Have a Nice Guilt Trip

by Lisa Scottoline

  I know I’m not alone, in that I’d spend money on my dog that I wouldn’t spend on myself.

  Call me crazy.

  Or dog-crazy.

  My only other choice would be that Little Tony limps the rest of his life, and I couldn’t take the guilt.

  Also how would he get back to the NBA?

  So my dog works out, twice a week. He just had his first session, where he was evaluated and walked on an underwater treadmill. Lucky for me, he didn’t need the massage, laser therapy, or acupuncture. The gym also offers a shampoo and blow-dry, but I didn’t get one.

  I mean, he didn’t.

  And on the days he doesn’t go to his gym, Little Tony is supposed to work out at home. The gym gave me a list of fifteen exercises that target his “Hindlimbs, Forelimbs, and Core.”

  Evidently the core is a trouble spot for dogs, too. I’m guessing that sit-ups would improve Little Tony’s core, but he doesn’t even sit.

  Maybe he can just cut out the pizza.

  Then he could be Littler Tony.

  The exercises for his core also include Cookie Stretches, in which the dog stretches forward to reach a cookie.

  I can do those.

  I also do Chocolate Cake Stretches.

  I’m so fit!

  You can imagine how well our first at-home exercise session goes, with Push-Ups. In case you were wondering, a doggie push-up is accomplished thusly: “Ask pet to go from the lying position into a sit position and back to the lying position. Ask for 4–6 reps, 2–3x a day, 3–5 days a week.”

  I asked Little Tony, but he didn’t answer.

  Then I figured the way to get him to do his first push-up was to bribe him with treats, but all he did was lunge for the treats for five reps.

  Pushing up or down was not involved. Only whimpering and whining, which does nothing to strengthen your core.

  I should know.

  So we moved on to Side Crunches, which are allegedly accomplished like this: “Put a treat on pet’s shoulder, hip, and hock, to allow stretching in the neck and back.”

  First problem, I don’t know what a hock is, but no worries, I got my hands full with hips and shoulders. I put the treat on Little Tony’s back, but it slides off, whereupon he whips around and gobbles it off the floor.

  The only thing that crunches are the treats.

  Then I try to hold it on his back, but he keeps moving, turning around in a circle so he doesn’t have to do the crunch.

  Who can blame him? Not me.

  We try the Wheel Barrow, in which I’m supposed to “lift pet’s legs and ask pet to move forwards, backwards, and sideways in this position.”

  I pick up Little Tony’s back legs and wheel-barrow him around the kitchen, whereupon he moves forwards, backwards, and sideways—all at the same time.

  Until he gets free and runs away.

  For five reps.

  You get the idea. We struggle through Weight Shifting, Snoopies, and Stair-Lovin’, which is when we learn that Little Tony doesn’t love stairs.

  Little Tony does his exercises.

  Who does?

  Five exercises later, I gain a new respect for Little Tony’s native intelligence, and I am puffing and panting.

  So one of us got plenty of exercise.

  Gifts for Him

  By Francesca

  It’s my first Christmas with my boyfriend, and choosing a gift for him is impossible. We’ve all heard the lament, what do you get the man who has everything? Well, my boyfriend is the man who needs everything.

  He’s a musician and travels frequently. He’d be happy with his guitar and whatever clothes fit in a backpack. He doesn’t think much of material possessions.

  Doesn’t he know the true meaning of Christmas?

  I’ve heard him say he needs basics, like T-shirts, but if I get him a pack of Hanes, I’ll feel like his mom.

  And while a man can give a woman lingerie, I can’t bring myself to present my boyfriend with “manties.”

  I could splurge and get him some designer shirt, but that’s not his thing. He’s stylish, but not flashy. I actually like how he dresses. I don’t want to change him.

  Don’t I know the true meaning of a relationship?

  My girlfriends are easy to shop for because I can get them accessories—costume jewelry, a clutch purse, a hair straightener, the latest wonder mascara. We girls love accoutrements.

  My boyfriend doesn’t even wear a watch, and he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing man-jewelry.

  Sorry, Mother Mary, he’s not Italian.

  A friend suggested I get him nice shaving cream, but my boyfriend doesn’t shave. His scruff ranges from grizzled to Gorton’s Fisherman.

  Overpriced bath and body products are a nice girlfriendy gift, but I think they’d be lost on my boyfriend. He’s more of a Shampoo + Conditioner in One type. One time he was showering at my place and called out, “Is it okay if I use this Kiehl’s shampoo? I don’t want to use your nice stuff.”

  Except that the Kiehl’s is dog shampoo. Pip comes before everyone. I buy my shampoo at CVS.

  I tried looking online for inspiration, but that was a bust. I used to envy the “Gifts for Him” tab on websites when I had no Him. But now that I do, it turns out those gift lists don’t suit Him at all—my boyfriend, I mean.

  They probably don’t suit Him either, but that’s only because He is the true meaning of Christmas.

  For example, Brookstone recommends wireless TV headphones with a picture of a woman asleep on her man’s chest while he looks past her and watches television.

  This holiday season, tell your loved one, “I know we’re over each other, just keep the volume down.”

  The Sharper Image suggests an electric nose-and ear-hair trimmer.

  I don’t think we’re “there” yet.

  A site called ThinkGeek.com, which advertises gifts for “Smart Masses,” features a hammer with a bottle opener on the back—because drinking while wielding heavy tools is a really “smart” idea.

  The stakes are higher when choosing a gift for a significant other than for a friend. A gift for a friend needs only to say: I thought you might like this. A gift for a boyfriend needs to say: I get you.

  And if I get you the wrong gift, I don’t get you.

  In my case, my boyfriend is so nice, if I got him something he didn’t like, he’d probably pretend to like it, which is even worse.

  No faking.

  We’ve been together long enough that we’re comfortable, but not so long that we’re done trying to impress each other. I still get dolled up to see him.

  He has about another six months on that.

  So I just want to give him a gift that is fun and cool, maybe a little sexy, but something useful, with a clever twist. I want to give him something that he wants now and that he’ll cherish for a long time.

  Wait, are we still talking about gifts?

  Mother Mary and the 600 Thread Count

  By Lisa

  Mother Mary and bed linens have a long and storied history.

  A few years ago, she refused to use the sheets that Brother Frank bought her, because there were bats printed on the fitted sheet and a life-size Batman on the flat sheet.

  Mother Mary couldn’t picture Batman lying on top of her.

  Neither can I.

  Visualize amongst yourselves.

  Frank had gotten the sheets because they were on sale, which gives you an idea of how the Flying Scottolines roll. If there’s a sale, we’re buying. Even if it’s in the kid’s department and Mother Mary has aged out, at eighty-eight.

  So I should have expected trouble when for Christmas, Mother Mary asked for new sheets. But I didn’t see it coming, and neither will you.

  “No problem,” said I. “What color do you want?”

  (By the way, what a sport I am, huh? Why spring for jewelry when your mother wants sheets? Nothing says love like percale.

  After all, it’s not like you only get one mother.

&n
bsp; Oh, wait.)

  But Mother Mary answered, “I want sheets, but I want to buy them myself. Just send me a check, and I’ll go to Anna’s.”

  “What’s Anna’s?”

  “The store on the corner.”

  I shouldn’t have asked. Mother Mary loves stores-on-the-corner. She grew up in South Philly, going to the corner grocery, bakery, and butcher. There are precious few stores-on-the-corner these days, but Mom always finds the mom-and-pop stores.

  So I send the check and call her a week later. “Ma, did you get your sheets?”

  “No, Frank did, and I hate them. They’re too big.”

  “What size are they?”

  “600 count.”

  “Mom, the count of the sheets isn’t the size. It’s the quality of the cotton.”

  “These aren’t cotton. They’re polyester.”

  Now I’m really confused. “600 count polyester? That can’t be right.”

  “I agree, they’re not right. I hate them.”

  I cut to the chase. “I have an idea. How about I send you a new set of sheets. You have a queen-size bed. What color do you want?”

  “White. Cotton. I don’t care about the count. I can count.”

  Gotcha.

  “Also, they can’t have bugs.”

  I blink. “Got it, no bugs. Good thing you mentioned that, because I was going to buy sheets with bugs. But now, no way.”

  “Don’t make fun. Your sheets at your house had a bug and that’s why my ass itches.”

  “What?” I ask, thrown for a loop by the non sequitors. You have to roll with the punches when you talk to Mother Mary. Sentences come out of nowhere, like a conversational video game.

  “I got a bite on my ass from your sheets.”

  It makes no sense. The last time she was at my house was during the summer. “Your butt still can’t itch from six months ago.”

  All she says is, “What can I tell you? It was a helluva bug.”

  So I hang up, go online, find a set of nice cotton sheets, and send them down to Miami, then call a week later. “Ma, how do you like the sheets?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re not white. I said white.”

  I cringe. Actually she’s right. They were cream, not white, but the ones I liked the most were cream, and I didn’t think it would make a difference. “Does it really matter, Ma?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “On white, I can see the bugs better.”

  Of course.

  And for her birthday, she’s getting jewelry.

  The Season of Giving

  By Lisa

  The good news is that somebody’s having fun during the holidays.

  The bad news is that it’s not exactly under the tree.

  It’s in the brothels.

  Love is all around.

  Or to be accurate, in Nevada, where prostitution is legal.

  I say this because I just read a newspaper story that the owner of the Mustang Ranch, a brothel near Reno, has been elected to his County Board of Commissioners.

  I have no problem with this. I think he’s perfectly qualified to be a politician.

  I hope he runs for national office. We need more brothel owners in Congress. At least they’d know how to run the House.

  By way of background, you might be interested to know who sold the Mustang Ranch to its current owner.

  The federal government.

  The government had seized it from its former owner because he didn’t pay his taxes. Because our government is perfectly fine not only with taxing the income from brothels, but buying and selling brothels.

  Uncle Sam be a pimp.

  In any event, I’m relieved that, despite the recession, people are still able to buy the necessities.

  Evidently, not everybody is tightening his belt.

  On the contrary.

  And this could be good news for the real-estate market, too. It may be tough to sell a three-bedroom, but if you have a twenty-seven bedroom, you’re in luck.

  They used to say that the kitchen and the bathrooms sold the house. They were wrong.

  In the newspaper story, there was a photo of the Mustang Ranch, and a fair number of the bedrooms had silver poles. I’m guessing this was for fire emergencies.

  By the way, there are no mustangs at the Mustang Ranch.

  No self-respecting mustang would be caught dead at the Mustang Ranch. A mustang can get a date without cash.

  You know why?

  Have you ever seen a mustang?

  To be honest, I haven’t either, but I have a pony and an imagination.

  Enough said.

  Truth to tell, it’s probably just marketing to call it the Mustang Ranch. Because there’s no sizzle to Middle-Manager Ranch.

  In fact, I bet it’s not even a real ranch. You shouldn’t be able to call it a ranch if the only things that get tied up are the people.

  Cattle everywhere should protest.

  It’s false advertising.

  The reason the brothel owner was elected commissioner was because business is booming at the Mustang Ranch, and he has become an economic force in the county.

  Wow. I’m proud that America has some growth industries.

  I was also happy to learn from the article that there’s a Nevada Brothel Owners Association. I’m just wondering where they go for their convention.

  The library?

  And believe it or not, the Association has a lobbyist, because in our system of government, even the pimps need pimps.

  Interestingly, this news story came on the heels of the election, in which a bunch of states legalized marijuana for medical use.

  Another step in the right direction.

  Who says we can’t do anything about health care?

  And so many people suffer from joint problems. Now they can fix it with joints.

  Why see a doctor when you can see Dr. Feelgood?

  Plus health care is so expensive. Why see your money go up in smoke when you can just smoke up?

  Plus, it’s the holidays, when everyone is supposed to have fun, relax, and eat too much.

  Tailor-made for the ganja.

  I have no problem with this, either. After all, I drink margaritas for medicinal purposes.

  What ails me? After a drink or two, I forget.

  I’m cured.

  It’s a miracle!

  A Christmas miracle.

  Happy Holidays!

  Happy New Year Dotcom

  By Lisa

  It’s the New Year, and as you may know, I don’t like to make conventional resolutions, because that requires me to think about how much I suck.

  Who needs it?

  Too negative.

  Instead, every new year, I prefer to make unresolutions. I think about the things I like about myself and resolve to keep doing them.

  As in, I resolve to keep kissing my dogs on the lips.

  I can’t be the only middle-aged woman with puppy breath.

  And this year, I have one big unresolution, which is to continue to dream about harebrained schemes to make money.

  I know I’m not alone in this, either.

  Does Powerball mean anything to you?

  Look, I know I’m lucky to have a job, much less one that I love, but that didn’t stop me from buying a lottery ticket when the jackpot reached $500 million. Unfortunately, I didn’t win, and neither did you.

  Or if you did, and you’re single, you need to call me.

  Powercall me.

  I love to dream about winning the lottery. If I won, I don’t know if I would quit writing books, but I would sure like the opportunity to find out.

  I wonder if it would be The End.

  Anyway, I resolve to keep thinking of harebrained schemes to make money, though other people have me beat. I’m talking about the guy I read about, who sold his last name for $45,000.

  His name was Jason Sadler, and he auctioned off his last name
to a company named Headsets.com, so he’s going to change his name to Jason HeadsetsDotCom.

  That’s a good ideaDotCom.

  Why didn’t I think of thatDotCom?

  Scottoline isn’t that great a name, and for that kind of money, I would change my last name to SomethingDotCom. After all, lots of women change their last names when they get married. Why buy the cow when you get the DotCom for free?

  I was going to change my name to Lisa Clooney, if you-know-who called, but now I moved on to Mrs. Bradley Cooper, because for him I would give up my first and last names, without charging a dime.

  I’m a bargain!

  Then I read about another guy who tattooed Mitt Romney’s name on his face and got paid $15,000.

  Another great harebrained scheme to make money!

  I could start tattooing names on parts of my body, and lucky for me, I have a lot of body.

  My butt alone could contain several pages of the phone book.

  Maybe I could tattoo my headsets?

  Then there was yet another harebrained scheme I read about, where somebody stole $18 million worth of maple syrup from a maple-syrup cartel in Quebec.

  First off, who knew there was such a thing as a maple-syrup cartel?

  And who’s the kingpin, Mrs. Butterworth?

  And where do they keep it, a Log Cabin?

  I heard they arrested Aunt Jemima.

  I’m guessing their hangout is International House of Pancakes.

  The police caught them right away, probably because their fingers were sticky.

  Whoever they are, my hat’s off to them. They didn’t kill anybody to take the syrup, and to me, the only thing worth stealing is carbohydrates.

  In fact, if somebody hijacks chocolate cake from a chocolate-cake cartel, cover for me.

  Of course, the news is full of harebrained schemes to get money, and the biggest dreamer of all is the federal government, because it’s currently driving us over the fiscal cliff.

  Maybe we could tattoo the members of Congress?

  Or maybe just their body parts.

  You know which part.

  But we’d have to find it first.

  Happy New Year!

  Being Good in the New Year

  By Francesca

  I was gleefully naughty this holiday season—like Santa, I assumed any unattended Christmas cookie was meant for me and ate them all. But now it’s a new year and I am full of good intentions.

  You remember what they say about good intentions.