Have a Nice Guilt Trip

by Lisa Scottoline

  If your heart were that smart, it would be your brain.

  So this Valentine’s Day, love something.

  I’m going to be loving Daughter Francesca, Mother Mary, Brother Frank, besties Laura and Franca, and all my girlfriends, plus my furry and feathered family, including two puppies who right now are sharing my lap.

  I’m not exactly proud to admit that I have a two-puppy lap.

  But I took it one step further this year, and did something I never did before. I bought myself a present for Valentine’s Day.

  I know it’s going to sound strange, but the present is a diamond ring.

  Jewelers call it a right-hand ring, because the way the jewelry world sees it, the only way to get an engagement ring is if somebody else gives one to you.

  And then you have to marry them.

  I disagree, respectfully.

  On both counts.

  I’ve done all the marrying I’m going to do, and I’ve never regretted either divorce, not for a minute. I don’t miss Thing One or Thing Two, but there is something I did miss.

  The diamond.

  And I’ve learned that if there’s something you really want, the best course is to get it for yourself, instead of waiting for somebody else to give it to you.

  So I bought myself an engagement ring.

  You know why?

  Because I’m still engaged.

  Let me explain.

  I think that the people I’ve mentioned above, the single, divorced, or widowed, sometimes feel left out of life in general, especially as we get older. I’m honest enough to admit that I’ve felt that way sometimes, and I definitely know girlfriends who do. It’s easy to feel that way if you’re not one of a couple, like you’re a little bit of an odd duck, out of the mainstream.

  Marginalized, or on the sidelines.

  You find yourself going to movies with couples or sitting with them at weddings, which can be awkward and uncomfortable. Or it just gets old, as you get old.

  And in time, you stop bothering.

  You quit going to things, you opt out. You stay home. You make excuses.

  Bottom line, you stop being engaged.

  Allow me to suggest that that’s not a great idea.

  Life is meant to be lived, not viewed from the sidelines, and if you’re not part of a team, there’s nothing wrong with an individual sport.

  So come out and play.

  I still go alone to lots of things I get invited to, and now I have my pretty sparkly ring to remind me to live my life, and on my own terms.

  And make myself happy.

  You may not be as literal as I am, and you may not need a ring to remind you to stay engaged.

  Or you might be a little more careful with your money.

  But I’m wearing the prettiest engagement ring I ever owned, and I know I’m going to spend the rest of my life with the person who gave it to me.

  For better or for worse.

  In sickness and in health.

  I do.

  Happy Valentine’s Day.

  Extremely Speedy Delivery

  By Lisa

  Do you remember when you wanted mail?

  I don’t.

  If you do, you must be younger than I am, or have a better memory, which is basically the same thing.

  Bottom line, I’m not sure when this happened, but there came a time when mail started to suck.

  Correction. I know exactly when this happened.

  When I grew up and started paying my own bills.

  We can all agree that bills are no fun, but that’s not even the problem I have with my mail. Because at least bills are important. After all, they mean I did something or used something or ate something or bought something, and now it’s time to pay the piper.

  This is America.

  And I get that.

  The problem is that the bills are the best part of my mail, which tells you how much my mail sucks.

  I don’t know why I bother walking to my mailbox every day, and to tell you the truth, I don’t bother. I let the mail pile up, and the only reason I get it after a few days is that I want people to know I’m still alive.

  My mailbox is at the end of the driveway, but it’s barely worth the walk to get a flurry of coupons I can’t use, Valpak’s for mediocre Chinese restaurants, offers for free vacations that aren’t really free, or cards with an 800 number I can call to claim unclaimed property or freight that I know will not belong to me.

  I have all my property.

  And I divorced all my freight.

  Most of the time, I walk from my mailbox directly to the recycling bin. In fact, if the mail were addressed to my recycling bin, that would save a lot of time.

  But yesterday I got the suckiest piece of mail ever, and I thought I would share with you, because I bet you don’t live within a ten-mile radius of a nuclear reactor.

  Like I do.

  Did I mention I’m selling the house, as of today?

  I didn’t even know I lived within ten miles of a nuclear reactor until I got the notice in the mail.

  Well, come to think of it, I knew there was something vaguely nuclear in the distance because I could see the weird towers, but I figured they were farther away than ten miles.

  Like maybe in Detroit.

  Also, now that you mention it, I hear an earsplitting alarm the first Monday of every month, which is testing the system for nuclear emergency, but who doesn’t need a good alarm on a Monday?

  Also the nuclear reactor is in a town called Limerick, and you can understand how this name contributed to my denial. Limerick reminds me of shamrocks, leprechauns, and green happiness in general.

  Erin Go Boom!

  If I were going to locate a nuclear reactor anywhere, I would name the town something as appealing as Limerick, too.

  Like Luckyville.

  Or Moneytown.

  Or Lotsasinglemenburg.

  And the company that runs the nuclear reactor is called Exelon, which is another great name.

  My nuclear company would be called Awesomey.

  Or Fantasticon!

  Or Besty McBesterson Enterprises.

  Anyway, to return to the mail, it was a cheery pastel-colored brochure, which I thought was for another lame Chinese restaurant until I opened it and read the top of the first page:

  WHAT IS RADIATION?

  Answer: you don’t want to know.

  But it’s good you like green, because that’s your new skin color in the event of a nuclear emergency.

  I read through the pamphlet, which contained a section on how to prepare for the emergency, and it suggested that first thing, I should pack my portable radio.

  I’ll get right on that. I’m sure it’s around somewhere, like in 1965.

  The brochure also said that in the event of a nuclear accident, I should stock up on potassium iodide, but I’m pretty sure I have a couple of bananas lying around, which is probably the same thing.

  Finally, the brochure made clear that in the event of an evacuation, only service animals will be permitted inside shelters.

  No problem.

  I’m getting maids outfits for all the dogs and cats.

  They’re serving me as we speak.

  Frankenfood

  By Lisa

  I have good news for you, and it concerns carbohydrates.

  Somebody in New York came up with the cronut.

  In case you haven’t heard, a cronut is a cross between a croissant and a doughnut, and people are lining up around the block for them. In some bakeries, they cost $40, and scalpers are even selling them for $100.

  Trust me, if a food has a scalper, it’s either a carbohydrate or crack cocaine.

  Cronuts are so popular that one newspaper called them a “viral dessert.”

  I’m not sure this would be my word choice.

  I generally like to separate my desserts from my viruses.

  I quarantine my food.

  Cronuts come rolled in sugar, filled with cream, or
topped with glaze, and bottom line, I can’t wait to get my lips around one.

  Maybe that came out wrong.

  I might be on the next train to New York.

  The bakery is in SoHo. I’m gonna be SoHappy.

  People are saying that cronuts are the new cupcakes, but I never believe it when people say something is the new something else.

  Except that seventy is the new fifty.

  Speaking as someone over fifty, I can tell you that’s true.

  But not if you eat a lot of cronuts.

  Don’t get cronutty.

  If you ask me, the cronut is the high-rent version of Dunkin’ Donuts’ new Glazed Doughnut Breakfast Sandwich.

  Yes, you read that right. Dunkin’ Donuts has come up with the idea of putting eggs and bacon between slices of a glazed doughnut, and they’re hoping you stick it in your mouth.

  I will, except for the bacon.

  I never eat anything smarter than I am.

  Unless it’s a carbohydrate.

  I’m trying to understand when the combination platter turned into the combination food.

  Because it’s obviously brilliant.

  Why eat your eggs and then a doughnut, when you can stick them together and shove them in your mouth?

  Think of the time you’re saving!

  Plus it all goes down the same.

  If it doesn’t lodge in your throat and choke you to death.

  You remember the Monster Mash.

  It was a graveyard smash.

  In fact, why not mash all your food up?

  For example, we love mashed potatoes. So I bet we would love mashed potatoes carrots oatmeal pizza.

  It would completely do away with side orders, but who cares?

  They’re so … side.

  And it doesn’t matter if one of these things is not like the other.

  Don’t be so matchy-matchy about your food.

  Think outside the box bag carton tube toilet paper.

  The culinary times are changing, and we have to change with them.

  After all, we live in the era of mash-ups. I heard this term so much that I went online to see what it meant, and found the definition in the urban dictionary.

  By the way, don’t ask me why it’s called “urban.”

  Maybe to use it, you have to live in the city.

  I’m guessing New York City.

  Probably SoHo.

  No. No.

  Anyway the urban dictionary defines mash-up as “to take two completely different types of music and put them together.”

  Great idea, right?

  Just think how awesome it would be if Jay-Z and Bjorn were in the same song.

  Agree?

  Sorry, I can’t hear you. The music is too loud. Or maybe there’s a head-on collision between two freight trains.

  In my head.

  You could even mash-up your clothes. After all, we know how great it looks when you wear stripes with polka dots.

  Like a rodeo clown!

  When I was little, if something was mashed-up, it meant it was broken. You could look up the word in the Dictionary, which was an antique thing called a Book, found someplace called a Bookstore or a Library.

  Photographs of these things are available online, and I encourage you to know your nation’s history.

  But nowadays we’re mashing up our food.

  I say it’s time to throw away our plates.

  And get a trough.

  Demanding

  By Lisa

  It was the great philosopher Justin Bieber who said, “Never say never,” and boy, that kid knew what he was talking about.

  Because lately I find myself doing things I never thought I’d do.

  Things I’d read about other people doing and thought to myself, I may do a lot of things, but I’ll never do that.

  It started three weeks ago, when I was looking for something to watch on TV and nothing was on, so I defaulted to On Demand. I’m a big fan of On Demand, mostly because I’m not the demanding type and it’s training me to assert myself.

  After all, how often do you get to say, “This is what I want, and I want it right now.”

  Right.

  Or if you get to say it, how often does anybody do it?

  Same here.

  So I’ve become On Demanding.

  I finally found somebody to do exactly what I want, the very moment that I want it, and his name is Sony.

  I wish I could marry him and make him Mr. Scottoline.

  Sony Scottoline.

  You know what we would name our son?

  Tony.

  Tony Sony Scottoline.

  I started scrolling around the On Demand menu for TV series and figured I’d give Dexter a shot, since I’d never seen it. I watched the first episode and liked it, so I figured I’d watch the second, and before you can say “blood spatter,” I had watched seven years of Dexter.

  That would be twelve episodes a year, and the show has run for seven seasons, so I watched 7 × 12 episodes, and each episode is about an hour.

  I’ll leave the math to you. Because I did the calculation and I already know the answer:

  It’s way too much television.

  Not only that, but I watched all seven years in a matter of days, which means almost continuously. I had it on in my office while I worked, and I watched it during lunch and dinner. It kept me up past my bedtime, and I even got up early one morning before breakfast, to squeeze in another ep.

  Yes, I say ep.

  That’s how I talk now.

  Because I’m too busy watching television to take the time to say episode.

  I had read about people who binge-watch television and thought, I’ll never do that, but who was I kidding?

  I binge-read, I binge-work, and I binge-eat. In fact, I might be a binge-binger.

  And once I started watching Dexter, I knew that I was going to finish all of it, but not in a good way, like when you start college and know you’re going to graduate. It was more in a chocolate-cake way, in that I know if there is chocolate cake in the house, I’m going to eat it all gone.

  So I ate Dexter all gone.

  Or put differently, I got a Ph.D. in Dexter.

  There’s another thing I’m doing that I never thought I’d do, and I’m thinking it might be related, but you be the judge.

  Just don’t judge too harshly.

  We all know that I sleep with three dogs, namely, Ruby, Peach, and Tony. And I have the two puppies, Kit and Boone, who are about seven months old and sleep in my bedroom, but they sleep together in their cage.

  Let me hasten to point out that the puppies love their cage. At bedtime, they run into it happily, cuddle up together, and fall asleep.

  But one night, I looked over at the puppies in their cage, and they looked back at me, in my nice comfy bed, with the other three dogs.

  So you know where this is going.

  I never thought I would sleep with five dogs.

  But now we sleep together, all five of us in the nice comfy bed.

  And tonight, we’re starting Game of Thrones.

  Old MacDonald Takes Manhattan

  By Francesca

  City dwellers can be a little snobby. Okay, a lot snobby. And I admit to buying into the idea that New York City has the best of everything—the best museums, the best theater, the best music, and the best restaurants. I thought the mere fact of living here elevated my taste.

  But not when it comes to food.

  I hate to burst the city bubble, but fancy restaurants don’t cut it. To really educate my palate, I had to talk to some farmers.

  Every Saturday, a farmers’ market pops up in a small park near my apartment. The transformation alone is impressive. On weekdays, it’s just a normal park full of benches and plants that endure more animal/drunk person urine than God intended, but come Saturday—BOOM—it’s an Eden of organic produce and wholesome, shiny-faced people who are cheerful at seven in the morning, and probably earlier, at whatever ti
me they have to leave their magical farms far far away from the city.

  I first started going to the farmers’ market because it’s the only place I can go food shopping with a dog. I have a vague understanding that GMOs are bad, but I feel most strongly about making dull errands into fun outings with my dog.

  If there were a licensed dentist that did business in the street, I’d give it a shot just to have Pip on my lap.

  So I leashed up the dog, put on my cutest pretend-I’m-going-to-the-gym outfit, and headed to market.

  Right off the bat I got the idea that I’m doing it wrong, because while I was looking to buy all the conventional foods: chicken eggs, romaine lettuce, Jersey tomatoes, the people around me are getting duck eggs, “dinosaur” kale, and small, discolored “heirloom” tomatoes.

  I had much to learn.

  After the age of six, it’s embarrassing not to know the names of fruits and vegetables. But I was completely stumped by a pile of mystery veggies that looked like bright green churros, minus the cinnamon and sugar. I swallowed my pride and asked the female farmer what they were.

  “Okra.”

  I thought that was a color.

  “Most people describe it as slimy,” she added.

  Now there’s a winning advertising campaign.

  I passed on the slimy churros but chuckled at a sign that read “Young Lettuce.”

  “Oh, we’re lucky we got that this week,” she said. “Young lettuce is more tender and silky. It’s so delicate, it practically melts in your mouth.”

  I was this close to calling Produce Protective Services.

  I backed away from the pedo-farmer and bought a bunch of barely legal arugula instead.

  Next, I went to a poultry and dairy farm stand to buy eggs and yogurt, and as I was paying, a woman pushing a baby stroller came up beside me. I didn’t hear what product she asked for at first, but she had a complaint about last week’s purchase that pricked my ears.

  “There were black spots last time,” I heard her say.

  Oh no, I thought, might the eggs be bad?

  “That can be the result of natural bruising or marks from the yard,” said the farmer. “They are free-range, after all.”

  The woman nodded. “All right, I’ll take another bag.”

  Bag?

  The farmer reached into his cooler and pulled out a plastic bag of severed chicken feet.