Have a Nice Guilt Trip

by Lisa Scottoline

  Tom and Katie went through separation to divorce in eleven days.

  That’s not possible. They divided a couple of kids, massive amounts of money, several houses, plenty of cars, and more than one couch.

  In eleven days!

  In eleven days, I can’t pick a paint color.

  If you ask me, this is a disaster. It contravenes all we know and hold dear about divorce, namely that it’s absurdly expensive and insanely painful. If people can go from married to divorced in eleven days, the problem is obvious.

  It’s going to put a lot of divorce lawyers out of business.

  They’re going to be out roaming the streets, with time on their hands.

  Can you imagine lawyers walking around, with nothing to do?

  It can only end badly, my friends.

  So now I fear for our nation.

  But not Tom.

  He will be okay.

  In fact, he will come and save the world.

  I know, I saw it in the movies.

  You Say Tomato

  By Lisa

  Did you hear about this?

  I read in the newspaper that somebody noticed that red tomatoes sell better than greenish ones, so food engineers started changing the genetic makeup of tomatoes to make them redder, except that it also took out the taste.

  I learned so much from this that I don’t know where to begin.

  Number one, food has engineers?

  I thought trains had engineers, and food had cooks.

  I just went from choo-choo to chew-chew.

  In fact, I thought you had to have an engine to have an engineer, but no.

  If you ask me, this opens new job opportunities for engineers. For example, I see a lot of trees that could use a good engineer. They aren’t green enough, especially in fall, when they turn a lot of crazy colors that don’t match.

  I mean, let’s be real. Yellow and red? Nobody looks good in yellow and red, except Ronald MacDonald.

  He’s single for a reason.

  Worse, in winter, the leaves on the trees actually fall off. That’s definitely an engineering problem. I feel pretty sure a tree engineer would fix that, no sweat.

  Also the sun.

  Don’t get me started on the sun. It’s supposed to be yellow, but it’s too bright to tell the color. In fact, it’s so bright that we have to buy dark glasses to even be around it.

  Also the sun is hot, which can be a bummer. It makes us feel listless and uncomfortable, then we have to turn on the air-conditioning, or at least decide whether or not to, which can be a problematic choice for certain people, involving money and self-esteem, oddly intertwined.

  Not that I know anyone like that.

  And also in winter, the sky could use a good engineer. There are times when it changes from blue to a very boring whitish gray, then actually breaks up and falls to the ground in tiny, cold pieces that we all have to clean up.

  Needs work.

  Sky engineers should get on it. It’s like the sky doesn’t even stay up, which is a major engineering defect. Cantilevers, buttressing, and scaffolding may be required, and lots of it.

  Really, lots.

  Or worse, sometimes the sky loses its blue color, turns gray, but doesn’t break up and fall to the ground, right after I spent hundreds of dollars on a green machine to help me clean up the pieces.

  That’s a lot of green, even for a green machine.

  Who knew that colors required so much engineering? If you ask me, green is the color most in need of engineering. I wish those engineers who were trying to fix the tomatoes would fix the economy, but never mind, what do I know?

  Let’s move on to my second point.

  Having been astounded to learn that tomatoes have engineers, I was also amazed to learn that they had genes, too.

  Who knew tomatoes were so busy?

  I grow tomatoes, and I haven’t given them the credit they deserve for their rich inner lives.

  To be honest, I had no idea that food had genes, at all. Just like I thought you needed an engine to have an engineer, I thought you needed, like, blood and a heart to have genes.

  It’s hard enough for me to remember that a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable, but now I’m expected to know it has DNA, as well?

  Bottom line, I’m bad at biology. Anyone who’s slept with me will tell you that.

  But now we know that tomatoes have genes, this opens up new job opportunities, namely for actors. Think of all the new TV shows this could create, like CSI: Tomatoes, where they collect tomato DNA to catch the killer tomato.

  In fact, we could have murders for every fruit, then spin it off to vegetables, too.

  To Catch a Salad Shooter.

  Call of Jury Duty

  By Francesca

  When I received the summons for jury duty, I didn’t know what to expect. Turns out, jury duty is a lot like high school.

  While our instructor was taking attendance, I felt like I was back in homeroom. Everyone was sleepy, grumpy, and seated in a collective slump. There were posters on the wall picturing a perfectly diverse group of smiling people, only instead of “Knowledge is Power,” it had fine print about doing your civic duty.

  I don’t know how much motivation you need to do something that’s compulsory.

  The instructor told us to correct him if he was mispronouncing any names then proceeded to mispronounce all of them. There was that one person who waited three beats before saying “Here,” and the person who made a point to say, “Present,” instead. Each time he came upon a no-show, I had to fight the urge to say “Bueller, Bueller?”

  When a short lunch break was announced, there was a stampede out of the courthouse. Eating on campus was clearly uncool.

  After a quick hunt for cheap fare, I ducked into a sandwich shop. The place had only a few café tables, all taken. A man sitting alone said I was welcome to join him, and after hesitating, I did a very un–New Yorker thing—I accepted.

  “Thanks, I’m on break from jury duty.”

  “Me too,” he said. And suddenly we were pals, griping about the lawyers, comparing cases, talking about our dogs.

  I hadn’t been this happy to have someone to sit with at lunch since sixth grade.

  Before we knew it, recess was over. Back at the courthouse, we were divided into smaller jury pools and sent to be questioned by the lawyers for each side in a process known as voir dire. French class all over again.

  The defense lawyer was an older Asian man with the voice and demeanor of Joe Pesci. If you had any issues with authority, he was the type of guy you’d want to punch. On the other hand, the plaintiff’s attorney was a young woman, earnest but apologetic. She was the student teacher about to get torn to shreds.

  Every time the lawyers stepped outside to argue, which was often, we erupted in chatter, gossip, and imitations of them, making the most of our unsupervised minutes. But as soon as the door would open, we’d snap back into the little angels that we weren’t.

  And although our group was as varied as Manhattan itself, with every age, race, and profession imaginable, when it came to types, the room could’ve been cast by John Hughes.

  We had the long-haired guy who sat in the back, brooding and mysterious. When I was sixteen, I dated that guy. This time, he didn’t even make me a mix CD.

  There was the popular girl, with long, shiny blond hair, who already seemed to have made friends. She was like Marcia Brady with a better sense of humor and an advanced degree. I wanted to braid her hair.

  The hot-girl foreign-exchange student. When a young, very pretty Hispanic woman asked the lawyer to define “hoarder,” every Spanish-speaking male jumped to help her.

  Our class clown was sitting next to me in the back. He was smart, funny, and a little mischievous.

  He just happened to be seventy-eight years old.

  Once, when one of the lawyers asked a particularly vague, roundabout question, he called out, “Do you believe in Manifest Destiny?”

  Everyone la
ughed, but the attorney didn’t appreciate his class participation.

  The one difference from high school was the sense of camaraderie. A jury, by its very nature, makes peers of people who may seem completely different. Initially, I thought it was because we were all stuck in this chore together. But despite our shenanigans when the teacher’s back was turned, during the questioning, people took it seriously, answered honestly, and rose to the occasion. Because we’d want someone to do the same for us.

  Because of his priors, Pip is not eligible for jury duty.

  Ultimately, I was not chosen for the trial. But at the end of the day, I rode the subway home with my new friend, a seventy-eight-year-old smart-aleck, and I felt lucky we were stuck in this city, and this nation, together.

  To Catch a Predator

  By Lisa

  I have a crush.

  On a fox.

  Literally.

  What can I say?

  He’s foxy.

  Let me explain.

  A few months ago, I noticed that there was a baby fox running around my backyard, hanging out in some brush to the left, far from the house. He was red, fluffy, and adorable, with delicate black paws and ears, and I began to spend time watching him.

  That makes me sound lonelier than I am.

  Also creepier, especially when I use my binoculars.

  If I get a GPS on him, call the authorities.

  In time, the fox grew up, going from cute to handsome and then some. Imagine Justin Bieber turning into Hugh Jackman, like Wolverine, only nice.

  A stone fox.

  His body got fuller, his coat glossier, and he sprouted a thick patch of white fur on his chest.

  I like chest hair, even if it’s white.

  I’m at that age.

  In my own defense, I also like nature, especially when it can be even remotely classified as a Woodland Creature.

  Chipmunks, call me.

  Also I loved that animated movie The Fantastic Mr. Fox, so it was all I could do not to catch the fox and dress him in a pin-striped suit. In case you were wondering, my thing for the fox has nothing to do with the fact that George Clooney voiced the fox in The Fantastic Mr. Fox. As we know, I’m over my crush on George and have moved on to Bradley Cooper, because crushes are highly transferrable, especially when they’re completely imaginary.

  And also this is one smart fox.

  I didn’t know that foxes really were smart, but believe the hype.

  He darts away if I go out the back door, then sticks his head up from the brush when I go inside, as if he watches my comings and goings. He comes out only at certain times of the evening, when we sit and stare at each other from across the lawn. I begin to notice that I’m looking forward to our end-of-the-day staring sessions.

  In other words, dates.

  Words aren’t always necessary between us.

  Frankly, I’ve had entire marriages that were far less interesting.

  By the way, foxes mate for life.

  Unlike me.

  My fox is so cool and elusive, the ultimate mystery man. Either he has intimacy issues, or I do.

  Daughter Francesca came home to visit, and I showed her the fox, but she frowned. “Mom,” she said, “he’s cute, but stay away.”

  “I know, he could have herpes.”

  “You mean rabies.”

  “Right.” I meant rabies. “I was wondering if I should put some food out for him.”

  Francesca’s eyes widened. “Are you serious? He’s a predator.”

  “So what? They have to eat, too.”

  “You want him around?”

  “Of course. Isn’t he great? I mean, he’s like another dog and cat, combined.” I didn’t tell her he’s my crush. I didn’t want her to think I like bad boys.

  So I didn’t feed him, because my daughter is smarter than I am.

  But neither of us is as smart as my fox.

  I say this because the other day he ran by with a bird in his mouth, and I realized that it might have come from my bird feeder by the back door, which I keep full because I like to watch birds, too.

  Though with them I manage to check my romantic urges.

  No chest hair.

  Although yesterday I did see a superhot blue jay.

  Anyway I felt terrible about the bird who was about to be dinner, and worse about the fox. And now I’m thinking that all this time, on our nightly dates, the fox wasn’t watching me, but the bird feeder.

  He wasn’t the man I thought he was.

  Dog Years

  By Lisa

  It’s time to acknowledge that, a few weeks ago, we lost our golden retriever, Penny.

  You don’t have to acknowledge it, but I do. Nothing for me is real until I write about it, so now it’s official.

  And heartbreaking.

  She was thirteen and playing fetch until the day she passed, of natural causes, at home in my arms. She died resting in the very spot in the entrance hall where she guarded the house.

  No golden is much of a guard dog, and Penny was the worst guard dog ever. And the best dog ever.

  She loved everything and everybody, and she was small for a golden, with bright, dark eyes and a tongue as pink as a petal.

  If petals slobbered.

  She passed lying in the sun, which was as she lived.

  Always in the sun, this one.

  She was special, but all dogs are special in their own way.

  She was the daughter of Lucy, our big red golden retriever, and the half sister of Angie, our middle golden retriever.

  Yes, I’m one of those people who talks about their dogs like family.

  Because they are.

  But my point is that we got Lucy when Daughter Francesca was eight years old, and when Francesca was thirteen, Lucy gave birth to Penny. We acquired Angie somewhere in between, so bottom line, we had golden retrievers for almost nineteen years.

  The golden years.

  The three of them frolicked around the house, snored noisily, chased Kong balls, swam like crazy, and jumped in the car for rides when they weren’t begging for cake, bread, or leftover spaghetti.

  Scottolines love carbohydrates.

  They made a matched set of small, medium, and large, which was respectively Penny, Angie, and Lucy, on account of all that spaghetti. They roamed the house and yard like a furry trio, a doggie trifecta, or The Three Amigos.

  We thought and spoke of them in one word, LucyAngiePenny.

  Until they began to pass, one by one.

  Only death could separate them.

  Though their remains are upstairs on shelves with those of our other pets, a row of small cedar chests that are displacing the books. Soon I’ll have my own TV show on A&E, entitled People Who Hoard Dog, Cat, and Horse Ashes.

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

  I even save the sympathy cards that my wonderful vet sends me with the chests, because I actually find comfort in that stuff about the Rainbow Bridge, which I believe is right off of I-95. And like a big dork, I posted Penny’s photo on Facebook and Twitter, then cried my way through all the lovely comments.

  It’s the people who get us through the dogs.

  In some ways, Penny was the hardest to lose, not only because she was the last, but also she was the baby of the family, born in this house, the smallest of Lucy’s puppies, in a litter of nine.

  Penny was the scrappy runt who grew into a charmer. Her full name was Lucky Penny.

  And her passing is the end of an era.

  Losing Penny taught me that we love a dog for her own sake, but we also associate them with the times of our lives, and so their loss brings into relief our own passage of time.

  The golden years were Francesca’s coming of age, and my forties and early fifties.

  My coming of middle age.

  Somewhere in between these wonderful dogs was a disastrous second divorce, so that my memory of that time is one of happy golden retrievers and an atomic bomb.

  Lu
cky Penny, the Golden Girl

  And now, happily and sadly, all that is past.

  I don’t mind getting older. Actually, I love it. What I mind is losing things I love.

  I love and hate surviving.

  Which is the ultimate lesson, after all.

  Loss is part of life, and becomes more so as we grow older. Life contains the bitter and the sweet, and eventually itself becomes bittersweet.

  Still, I’ll take it.

  I’m a lucky penny.

  I’m on It, Walt

  by Lisa

  Walt Whitman said, I sing the body electric.

  So do I, Walt.

  Because now I have an electronic face washer.

  And it changed my life.

  Looking back, my initiation into the electronic era started with an electronic toothbrush. It was recommended by my dental hygienist, as she was sandblasting my teeth.

  “Buy one,” she said, from behind her surgical mask. For me, she needs a surgical helmet. When my plaque starts flying, it’s like shrapnel.

  But at the time, the idea of an electronic toothbrush seemed crazy, because I used a toothbrush, powered by my flabby arms.

  “Not good enough,” she said. “Make sure you get the kind that says Elite.”

  So I bought the Elite toothbrush, took it home, and brushed my teeth. I used it for a month, driving it around my teeth, back and forth, up and down, producing lots of foamy suds. I saw some difference, and so did the dogs, who stopped complaining about my breath.

  Dogs hate people breath.

  So I was primed for the ads I began to see, for an electronic face washer. I snapped one up as soon as it became available, even though it wasn’t cheap.

  Why?

  Because I can’t be expected to wash my face all by myself.

  That would be free, easy, and normal.

  Also I read that the electronic face washer exfoliates your skin, and as all women know, exfoliates is the magic word.

  We’re talking pores, not napalm.

  This is exfoliating, but in a good way, if you follow.

  The face washer promised to polish off the dead skin on my face, and as such, it was calling my name, because my dead skin is really piling up. I might be a foot deep in dead skin. Like newfallen snow, you could stick a ruler in it and measure accumulation levels.