Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim Page 3

  Roy Old Rusty Knot. Sadly, the name of the bar is only Rusty Knot. I feel a little bit bad about that one, but really, he was my father’s age.

  Creeper Noah. Ah, this is a special naming case. Normally, the first name is the most important information, but when it comes to creeps, the warning factor takes precedence. Also in my phone:

  Creeper Josh.

  Creepy Exterminator.

  Unfortunately, my section C is packed.

  Thank you, New York.

  Boxers or Briefs

  By Lisa

  I feel sorry for these men who are taking cell phone pictures of their privates and emailing them to women.

  Say cheesy.

  Some of these guys are taking the photos in their underwear, and some go commando, showing their sheaths unsheathed.

  Yikes.

  It started with a quarterback and spread to a politician, and now I’m kicking myself. If I had said something earlier, all of this foolishness could have been prevented. Faces could have been saved.

  Not to mention, well, you know what else.

  Somebody has to speak up, and it might as well be me.

  The problem isn’t that men are taking these pictures, or even that they’re sending them to women they want to seduce. The problem is that these guys aren’t going to get from Point A to Point B this way.

  They need to keep their points to themselves.

  (Sorry.)

  Why? Gentlemen, take it from me, and I’m speaking for my entire gender:

  No woman thinks this is your best feature.

  Keep it in your pants.

  We’re not seduced by photos of your junk.

  Call 1-800-GOT-JUNK.

  They’re called privates for a reason.

  If we loved the way they look, they’d be called shoes.

  Ladies, am I right or am I right? I know I’m going out on a limb. You can say you don’t agree, especially if your husband or boyfriend asks, or is watching you read this. I get that. You love the guy. But get real. This is just between us, and we’re talking turkey.

  In fact, even a turkey is better-looking, and have you ever seen a turkey?

  I know.

  I’m betting my ovaries that we’re all on the same page. These photos don’t drive us wild. We’ve all been to the zoo, and nobody’s turned on in the monkey house.

  Except the monkeys.

  I read in a scientific study that women aren’t as visual as men when it comes to sexual arousal, but I don’t think that’s true. Maybe the women in the study weren’t shown the right visual. Or maybe the scientists didn’t show the visual to the right women.

  Like me.

  A cell phone photo of occupied tightie-whities doesn’t do it for me, but I’d sit up and pay attention if a man sent me a photo of his abs, his shoulders, or his chocolate cake.

  Break me off a piece of that.

  And I admit, I enjoy the Bowflex commercials.

  Oh yes.

  The last Bowflex commercial I saw said that the machine uses “resistance technology.” It sure does. And I can’t resist.

  When those arms curl, so do my toes.

  Bowflex is the one commercial I don’t fast-forward through. But I don’t replay them. That would be pervy.

  And women can also get turned on by the way a man looks, in general. We all know how I feel about George Clooney, and it ain’t because of his brain.

  So much for that women-don’t-like-visuals theory. We’re not blind, people.

  And there are plenty of women who get turned on by less conventionally sexy body parts. Patrick Dempsey got called McDreamy because of his wavy hair. Jude Law built a career on his blue eyes. I myself have the hots for Mario Batali because he’s chubby. It proves he can cook great food.

  For me.

  But visuals are a tricky business, and evidently it can’t be left to quarterbacks and senators to decide which cell phone photos to send. If men are trying to get a woman interested, they should forget the picture-taking and use the cell phone the way God intended.

  Call us.

  And talk.

  Say words.

  Which words?

  Tell us we’re beautiful. Say that you’re thinking of us. Offer to paint our house.

  Or if a man is too shy to call, he should text something. I’d be totally turned on by a text that read:

  SEE YOU TOMORROW TO TAKE OUT YOUR TRASH.

  Yowsa.

  Tickle

  By Lisa

  They say that if you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas, but they’re wrong. If you lie down with dogs, you wake up with ticks.

  The other day, I fell asleep with Little Tony and Peach, and I woke up with a tick on my chin, like a mole. It works for Cindy Crawford, but not for me. I’ll never get a date if I wear bugs.

  I ran yelping to the bathroom, where I took off my nightgown and found another tick on my back.

  Don’t ask me how it got under my nightgown.

  Obviously, ticks find me superhot.

  The ticks were big, brown, and ugly, so I went online to look up what kind of ticks they were and found a webpage you don’t want to look at for too long. I decided my ticks weren’t deer ticks, but American dog ticks.

  Which plague American dogs.

  And American women.

  My ticks look like bedbugs, only I’m the mattress, and I’m pretty sure they have three thousand legs, which are always in constant motion.

  Creepy!

  I don’t know how they get anywhere, given that their legs seem to carry them in all directions, like a living Roomba.

  Doing the Rumba.

  The problem is Little Tony, a spaniel the color of a black bean. At any given time, he’s giving a ride to three black ticks, none of whom tip well. I brush and inspect him all the time, but the ticks run and hide.

  Never get a black dog. It’s worse than a white rug.

  I don’t know if you can get Lyme’s Disease from an American dog tick, but you can get the heebie-jeebies. So I went online and ordered a gross of Frontline, a goop that you put on dogs and cats to prevent ticks. Unfortunately, they don’t sell goop you can put on humans to prevent ticks.

  I’m guessing that common sense is the answer, as in, don’t sleep with dogs.

  Too late.

  I actually have a little staircase at the foot of my bed for the dogs to use, but they don’t use it.

  The ticks do.

  Frontline generally works well, but each package costs a hundred bucks, and with six critters at home, I can do the math.

  It takes a second mortgage to keep me mole-free.

  But the Frontline won’t come in the mail for three days and until then, I can’t sleep. On Day 1, I brush the dogs before we go to bed, but it doesn’t put my mind at ease. I turn on the light at least five times to check Tony and find more ticks, so I spend the rest of the night imagining ticks walking all over me, getting under my clothing when they hadn’t even bought me dinner.

  In fact, to a tick, I’m dinner.

  I was up all night, obsessed with ticks and watching the clock.

  Tick tock.

  See what I mean?

  I didn’t know when or where they’d appear next, and the constant worry rendered me sleepless. Ticks are the terrorists of the bug world, and the creepiest part is that they can crawl into various orifices. If you’re a woman, you know what I mean.

  Your ear.

  A moth got caught in my ear last year, and it still creeps me out.

  On Day 2, I get the dogs shaved at the vet, then brush them before bed, but, between two and five o’clock in the morning, I find four ticks, three on the dogs and one on my shoulder.

  To me, it’s the Night of a Thousand Ticks.

  On Day 3, I shower and dress for bed like a beekeeper. Yet I still can’t sleep, and on my last trip to the bathroom to check myself, I find yet another tick.

  On my thigh, heading north.

  And I’m at the pet store the next mor
ning, buying Frontline.

  In case one of the ticks has GPS.

  iBurglars

  By Francesca

  It took me over an hour to realize my apartment had been burglarized. So much for being a mystery writer’s daughter.

  Friday night, I came home late with my friend, Katy, who was visiting. Laughing with her, it barely registered that the lock didn’t click when I turned the key. We flopped on the couch and reviewed our night, and it wasn’t until I went to change into my PJs that I noticed my bedroom was a mess—well, more of a mess.

  Then I saw the open window.

  My computer was not on my desk.

  I rushed to tell Katy. “I’ve been robbed. I need to call the police.”

  “Wait. Maybe you should call your mom first.”

  “Shouldn’t I call the police first? That’s more important, right?”

  Katy bit her lip. She’s been my best friend for fifteen years. She knows my mother very well.

  I dialed my mom’s cell. Without letting her get a word or a worry in edgewise, I told her, “Hi, Mom, I’m totally fine, but my apartment was broken into, so I’m calling the police. Everything’s under control. I love you, bye.”

  Then I dialed 911.

  Waiting for the police, I assessed what was missing: my MacBook Pro, its power cord, my iPad, and a totebag, presumably to carry the loot. My jewelry and wallet were untouched; they only took Apple products.

  iBurglars.

  Adding insult to injury, the stolen bag was a promotional tote for Look Again, by Lisa Scottoline.

  When I told my mom this detail later, she said, “Maybe we’ll get some readers out of it.”

  I imagine they’ll make Look Again their next thug-book-club pick:

  “The question is, guys, what really makes a mother?”

  “Love, of course.”

  “And bail money.”

  Soon, two policemen arrived and took me through the standard questions and paperwork. A forensics team would have to dust for fingerprints, but due to high weekend demand, they couldn’t come for three hours. The police said they’d wait with me. Even a rookie like me deduced coffee was in order.

  With no respect for authority, my dog, Pip, jumped on one officer’s leg for attention. “The dog was here when it happened?” he asked, patting Pip.

  “Yes.” I rounded the corner to the kitchen, still within earshot.

  “I’m surprised they hit a place with a dog.”

  “He’s not much of a watchdog,” I called to them. “I’m just glad they didn’t hurt him.”

  “Yeah, you’re lucky. Last week—”

  “Nmm-mm,” Katy interrupted. I heard her say, “Don’t. It will upset her.”

  May we all be blessed with a friend who will shush a police officer to spare your nerves.

  If you are neither the victim nor perpetrator of a serious crime, hanging out with the police is fun! They entertained us with stories of streakers on Seventh Avenue, “The Naked Highway.” They dished department gossip on the crazy girlfriend who faked a mugging to get attention from her cop boyfriend.

  I also learned that both officers were veterans of Iraq. Each showed me cell phone pictures of their pets—one had a cute rescued pit bull, the other a pair of beloved Ragdoll cats. The cat lover told me how he and his wife were in the process of adopting a baby, a lifelong dream of theirs, having both been happily adopted themselves.

  By the time the sun came up, we were old friends.

  “Can I make you guys some breakfast?” I asked.

  Eyebrows lifted. “What do you have?”

  “I have girl food—Greek yogurt, low-glycemic bread, vegetarian sausage. But I have eggs—real ones!”

  They used their right to remain silent.

  It was six o’clock in the morning when the forensics team arrived. In no time, they dusted, found nothing, and left in a puff of black mercury dust. Sadly, the time had come to say goodbye to my new police friends.

  “You be careful now,” said one.

  “Get bars on that window,” said the other.

  I promised I would and thanked them again.

  As scary as the ordeal was, I felt grateful. I was grateful the burglars had only taken things and not harmed my precious Pip. I was grateful Katy was there with me. I was grateful the police were so kind and professional, but not too professional to hug me goodbye. I was even grateful the forensics team took so long, since it afforded me the company of two of New York’s Finest, to sit and chat until I wasn’t afraid anymore.

  It’s dangerous to be alone in the city.

  I’m lucky I’m not.

  Homebodies

  By Lisa

  I was apartment-shopping with Daughter Francesca when I realized that the sort of apartment that appeals to a mom is a lot different from the one that appeals to a daughter.

  Here is what she wants: pretty.

  Here is what I want: security.

  Here is what she wants: charm.

  Here is what I want: a doorman.

  Here is what she wants: sunlight.

  Here is what I want: a moat.

  Uh-oh.

  I thought we needed a better-managed building, and we rent an apartment together. She lives in it all the time, and I use it when I go to New York to see the opera or on business. To be honest, I don’t have tons of “business” in New York. By “business,” I mean “make up excuses to see my kid.”

  Not monkey business, mother business.

  Hotels in Manhattan are crazy expensive, and I like to check Francesca out without checking in, if you follow.

  What I do is trump up some afternoon meeting with my publisher, or whoever else will meet with me. Sometimes, nobody will. In fact, the next time you’re in the city, let me know. I’ll meet with you. Then I’ll use the meeting as an excuse to spend three days with Francesca, spying.

  I mean, er, visiting.

  That’s the thing about kids. They can run, but they can’t hide. And sometimes, they can’t even run. Francesca is fast, but she’s not fast enough. I’m the Runaway Bunny of Mothers.

  Call it being a good mom.

  Or stalking.

  Either way, we found ourselves in New York, standing inside a perfect box of an apartment, located in a perfect box of a building, situated behind a fence of wrought iron topped with sharp points.

  For impaling bad guys.

  If you saw The Omen, you knew that already.

  Plus it had a doorman with a desk, and hopefully, an automatic weapon.

  In other words, Mommy wanted to sign the lease, but daughter was less eager. “It’s not charming,” she said.

  “The doorman is charming,” said I. “And a good shot.”

  “Don’t you think the apartment is kind of … corporate?”

  “Absolutely. Your point is?”

  Francesca looked around at the other residents. “There’s not many people my age.”

  Of course she was right about that. The place could have qualified as a retirement home, which appealed to me immediately as I intend to retire any year now, though that year has recently been pushed back to 3017.

  Still, I preferred to accentuate the positive, so I told her, “Think of it as having a lot of substitute mothers. If you ever have a question about whether to preheat the oven, you can ask almost anyone.”

  Francesca was still frowning. “And it’s kind of expensive.”

  “True, but you’re worth every penny, and I won’t have another daughter. The shop’s closed, as you may know.”

  She looks unamused.

  “No go, huh?”

  “It’s the prettiest office I ever saw.”

  I understand her point of view, secretly. When I was her age, I probably wanted all the things she wants, but I don’t remember back that far.

  So we walked a few blocks east and found ourselves standing inside a second apartment, a dressed-down affair with exposed brick and its own counterculture courtyard, complete with colorful Tibetan
prayer flags. I know they’re Tibetan prayer flags because I saw them once in a movie with Brad Pitt.

  I myself am praying for Brad Pitt.

  Anyway, back at the second apartment, guitar music wafts through the air, from a resident hippie, and the bedroom has a skylight that blasts sun everywhere.

  “Yuck,” I say.

  Francesca turns around, surprised. “Ma, this place is great!”

  “You can’t sleep with all that horrible brightness. Also somebody could come through the skylight.”

  “Like Spider-Man?”

  I sense she isn’t taking me seriously, though I get it. The sagging floorboards, the gloppy paint job, and the crooked windowsills add up to character, and the only good thing about character is that it costs less.

  I know this because I’m back in our current character-filled apartment, which is cheaper, and I’m parked sweating in front of a fan.

  Character doesn’t have central air.

  But I will, in 3017.

  Once Upon a Time

  By Lisa

  Even a week later, I’m still excited about the royal wedding.

  Go ahead, judge me.

  I watch the reruns on the cable channels, and I bet I’m not alone. Menopausal women and ten-year-old girls are glued to those shows. They’re like the best episode ever of Say Yes to the Dress, plus a kingdom and a cool blue sports car.

  What’s not to like?

  I got a hot flash when the royal couple said their vows, which I guess is called a Royal Flush.

  And now I talk about the royal wedding so much, I’ve become a royal pain in the you-know-what.

  But it’s understandable, isn’t it? It’s an historic event. Kate Middleton went from commoner to princess, and she did it with her natural hair color.

  How do you swing that?

  I thought fairy tales didn’t come true, but they do. At least, sometimes. Kate kissed a frog, and he turned into a prince. I kissed a frog, and he turned into a jerk.

  But I have hope.

  I could become a princess, too.

  If Prince William takes after his father, he’s already in the market for an older, less attractive bride.

  Me!

  I was in New York at the time of the wedding, so Daughter Francesca and I got up at the crack of dawn and watched it, live. She made real scones from scratch, and I wore a tiara. The dogs slept through the entire ceremony.