All my friends are the same. We have every specialty doctor in the city—a gynecologist, a dermatologist; my one friend even has an acupuncturist—but none of us has a regular ol’ general practitioner.
After much effort, I tracked down the number of a medical group, got an appointment, and dragged myself to the office.
Sitting in the waiting room, I had barely enough strength to fill out the paperwork. I slumped in the exam room, sunk into my puffy coat like a fallen soufflé.
I was expecting a Dr. Donna Edwards, but the doctor who walked in was a baby-faced young man.
“Dr. Edwards is the supervising physician,” he explained. “I’m a resident.”
I’m now at an age where it’s possible that I am older than my doctor.
He evaluated me, which, judging by how God-awful I looked, didn’t require a medical degree.
“Do you work in a school or busy office?” he asked.
“No, I work at home. I barely leave my apartment except to go to the gym.”
“Probably caught a virus there.”
The gym. I knew it. A health sham all along.
“Now this next thing,” he began. “I could do it for you, but it’d be better for you if you do it yourself.”
If only more men my age could admit that.
He handed me a long wooden Q-tip. “I need you to put this as far up your nose as you’re comfortable with, the farther the better.”
He didn’t know what a people-pleaser I was. I stuck that thing so far up, I touched my brain.
Five minutes later, I tested positive for Flu A.
I always was an A-student.
He prescribed Tamiflu. “It’s an anti-retroviral.”
I was horrified. “Like for AIDS?”
“Sorry, I mean anti-viral. I get those mixed up.” He chuckled.
Adorable.
“Now it’s not that common, but some people after taking this medication go into anaphylactic shock. So if you feel your throat closing, go to an ER.”
Sad Single Lady Death!
“Well, I live alone, so how long do I have before I know if I have that reaction?”
“Not long.”
I thanked him and left paler than before.
In the freezing rain, with only a fever to keep me warm, I had to walk from the doctor’s office to the pharmacy, then to the grocery store. As I struggled to carry my heavy bags of canned soup, juice, and throat-healing sorbet, I thought:
This. Is. Really. Hard.
But I made it home. I took the Tamiflu and waited, eyeing my cat suspiciously.
I survived.
Hero Single Lady. Bona Fide New Yorker. Living Cat Owner.
I got through the flu. All by myself.
With Apologies to Mother Mary
Lisa
I’m going to tell you about my most recent development in personal grooming.
I’ll leave it to you to decide whether it’s good or bad.
We begin with the basic facts, which are two:
It’s cold out, and God invented fleece.
Let’s be real.
As long as fleece exists, and it’s cold out, it’s hard to understand why anyone would wear anything else.
Or at least why I would.
In my own defense, I work at home, so I can get away with anything.
In other words, there’s no dress code at my workplace, and no one around to fire me.
On the contrary, I’m always Employee of the Month.
The only other contenders are the dogs, and my novels are better than theirs.
Anyway, considering that I have no adult supervision, it was only natural that over time, I would dress down at work. It started with a fleece top and jeans, but pretty soon segued into a fleece top and fleece pants, plus fleece socks and a fleece hat.
Turns out that fleece is only a gateway drug.
Next thing you know, you’re snorting lint.
I have gone from wearing only natural fibers to wearing only fake fibers. And one of my fleece tops is made from recycled water bottles.
Bottom line, I wear trash.
But in fairness, can you blame me?
What would you do if every day were Casual Friday?
A philosopher once said that the test of a man’s character is what he does when no one is watching. But what about what he wears when no one is watching?
Or she?
Girls can be slobs, too.
That’s what equal rights are all about.
Of course, it goes without saying that I’m braless.
As Daughter Francesca always says, Home Is Where the Bra Comes Off.
She’s my favorite philosopher.
Still, she teases me when I’m wearing my all-fleece ensemble, which she calls my teddy-bear clothes.
I’m fine with that.
I think I look huggable.
Oddly, no one is dating me, but I’m sure this is unrelated.
Which brings me to my current point, because in the old days, meaning last week, if I had to go to the store, or to the movies, or in public for any reason, I would change out of my teddy-bear clothes and put on jeans and a sweater, or something more presentable.
I figured that was what you were supposed to do.
It was like some line you should not cross, like a sound barrier of personal grooming.
I think I may have learned this from Mother Mary, who never liked my teddy-bear clothes. She always used to say, “You look like nobody cares.”
To which I had no reply.
So you know where this is going.
Last Saturday night, I was getting ready to meet my best friend Franca at the movies, and I was about to change out of my teddy-bear clothes and into my normal clothes, when I stopped myself.
What was the point?
It was freezing outside, and my normal clothes weren’t as warm.
Also, we were going to the movies, where it was dark.
Plus, I usually keep my coat on at the movies, and my coat is knee length, so there was no chance anybody could see my clothes.
Finally, there are no single men left in the world, and even if there are, I wasn’t going to run into them at the movies, because I never, ever have.
So I thought to myself:
GO FOR IT!
And I went to the movies in my teddy-bear clothes.
Braless.
I kept my coat on at first, but after a while, I took it off.
And you know what happened?
Nothing.
The world did not end.
Nobody threw up on sight.
I was happy and warm and comfy.
My breasts were happy and warm and comfy.
My jeans remained at home in the drawer.
And now, I decided that’s where they’re going to stay, all winter.
Hibernating.
Because nobody cares.
Except me.
But I care more about being happy and warm and comfy.
And in the end, that’s a good thing.
The Storm Has Passed
Lisa
We know that last week’s predicted monster winter storm did not happen.
What did happen, however, was a monster winter storm between Daughter Francesca and me.
We begin our story on a Friday night, when as usual, I’m home working on a book. This is not a complaint. I love my job, and wintertime is writing time for authors.
We hibernate like bears, only less smelly.
While I work, I keep the TV on in my office, and during the daytime, it’s tuned to CNN because I’m a news junkie.
But by Friday afternoon, I was starting to hear the alarm creep into the commentators’ voices, reporting about an upcoming snowstorm, which got my attention because it was about to hit New York, where Daughter Francesca lives. The TV was showing fast-moving white things, and the banners at the bottom of the screen were genuinely alarming if you have given birth to somebody in New York City.
What’s a mother to do?
Especially for a child who’s not a child anymore?
Remain Calm and Be Cool Mom.
So I played the part of Cool Mom but it doesn’t suit me.
By nightfall, I was Worried Mom, so I texted her thusly:
“Hello darling daughter, this is Captain Obvious texting you to tell you to get a lot of food in the house because you’re going to get a big snowstorm. I love you very much!”
Francesca texted back, “Okay, love you, too!”
So far, so good.
But then during the late night, I began to pay more attention to the banners on the TV screen. They started as DANGEROUS STORM TO BRING WHITE-OUT CONDITIONS, but I was not worrying, as Francesca does not ski.
Then they morphed to NEW YORK BRACES FOR EPIC SNOWSTORM, and I worried a little more because “epic” is a scary word.
When NY GOVERNOR DECLARES STATE OF EMERGENCY popped onto the screen, I got really worried because “state-of-emergency” is a scary phrase.
The only phrase scarier than state-of-emergency is “bikini-season.”
I was getting more and more worried by the time we got to WORST OF MONSTER BLIZZARD ABOUT TO HIT NYC, and I completely panicked at COASTAL FLOODS AND HURRICANE FORCE WINDS PREDICTED. Francesca’s apartment is near the river, and I was worried there was going to be another Hurricane Sandy.
So I became Hurricane Mom.
First thing in the morning, I called her, vaguely hysterical: “Honey, did you see the TV? There’s going to be a big storm!”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Francesca answered, too calmly for my taste.
“What are you doing? Did you go food shopping?”
“I’m working. I don’t need to go food shopping. I have food in the fridge.”
“But do you have canned goods?”
“Canned goods?” Francesca chuckled softly. “What are you talking about?”
“Canned goods, canned goods!”
Francesca replied, “I think I have a can of beans—”
“You need more beans, right away!”
“Why, what are you talking about? Please, you need to calm down.”
“I can’t! You need canned goods in case of a power outage! It’s going to be a giant, epic, historic, emergency, monster blizzard storm!”
“They always say that.”
“But they’re right! This is CNN talking! Wolf Blitzer!”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not! You’re gonna DIE!”
So you know where this is going.
Drama ensued.
Voices were raised.
Things were said.
Tears were shed.
Mistakes were made.
Bottom line, there was a lot of passive voice happening, which is never a good thing, whether it’s a federal government or a mother-daughter relationship.
But it had a happy ending.
There was no epic winter monster blizzard storm.
I apologized to Francesca for terrorizing her.
Francesca apologized, happy that I love her enough to terrorize her.
Meteorologists apologized for their predictions.
As for CNN, we’re not speaking.
Swipe Me Tender
Francesca
There are many reasons to be apprehensive about whether a dating app can deliver true love, but I won’t play coy with you. What has kept me from uploading myself to Cupid’s digital arrow is this: the pictures.
Perhaps I’m revealing myself to be vain, or maybe insecure, but this is real talk, #nofilter.
The prospect of choosing pictures of myself for potential dates to judge gives me a cold sweat.
First, there’s the feminist objection. Aren’t women objectified enough?
With most dating apps like Tinder, the written bios are short to nonexistent, and the profiles are primarily photos. Do I really want to make the online-shopping version of myself for men to select or reject with a literal flick of their fingers?
Should I include my measurements? I can be returned for store credit only.
Granted, Tinder offers equal-opportunity objectification for all genders and sexual orientations, but for women who deal with this every day IRL (Internet-speak for in real life), it’s the cherry on top of a sexist sundae.
But I get it, looks are an undeniable part of sexual attraction. I’d want to check out a guy’s photo, too.
So we arrive at the more mundane insecurity. I don’t love pictures of me.
My self-confidence has never been based on my looks. For better or worse, almost always for worse, we form our self-image around the time we become aware of the opposite sex, during middle school and high school.
That’s why we’re all trembling balls of need dressed as functioning humans.
Revenge of the nerds is a fantasy for a reason. In real life, all the nerds feel like nerds forever.
When I hit puberty, I got glasses, acne, and my once-straight hair frizzed its way into nascent curls. God threw me a bone—I had naturally straight teeth—but teenage boys aren’t orthodontists, so that wasn’t the rocket ship to popularity you might think.
So I leaned on other strengths. I was smart and I could be funny, that was how I made friends. By the time I grew into my nose and found the good curly-hair products, my self-perception had been fixed.
I’ve also been told flat out I’m not photogenic. I’ve been told the picture of me on this very book jacket “doesn’t do me justice.” I think people intend this as a compliment, but social media has made the online images of ourselves the primary point of contact for friends, employers, and now, potential mates.
My best friend agrees. “Being photogenic is much better than being pretty in person.”
This isn’t a modern problem, it’s a modern solution. Deceiving potential mates has been part of romance for centuries.
Cyrano de Bergerac could have used a good Instagram filter.
Give credit where credit is due: I know that the men on these apps aren’t looking to date a photo. They’re looking for a real person.
They’re just judging us by our photos.
So that means they’re projecting, a lot.
If a picture says a thousand words, then I need to control the narrative.
What kind of smile falls between school picture and Sports Illustrated? I want to be down-to-earth and natural, but I want to play the game, too.
They gotta swipe right, right?
What is tasteful girlfriend-cleavage? Asking for a friend.
I’m afraid that my average pictures won’t be pretty enough, or if I post only the best pictures, I’ll be disappointing in person. What if I’m not what the guy expected?
Dating apps are expectation-generating machines. They invite you to project wildly onto the person.
It’s the projected version of me that I’m really afraid of. Who is she? Who is the Tinder version of me that the real me will have to compete with when I actually meet a guy? She’ll be different every time, depending on the man. She’s in his head, I can’t control her.
But now that I’m writing this, I’m changing my mind. What am I afraid of? My silent, un-photogenic, two-dimensional self?
Requiem for a Meal
Lisa
One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor.
And one man’s entree is another man’s pet.
Today I’m talking about one of my chickens, who just died.
And yes, I had it cremated.
Rather than barbecued.
I can’t decide if this makes absolute sense.
Or is completely crazy.
You be the judge.
To give you some background, I keep a flock of about fifteen hens, of different varieties. There are white Wyandottes, a shiny black Australorp, a few Rhode Island Reds, and brown Ameraucanas, which lay greenish-blue eggs.
At my house, there is such a thing as green eggs and ham.
Without the ham.
I’ve become a vegetari
an, and it was the hens that turned me into one, because they’re so damn cute and smart.
In other words, I used to love chicken.
But now I love chickens.
My hens are all named for Gilbert & Sullivan characters, since Daughter Francesca and I love Gilbert & Sullivan, and she performed in their musicals in college, at the Agassiz Theatre.
So our coop is named the Eggassiz Theater.
I know, I need to get a life.
The standout hens are leading ladies like Yum-Yum and Princess Ida, but the docile Plymouth Barred Rocks tend to flock together, happily clucking away, so they’re collectively called the Women’s Chorus.
By the way, I don’t have any roosters. I’m not discriminating against men, but I don’t want to live with anything that wakes up earlier than I do.
I’ve had the hens for eight years, and in their early days, they laid about seven or eight eggs a day total, which was awesome.
I heartily recommend having a pet who feeds you, rather than the other way around.
In those days, I had so many eggs that I handed them out to friends, brought them to New York for Francesca, or even gave them as a hostess gift.
Luckily, I have the kind of friends who think eggs are a good gift.
I’d say my friends are good eggs.
But I’m above that sort of pun.
Anyway, my hens are getting older, and nowadays, they lay only one egg a day, if that. I’m no biologist, but I think they’re in menopause.
Or henopause?
Either way, they’re running out of eggs.
And so am I.
And unfortunately, the other day, one of the Women’s Chorus looked like she was ailing, so we went to the chicken vet.
Yes, there is such a thing as a chicken vet.
Thank God.
The vet said that my hen was basically dying of old age since eight years was elderly for a chicken, which meant that my entire flock was ready to join AARP, if not headed for that great chicken coop in the sky.
Sadly, he also said that the hen was suffering and recommended that I euthanize her, so I said yes, and she passed away peacefully.
Moment of silence.
After which I had to deal with a dead chicken.
To back up a minute, I’ve lost one or two other chickens, but that was a different time of the year, so I buried them in my private little pet cemetery. But this time of year, the ground is too frozen for digging, and when I mentioned that fact to the vet, he suggested that I put her in the freezer until spring.
I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places Page 3
