I was bending down to retrieve my laptop, when an enormous cockroach skittered past just inches from my foot.
I fled to the counter, where I told the waitress, discreetly and politely, that there was a roach now climbing on the wall, and if she wouldn’t mind, would she please cancel my order?
Surprisingly, she was surprised.
“You don’t want the wrap?” she asked in a French accent.
“No, sorry. I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Because of the roach?”
No, because of the weather.
“Yes, because of the roach.”
“But it is only in the main room, there aren’t any in the kitchen where we make the food.”
Of course, roaches wait to be seated. For filthy, prehistoric insects, they’re impeccably well-mannered.
“Look, no hard feelings, but I don’t want to eat with a roach on the wall.”
She rolled her eyes and begrudgingly handed me my money. “You know, this…” she paused, presumably to translate the best euphemism, “this problem, this is so with all of New York.”
No it isn’t.
Not in my apartment.
I only have mice.
Accommodating
By Lisa
I am always amazed at the lengths people go to to accommodate their pets. Me, especially. Case in point, I own more baby gates than Octo-Mom.
Why?
Four dogs and two cats equals five baby gates.
I’m accommogating.
Sorry.
To explain, all of the Scottoline pets get along, except at mealtimes. They don’t like to share their meals.
They get it from me.
So when I feed them, I put Ruby The Crazy Corgi and her bowl in her cage, in protective custody. But Peach eyes Little Tony warily as they eat, then starts growling and barking until a dogfight breaks out. It’s not as scary as it sounds, because Cavaliers are small dogs, and their heart isn’t in it, so she just bitchslaps him.
Literally.
But still, it’s unpleasant. And since I feed them while I’m eating breakfast or dinner, I have to get up and down during my meal, refereeing while my eggs get cold, which annoys me no end. Not to mention that Penny, my sweet golden retriever, gets so upset she won’t even approach her own bowl. She ends up retreating to her closet, where she mourns Angie and the fun life they used to have, when there were no feisty Cavaliers and plenty of red balls.
Plus the cats, Mimi and Vivi, have their kibble and litter box in the bathroom, so the dogs have to be kept out of there, and you know why. Guaranteed that if you buy your dogs some pretentious gourmet kibble, they will always look forward to cat, goose, or deer poop. This would lead naturally to the question of who’s dumber, the owner who buys the overpriced dog food or the dog who thinks poop is a side order.
To me, it’s a toss-up.
So I need one baby gate to close off the bathroom, and another two to close off the second floor during the daytime. If I don’t, the dogs go up to my bedroom in search of my underwear, which they bring downstairs and display to the UPS man, who pretends not to see it, and for that I am grateful.
So far, three baby gates.
And no babies in sight.
Also, finding the right gate is a science. I go through baby gates like a new mother, experimenting with expandable or not, plastic or wood, and high or low. High or low is the trickiest of these choices. I start with the high gate, which claims to open like a door, but the handle never works. I segue to the gate with the lower height, which is called a step-over gate, but that’s a lie.
It’s a trip-over gate.
At least ten times a day, when I’m going upstairs or to the bathroom, I’m tripping over the trip-over gate. And if I’m not tripping, I’m lifting my knees high enough to qualify as a drum major. I spend my days marching around my own house.
And I’m tired.
You would think it’s trimming my thighs, but no such luck. At my age, knee replacements are likelier.
And three gates later, we’re not even at mealtime, when I put Peach and Little Tony into the nook in the kitchen, close them in with a gate, then separate them from each other with another gate.
You counting?
There are five baby gates on my first floor, set up around my house like hurdles. If I want something upstairs, I think very hard about whether I can do without it. Do I really need those warmer socks? Do I need them enough to step over two gates, then trip on a third? Do I really want to run an obstacle course in my own house? Of course not. But then again, to state the obvious, it’s not my house.
It’s theirs.
I’m just the lady who buys them gates.
Home Team
By Lisa
I just came back from a dog show, where I bought a planter, a quilt, a notepad, and a keychain, all bearing pictures of Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, like Little Tony and Peach. My new Cavalier booty will join my I ♥ MY GOLDEN RETRIEVER sweatshirt, a Welsh corgi button and needlepoint, and a CAT MOM T-shirt. Plus I own a cap with a picture of a pony that reads, THE BUCK STOPS HERE. And now I’m about to watch the Phillies and the Eagles games, wearing my Phillies sweatshirt and covered up by my Eagles blanket.
In other words, I’m a bumper sticker.
If I love it, I wear it.
And the question is, why?
By the way, my car wears no bumper sticker. It has better taste.
Why do I do this?
I’m obviously not the only one. I had to bid against a bunch of other middle-aged women for that Cavalier quilt. The fur and the estrogen were flying. It was a catfight, over dogs.
The women were already dressed in Cavalier shirts and sweaters. Odds are they had a ton of other Cavalier stuff at home, but they wanted more, and so did I.
Why?
What’s even weirder is that my new Cavalier stuff bears pictures of other people’s Cavaliers. They aren’t even my dogs, but I wasn’t leaving that show without a Cavalier mug, at least.
So what’s the deal? I understand why we wear the team gear to go to the baseball, hockey, or football game. We’re showing that we’re all part of the same red, orange, or green tribe. We belong to the community, whatever it is, whether it’s people who love Penn State or ferrets.
And for some reason, we feel the need to tell others the way we feel, about everything. It’s like this essay, summarized in three words.
Which might be an improvement.
And our loyalty apparel extends beyond teams and pets. I’ve even seen people at my car dealership, buying clothes with the car’s logo. Who is this for? To show the car some loyalty? And what’s next? Maybe a flag, with a picture of the car.
You’re in Volkswagen country.
And with the exception of the team apparel, it would be downright odd to wear some of the stuff I buy in public. Last year, I bought a T-shirt that says BOSS MARE, which I have yet to wear out of the house.
I’m single enough.
Evidently, we need to tell, seek out, and belong to a larger group of people who love the same thing. Even though we might not like the other people who love the same thing, especially considering that we have only one thing in common.
Take the Phillies.
As much as I love the Phillies, the odds are pretty great that there are one or two other Phillies fans whom I’d hate. They could be felons or just plain mean. In fact, mass murderers probably watch baseball in prison. I wouldn’t share a table with them, so why share a wardrobe?
The question gets even harder as applied to me, because I never go to any games. I wear my team gear when I watch the game alone, in the house. No one sees me except for the dogs, who wish I wore my DOGS RULE shirt.
But the pony would object.
And the cats wouldn’t care.
Yes, I dress in Phillies red for the games, even when there’s nobody to share the team love. And I get happy when I see that sea of bright red on the TV screen, though I’m a woman, suited up on the
couch. I’m on the home team, even at home.
I’m a team player, minus the team.
Go, me!
Please tell me I’m not the only person who does this. I found only one other person who does.
He’s eight years old.
Running on Empty
By Lisa
We all know that our hormone levels decline as we age, and I have a new idea for a hormone replacement.
Tequila.
Who needs estrogen, when they have Patron?
I’m no alcoholic, but it seems the better way to go. First, it tastes great with big flakes of salt, and how many other things taste great with big flakes of salt?
Okay, everything.
But here’s another reason: If you drink enough, you’ll forget you don’t have hormones.
I say this because my doctor was considering hormone replacement therapy for me, then we found out that hormone replacement therapy can cause breast cancer, heart disease, and stroke.
By the way, don’t take any medical advice from me. I’m just here to tell you that your declining hormone levels are no reason to do the freak.
In other words, you may have more whiskers than your cat, but tweezers are a girl’s best friend.
And it’s not only your estrogen that’s leaking away, it’s your testosterone, too. So not only are you less of a woman, you’re less of a man.
Symmetry is always nice.
And think of the other advantages. Your libido decreases, which is a fancy way of saying that your sex drive goes into reverse.
Like you lost third and fourth gear. And forget overdrive.
Actually, your sex drive isn’t even driving at all, anymore.
It gave up and took the bus.
Whether you’re married or not, this is excellent news. Why? Because you have better things to do and you know it. Your closet floor is dusty, and your underwear drawers are a mess. Your checkbook needs balancing, and it’s time to regrout your bathroom tile.
Get on it.
The bathroom, I mean.
Without testosterone, you’d rather repaint the hallway than have sex. And without estrogen, you’ll stop crying about it.
Ta-da!
Feel better? Glad you’re here?
And if you’re not married, even better. Because I can tell you right now, from my own personal experience, that if you’re a woman over fifty-five, your odds of attracting a mate are the only thing lower than your hormone levels.
That’s why I’m trying to tell you about the tequila. Me, I’m dating José Cuervo. Every girl needs a Latin lover.
Of course, there are physiological changes that take place when you start running on empty, hormone-wise. For example, the vaginal walls get thinner.
Good news!
If you thought your vagina couldn’t lose weight, you were wrong. Ain’t it great? I hated having a fat vagina.
I went online to learn about other changes to expect as we age, and one webpage read: “The pubic muscles lose tone, and the vagina, uterus, or urinary bladder can fall out of position.”
Well, there’s a word to the wise. Watch out for falling bladders!
It’s hard to visualize how this would happen, but I suppose you could be walking along and your bladder would just fall out, like a muffler.
Don’t trip on it. Step over it, then pick it up, so you can take it to the shop.
The body shop.
After all, if they can replace knees, maybe they can replace bladders. Same thing, only different.
Other positives? You can save money on Tampax and wear a white bikini whenever you want.
Okay, only one of those things is true.
If you have a white bikini, you’re Barbie.
Menopause Barbie.
And of course, other than tequila, there’re lots of other changes you can make to your diet to counteract the loss of hormones. Flaxseed is yummy, if you like chewing ball bearings, and it will stick between your teeth despite electric toothbrush, dental floss, and blowtorch.
I myself have started drinking acai juice, and that’s a revelation. Thick, oily, and purple, it tastes like motor oil. I know how to pronounce acai, because it’s the sound you make when you hurl from drinking it.
There are other advantages to having no hormones but I forget them, which is another thing.
Um, where was I?
Control Issues
By Francesca
It’s Sunday morning, and my first thought is about birth control.
No, it’s not because I had some wild Saturday night. As usual, the only one to share my bed was my dog.
My sex life isn’t exciting enough for regret.
But I am on The Pill. I was prescribed it as a young teen as a remedy for problematic ovarian cysts, and I’ve stayed on it as the last stop of many steps to prevent pregnancy.
The first being no boyfriend.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the virtue of playing hard-to-get.
But nothing plays hard-to-get like my birth control pills.
Even with a prescription, there are so many barriers to getting my hands on these pills. And it’s not even a barrier method!
First, there’s the pharmacy. I live across the street from a Duane Reade drugstore, which is basically true of every New Yorker.
There are more Duane Reades in this city than there are pigeons.
But recently, Duane Reade signed some exclusive deal with a particular drug company, and they stopped carrying the generic I’ve always taken. The pharmacist gave me a new one without even telling me. When I noted the change, he said:
“You might experience different side effects, but it’s the same thing.”
I may not have a medical degree—or whatever pharmacists have—but I’d argue that if it has different side effects, it is not the same thing.
So I made the trek to a far-less-common CVS, only to find the metal gate pulled down over the pharmacy at the back. I had to read the sign twice:
CLOSED ON SUNDAYS.
This CVS has to be the only establishment in all of Manhattan that is closed on Sundays. They don’t call this “the city that never sleeps” for nothing—normally you can get anything, anytime, anywhere, with free delivery. I can deposit a check at the bank here on Sunday, but I can’t fill a prescription?
This inconvenience wouldn’t be so annoying if I didn’t have to go through it every month. It drives me crazy that I can’t get more than one pack of birth control pills at a time. If I pay extra, I can get two packs, but never more.
Why is The Pill treated like a controlled substance? It’s not a narcotic. It’s essentially hormone therapy. Kids are up to some crazy stuff these days, but I’m pretty sure recreational hormones will not catch on.
PMS is not a party drug. Ask anyone I’ve ever dated.
No woman in her right mind would take more than directed. If you abuse painkillers, you can get high and maybe even get on Oprah. If you abuse hormones, you’ll simply abuse everyone around you.
I’m not asking for a handout; I’m willing to pay. My insurance doesn’t cover my birth control prescription, and that’s fine. Ironically, my insurance would cover the enormous medical expense of being pregnant, just not the minor expense of not getting pregnant, but fine. I’m letting it go. I’ll pay. Just give me the darn pills!
Why do I have to check in with my pharmacist every month? Is it because my pharmacist cares about me so much? Because I’m pretty sure my pharmacist has called me “Francisco” the last five times I was there.
Why does the government make this so hard for women? They’re considering legalizing marijuana, but I can’t get my prescribed birth control? Shouldn’t they be facilitating my responsible family planning? I think motherhood is one of the most important and difficult roles I will have in my lifetime. I intend to cherish and protect that time when it comes.
And let’s face it: I’m too old for an unplanned pregnancy to launch a reality TV career. Twenty-four is eight year
s too late for MTV.
Is it this hard to get Viagra? Because as long as we’re moralizing an individual’s sexual health, I think Viagra prescriptions should only be able to be filled by the wives and girlfriends of the men who need it. Forget “Ask your doctor,” how about “Ask your wife”? The decision should be mutual, at least.
I watch the commercials, and I see a woman enjoying a peaceful day gardening, until her husband interrupts her with some dumb innuendo like turning on the hose. Can’t a woman pot in peace?
And worse, I’ve read that Viagra prescriptions can increase the chance of infidelity, because the male patients feel newly entitled to—ahem—test their equipment.
Case in point: my friend’s eighty-five-year-old grandfather is currently dating a twenty-five-year-old woman.
That is drug abuse.
I thought the twilight years were a time for family, sage advice-giving, hobbies, relaxation—not sex.
That’s what your twenties are for!
Just kidding.
Only men in their twenties have sex.
The real question is, what kind of a twenty-five-year-old woman wants to date an eighty-five-year-old man?
One that can’t get ahold of her birth control pills.
My Daughter Moved Out, So Why Am I Still Lactating?
By Lisa
Everybody knows that pets can be like kids, but around the Scottoline house, things are getting a little extreme.
It all started when the weather turned cold, and I began to worry that Peach didn’t have much fur, so I found myself putting a little maroon dog sweater on her, to keep her warm. Not that she was going out for a walk. I mean, for her to wear around the house.
Okay, so far.
I did this for one day, then two, then three, which was when it occurred to me that she might not like wearing the same thing for three days in a row, so I changed her and dressed her in a navy blue sweater.
Uh oh.
Best Friends, Occasional Enemies Page 9
