Have a Nice Guilt Trip Page 6

  Come to think of it, maybe I could use that snowblower, after all.

  I bought an electronic washer, which came in a set, one for the face and one for the body.

  I gave the body one to Daughter Francesca, of course. I don’t care about dead skin anywhere but where people can see it, and it goes without saying that nobody is seeing dead skin on my body.

  Also I can’t be bothered. I barely shave my legs anymore. I wait until spring.

  For this reason, I will never move to California or Florida. I tell people I like the seasons, but what I really like is not bothering.

  Anyway, I started using the electronic face washer, driving it around my face, back and forth, up and down, producing lots of foamy suds.

  Foam = fun.

  And miraculously, my skin began to look less dead. I told as much to Francesca, who loved it, too. But then she watched me wash my face, and smiled.

  “Mom, you don’t have to move it around that much when you use it.”

  “What?” I blinked.

  “Did you read the directions?”

  “Of course not. How long have you known me?” I never read the directions. I spent my whole life following directions, and now I can’t be bothered. See? Told you.

  “All you have to do is move it a little. It’s sonic.”

  “No, it’s not, it’s electronic.” I rinsed my face, confused.

  “It’s powered by electricity, but it cleans, sonically. It’s made by Sonicare. It’s sonic, like your toothbrush. You don’t move that around, do you?”

  “Sure. Up and down, over and out, lots of suds. Fun, fun, fun.”

  “You don’t have to. Just hold it still and it does the work. Sonic.”

  I looked at the toothbrush and face washer, and realized that Francesca was right. It said Sonicare, but I had gotten distracted by the Elite.

  Sorry, Walt.

  I sing the body, supersonic.

  Stage Mom

  By Francesca

  I never thought I would be a stage mom, but as I envisioned my baby posing for a photographer, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of vicarious excitement.

  My dog was slated to star in an upcoming advertisement for the American Kennel Club’s Meet the Breeds event at the Javits Center.

  It started with an email from my dog’s breeder and official Secretary of the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Club of Delaware Valley, or CKCSCDV.

  The acronym could use an abbreviation.

  The breeder wrote me saying that the AKC’s Meet the Breeds event was having a promotional photo shoot in a week’s time and that the advertisement would feature only a Cavalier and a bulldog, “so I thought immediately of Pip, since he is so charismatic and photogenic.”

  My heart began to beat faster.

  Then she wrote, “Pip’s picture will be all over NYC and possibly the Northeast.”

  Now I was bouncing in my computer chair.

  I was already seeing my dog’s adorable face plastered on flyers, brochures, posters, and—why not?—billboards up and down I-95.

  This gig could be a stepping-stone for the cover of Milk-Bone boxes, maybe even a featured role on the next tear-jerking Purina dog chow ads.

  Pip could be great! So so great!

  I was slipping deep into a Mama Rose fantasy, when I remembered: I had just gotten Pip a short haircut. The classic Cavalier King Charles look has long fur or “feathers” on the ears, legs, and belly—none of which Pip currently possessed. The weather had been warm, so I’d gotten him groomed with his comfort in mind, not his show-dog potential.

  What was I thinking?

  I quickly wrote her back saying I’d love to do it, but I confessed to the minor hairstyle hiccup. She responded that she didn’t think it’d be a problem, but asked for a picture of him to show the director.

  I saw it as an audition.

  Pip was curled up, sound asleep, on my couch, but I jostled him awake. I dragged an armchair across the room and positioned it in front of the window for the best natural light. Then I plopped Pip on the chair and encouraged him to look at me by holding one of his favorite liver treats.

  I snapped the first pic on my iPhone.

  He looked handsome, of course, but a little too intense. Perhaps the liver treat was a bad idea. I let him eat it before we tried again. This time I distracted him by waving my arm out to the side.

  Soft eyes, Pip, soft eyes.

  The second set was better, although half of his face was in shadow.

  I considered the ethics of covertly running the photo through an Instagram filter before sending it to the breeder.

  #overthinkingit.

  I didn’t end up altering any photos, but I did take about fifteen shots before settling on two to email back to her. One headshot, one full-body.

  Thank God I’d had him on a diet all summer.

  I emailed the photos and waited for her reply.

  And waited.

  I must have refreshed my Gmail account twenty times in two hours. Three days passed with no word, so I bit the bullet and called her. She delivered the blow: The director decided to go with a “full-coated” dog.

  Rejected: Crazy Eyes

  I was crushed. I bit my lip and turned away from the phone. I didn’t know how I’d break the news to Pip, who was asleep on the couch again.

  “I understand,” I said, trying not to sound as crestfallen as I was. “Well, you know, keep us in mind for next time.”

  But like any good stage mother, my disappointment curdled to indignation. How dare they overlook my baby’s potential? One little haircut can’t dull his sparkle. I can’t walk this dog down the street without getting stopped by adoring passersby. You can’t groom charisma, people. I don’t need the stupid AKC’s approval to know my dog is a star!

  “I’ll check back with you in February,” said the breeder. “Maybe they can use him in the promotions for Westminster.”

  Westminster?

  As in, the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, the oldest and most prestigious dog show in America?

  Pip’s lucky the weather’s cooling down.

  Because somebody’s growing his hair out.

  Extra Extra Crispy

  By Lisa

  My faith in American ingenuity is restored.

  We just invented fried butter.

  Whew!

  You may have been worried that we didn’t have any more tricks up our sleeve, but you would be wrong. We used to invent things like electricity, heart valves, and polio vaccines, but we’ve finally come up with something useful.

  Somebody at the Iowa State Fair developed a recipe for deep fried butter.

  It sold like hotcakes.

  Fried hotcakes.

  What an idea! How else you gonna meet your daily cholesterol requirements?

  They make it by freezing a stick of butter, dipping it in batter with cinnamon and sugar, deep-frying it in vegetable oil at 375 degrees, then drizzling it with a honey glaze.

  You know you want one.

  The other bestsellers at the state fair were deep-fried pickles, deep-fried corn dogs, and deep-fried macaroni and cheese.

  I might move to Iowa.

  Land where the tall corn (dogs) grow.

  It’s not just state fairs, either. My favorite fancy restaurant serves microgreens with fried goat cheese. Guess which I eat first, the microgreens or the fried cheese? Right, and thank God the fried cheese isn’t micro.

  Tell the truth. Who hasn’t dived into a plate of fried mozzarella sticks?

  Bottom line, it’s time to concede that we love fried things. French fries, fried onion rings, fried chicken. And we don’t just love fried food, we even love the fried part, all by itself.

  Everybody on earth has nibbled the fry off of something.

  Case in point, me.

  Back in my non-vegetarian days, I used to love Kentucky Fried Chicken, extra crispy. Extra crispy was code for really really fried. When there was no more chicken left, I ate the nuggets of re
ally really fried. Even after two days in the refrigerator, I ate delicious knots of crunchy, salty, really really fried.

  The chicken was beside the point, because the only thing that mattered was the fried, and that’s true with every fried food.

  It tastes the same.

  Fried.

  Yay!

  This is why I order shrimp tempura at a Japanese restaurant. Because all I taste is the fry, and I might as well be at Seafood Shanty.

  Tempura is Japanese for corn dog.

  We agree that frying will make a good thing better, but the truly amazing thing about frying is that it will make even disgusting things better.

  Example?

  Calamari.

  It’s a squid, for God’s sake. Have you ever seen a squid? If you had, you wouldn’t put it in your mouth.

  But fry it, and people fight to get to it first.

  Same thing with softshell crabs. A softshell is a crab that has recently molted its shell, so that its exoskeleton is still soft. You wouldn’t normally eat a soft exoskeleton, much less all the stuff that’s inside a crab, namely whatever he ate last.

  Do you think crabs are picky eaters?

  I don’t.

  So you have to factor that in.

  Plus the eyes are still attached.

  Enough said.

  If you had to eat a softshell crab as is, you would refuse. Your better judgment would prevail.

  But fried?

  Everybody’s there.

  The proof is that people in Thailand eat fried bugs.

  Now you know why.

  Tastes like (fried) chicken.

  The next step is only logical. If frying makes disgusting food delicious, there’s no reason to stop at food, at all.

  I’m not only thinking out of the box, I’m thinking out of the refrigerator.

  If you can fry squid, you can fry flip-flops.

  If you can fry butter, you can fry bark.

  If you can fry bugs, you can fry Crestor.

  And you’re gonna have to.

  Ovarian Contrarian

  By Lisa

  They say this is the Year of the Woman.

  Of course they’re right.

  Ever since we got the vote, we’ve been hell-bent for leather.

  By the way, we got the vote ninety-two years ago.

  Or Years-of-the-Woman ago.

  To prove that The Year of the Woman is here, they point out that Augusta National Golf Club just allowed two women to join its membership, after eighty years of admitting only men. One woman, who led a protest at the club in 2003, said last week, “My first reaction was, we won—and we did.”

  That would be the reaction of a patient woman.

  I’m not that patient.

  To me, if you protested something in 2003 and they didn’t do anything about it until 2012, you did not win.

  Or to be precise, you did, but we could all be dead by then.

  And if you had to wait eighty years to play golf, you might find a new sport.

  By the way, Dr. Condoleezza Rice was one of the women admitted to Augusta. She became Secretary of State in 2005. So it was easier to join the Cabinet than a golf club.

  This must be some club.

  I’d like to club them.

  More proof this is The Year of the Woman is that the National Football League just named its first female referee. She had been officiating for seventeen years, but fortunately, it’s the Year of the Woman, so she got the job. She said, “Every step is hope that I can continue to show it really doesn’t matter, male or female, as long as you work hard.”

  Which shows that she is patient.

  Not me.

  I would say that it really does matter, male or female. Because if you’re male, you could have been a referee in the NFL since 1920, which is when the NFL started. But if you’re female, you had to wait ninety-two years, for The Year of the Woman.

  Rather, the Year of the Extremely Patient Woman.

  They say the best proof that this is the Year of the Woman is the recent Olympics, where women won more gold medals than men. One newspaper headline read that “Title IX Made Women Gold Medalists Possible At 2012 Olympics.” Interesting, because Title IX, which barred gender discrimination in education and sports, was enacted in 1972. The newspaper said, “it does not take Einstein to prove that Title IX has had a positive effect on women’s athletics.”

  True.

  But Einstein might also point out that Title IX was enacted forty years ago. And the Olympics were last week.

  In fact, Einstein said time is relative, and he was right. Because, relatively speaking, forty years between the passing of a law and this result is way too long.

  Bottom line, I’m coming to the conclusion that women are too patient, especially when it comes to themselves and their own needs and wishes.

  We think justice delayed is justice denied, but only for others.

  For example, our children. If our kid needs posterboard for a school project that’s due on Monday, guaranteed we’re driving to Staples before it closes on Sunday night. And if they shut that door in our face, we’ll get all Terms-of-Endearment on their heinie.

  At times like that, we’re not endearing.

  So what?

  But when it comes to us, we’re enduring.

  We’re saints.

  And I can’t be the only woman who isn’t ready to be beatified.

  Who believes that sometimes, impatience is a virtue.

  Who wants what I want when I want it.

  Now.

  It took me forever to learn the lesson that you can’t wait forever.

  I’m finally learning to ask as much for myself, and as quickly, as I do for Daughter Francesca or Mother Mary.

  And to expect it.

  So excuse me if I don’t jump up and down because somebody is finally giving me what I deserved decades ago.

  Time to change the model.

  Because if nothing changes, nothing changes.

  Let’s make this The Year of the Impatient Woman.

  Pronto.

  Saving Grace

  By Lisa

  I’m concerned that hoarding is getting a bad name.

  And I blame cable.

  I say this because I’m not a fan of clutter, but there are definitely things I save, even though I could end up on A&E.

  Once again, it’s not my fault.

  Even my faults are not my fault.

  Yes, that’s the kind of grade-A attitude that got me divorced twice.

  Don’t try it at home.

  In our culture, we get a mixed message about saving. It used to be that saving was a good thing. You saved time, you saved money, and you saved yourself for marriage.

  Okay, I didn’t save myself for marriage.

  I didn’t even save my marriage.

  And both were excellent decisions.

  Also in the olden days, someone who loved you wrote you love letters, and you saved them. When you stopped loving him and realized he was a jerk, you threw the letters away. Or burned them. Or showed them to your girlfriends and had a good laugh.

  Not that I ever did this.

  But it was fun.

  To review, it used to be that saving was a good thing, and people were told to do more of it. When TVs broke, we repaired them, and when shoes wore out, we resoled them.

  We saved our soles.

  But no more.

  When TVs break, we throw them away, and you’d travel far to find a shoe repair. Everything’s disposable, and saving has become a bad thing, so I’m starting to look funny at the things I save, namely plastic bags, hotel soaps, and keys.

  I can’t be alone in this.

  I don’t know why I save plastic bags, but they do come in handy, and I end up with a ton at the end of the week. I rank them on a one-to-three scale, as in Yes, No, or Maybe So. I save the Yeses and the Maybe Sos.

  See, I’m already starting to sound cable-ready.

  But bear with me.

&
nbsp; The bags from grocery stores are too thin, so they’re a No, but the CVS bags are thicker and a pretty white, so they rank a Maybe So. The only solid Yes is the plastic bag from the Apple store, because they have actual drawstrings or better yet, can morph into a backpack.

  How could you not save that? Don’t you think it will come in handy, when you wear your plastic outfit?

  I would bet money that nine out of ten women would save an Apple plastic bag if Bravo weren’t watching.

  And now, in California, they’re telling you to save plastic bags and reuse them.

  Recycling is politically correct hoarding.

  Consider hotel soaps, which I love for their fragrance as well as their cuteness, shaped like miniature shells, balls, or bars, usually in pastel shades that scream guest bathroom. I save them though I’d never put them in the guest bathroom.

  It’s not impressive when your soaps say Hilton.

  Especially if your towels say Ritz-Carlton.

  Just kidding.

  My only excuse for saving hotel soap is that I use it upstairs and don’t have to buy bar soap as often. Never mind that few things are cheaper than bar soap. If you built a house of bar soap, it would cost you $36.75.

  With a coupon.

  The last thing I save is keys.

  Truly, I don’t know why. I have old keys everywhere in my house, from all the stages of my life, and I have no idea what they unlock, yet I cannot bring myself to throw them away.

  I could get locked out.

  Or locked in.

  Which is worse, and who knows?

  I should throw them away, and set myself free.

  I smell a metaphor.

  Or maybe that’s the hotel soap.

  Be Careful What You Wish List

  By Francesca

  I just added a pair of Chloe flats to my Net-A-Porter.com “Wish List.”

  By the way, the shoes cost $495, which is $495 more than I have to spend on shoes. But that’s okay, because I don’t have any intention of buying them.

  Isn’t that how everyone uses online-shopping wish lists?

  For those of you who prefer a life grounded in reality and don’t know what I’m talking about, most online retailers allow users to save a list of desired items on a “wish list,” a sort of shopping-cart purgatory.

  I love using wish lists, because then the site notifies me if the price of one of my chosen items gets discounted from totally-ridiculously-expensive to get-real-you-still-can’t-afford-it.