother Mary always bought us Head & Shoulders, except that I suspect she thought it was fancier than our old shampoo, which was called Suave.

  By the way, we weren’t suave, either.

  We aspired to being suave, with dandruff.

  I come from a long line of aspirational shampoo buyers.

  In any event, we used our creamy aqua Head & Shoulders shampoo and felt pretty good about ourselves, until one day, when I was in high school. I was with my first boyfriend at a party, which was held outside. It was August, which is definitely a bad-hair month in Philly.

  Which is a bad-hair city.

  You know it’s true.

  It’s the City of Brotherly Locks.

  For women.

  Anyway, back to the party. My curly, frizzy, wavy hair had already exploded, and my boyfriend made the mistake of trying to touch my hair.

  This was back in the old days, when men actually touched my hair.

  Overrated.

  Anyway, his hand got caught in my hair and he couldn’t get it out, as if I had the Venus flytrap of hair.

  I caught a man!

  Then I tore off his wings.

  Just kidding.

  In fact, I was completely embarrassed, and after my boyfriend finally freed his fingers from my carnivorous hair, he said, “You should really use a conditioner.”

  I didn’t even know what conditioner was. And that’s how naïve I was, back then. I was a conditioner virgin.

  So I went home and told Mother Mary that we needed conditioner, and after much grumbling, on her next trip to the grocery store, she returned home with something that purported to be shampoo and conditioner in the same bottle, called Pert Plus.

  Like I said, aspirational.

  I may not be suave, but I’m nothing if not Pert Plus.

  So I used the stuff, but the truth is, it didn’t seem to make any difference. My hair was still tangly, curly, wavy, and frizzy, and on occasion, my own hand got stuck in it.

  Medusa, needing mousse.

  So I consulted my girlfriends and all of them agreed that the two-in-one products didn’t work and that I needed conditioner that came in its own bottle, so I went to ask my mother.

  “No,” Mother Mary said flatly. “We don’t need two bottles in the shower.”

  “But it will change my life,” I argued, meaning it.

  “No it won’t. It won’t even change your hair.”

  Mother Mary ruled the house, so fast-forward to the present day, when I get my own house, with a shower all to myself.

  It’s filled with approximately twelve different bottles of conditioner.

  No two-in-ones for this girl.

  Each one separate from shampoo.

  Head and shoulders above everything else.

  Very suave.

  And every time I wash my hair, I use conditioner in the shower, then I spray on a detangler and comb through with Moroccan oil.

  The result?

  My hair looks greasy all the time.

  There is so much damn product in my hair that even the smallest dollop of shampoo explodes on contact with my head, which is the telltale sign of product overload.

  Also I produce so much lather that I’m wearing a meringue pie.

  Evidently, each time I shampoo, I’m shampooing the conditioner.

  And I don’t know how to stop the madness.

  So I asked my girlfriends, who told me there’s a special shampoo you can buy and a special conditioner you can use, which together will somehow strip out all of the other shampoos and conditioners.

  But I’m not buying.

  Do I need more product to eliminate my product?

  I’m beginning to suspect that Mother Mary was right, yet again.

  She loved me, unconditionally.

  Dog Must Love

  Francesca

  For the twenty-four hours that I had an active Tinder account, my bio consisted of one line:

  “I don’t introduce my dog to just anyone.”

  “Must love dogs” is a given. But any man dating me ought to recognize this:

  My dog has to love you.

  You know how dogs can sense ghosts and smell fear? They have even more experience smelling assholes.

  My first boyfriend tried valiantly to be a dog person, but he was asthmatic and allergic to all things furry. That he dated me, the only girl in our high school who had four dogs, a cat, and a horse, was an exercise in masochism.

  In gratitude, I pretended not to notice when his nose was runny when we kissed.

  Young love.

  Despite his allergies, all the dogs adored him, especially our one golden retriever, Angie. She would shuffle over to him and face-plant in his lap.

  She got to third base before I did.

  He was a patient, gentle, sniffly boy, and an ideal first boyfriend. We dated for years.

  My college boyfriend was one of those guys who only knew how to interact with animals by rough-housing with them. When he visited my home in the summer, he completely won over our youngest golden retriever, Penny, by matching her manic energy for jumping into the pool after the ball.

  He scored fewer points with my horse, Willie. Within minutes of mounting up for his first-ever riding lesson, my ex considered himself a cowboy. He had enough fear to hold the reins in a death grip, but enough false bravado to deliver a wallop of a kick when I had advised “a squeeze.”

  Willie started walking backwards, tail switching, ears pinned back. The horse shot me a look with a rolling eye that said: “Let him try that one more time, and see where he lands.”

  Our first and last lesson ended shortly after that.

  And our relationship ended a few months later.

  Willie was right. He kept me on too short a rein.

  I dated one guy in the city who probably should’ve been a fling, but he was so enthu
siastic about my dog Pip, and Pip so crazy about him, I fell in love. Pip was only a couple years old then, and this guy would always play with him first thing when he came over. Pip adored him, which made me adore him. The fact that my dog liked him seemed to vouch for his trustworthiness.

  Until one morning when I got up to see him playing with Pip buck naked, dangling Pip’s favorite chew toy dangerously close to other dangly bits.

  He was a little too trusting.

  Then there was that guy I was so excited about. I thought he was sophisticated, intelligent, successful, a real catch. Until he met Pip.

  “Can I pick him up?” he asked.

  I found it an endearing request.

  I have never in my life seen someone pick up an animal so awkwardly. His approach was totally illogical. He just sort of hugged Pip’s neck under one front leg and pulled up, making the dog’s ruff smoosh around his face, his arm sticking out like a Popsicle stick, his back feet scrambling in the air.

  I swooped in to take my precious baby from this oaf.

  I could feel my ovaries recoil.

  Next!

  Sometimes I do give second chances. Like my musician-boyfriend—when we first started dating, he made a show of cringing and clutching his ear whenever Pip barked, as if the sound threatened his instrument. I found it so histrionic, I complained to all my girlfriends about it, and I was on the verge of breaking things off with him two weeks in.

  But communication is key. So I told him it made me feel terrible every time he did that, and he was touched, mistakenly believing I felt terrible for his annoyance, not at it.

  A harmless misunderstanding I chose not to correct.

  He stopped grousing and grew to love Pip, even with the occasional barking.

  And Pip loved him back. He would drag me toward my boyfriend’s van or any car that looked like his van whenever we walked down the street. And Pip would give him morning kisses before I could.

  I had visions of a future furry family.

  But sometimes forces beyond a dog’s opinion pull a relationship apart. On the night that we actually broke up—even though there was no fighting, just tears and hugging—somehow, Pip knew.

  After we had said our last good-byes at the door to my apartment, my ex said, “Wait, I want to say good-bye to Pip.”

  I knew this scene would rip my heart out, but how could I say no? I agreed and stepped aside. He called his name.

  Pip was visible from the entranceway, lying down in front of my bed, watching. He didn’t move.

  “C’mere, boy.” He patted his knee.

  Pip did not budge. Not even a tail flutter.

  Ice. Cold.

  Woman’s best friend.

  The Godmother

  Lisa

  Sometimes my life runs like a movie, in that I can be in the present but flashback instantly to the past.

  That’s what just happened to me, but in a good way.

  In fact, in a way that was magical.

  Because just last weekend, Francesca and I went to the wedding of my goddaughter Jessica, who is my best friend Franca’s daughter.

  And though Jessica just got married, I can jump back in time almost instantly, to well before Jessica was born.

  To the first day I met her mother, my best friend.

  It was in fact the first day of law school and Franca was reading a newspaper at her desk, and I happened to be walking behind her and I started reading over her shoulder. She looked up, and I realized I was being rude. I said, “I’m sorry, I was reading over your shoulder.”

  She said with a smile, “I don’t mind. My husband hates it, but I don’t.”

  To which I replied, “My boyfriend hates it, but I don’t.”

  And about a year later, we had both shed our respective husband and boyfriend, but our friendship remained.

  We survived working at a law firm together, then subsequent marriages, and we both got pregnant about the same time, and I can jump back in time almost instantly to the day Jessica was born and I saw her in the hospital, only an hour old.

  Franca and I used to say to each other, wouldn’t it be funny if our kids played together?

  It seemed only theoretical, like the hypos we talked about in law school.

  But then, miraculously, it came true.

  Our adorable babies ended up playing together, Francesca with her big blue eyes and blond curls, and Jessica with her big brown eyes and reddish brown curls.

  And Franca asked me to be Jessica’s godmother.

  To the Italian people, that is a very sacred, close relationship.

  Which is a line from The Godfather.

  Truly I was honored to become Jessica’s godmother even though it included me vowing in church that, should anything happen to Franca, I would raise Jessica in the Catholic faith.

  Which meant that I would have to become a better Catholic.

  I’m a fairly stinky Catholic, except when the Pope was in town.

  Then I became instantly religious, which meant that I watched him on TV all day and cried when that little boy sang.

  But time took another jump forward, and last weekend I found myself sitting next to Francesca, herself all grown up, and we both cried as we watched Jessica come down the aisle on her wedding day, a natural beauty in a simple but lovely wedding dress.

  And Franca was so happy and so lovely, in an elegant navy blue gown, and to me she looked just as young as she did that first day we met.

  In fact, even younger because she has come so much more into her own as she has gotten older.

  So have I, and I suspect so have you.

  We’re smarter than we used to be, aren’t we?

  (Which is unfortunate because people have stopped listening to us.

  This would be the irony of life, especially as a woman.

  As soon as you know everything, you become the amazing disappearing middle-aged woman.

  At least we can talk to each other.

  Or write books like this.)

  But back to the wedding.

  I realized at that moment that Jessica was about the age that Franca and I were when we got married.

  Whether it was the first or the second marriage doesn’t really matter.

  You start to forget which marriage it was, sometimes.

  It’s like your original hair color.

  Who cares?

  Anyway I realized how incredibly lucky and blessed the four of us women were. Me, to have been lifelong friends with Franca and to be godmother to her amazing daughter, and then to be sitting next to my own amazing daughter, all of us happy, healthy, and still together on this special day.

  And I know it sounds crazy but it was a miracle to me, and it still is, reflecting on it now, because it was a dream of mine that really came true.

  A dream that I would have a wonderful friend my whole life long.

  A dream that I would have a wonderful daughter whom I was so proud of.

  A dream that I would have a wonderful goddaughter, who turned out so amazing in every way, and so much like her own mother, because they share the same generous heart.

  We women are so lucky and so blessed that we remain friends for so long, and that we can share these special moments, not only with our own children, but with the children of our friends.

  Whether they’re godchildren or not doesn’t matter, because truly it’s a unique and singular experience to watch the children of the people you love grow into adults themselves.

  And somehow time seems not to jump, or fly, but stand still, the past and the present conflating so that all time is the same, because that’s the way we experience it.

  And in my mind’s eye, I can see Jessica walking down the aisle, and remember when I watched her in the sandbox at Sesame Place or fed her cooked pasta wheels in her car seat, right next to my own daughter, the two toddlers munching happily away, babbling to each other, and ultimately falling into an exhausted sleep after a trip to the zoo, Sesame Place, or even New York. Franc
a and I used to take them up there to walk through FAO Schwarz because it had a big clock that played a song.

  FAO Schwarz and the clock may be gone, but we all still remember the song.

  And we remember those times, and they exist at the same time right now, in the present.

  A beautiful day with Goddaughter Jessica, Bestie Franca, and Daughter Francesca

  And when I saw Jessica coming down the aisle, I felt all the love, memories, and songs that the four of us have shared for the past thirty years, and it seemed to me something like a state of grace.

  And I was so grateful for the simple, yet so profound, gift of being Jessica’s godmother, and I realized that in the end, it was the goddaughter who gave the godmother a religious education, and not the other way around.

  Wow.

  I mean, oops.

  That’s not the way it’s supposed to be.

  But somehow I don’t think the Pope would mind.

  Friendship on the Flip Side

  Lisa

  There are some things you learn only as you get older.

  One is that the world will not end if you gain five pounds, or even ten.

  The other is that girlfriends grow even more precious with time.

  I wanted to take a serious moment, uncharacteristic for me, to celebrate female friendship, especially after all of our estrogen has collectively evaporated.

  I say this because I just got back from a Girls’ Night Out with a group of friends, which was truly a Girls’ Night In, because for some reason we never go to a restaurant. We always go to the same person’s house because she is the best cook and loves to entertain, and even though we try to reciprocate, she says no.

  Or at least, that’s our story and we’re sticking to it.

  The amazing thing about this group of women friends is that we came together because of our children, and we stayed together, even though we have nothing in common and our children have long since flown the nest.

  What brought us together?

  Animals.

  This group of six women, all of whom raised daughters who got bit by the horse bug and never let it go.

  Daughter Francesca fell in love with horses at age ten, though she had never met a real horse, but only played with overpriced versions of them in plastic.

  I’m talking, of course, about Breyer ponies, which are the equine equivalent of Barbies.

  She had Barbies, too, but her interest in them waned, despite the fact that they had a fancy car and a dream house, which, by the way, were things that Francesca did not have growing up, as she was the only child of a broke single mother, who was struggling to become a published writer.