I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places Page 4

  I rejected that option.

  I know a lot of people have chicken in their freezer, but I don’t think it’s precisely the same thing.

  My other options were two. I could have her cremated and the ashes disposed of by the company, or I could have her cremated and have the ashes returned to me.

  I chose the latter, because if you care enough to cremate something, you should care enough to keep the ashes.

  And the ashes just arrived, in a small cardboard box, with a sympathy card that reads, “This is to certify that CHICKEN, the beloved pet of LISA SCOTTOLINE, was individually cremated.”

  Which made me think I should’ve given the hen her own name, not just a member of the Women’s Chorus.

  I mean, when I go, I hope my urn says more than, HUMAN.

  I put her ashes in my office, which already contains one chest of horse ashes, five boxes of dog ashes, and one box of cat ashes.

  It’s not an office, it’s a mausoleum.

  And you know what?

  I’m fine with that.

  My animals are with me forever.

  Rest in peace, little CHICKEN.

  People of Earth

  Lisa

  Recently, actor Harrison Ford was in the news because he had a plane crash, which he survived with “minor trauma.”

  This is a news story I can’t even begin to understand.

  First, who walks away from a plane crash with only minor trauma?

  I got minor trauma reading about the plane crash.

  Second, Harrison Ford is such a skilled pilot that when his engine failed, he managed to crash his plane into a golf course, instead of somebody’s house.

  I’m betting he got a hole in one.

  I give props to Harrison Ford.

  Or maybe a propeller.

  Third, he was flying a single-engine airplane, described as a “vintage plane from World War II.” So many things about this sentence confuse me, that I don’t know where to begin.

  I’m trying to understand why anybody would want to fly a single-engine plane anywhere. I like my planes to have as many engines as possible. This way, if the first five fail, the last twenty-seven won’t.

  That’s just common sense.

  You don’t have to be an airplane mechanic to have that opinion, or even be good at numbers.

  You just have to know that there’s something about engines that makes the plane stay parallel, and as long as you’re parallel, you’re not perpendicular.

  It’s geometry, only life or death.

  In fact, if they asked me at the ticket counter if I wanted extra engines with that, I would answer, “yes, totally.”

  I wouldn’t even mind if they didn’t put the engine on the side, but just mixed it in with all the other engines.

  Bottom line, when it comes to engines, more is better.

  Remember that.

  Then we come to another confusing thing about the sentence, which is the word “vintage.”

  To be clear, I love words, and “vintage” is one of my favorite. I’m fine with “vintage” when it describes wines and cars.

  But not when it describes an airplane.

  I’m trying to understand why anybody would want to fly a vintage airplane.

  Because it was built almost seventy years ago.

  Try to think of something else that was built seventy years ago that still works.

  Did you get the answer yet?

  Of course you didn’t.

  Do you know why?

  The answer is nothing.

  Toasters are good for six years.

  Televisions are good for four.

  Cell phones are good for two.

  Marriages, we’re talking five to seven, tops.

  Just kidding.

  I was talking about my marriages to Thing One and Thing Two.

  Yours may last longer, depending on the mileage.

  But even beyond the vintage aspect of the plane Harrison Ford was flying, I’m trying to understand why it’s fun to fly around in the air, at all.

  I love it here, on Earth.

  Admittedly, there’s things going wrong on the planet, but I generally like the way it feels underneath my feet.

  Especially my bare feet.

  Earth is simply the best, for foot support.

  Also for jumping, running, or riding a bike.

  Nothing in the air beats anything on the land, and that’s why I don’t get these people who want to go to Mars, either.

  You may have read about them, a group of people who bought a one-way ticket to Mars, a flight which will take seven to eight months, and once they get to Mars, they will settle there, forever.

  How many things are wrong with that sentence?

  I stopped counting at 3,938,282,849.

  Because I have better things to do.

  Like walk around.

  The Quitters Club

  Francesca

  The first almost-warm night after a long winter, I found myself on the roof of an apartment building on the Lower East Side with a group of people I didn’t know very well. Two were friends of mine, but the others I had only met that night. It was still a little too cold for a roof hang, but no one would admit it. We huddled close around an electric lantern, warming ourselves with beach towels for blankets and whiskey for everything else.

  The girl who lived there was our drunken leader. She started it.

  “Let’s go around, and everyone say something that they’re proud of, or something that scared you, or whatever. Something real.”

  A nervous laughter spread around our circle. I zipped my jacket all the way up to my chin.

  “No, seriously, don’t be shy. I don’t know half you guys, so who cares? Say it, and take a drink, and pass it around. Say something real.”

  My friend started. She had just given her two weeks’ notice at her job in marketing to pursue comedy full-time. She wasn’t sure how it was all going to work out yet, but she had decided if she was going to make it in the improv comedy world, she needed more time to create, to audition, and to write.

  The next guy had quit his PhD program in English literature, after completing all the requirements but his dissertation, in order to focus on running his start-up company that makes generosity more convenient, by enabling tip-jar gratuity and charitable donations via credit card.

  Another had moved to New York City for a job in a company that folded two months after he arrived. But instead of moving back home, he changed career tracks, developed Plan B on the fly, and found he liked it better than Plan A anyway.

  All the stories went like this. One had left a law office, to her parents’ chagrin. Another had a playwriting residency that fell through.

  Finally, the girl hosting shared how she had decided to quit labels and embrace the ambiguity of her attraction to men and women. She had fallen in love. And that was all that mattered.

  All through school, kids are taught the mantra, “quitters never win, and winners never quit.” I guess it’s true that if you’re quitting because you’re afraid of failure, it’s a mistake.

  But what if you’re staying because you’re afraid of success? Maybe a different success, or one that takes a bit of experimenting? Or one that defies definition?

  My mother always allowed me to quit. She emphasized that I had to try, but once I tried something, I was free to make up my mind. Sometimes, it was good that I didn’t quit at the first sign of trouble. I was terrified on my first day at horseback-riding camp, but my mom told me I had to stay for three lessons to give it a fair try.

  More than twenty years later, I consider horses part of my DNA.

  But then, I also hated my first day of ballet lessons. The teacher was mean, and they wouldn’t let me wear a tutu. Again, my mom made me stick with it for a couple of weeks.

  I quit.

  I have no regrets. Toe-shoes look painful as hell, and I don’t need anyone’s permission to wear a tutu.

  When you’re an adult, the stakes are
raised. Quitting doesn’t look great on a resume. Change brings risk. Risk costs money.

  I myself was feeling particularly vulnerable at the moment. I had very recently made the decision to leave an agent with whom I had been working since I graduated college. That this agent believed in me had been the touchstone I returned to whenever self-doubt threatened to derail me. But as time passed, I began to feel that while I respected this person enormously, she wasn’t the person to help me realize my vision for my career. I didn’t know what I would get as an alternative, but I knew what I had didn’t feel right.

  After a phone conversation I had drafted and rehearsed, we parted ways on amicable terms. But I remember saying to my boyfriend at the time, “I either just made a defining decision to start my career, or I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

  I was terrified.

  But when it was my turn to say this all out loud, I felt something else.

  I was proud.

  These new friends reminded me that sometimes you have to quit to create who you really are. Sometimes the parameters someone else sets for you aren’t the ones to build your life upon. Life’s a gamble; make sure you’re risking it all for the right reward.

  I felt lucky to be in the company of such brave, ambitious, determined people.

  Quitters who just might win.

  Spanked

  Lisa

  You can’t keep a good woman down.

  Or rather, in.

  I’m talking, of course, about Spanx.

  If you don’t know what Spanx is, let me tell you.

  It’s a girdle.

  But it’s called a “body shaping garment,” in that it compresses your flesh, nerves, and internal organs, so that you look thinner. In other words, Spanx is a great idea if you don’t like oxygen.

  Anyway, you might remember that about six years ago, I wrote about how much I hated Spanx. I got introduced to them when I bought a pair by accident, thinking they were tights. I got my size, which is B.

  For Beautiful.

  I took them home and put them on, which was like slipping into a tourniquet. I actually managed to squeeze myself into them, then I put on a dress and looked at myself in the mirror.

  From the front, I looked like a Tootsie Roll with legs.

  From the back, instead of having buttocks, I had buttock.

  In other words, my lower body had been transformed into a cylinder. I had become the cardboard in the roll of toilet paper. I no longer had saddlebags where God intended.

  Also the elastic waistband was giving me a do-it-yourself hysterectomy.

  Plus I couldn’t breathe.

  Actually, that’s incorrect. I could inhale, but not exhale.

  Turns out you need both.

  Who knew?

  I didn’t understand the product, so I went to the website, which explained that they were “slimming apparel.” The website claimed that “these innovative undergarments eliminate VBL (visible bra lines) and VPL (visible panty lines).”

  Would this be a good time to say that I’m in favor of VBL and VPL? Especially VPL. In fact, I want my P as V as possible.

  You know why?

  Because I wear P.

  I don’t know what kind of signal we’re sending if we want our butts to suggest otherwise.

  Also, when I looked in the mirror, I noticed that the fat on my hips was being squeezed upward, leaving a roll at my waist that could pass for a flotation device.

  I checked the website, and Spanx had the solution, in “slimming camis.” That is, camisoles that fit like Ace bandages, which presumably grabbed the fat roll at the waist and squeezed it upward, so that it popped out at the top, as breasts.

  Ta-da!

  Or rather, ta-tas!

  So I was cranky about my Spankies.

  I threw them out and wrote about how much I hated them.

  At the time, some women replied by email, agreeing with me, but most disagreed, saying they loved their Spanx.

  But evidently, no more.

  Or maybe they died from lack of circulation.

  Today I saw an article in the newspaper, reporting that Spanx sales have taken a downturn.

  I don’t normally rejoice in the misfortunes of others, but YAY!

  And why are sales sliding?

  Because women wanted to be comfortable!

  Also, their spleens staged a protest.

  Because you can’t keep a good woman down.

  Or compressed.

  We got depressed.

  Because we were oppressed.

  Women are learning to accept themselves, just the way we are.

  Go, us!

  But the same newspaper article also said that women were ditching their Spanx for yoga pants, which is like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  I have a pair of yoga pants, but on me, they’re yogurt pants.

  And believe me, the fruit is on the bottom.

  In fact, as I get older, everything is on the bottom.

  But Spanx isn’t taking this setback lying down.

  Which is surprising, because if you wear Spanx, that’s all you can do.

  Spanx has a new president, and she’s starting to stress comfort, such as bras with “soft-touch underwire contouring.”

  When was the last time you saw a “soft” underwire bra?

  I have an underwire bra, which feels like under-barbed-wire.

  I wear it for book signings, when I want to look younger.

  It rides up to the middle of my breasts, leaving a red line on my skin that looks like somebody played connect the dots with my nipples.

  So I won’t be buying the “soft-touch” underwire.

  Why?

  I’m not a soft touch.

  Advice to a Young Tradeswoman, Written by an Old One

  Lisa

  Benjamin Franklin coined the expression, “Time is money.”

  I’m coining a new expression—“Time is money is calories.”

  I know.

  I’m a genius, right?

  Franklin used his term in his book, Advice to a Young Tradesman, Written by an Old One.

  I’m using my term in this book, which has a lot funnier title.

  Let’s be real.

  Franklin may have written the Constitution, but did he ever write a book called, I’ve Got Sand in All the Wrong Places?

  I don’t have much in common with Ben Franklin, except that we’re both from Philly and we both wear bifocals.

  Though one of us invented bifocals.

  I know, he was such a show-off.

  Also I went to Penn, and he invented Penn.

  But still, not my point.

  Besides, he was famously single, and I am famously celibate.

  Sort of the same thing.

  He had illegitimate children, I have illegitimate dogs.

  Anyway, I can give Franklin’s maxim a modern spin, because of the epiphany I had at the end of the day, when I was lying in bed thinking about life.

  I know what you’re thinking.

  Don’t think about life at the end of the day.

  At the end of the day, you’re too tired to think about life. This is generally true for me. I lie in bed and am too tired to think positively. Even Shakespeare said, “sleep knits the raveled sleeve of care.”

  At the end of the day, my care sleeve is unraveled.

  That’s why the best thing to do at the end of the day is drink.

  Or failing that, watch TV until you are really really tired, then quickly switch off the TV and fall right asleep. This way, you can avoid thinking about your life until it’s too late to do anything about it.

  And you’re dead.

  Too dark?

  To stay on point, it was at the end of the day, not a very good day, and frankly, I was beating myself up.

  I’m the only person who beats me up, and I’m as good as any prizefighter.

  I win and lose, at the same time.

  Anyway, the other night, I started to th
ink about all the things that I was supposed to get done that day, but the day had just slipped away from me. I had lost track of time.

  I started to worry about money, because I was wondering if I saved enough for retirement, but I knew I hadn’t. I didn’t know when I would be able to retire or where all my money was going. I had lost track of my money.

  And then about the same time, I was feeling fat. I had gained three pounds, and I was wondering how the hell that had happened, since it feels like I never eat anything and still I gain weight. I had lost track of my calories.

  Time is money is calories.

  These worries are a threesome.

  No, not that kind of threesome.

  I know they’re not the same worries, but I can’t separate them, and they’re all solved basically the same way.

  For example, if I had a Things To Do List, then I would be able to keep better track of my time and get more done.

  And if I had kept an online budget, then I would know where my money went and I could save more.

  The only way I ever lost weight was using the Lose It app, which records the calorie count of everything I eat.

  So I’m going to change my ways.

  Or maybe not.

  Life is short.

  You know what else Benjamin Franklin said?

  “I wake up every morning at nine and grab for the morning paper. Then I look at the obituary page. If my name is not on it, I get up.”

  Truth.

  How Much Is a Tracksuit?

  Francesca

  I recently turned twenty-nine, which is the first birthday (for women) that people start consoling you over. But I wasn’t bummed at all. I love cake. And I’m not afraid of getting older. I want to live forever.

  I just don’t want to work forever.

  So this tax season, I realized I have to start saving for my retirement.

  I’ve never been a procrastinator, but it’s hard to feel like you need to plan for something thirty-five years in advance.

  I haven’t made plans for Memorial Day.

  But when I started doing the math, I got scared. I don’t make a lot of money, and since I’ve chosen to make a career telling stories, I probably never will. If I want the small amount of money I can live without to grow into enough money to live on, I need to start investing now.

  Or yesterday.

  Or in the womb.

  I can’t afford to grow into the idea that I’m going to grow old someday.

  So I figure I’ve got about forty years of hustling until I’m seventy. By that time, I’ll need to have saved enough money for, let’s say, thirty more years of life.