Have a Nice Guilt Trip

by Lisa Scottoline

  In other words, don’t lather me up, just lather me up.

  I guarantee we’ll never see a soap commercial like that for men. Nobody will ever sell soap by talking about how men are handsomer than they think. In the first place, most men aren’t half as handsome as they think, but they don’t care.

  And they’re right.

  I like Dove soap, but I don’t need it to build my self-image. And I don’t want it to do so by telling me that I’m more beautiful than I think, because it assumes that beauty is the key to our self-esteem. What should matter to women is who we are and how we act, and if we set our own dreams and fulfill them.

  None of that has anything to do with what we look like.

  It’s what you do, not what you look like, that makes you feel happy and good about yourself.

  And even ugly women deserve self-esteem.

  Dove might know something about soap, but their analysis—like beauty itself—is only skin deep.

  I don’t even give them an A for effort. Dove has us worrying about the wrong things. Dove isn’t our friend, it’s our frenemy.

  I think that this is the softest sales job ever.

  And you know who’s taking a bath?

  Women.

  A Dog’s Pursuit of the Far-Fetched

  By Francesca

  When was your last field trip? Was your mom still packing your lunch?

  Mine was last Monday, when I convinced my boyfriend and best friend to accompany me to the Westminster Dog Show.

  The best part about Westminster during the day is that you can see all the dogs “backstage.” Prep areas are designated by breed, and each exhibitor sets up shop differently. One Bichon Frise’s station was decorated with a T-shirt with its face and name in air-brush script hung like a banner, like something you’d see in a tribute to Tupac or a prize-winning boxer.

  A human boxer, that is.

  But here, the dogs were the celebrities, and I was star-struck. We were members of the grubby public, weaving through rows of Pomeranians posing for photos like Kardashians, Yorkies with smoother hair than a supermodel, and greyhounds slim enough to wear sample-size couture.

  Their groomers could have a great side business doing people. I want the Silky Terrier Blow-Out for my next party.

  At one point, I lost my boyfriend. I used my Terminator-Girlfriend Sight™ to scan the crowd for any girls hoping to give new meaning to “professional handler.”

  I caught him staring, but not at a woman. He was drop-jawed at the strangest-looking dog I’d ever seen—medium-sized and the color of burnt toast, the dog was completely hairless except for a wiry little Mohawk.

  “It’s a Xoloitzcuintli!” my boyfriend said. He explained it was an Aztec name for this ancient dog once bred to guard the dead. The handler had been showing Xoloitzcuintlis for seventeen years, which is how long it takes to correctly pronounce the name.

  Meanwhile, my best friend was busy snapping pictures and asking questions about certain breeds, ostensibly to help her brother choose a dog back in Boston. But as I watched her coo over a sheepdog, her inquiries began to sound like, “I’m asking for a friend.”

  I see pet hair in her future.

  My dog is a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, so I was dying to see the Cavalier-breed class. I worried my less-obsessed friends might get bored watching thirty nearly-identical dogs prance around a ring, but they were game. We picked our favorites and placed imaginary bets on the winner. Our judging standards were: cute, really cute, insanely cute, and shiny coat.

  Toward the end, one of our favorites got eliminated. But just our luck, the female handler brought her dog right behind us to watch the rest. I couldn’t wait to pet the dog, but when I turned around to ask, I saw the woman was upset; her face was flushed and she fought back tears.

  I went into comfort mode. “He’s beautiful. We all loved him from the start.”

  “Thanks. He should still be in there,” the woman said, crestfallen. “He’s so good, he should’ve gone farther. There are dogs in there that, that—” She shook her head before saying anything unsportsmanlike. “He’s just a terrific dog.” She held the wiggly pup closer to her chest and softened. “But thank you.”

  In the end, the winner was chosen, a beautiful dog selected from a group of equally beautiful dogs, but I couldn’t get the woman out of my head. It’s unusual to see someone so unguarded and emotional. She lost and she was disappointed, angry, sad, the works. She wanted it, she wanted to win, and she wasn’t afraid to show it, even in the face of defeat. Her guts and her passion impressed us more than any cup or ribbon.

  It made me think of my friends and me. My friend and I want to make a living as authors. My boyfriend wants to be a rock star. We have big dreams, and we’re at the stage of our lives where we have the time and freedom to try and make them happen. But we’re also of a generation that lives under the hipster ethos that there is nothing worse than caring too much, and it’s better to enjoy something ironically than to fess up to wanting something you might not get.

  I realized I’ve never been as bravely open as this woman about wanting something, going for it, and believing I deserve it. Her dog lost and she was taking it hard, but you knew she would be back.

  And so would we.

  Fish & Game

  By Lisa

  In most jurisdictions, state law forbids what’s going on in my bedroom.

  No, not that, silly. I’m not talking the Vice Squad.

  I’m talking Animal Control.

  Or you could say, Fifty Shades of Puppy.

  Let me paint you a picture.

  On the left side of my bedroom is something called an ex-pen. No, it’s not something you put your ex in.

  That would be Hell. As in, rot in.

  Handcuffs, of course, would be involved, but used for their intended purpose. Whips would be nice, and so would chains.

  That’s the kind of sex fantasy I have.

  Fantasies where bad things happen to people I’ve had sex with.

  But to stay on point, the ex-pen on my left side of the bedroom holds my dog Peach’s three puppies, who are predictably adorable and spend their day engaging in a variety of puppylike activities, including peeing and nursing, in a continuous loop.

  If you carry a water bottle around with you all day, you know these things are related.

  But if you don’t carry a water bottle around but are a middle-aged woman, you know these things aren’t necessarily related.

  Fifty Shades of Gray Hair.

  On the right side of my bedroom sits another ex-pen containing Little Tony, who is still recuperating from shoulder surgery. He’s on pain meds, antibiotics, cold compresses, and restricted activity, which means he isn’t allowed to run, play, jump, or have any fun for the next three months.

  I carry him upstairs and down to take him out to the bathroom, and at this point, I do everything but go to the bathroom for him, though I probably could.

  You may recall that he lacks a foreskin.

  Coincidentally, so do I.

  In between the two ex-pens, I’ve shoved my desk, a chair, and a computer, because I have a deadline for a new novel. I can’t walk around my bedroom, because there’s no room left.

  By the way, in case you were wondering, Ruby The Crazy Corgi watches this insanity from the threshold to the bedroom, held at bay by a gate. And Spunky the Cat, whom I adopted after my neighbor Harry passed away, is hanging out down the hall in Francesca’s bedroom, behind a gate of his own.

  Bottom line, we’re all on lockdown except my cats Mimi and Vivi, who have complete run of the entire house, both day and night.

  Anybody who owns cats will surmise immediately, and probably correctly, that Mimi and Vivi designed this plan.

  At night I think I hear them downstairs, laughing and drinking beer.

  Still I’m not complaining about any of this, because as it turns out, I’m having the time of my life.

  People say I must be getting no work done, but o
n the contrary, I’ve written more words, more quickly than I ever have before. A writer’s job is to sit in a chair and write, and so I do, except for breaks when I go cuddle something furry.

  Freud wondered what women want, but he should’ve asked me, because the answer is:

  Something to cuddle!

  And a job!

  So I’m hoping I can’t be the only person on earth who plans their life this badly and creates this many of their own problems, yet somehow everything turns out not only all right, but awesome.

  Surely there has been a time in your life when you shouldn’t have been happy, but you were.

  Ruby is banned from the puppy party.

  Boone enjoys some alone time.

  When everyone thought you were nuts, but you felt the sanest ever?

  Because some plot twists are for the better, and some endings are not only happy, but a surprise.

  Recipe for Disaster

  By Lisa

  Turns out you’re never too old to call your mother about a recipe.

  And regret it.

  We begin when I decide to cook a nice meal for Daughter Francesca, because we’re about to start book tour. I decide to make eggplant parm, which I haven’t made in years. Mother Mary, as you can guess, is the Queen of Eggplant Parm, and she has the best recipe ever. When I was in my twenties, I used to call her for her recipes because I’d never made the dish. But now, in my fifties, I have to call her because I can’t remember if I made the dish or where my keys are or what year it is.

  I actually forgot that, yesterday.

  At least I think it was yesterday.

  Back then, in my twenties, my big question was whether you had to preheat the oven.

  Mother Mary always said yes.

  So I did, but now I learned that the answer is no.

  Preheating the oven is as big a lie as the check is in the mail.

  Believe me. Take risks. Don’t preheat.

  Anyway, I couldn’t remember the order of business for breading the eggplant slices, whether it was egg, flour, and bread crumbs, or flour, egg, then bread crumbs. I know it seems obvious, but when I breaded a slice in the logical order—egg, flour, bread crumbs—the eggplant’s surface cratered like bad skin.

  So I called Mother Mary for the recipe, but before I could ask her my question, she asked me hers: “Did you preheat the oven?”

  I paused. “No.”

  “You have to.”

  “I will,” I lie.

  “Don’t lie. Do it now.”

  “Ma, I haven’t even made the eggplant yet. If I preheat the oven from now, I’ll use up enough energy to bake earth. So tell me, what’s the order?”

  “Wait. The oven has to be 350 degrees. No more, no less.”

  “Got it. Now, Ma—”

  “Also you have to peel the skin off, did you do that?”

  “No. I read that it has vitamins.” Also I’m too lazy.

  “Wrong! Peel it!”

  “Okay, I will,” I lie again. “Now, Ma—”

  “Did you leave the eggplant slices out overnight, to let the water leak out?”

  I fall silent, trying to decide whether to lie a third time.

  “You have to do it the night before. You put salt on the slices, lay them flat between two plates, and put your iron on top of the plate, to weigh it down.”

  I’m still trying to decide how to respond. I remember growing up, I used to wonder about the eggplant slices between two plates, sitting on the counter all night. By the next morning, about half a teaspoon of eggplant water had dripped into the sink.

  Like it matters.

  So of course I didn’t take anything out the night before. I never make a recipe that requires taking anything out the night before. I never think that far behind.

  Also I don’t own an iron.

  Other than that, I followed her recipe exactly.

  Mother Mary asks, “Did you drain them last night?”

  “Yes,” I lie. Third time’s a charm.

  “You didn’t, I can tell,” Mother Mary says firmly. “Salt the slices, drain them, and make the parm tomorrow night.”

  “Ma, tomorrow night I’ll be at a book signing.” By the way, I could remind her that the book in question, Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim, is almost entirely stories like this one, about her, but I’m sensing the irony might be lost.

  Mother Mary raises her voice, agitated. “Then make the parm the next night.”

  “Ma, I have to make it tonight. So what’s the order—”

  “YOU CAN’T MAKE THE PARM IF YOU DIDN’T DRAIN THE EGGPLANT!”

  So you know where this is going. Shouting and fighting, ending in false promises, heavy guilt, and mediocre eggplant parm.

  In other words, dinner, Scottoline-style!

  Number One Can Be Hazardous to Your Health

  By Lisa

  I have an embarrassing story to tell you about how I tore my quadriceps muscle.

  I didn’t do it skiing or running, snowboarding or hiking.

  All I did was get off the toilet seat.

  Yes, I’m too old to pee-pee without hazard.

  Last Sunday I left the bathroom, took a step, and got a pain in my thigh that felt as bad as childbirth without the ice chips.

  I tried to take two more steps, but couldn’t walk. I broke out in a sweat and cried out in pain. The dogs didn’t notice anything amiss. I do the same thing when Downton Abbey is over.

  I didn’t know whether I should go to the hospital or not, so I hopped on one leg to the laptop, logged on to Google, and typed in “my left thigh really really really hurts.”

  I often whine to Google. Not only is it free, but you don’t have to marry and later divorce it, which is decidedly not free.

  Anyway, the first thing that came up on my search was: BLOOD CLOT.

  Yikes.

  That made my decision for me. I was going to the hospital. To a middle-aged woman, BLOOD CLOT is almost as scary a word as BATHING SUIT.

  But I didn’t know whether to call an ambulance. On the one hand, the hospital is very close to my house, and I could drive there quicker than an ambulance could get to me. Also, I was already two centimeters dilated.

  On the other hand, if I waited for an ambulance, I would have time to put on a bra. You may remember that I’d resolved not to be caught dead without a bra in the ER again.

  But then I worried about really being caught dead.

  So I grabbed my keys, hopped and yelped my way to the car, and drove to the hospital, but by the time I found a parking space, I couldn’t walk at all and practically fell out of the car. I hopped and yelped to the ER, waving frantically to catch someone’s attention through the glass.

  Needless to say, this did not work. I pictured myself dying outside the automatic doors and the hospital personnel gathering around, shaking their heads sadly. I could imagine what they’d say:

  “This dead woman looks a little like Lisa Scottoline.”

  “It’s definitely Lisa Scottoline. And she’s braless again. Yuck!”

  “I know! And can you imagine her in a bathing suit?”

  Luckily, this did not happen, except in my nightmares. By the way, in my dreams, everybody stands around me and says:

  “This dead crone is too hideous to be Lisa Scottoline.”

  “Agree, and I hear she’s a great author.”

  “She is, and I’m going out right now to buy all of her awesome books!”

  “Me, too!”

  But back to reality.

  I hobbled into the ER, where all manner of caring and competent personnel descended, whisked me into an examining room, connected me to various monitors, and determined that I didn’t have a blood clot, but a torn quadriceps muscle.

  Apparently, Google didn’t go to medical school.

  Then they admitted me to the hospital and gave me morphine.

  And I’m here to tell you that I like morphine even better than chocolate cake.

  If they gave morphi
ne to women in labor, I would become the best Catholic on the planet.

  If they gave morphine to the general population, there would be no crime or recession. No one would wear bras or pay bills. Everybody would grow cellulite but they wouldn’t care, because they’d know that there are more important things in life.

  Like morphine.

  In fact, here’s what happened to me on morphine: I slept through the season finale of Downton Abbey, and when I woke up, I didn’t even mind.

  But I will tell you a dirty little secret. Morphine is constipating.

  Though even that has a bright side.

  It keeps you away from those dangerous toilet seats.

  Urban Studies

  By Francesca

  I’ve been living in the city for four years, so I’ve earned the equivalent of a bachelor’s degree in urban living. I’ve had all the rites of passage: My apartment’s been burglarized, I’ve had a regular flasher, I’ve braved the Whole Foods lines after work, I’ve gone to the beach via train, I’ve watched the fireworks from a rooftop, and I’ve eaten pizza standing in the street. They say you have to toughen up to live in a major city, and in a lot of ways, it’s true. For every extra convenience, something else is a little harder. And in turn, we get a little harder. For instance, I knew I was a real New Yorker when …

  My girlfriend and I were leaving a party late on one cold winter’s night, and we were desperate to catch a cab home—along with apparently everyone else in New York. The streets were lined with people waiting for a taxi, and each one seemingly on a luckier corner than ours. But the thing about a city is, at any given moment, there are roughly a hundred people wanting to do exactly what you want to do. So we waited, shivering on the sidewalk for a good twenty minutes while we watched occupied cabs fly by with their cozy, smug passengers in the back.

  Finally one with its light on came our way and slowed at a traffic light. We raced over the cobblestones in our heels like mountain goats; this was our cab, broken ankles be damned. I lunged for the door and shouted our destination. The cabbie gave a wordless nod, unlocked the doors, and we hopped in.

  We’d just buckled our seat belts and breathed a sigh of relief when the cabbie asked me to repeat our destination. I did, but this time he shook his head, and said only, “No.”