But nurturing a twenty-five-year-old man is a lot different from nurturing an infant.
Well, at least they go potty on their own.
We stopped for Pip to do his business on the sidewalk. “I know I want kids someday.” I paused to clean up after him. “I mean, I think I do.”
My friend scrunched her nose in disgust.
“Sorry.” I forget poop is gross.
The trash can was across the street behind a giant puddle. Pip couldn’t jump it, so I scooped him up, cradled him in my arms, tossed the baggie, and walked back, still carrying him.
I felt desperate to defend my position to my friend as much as to myself. “Maybe I’ll feel it when I’m more established in my career. Or maybe because of my parents’ divorce, finding the right guy seems like the more challenging task, and I can’t see past that yet. Or maybe”—I didn’t even want to say the next thing aloud, it made me so sad—“maybe I’m not the baby type after all.”
My friend was smiling at me. “Or maybe you just don’t want another one.”
Pip licked my chin.
Sweet baby.
Fun for Free
By Lisa
Here’s something I do that might be crazy:
I rearrange the furniture.
Often.
Blind people don’t stand a chance in my house. And most of the time, neither do I.
Rearranging the furniture is one of my favorite bad habits. My most favorite bad habit is eating chocolate cake, and my least favorite bad habit is marrying badly.
It all began with an ottoman, which somehow expanded into the Ottoman Empire.
Let me explain.
I was sitting on my couch in the family room, working on my laptop with the TV on. I went to put my feet up on the coffee table, and my foot knocked over a mug of coffee. This had happened to me more times than I can count. Every book on my coffee table has been soaked with coffee, and so has the table itself, but I don’t think that’s why they call it a coffee table or a coffee-table book.
Right then and there, I decided to do something about it. I remembered that I had an ottoman in my office upstairs, which was paired with a chair that’s there for show.
Please tell me I’m not the only person who has furniture for show.
The chair-and-ottoman sits next to my desk in case somebody wanders in, puts their feet up, and watches me work, but that’s never going to happen and I wouldn’t want that, anyway. Once I met a writer who told me that he read the pages he’d written that day to his wife, and I thought:
That poor woman.
In any event, I got the ottoman, carried it downstairs, plunked it down in the family room, and put my feet up on it.
Yay!
In the end, I ended up changing the fabric on the couch to coordinate with the ottoman and even changed the paint color on the walls, which is how the ottoman became the Ottoman Empire, and a bad habit was born.
Since then, I look around my house with a critical eye, wondering if the current furniture arrangement is the best and invariably deciding that it isn’t. This thought usually strikes around bedtime, when all the smart people in the world would probably go to sleep.
But not me.
I shove couches around, then chairs. I even rearrange pictures on the wall and start hammering nails. Pick up any one of the framed things on my wall, and behind it you’ll find at least twelve holes, like automatic-weapons fire, but really tiny.
Frankly, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with this bad habit.
On the contrary, I’m a fan. That’s a great part of growing older, you start to think that even the bad things about you are good.
And why not?
Whose life is it anyway?
Rearranging the furniture is a way of having fun, for free. It keeps you on your toes to think about what other ways the room can be reconfigured, even if it means that you’ll stub your toe on a chair that didn’t used to be there.
In a funny way, I think it’s a small-scale way to improve your own life.
Case in point is my alarm clock.
I know this sounds trivial, but why stop now. Somebody has to write about the simple things in life, and if you like that sort of thing, you’ve come to the right place.
I have this really large, ugly, glowing clock next to my bed, which I’ve suffered with for years. The numbers need to be big because I can’t read them otherwise, and I need to know the time if I wake up at night, so I can worry about how much sleep I’m not getting.
I put things over the clock so it’s dark enough to sleep, but it’s not the best solution, to cover a clock with a pair of cotton undies, like the world’s ugliest night-light.
Then it struck me that I could put the clock in the bathroom. Granted, I can’t see it from the bed, but on account of my advanced years, I’m in the bathroom at least once a night.
And now I know exactly when.
Plus I sleep like a baby, and my cotton undies are back on my tushie.
Happy ending.
With Apologies to Mary Poppins
By Lisa
My life just changed in a good way. In fact, in a great way.
By gummi vitamins.
I’m supposed to take a multivitamin, B complex, calcium, CoQ10, and Crestor.
But the only thing I take is Crestor. Why? Because I don’t like taking pills, or I forget, and pills suck.
That would be a medical term.
So imagine my delight when I’m cruising the aisles in the food store, and I see a massive jug of gummi vitamins. I don’t mean gummy, like my piecrust. I mean gummi, like the bears.
I get my gummi vitamins home and they’re exciting and colorful, shaped like blueberries, orange slices, and red cherries. In other words, vitamins morphed into Jujyfruits.
I’m so there.
And I’m picking red goop out of my teeth as we speak.
There’s a visual. Now you know why I’m dateless.
All of a sudden, I can’t wait to take my daily multivitamins. I’m like a little kid. They’re better than Flintstone vitamins because they don’t stick together. Don’t ask me how I know.
I get to have two gummi vitamins a day, and every morning, I look forward to picking my flavors. Never mind that they all taste the same, like the first ingredient, which is Glucose Syrup.
It’s candy with a medical excuse.
Sugar with a doctor’s note.
A spoonful of gummi helps the medicine go down.
But it doesn’t stop there.
I go back to the store, where they had Vitamin B Complex in gummi form, and they’re awesome, too. Soft and chewy, in flavors that taste basically of floor wax.
But still.
Gummi!
And like a gummi addict, I went on another hunt and managed to find Gummi CoQ10 at Costco.
Don’t ask me what CoQ10 is. It’s not even a word. It’s a password. It can’t even make up its mind between numbers and letters. It should have to choose.
All I know is that my doctor said I have to take CoQ10 because I take Crestor, and he’s the one man I obey.
Unfortunately my gummi CoQ10 is only peach-flavored, but that’s still an improvement on CoQ10 in conventional pill form, which tastes like a conventional pill.
And it’s a bitter pill to swallow.
So far, if you’re counting, that means every day, I get to have five gummi things and call it medication. Which means that sugar, carbs, and calories don’t count. And I’m not that crazy anyway. I actually love the taste of calories. In fact, calories are my favorite food.
Now you might be wondering about calcium, and that’s where Viactiv comes in. Because I couldn’t find gummi calcium, which would be the best thing ever. After gummi Crestor, which they have in Heaven.
But Viactiv calcium comes in chocolate and is wrapped in a square like a baby Chunky. So I grabbed those babies and started chowing down. By the way, Viactiv calcium also comes in caramel, raspberry, and chocolate mint. Yes,
there are fifty-seven flavors of calcium, according to Dr. Baskin Robbins.
I did notice online that Viactiv now comes in chocolate vitamins, too, but they’re no match for gummi vitamins, and I like a mixture in my meds, like Halloween candy.
They can’t all be Snickers.
The only problem with chocolate calcium is that it’s hard to limit yourself to forty-five servings.
I’m starting to think that all of our medical treats are compensation for being middle-aged and having to take all these dumb pills. In fact, whoever invented gummi medicine is a great person. Why shouldn’t we get to have a little bit of fun with our cholesterol? Why can’t we whoop it up while we make our bones stronger? And what’s wrong with making a game out of whatever it is that CoQ10 does?
And think of the possibilities. If they made gummi birth-control pills, nobody would ever forget to take them.
And if they made gummi Viagra?
Run for cover.
The Married-Ex Milestone
By Francesca
Your twenties are jam-packed with life’s milestones—graduations, serious relationships, new jobs, major moves—and as Facebook notifies you when each of your friends makes any one of them, it’s hard not to compare yourself and come up short.
A major milestone for me was actually the milestone of somebody else: when the first of my ex-boyfriends got married.
It was over a year ago now, just days before my twenty-sixth birthday. I had been cooped up during the homestretch of a book deadline and had been avoiding the distractions of the Internet. But on the very last day of editing, in a moment of weakness, I hopped on Facebook. In the first thirty seconds of looking at the home page, a new update appeared in the Newsfeed:
My college boyfriend was married.
It knocked the wind out of me. I instantly closed the Internet window but not fast enough to undo the knowledge. I didn’t burst into tears, but I stood up from my desk, full of adrenaline with nowhere to go. Facebook only lets you think you know everything about everyone, and as my ex was never one to disclose his relationship status online, I didn’t see this coming. No girlfriend, no engagement, just married. Just, all of a sudden, married.
Until then, I had felt like I was over the relationship; I’d had several relationships begin and end since ours. But he was the only boyfriend with whom I had ever discussed marriage. He was the only one I had fantasized about seeing at the end of the aisle.
And now he had already walked it, in real life, with somebody else.
My last relationship had ended almost a year ago, and I hadn’t met anyone special since. Now even the most recent ex had a new girlfriend, and my college sweetheart had a wife.
Where did that leave me?
It sounds crazy, but I held a magazine up to cover the majority of the computer screen as I carefully navigated into my Facebook settings and blocked all future updates from my married ex. We had over a hundred mutual friends, and I didn’t want to be inundated with all of the congratulations and “likes” on the news, or—oh God—the pictures.
Seeing your ex’s wedding pictures is unnatural.
I did the remainder of my book edits in a daze, distracted by my complicated feelings. We had been off and on for a period of years. Through other relationships, I had always held a candle for him, and he for me. If you’ve read my writing before, you may recall that he was the one for whom I traveled across the country as part of a grand gesture to win him back.
It didn’t work.
After everything, it was me who had put an end to the back-and-forth, the undefined in-between, because I knew it wasn’t good for me. I needed a clean break.
And a year later, he was married.
Part of me was truly happy that the closure had worked for him. But had it worked for me?
I took account of my life. I was living in New York City, as I had always wanted to. I was working full-time as a writer, a dream I hadn’t thought I’d get to pursue so soon. I had no right to complain.
But I wasn’t in love.
I didn’t even have a crush.
So I moped around my apartment, wearing sweats and listening to Adele’s “Someone Like You” on repeat. On the third day, my friend Lucy emailed me. She invited me to see some band play that Friday and meet her boyfriend, the band’s producer. I agreed, not so much because I wanted to go, but because I knew I needed to get out of the house.
I had reached the red zone of unwashed hair.
Getting ready on Friday night, I put extra effort into looking good in the hopes that I’d feel better about myself. My makeup felt like war paint, applied with a delicate brush. With my glumness hidden by a great blusher and some lip-gloss, I was ready for the night.
This was Sparta! Emotionally speaking.
It almost worked. My tromp-l’œil fabulousness fooled everyone but me. At preshow drinks with the girls, I felt a beat behind the happy conversation. All I really wanted to talk about was my ex, his startling elopement (or at least as I imagined it), his mystery wife (I mean, who IS this person?), and how lucky I was to have dodged that bullet, right?
RIGHT?!?
I knew these weren’t winning conversation topics, so I kept my mouth shut and listened to the others gossip about how the band’s drummer was so hot, but more trouble than he’s worth.
Aren’t they all?
We traipsed over to the music venue, with me lagging only a little behind. I was the last to reach the bouncer.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, handing back my ID with a smile. “Do me a favor. Don’t get married tonight.”
I looked at him like he might be clairvoyant. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” I answered, meaning it.
At the show, I actually began to enjoy myself. There was a happy hubbub amongst the crowd, and my mind was kept busy with a whirlwind of introductions. When the band began setting up onstage, I saw one particularly handsome player. He had to be the jerk.
I elbowed my friend. “Is that the drummer?”
“No! That’s the lead singer. It’s his band. He’s really nice.”
Yeah, right, I thought bitterly. But I did edge my way around the crowd for a better view.
It turned out the lead singer really was nice. Three days after that night, he and I went on the best first date I’ve ever had, and he’s been my boyfriend ever since. I’m not sure he’s the one I’m going to marry, but I’m okay with not knowing. I’m okay with pretty much everything in my life right now, even if I am in between milestones.
This summer I went to my fifth-year college reunion. My ex wasn’t there, but I heard that he and his wife recently had a baby. My first thought?
Nice, but I hope he didn’t steal one of my awesome baby names. (He didn’t.)
And that’s when I knew: I was over my married ex.
How’s that for a milestone?
Brusha Brusha Brusha
By Lisa
So it turns out that dogs need more than love and food.
I learned this when I was talking to Francesca on the phone and she’s brushing Pip’s teeth, which she does every night. She also brushes his fur and trims his nails.
“Why don’t you just let him be a dog?” I ask her, only half-kidding.
“Because I love him and I want to take care of him. You love your dogs, right?”
“Yes.”
“So you need to take care of them. If you don’t clip their toenails, it messes up their feet. Plus, Cavaliers have heart trouble, and tartar in their teeth only makes it worse.”
I listen, intrigued. I remember my cardiologist saying it’s good to floss your teeth because it keeps tartar from building up in your heart. After that, I never looked at tartar sauce the same way.
Francesca was saying, “I read that if you clean your dog’s teeth, they can live one to three years longer. Wouldn’t you want Peach to live three years longer?”
“Of course,” I answer truthfully. I want Peach to live forever. Ruby, on the other hand, is a diffe
rent story.
I’m allowed to have a doggie favorite. They don’t know. And they won’t tell their shrinks.
Francesca continues, “It’s not that hard to clip their toenails, Mom. Just get one of those clippers with the hole. Don’t cut the quick because it’s a vein, and make brushing their teeth a game. Use peanut-butter toothpaste.”
“I’m on it,” I tell her, meaning it, but it takes me a month to buy the supplies and another month to give it a shot. It’s a chore, when you have more than one dog. Four dogs times four paws equals a lot of toenails.
That would be the extent of my math ability.
Also I’m not sure I know how many toes a dog has, though I’m guessing it’s five more than I want to clip.
I begin with Little Tony, the least disobedient of my disobedient dogs. The nail clipper looks oddly like a pair of pliers with a hole in the middle, and its package reads, Dog Guillotine Nail Trimmer.
This would be bad marketing.
Dog and guillotine don’t belong in the same sentence.
Also it comes with a styptic pencil “to pack a quicked nail,” and already I’m looking for a tourniquet.
I pick up the clippers, put Tony in my lap, and bring the clippers toward his curved black toe, which does look a little Fu Manchu. But as soon as Tony sees the clippers, he writhes back and forth. I can’t get his nail in the hole.
The other dogs stand around laughing and pointing. The joke is on them because their nails don’t look good.
Anyway, I try again and again to clip Tony’s toenail, fighting the struggling dog, but I get so nervous I’m going to cut a doggie artery that my hand starts shaking.
I think immediately back to the days when Francesca was a baby and I had to clip her fingernails. I bought a pair of baby fingernail clippers, but she kept moving her hand around, fussing. My own hand started shaking, thus guaranteeing that if I kept trying, I would amputate.
So I gave up, and when she was thirteen, she clipped her own nails.
But I digress.
I gave up on doggie toenail-clipping and segued into doggie toothbrushing, but that didn’t go well, either.
Dog toothpaste doesn’t come with a toothbrush, but a weird plastic glove that has a rough patch on one finger.
And if you try to brush your dogs’ teeth, you’re in for a rough patch.
Have a Nice Guilt Trip Page 2
