“I don’t worry about it, and neither should you. You know why? Because I make enough money myself,” I said, hoping to jog her memory of our independent-woman talk. “And what’s that expression you always say? You marry for money, you earn every penny.”
She nodded at her own sage wisdom. “That’s true.”
“Right, so I love him, and that’s all that matters.”
“Ahh.” She waved her hand at my silly idea.
But wasn’t it her idea first?
Thus I came back to New York after our visit, none the wiser. Recently, my grandmother happened to call me when I was with my boyfriend. So when she asked her usual question about how he was doing, I casually mentioned, “Oh, he’s here right now.”
“Let me talk to him,” she said.
Uh-oh. Would she ask him about his bank balance, his plans for our future, his smothering love, or his absenteeism?
“She’s hard to understand,” I blurted out, as I handed him the phone. Hoping I could blame any untoward statement on her stroke.
They talked for a few minutes that felt like fifteen. I stepped away to give them privacy, but really, I was just too nervous to stand around for it.
When my boyfriend gave the phone back to me, it looked almost like he had a tear in his eye.
Oh, God, I thought. But I plastered on a hopeful smile. “What did she say?”
“She told me she loved me,” he said, verklempt.
Phew. “Of course she does!” I cried, hugging him.
For now.
Restaurant Wars
By Lisa
I’m so excited about a new restaurant that just opened in a trendy part of Brooklyn. You know what’s on the menu?
Silence.
You got it. I’m going, and I’m taking Mother Mary.
It’s true. This new restaurant has rules, and one of the rules is that you’re not allowed to talk in the restaurant.
This is an even better restaurant rule than my personal favorite, Employees Must Wash Hands Before Returning to Work.
The restaurant owner got the idea for a silent-dining restaurant after a trip he took to India, where he saw Buddhist monks eating breakfast without talking.
This is what comes from travel.
Or so I hear, because I don’t travel.
I hate to travel.
In fact, if I travel, it’s to a restaurant.
The owner of the restaurant says that, “The silence speaks for itself.”
I agree. However, what the silence says is anybody’s guess.
I think the silence has strongly held opinions on the government shutdown, Obamacare, and most importantly, whether these jeans make me look fat.
The chef at the restaurant says that they don’t need talking because “there’s such a strong energy in the room.”
Wow!
I think I might go to Brooklyn and start talking to silence and energy.
I could travel to Brooklyn!
By the way, the menu at the restaurant is $40 per meal, which proves that silence is golden.
Or at least totally overpriced.
In case you’re interested in going, the restaurant is called Eat, but I think it should be called Shut Up.
Or Shut Up and Eat, which was what Mother Mary used to say to me all the time, when I was little.
She also used to say: Shut Up and Go Clean Your Room.
Shut Up and Wipe That Smile off Your Face.
Shut Up and Get out of My Sight.
And my personal favorite, Watch Your Tone.
Meanwhile, silent dining is a great idea!
I know a lot of people I would happily go to dinner with if I didn’t have to interrupt my eating to talk to them or worse, to listen to them.
Mainly my ex-husbands, Thing One and Thing Two.
In fact, both of my horrible marriages would have been improved if we could have eaten dinner in silence. Or better yet, if we could have pretended that our stony silence during dinner was somebody else’s rule and not the state of our horrible marriage.
Actually, that’s an exaggeration.
We did talk during dinner. I remember once I said, Pass the salt.
Does that count?
Probably not, because what I really meant was, Pass the arsenic.
Too dark?
Which gives me another idea, because I also read about another new restaurant called In The Dark, and the rule there is that you have to eat in total darkness.
Don’t you want to bring your exes there?
I would, but I’d go further. I’d like to open a new kind of restaurant that combined the two ideas. In other words, where you had to eat in the dark and you weren’t allowed to talk to the people you were with.
Wow!
Great idea, huh?
I might be onto something, right?
I swear, I’d still be married to Thing One and/or Thing Two if I never had to see them or talk to them.
I thought I had to get a divorce to avoid seeing or talking to them, but it turns out, all I had to do was take them to my new restaurant.
Who knew?
What a country!
Greased Lightning
By Lisa
I’m a big fan of combinations, like soup-and-sandwich. Peanut butter-and-jelly. Spaghetti-and-meatballs.
You may detect a pattern.
Carbohydrates are the leitmotif.
Or maybe the heavy-motif.
One combination I never thought of is jeans-and-moisturizer. Lucky for women, marketing has thought of that for us!
You may have read the news story which reported that Wrangler is selling a line of jeans that embeds microcapsules of moisturizer in the fabric, which evidently explode on impact with your thighs and moisturize them.
I think this is an awesome idea. I often fantasize about things that would explode on impact with my thighs, such as Bradley Cooper.
It gives new meaning to the term thunder thighs.
The line of jeans is called Denim Spa, which is quite a combination, right there. Denim and Spa are two words I have never experienced together.
Like love-and-marriage.
But to stay on point, Wrangler markets three types of moisturizer jeans. One comes embedded with Aloe Vera and another with Olive Oil, but choosing between the two is a no-brainer for me. I wouldn’t pick Aloe Vera, because she sounds like someone I went to high school with and I don’t share jeans.
I’d leave the aloe alone.
Instead I’d pick the olive oil. If I added balsamic, those jeans would be delicious.
But only extra virgins can wear them.
Count me out.
Come to think of it, if I were going to infuse jeans with food, I would go with Cinnabons.
Extra frosting is more fun than extra virgin.
The moisturizer in the jeans lasts up to fifteen days, but Wrangler also offers a “reload spray” that you can squirt your pants with. I’m not sure I’d buy the spray. It would be cheaper to pour olive oil on my pants, like a salad. I’d dress them properly, before I got dressed.
But the third type of moisturizer jeans is my favorite, and it’s called Smooth Legs.
I need Smooth Legs. I have only Scaly Legs and Hairy Legs, or a combination of the two, which is Scary Legs.
The amazing thing about the Smooth Legs jeans is that they not only moisturize your legs, they fight cellulite.
Wow!
According to the website, the way they do this is by a “special formula” embedded in the jeans, which contains “caffeine, retinol, and algae extract.”
Which contains mayonnaise.
Why fight jeans that fight cellulite?
I wouldn’t. I’d be scared. They can “reload.” I wouldn’t buy them without a background check.
If you ask me, fighting cellulite is a lot to ask from a pair of pants, much less clothing in general, and you’ve got to hand it to Wrangler, which charges a mere $150 for a pair of these hardworking jeans. That’s only $75 per
leg or approximately $.03 per cellulite dimple, if you have 2,928,474,747 dimples, like me.
In fact, I just got another 4,928,749, in the time you took to read that last sentence.
In my experience, cellulite comes only in packs of 4,928,749.
I wouldn’t mind having a pair of pants that fought cellulite for me, which would be like having a lawyer for my butt.
This is because I don’t spend any time fighting my cellulite. On the contrary, my cellulite and I have an arrangement. My cellulite agrees to stay on the back of my legs, thighs, and tushie, and I agree not to look at myself from behind.
This turns out to be easy. Because I always move forward and never look back.
Metaphor not included.
In truth, I’ve come to accept and enjoy my cellulite. I can amuse myself by playing connect the dots on my thighs or finding constellations on my butt. For example, my left rump sports not only the Big and Little Dippers, but also the Serving Spoon, the Soup Ladle, and the Cake Knife.
The best thing about the moisturizer jeans is that all that grease must make them easier to get on. But being menopausal, I might need more lubrication.
Like motor oil.
Come to think of it, I won’t be buying the moisturizer dungarees.
They’re not worth dung.
Do the Meth
By Lisa
I’m not good at math, but neither is the government.
As I write this, our government is sputtering to a halt, expecting to shut down by the weekend. So by now you know the ending, like a spoiler for the TV show Breaking Bad.
Except the government show is called Breaking Down.
And it’s not that good.
Allow me to suggest that it doesn’t matter whether the government managed to stave off this most recent shutdown, because this won’t be the last.
Our government is hooked.
On math, not meth.
Here’s how government math works.
Remember when Congress was debating whether we should have a war in Syria? All the talk was whether we should or we shouldn’t. Nobody in Washington was saying that we couldn’t, because we didn’t have the money.
Except for us, the grown-ups who pay mortgages, send kids to college, and still get our hair highlighted every two months.
Blond does not come cheap.
So here’s my question: If we can’t afford to keep the government running now, how could we have afforded a war in Syria two weeks ago?
I don’t know the answer, but the question itself solves all our budget problems. Because obviously, if we need the government to find some money, all we need to do is have a war. So ipso fatso, we need more wars.
Not really, just pretend.
All we have to do is say we’re going to have a war.
And cross our fingers behind our backs.
Because magically, if we say the money is going to be spent on a war, the government finds the money.
God-knows-where.
China.
The sky.
Money trees.
I suspect that’s it, the money grows on trees. Why do you think I started gardening?
So here’s the plan, and don’t tell anyone, least of all the government.
(No worries, they never listen to us anyway.)
Let’s say we’re going to have a war and act like we mean it, like with Syria. Then, get a whole bunch of catcher’s mitts and catch the money when the government shakes it from the trees. Finally, when we have all the money in a nice, big pile, let’s say we changed our minds.
We’ll say we’re too busy to have a war.
We’re too busy counting money.
Or we’ll make up another excuse, like we’re getting our hair highlighted.
Or we just can’t come to the phone.
We’re busy.
If that doesn’t work, we have to start doing math as badly as I do, which is still better than government math. Here’s how to do Scottoline math:
Every time I see something I want, like a new dress, I ask myself:
Will it make me look thin?
No, sorry, not the point.
Let’s try again: Every time I see something I want, like a new dress, I ask myself:
Will it make me look young?
Also off the point. Sorry, I got carried away from all the dress-shopping.
Truly, the first question I ask myself is:
Can I afford it?
Not, do I need it?
Not, do I want it?
Not, do I deserve it?
Can-I-afford-it is the first question I ask myself, and sometimes the last. If the answer is no, I don’t get to the other questions. Because I obviously need, want, and deserve whatever it is.
I’m me! And it’s for me! Who’s to say no?
Me?
Under Scottoline math, it doesn’t matter if the thing I want is a new dress or a new war. If I can’t afford it, I can’t afford it.
And if I wasn’t broke two weeks ago, why am I broke now?
Because in the meantime, I didn’t even buy the dress.
Pardon me, but I’m confused by my government.
But then again, I’m no meth whiz.
Suing Stevie Wonder
By Francesca
“I need to sue Stevie Wonder” is not a sentence you hear every day, certainly not out of the mouth of my ninety-year-old grandmother. But last week she called me and said just that.
I was in my apartment in New York when my grandmother called from Miami. Her first request was for my boyfriend’s phone number. I asked her, “Why do you need his number?”
“To call him!” she cried, exasperated already, and we were only forty-five seconds into the call. “I need to speak to him as a musician.”
My boyfriend happens to have a soft spot for grannies, and while I was sure he would happily take the call, I know my grandmother well enough to smell trouble.
“He’s playing an out-of-town gig today and is hard to reach. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on and maybe I can help.”
She sighed, then laid it on me, matter-of-fact. Her speech and voice have been compromised by past decades of smoking, throat-cancer treatment, and several strokes, so at first I assumed I misheard her. But she repeated it:
“I need to sue Stevie Wonder for copyright infringement. He stole my song.”
Oh, dear.
I had been warned by my mother and uncle that this was the latest of my grandmother’s quasi delusions. By way of background, my grandmother was a songwriter in the fifties and sixties and victim of one legitimate instance of copyright infringement, when one of her songs was stolen and used in a Tony-award-winning musical. (We’ll let it remain nameless so that they don’t come sue us.) But her claim was apparently legitimate enough that the musical’s creators offered to settle.
My grandmother, however, has never been one to settle easily.
She rejected their cash offer on principle. She wanted her day in court.
But she underestimated just how much suing someone costs. And she’d have to go to New York to do it? Are you kidding? Nothing ever happened.
Not that the thieves got away with it—the Italian powers of the Evil Eye are almost as damaging as a jury verdict.
So as we spoke on the phone now, I had a hunch that this current legal concern of hers was some mixed-up memory of the past. But I tried to take it seriously and reason with her. “Muggy, it would be very difficult to sue Stevie Wonder.”
“How do you know?” she snapped.
“Remember my dad? He’s a copyright lawyer, so I know how this works.”
“Good. Then I need your father’s phone number.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll ask him about it and get back to you, okay?”
I heard Uncle Frank calling to her in the background, asking who was on the phone. She ignored him and said to me, “Just because I am old, doesn’t mean I can’t fight for my rights!”
Ugh, that broke
my heart.
She must have handed the phone to my uncle, because his voice popped on the line. “Is this the Stevie Wonder stuff again? It’s all she’ll talk to anyone about. I don’t know where she got the crazy idea.”
I told him she wanted to call my dad.
“MA!” he yelled to her from the phone, this time at close range to my eardrum. “We can’t call Lisa’s ex-husband!”
As if that were the craziest part of my grandmother’s request.
“He probably wouldn’t mind.” My dad also has a soft spot for my grandmother but …
“No,” Frank said. “It’ll only make it worse. She has to let this go.”
I agreed and said good-bye.
But even though I thought it was as ridiculous as my uncle did, I had told my grandmother I would get back to her, and it didn’t sit well with me not to honor my promise. So I called my dad at work and told him I just needed some official-sounding statement to help my grandmother move on. But my dad, never one to turn down a legal riddle, was intrigued. So I gave him all the details that she had told me, and my father gave her case the full workup over the phone, pro bono.
I called my grandmother right away. “Well, I spoke to my dad, and I got an answer. I don’t think it’s the one you want, but I hope this can give you some closure.” I had Uncle Frank’s warning in my head, and I was afraid to upset her with the bad news. Especially as I didn’t know how much she’d be able to understand, between her hearing problems and the legalese. But I had come this far, so I spoke slowly and deliberately and hoped for the best.
I explained that in order to establish legitimate copyright infringement, one has to demonstrate both a significant similarity and probable access to the original work by the offending party. Since her song was written and recorded in 1960, and Wonder’s was in 1984, probable access was highly improbable.
Mary Scottoline’s songs didn’t get quite the airplay as Stevie Wonder’s.
“I don’t think Stevie Wonder stole it intentionally, but I own the copyright so I want to sue his publishing company,” my grandmother clarified.
So much for not knowing what she’s talking about.
But alas, I had to tell her that if Wonder wrote his song without hearing hers, his separate copyright was protected by “independent creation,” which allows for two artists to coincidentally create similar work. And there is a statute of limitations on the time between discovery, when my grandmother first noticed the similarity between the songs, and her opportunity to litigate, so, considering Wonder’s song was a huge hit in the ’80s, it would be hard to argue that that window hadn’t closed. And finally, since her copyright was granted in 1960 and never renewed, it had doubtlessly expired.
Have a Nice Guilt Trip Page 17
