Have a Nice Guilt Trip

by Lisa Scottoline

  Okay, so maybe I’m doing it wrong.

  But I don’t really know how one is supposed to use a wish list. Most sites provide the option of emailing the wish list to someone, but to whom? A mysterious benefactor? A sugar daddy? A blackmail victim?

  But alas, I have moral integrity. So my wish list is for my eyes only. It doesn’t matter that I’m no closer to owning that swishy Prada circle skirt, it feels like I am.

  Call it aspirational online shopping.

  It’s the fantasy that I would buy clothes like these, just not now. I’ve even gone so far as to contact the live-chat customer service with a question about sizing for a bikini I could never afford.

  You have to commit to the bit.

  Eventually, the item on my wish list sells out or is no longer offered, and then I’m off the hook. Gosh, darn, better luck next time. My clicker finger gets some exercise, but my wallet doesn’t starve.

  I’ve invented passive willpower. Fiscal responsibility by forfeit.

  Plus, I like getting credit for my excellent taste that goes into curating my wish list. Credit from whom, you ask?

  The NSA must have some women working for them.

  Mostly, I get credit from my best friend. We recently discovered that we both practice delusional wish-listing, so the last time she was over, we sat down and compared our lists, oohing and ahhing over our collections of the very best pieces from each designer line.

  It’s like fantasy football, but with fashion.

  My friend and I fantasy-shop for each other. I’ll email her items I know she would love, despite a stratospheric price tag, with subject lines like: “Getting this for your birthday 2025.”

  By then, it might be on sale.

  When we actually get together, we get crazier, which is the mark of true friends. The other night she was at my apartment, and we got giddy adding thousands of dollars of clothes to my imaginary closet. When we discovered our favorite fashion site had a bridal section, we lost it completely. We played a game trying to guess which wedding dresses the other would choose.

  Of course we nailed it. We know each other’s tastes and closets as well as our own. If there were a Newlywed Game for best friends, we would come away with the dinette set for sure.

  Then a lightbulb went off in my head. “Ohmigod, you know what? I’ve seen the most perfect wedding dress of all time, and it’s not in the bridal section. Hang on.” I navigated the website with the speed and intensity of a CIA operative.

  And then I found it. The Dolce & Gabbana Rose-print Silk Mikado Dress. A stunning white silk gown with gorgeous pink roses painted on the skirt.

  My friend gasped. We both needed a moment to recover from its loveliness.

  But the price tag?

  $14,400.

  To reiterate: I am not engaged, not rich, and I don’t think my credit card limit goes that high.

  But as we basked in the celestial glow emanating from the computer screen, my friend touched my shoulder. “I’m just gonna say it. If you bought this right now, I’d support you, and I’d never tell a soul.”

  Now that’s friendship.

  It’s also insane. I got us safely away from the computer, but my bff/enabler continued to make her case as we walked my dog outside.

  “Maybe you could just order it, and we could try it on in your bedroom, and then you could return it,” she said. “After we take pictures, obviously.”

  I laughed. “I should get my hair done for it.”

  “Yes! You will get a blow out, and we’ll take pictures in it.”

  We’ve had a lot of Lucy and Ethel schemes in our time, but this was definitely the worst. “What if something happens to it?”

  “Like what? They have free returns!”

  “But what if it tears? What if I take it out and it’s defective, but they don’t believe me? What if I try to send it back and it gets lost in the mail?”

  “I’m sure they have a procedure for that.”

  “Yeah, like charging me fifteen grand that I don’t have!”

  We took a few steps without talking, our wheels silently turning.

  A fellow writer herself, my friend came up with her strongest argument yet. “It’d make a great column.”

  I didn’t buy the dress.

  But I did put it on my wish list.

  I Know It When I See It

  By Lisa

  You may have heard that pictures of a topless Kate Middleton were published on the Internet.

  Did you look at them?

  Fess up.

  I looked.

  You might think I’m a perv, but I admit, I was curious.

  So what do Kate Middleton’s breasts look like?

  I can tell you exactly.

  They’re round, and each one has a nipple.

  Just like my breasts, and most breasts you’ve ever seen.

  Okay, maybe not my breasts, of late.

  Late being since I turned thirty.

  Which was when my breasts turned sixty.

  I cannot explain why my breasts became a senior citizen before I did. All I know is that my butt is already on social security.

  I’m here to tell you that if my breasts looked like Kate Middleton’s breasts, I would not be complaining when they showed up on the Internet. In fact, I would email pictures of my breasts to everyone in sight, until people blocked them as spam, and then I still wouldn’t stop.

  When I saw Kate Middleton’s breasts, I got breast envy.

  By the way, no woman I know has penis envy.

  Freud was totally wrong about that.

  Women envy men’s power, paycheck, and ability to take the lid off any jar.

  But their penises, men can keep.

  Not interested.

  I have a tough enough time zipping my jeans.

  Of course, I understand why it was an invasion of privacy to show the photos, and why the royal couple is upset.

  But the royal pair is great.

  It was a French magazine that published the photos first, and an Irish newspaper published them next. And finally the Italians, and being Italian-American, I’m very disappointed.

  Why did they let the French get the jump?

  What about la dolce vita and all that?

  After all, Italians practically invented breasts. The proof is any fountain in Italy. The water ain’t squirting out of fish mouths.

  Who wants to drink anything from a fish?

  Perhaps to make up for their tardiness, the Italians intended to publish two hundred photos of Kate Middleton’s breasts.

  Way to go.

  That’s four hundred breasts, which is plenty for all of Europe. Its economy may be sagging, but guess what’s perky?

  Right.

  Interestingly, the brouhaha, or brahaha, over the photos of Kate Middleton’s breasts occurred in the same week that the U.S. Embassy in Libya was attacked and four of its staff slain, including our Ambassador, Christopher Stevens. I was reading the article about the attack online and was clicking through the photos, when all of a sudden, one was a photo of Ambassador Stevens, murdered.

  There was no warning at all.

  No NSFW.

  Not even a NSFHB. Or, Not Safe For Human Beings.

  To me, if photos of murdered people are Safe For Work, I don’t want to work there.

  There are spoiler alerts for a plot twist in Breaking Bad, but there’s nothing when something breaks as bad as it gets.

  Because, for some reason, it’s okay to show murdered people on the Internet, but not royal breasts. For example, one headline read, Kate Middleton Topless Photos Spark Worldwide Outrage.

  But Ambassador Stevens’s photos didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

  So I guess we have different definitions about what is obscene.

  Stars and Puppies

  By Lisa

  Sometimes the stars align, and sometimes they collide.

  And sometimes they do both, at once.

  We begin when Daughter Francesca and I get
invited to speak at the National Book Festival in Washington, D.C., about our previous collection in this series entitled Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim.

  Francesca thought of the title, which is very funny unless you happen to be the emotional baggage.

  That would be me.

  I don’t mind being her emotional baggage. On the contrary, I like being a big heavy thing she totes around, like a guilt backpack. Or something she drags behind her, a steamer trunk of doubts, worries, and strongly held beliefs based on no facts at all.

  No mother wants to be a mere roller bag, or worse yet, a fanny pack.

  At least not Italian mothers.

  We leave it to others to say they don’t want to burden their children. We think that’s what children are for.

  Faulkner had the right idea when he said, “The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.”

  And the great thing about emotional baggage is that even when I’m dead, I won’t be dead. I hope Francesca will carry me around with her in her head, hearing my voice tell her to put the knives in the dishwasher with the pointy end down, or to run a background check on that guy she just met at the bar.

  Half of my advice is good.

  The other half is awesome.

  So, we get ready to leave for the National Book Festival, though we’re both busy on book deadline, and it’s tax time, too. Because I’m self-employed, I pay taxes every quarter, which means I start hating my government four times a year, like the change of the seasons except none of them is pretty.

  No amount of money I send my country seems to satisfy it, and both candidates for president pay less of a tax rate than I do, which reminds me that my country and my government are two different things. I would do anything for my country, but my government can cook its own dinner.

  My kitchen’s closed.

  Anyway, not only are these two things occurring simultaneously, but then, as it happens, my little dog Peach became pregnant, on a date I fixed up. I bred Peach so I can keep her puppies, because as we know, I need more dogs. One of the many advantages to being a single, middle-aged woman is that nobody’s around to save you from your own tomfoolery.

  And if they were, I wouldn’t listen.

  But when I take Peach to the vet for a checkup, we learn that she is expected to deliver early, during the National Book Festival. Of course we feel instantly guilty, worried, and fearful, and we have instant emotional baggage from Peach, which may be the first recorded case of emotional baggage being transferred from dog to human, like a virus that jumps species. Still, we make arrangements to have Peach cared for and hit the road, which is when Francesca turns to me in the car.

  “I’m worried,” she says.

  “Me, too. Poor little doggie.”

  “Agree, but I’m talking about me. I’ve never spoken in front of a large group before.”

  “Yes, you have, at bookstores.”

  “Not like this,” Francesca says, and I realize she’s right. We were scheduled to speak twice, in front of a thousand people each time, and in all my worrying about my doggie daughter, I had overlooked my real daughter. So I got my act together, gave her a big hug, and drove her to the Festival, where I sat back while Francesca spoke so astoundingly well that I cried.

  Someone said to me, “She’s her mother’s daughter.”

  And I said, “Thanks, but she’s herself, and she’s amazing.”

  (Because no one gives my daughter emotional baggage but me.)

  And when we came home, Peach had given birth to three adorable puppies, all beautiful, healthy, and happy.

  It was that kind of weekend.

  Stars collided, then aligned. And I got to see my own special star shine, bathing me in her light, leaving me blissful and blessed.

  Lisa’s shining star, Daughter Francesca, rocks the National Book Festival.

  Puppy pileup

  There can be no greater pleasure, as a parent, than watching your child come fully into her own, taking all of her God-given talents and putting them to their most perfect use.

  That feeling?

  It’s Mom Heaven.

  Milk Shake

  By Lisa Scottoline

  Today, we’re talking breast-feeding.

  Not me, but not by much.

  I nursed Daughter Francesca until she was twenty-two.

  Just kidding.

  But in truth, I did nurse her for a long time, though I will never reveal exactly how long, even herein. I’ve discussed my gray chin hair, my disappearing pinky toenail, and my nonexistent social life, but that is one secret I will never reveal.

  Because then you’ll know how creepy I am.

  It’s society’s fault, because it can’t be mine. Nursing is a great thing and not creepy at all, but society makes you feel like nursing is sexual, even though that’s what breasts are for, not for making Victoria’s Secret rich.

  Maybe that’s Victoria’s Secret.

  That society is stupid.

  In my own defense, they say that breast-feeding makes babies smarter, and I will remind you that Francesca went to Harvard.

  My breasts deserve full credit, fifty-fifty.

  Although the right one, which is bigger, likes to claim 75 percent.

  She’s so bitchy.

  So you learned something today. If you want your kid to get into a good college, grab your breast and get busy.

  Hide the car keys, so your kid can’t get away.

  But this isn’t about my breasts, it’s about my dog Peach’s, who has ten breasts for only three puppies, all of whom are going to MIT because they nurse constantly.

  Got milk?

  Hell, yes.

  Peach gave birth to her puppies about two weeks ago, and I moved them all, plus my desk and my computer, into the bedroom, so I could babysit while I work. Believe it or not, I’m getting more work done than I thought, between cooing over puppies, kissing puppies, taking pictures of puppies, posting pictures of puppies online, then responding to comments about puppies.

  The operative word is awwwww.

  I feel blissful in my canine maternity cocoon, as blissful as I felt a long time ago in my human maternity cocoon, which is basically the same thing, but for the sitz bath.

  Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.

  Men, you don’t know what I’m talking about, and count yourself lucky. Women have all sorts of equality these days, which is wonderful, but we’re still the ones who become besties with the doughnut pillow.

  You can thank us anytime.

  In fact, there are plenty of similarities between puppy infancy and baby infancy, and I feel the exact same way that I used to. I hang in the same room all day long in sweatpants, never leave the house, and don’t have time for a shower.

  Okay, the puppies are an excuse. I’m a writer on deadline. Welcome to my world.

  Also I haven’t slept through the night in forever, because the puppies haven’t. They nurse around the clock, slurping and sucking, whimpering and whining, and last night, they even started barking while they nursed.

  Francesca never tried anything like that.

  But she came close.

  Every mother can tell you a story about the time their baby bit them while they were nursing, and I have mine. Francesca didn’t really bite, but she did try a nibble.

  A nipple nibble.

  Or a nip clip.

  Mother and baby

  The parenting books advise new moms that if you get bitten, you’re supposed to say a simple, but firm, “no.”

  Like a puppy.

  But you’re not supposed to shame the baby or hit them with a rolled-up newspaper.

  In my case, I went with the simple, but firm, “owwwwww.”

  Plus a rather lengthy, yet creative, string of profanity.

  Yet I’m to be forgiven, because at the time, Francesca had a full set of choppers. This would be an occupational hazard of moms who nurse long term.

  Dentition.

  If you’re still nursing by th
e time your baby has braces, you’re on your own.

  Even I draw the line.

  And at the end of this sleepy but blissful cocooning period, just like before, I’ll end up with a new baby.

  Actually, I get to keep two puppies, all for myself.

  So my pets will have pets.

  The True Meaning of Words

  By Lisa

  I’m good in an emergency, but first I have to know it’s an emergency.

  With Hurricane Sandy, I didn’t.

  The first problem was the name.

  One of my best friends is named Sandy, and I love that name, so when I heard that Hurricane Sandy was on her way, I wasn’t worried. If you want me to worry about a hurricane, name it Satan.

  For Hurricane Satan, I’d move the porch furniture.

  But for Hurricane Sandy, I didn’t even buy a flashlight.

  At the time, I was working around the clock to meet my deadline for the next Rosato & Associates book. I had a generator that would keep power to the computer and the refrigerator, which is all any girl needs.

  Also I was working beside the puppies, who were in their fifth week of life, so I was encased in a furry cocoon of adorableness.

  Hurricane Puppy Breath.

  Sandy was due to strike on Monday, but the weekend before, I still wasn’t worried, even with all the hurricane reports on TV. Every time I looked up from the computer, the TV showed red swaths over Pennsylvania, but they looked like gift ribbons, and then the newscaster started talking about spaghetti bands.

  Another misnomer.

  If you want me to worry about something, don’t call it spaghetti. I love spaghetti. Call it something that worries me, like Internal Revenue Service Bands.

  Or that I dread:

  Tech Support Bands.

  The only thing that started to worry me were TV reports about New York City, where Daughter Francesca lives. Increasingly, by Sunday, the TV news showed New York wrapped in tons of red ribbons, and I began to worry about my puppy.

  Er, I mean, my daughter.

  So I called Francesca, and we talked all Sunday morning because we couldn’t decide whether she should come home. Her apartment was downtown near the Hudson River, but it hadn’t flooded in the last hurricane. My thinking wasn’t clear, either because I was preoccupied with my book, in major denial, or middle-aged in general. At one point, I remember asking her, “But is there really that much water around New York?”