I hesitate to tell you what I said to him.
Because it is so completely pathetic.
But this is a book in which we promised you the emotional and/or the literal truth, so here goes:
I said, “Hi, I really love your writing and I’m single.”
Then I blinked.
Because even I could not believe I said such a thing.
Francesca whirled around, her mouth dropping open.
Rita Wilson smiled nervously. I know she considered calling security, but she didn’t. She just laughed.
And as for Thing Three, he leaned over with a slight frown and asked, “Pardon me?”
Now, dear reader, I can only assume that he did this because he was saving me from myself. Or maybe he just didn’t hear.
But whatever the reason, it gave me a choice:
I could repeat my embarrassment.
Or I could just get back with Bradley Cooper.
(I stay flexible on my celebrity crushes.)
I’ll never wash that shoulder again.
But I’m happy to report that this story has a happy ending, because I answered:
“I said, ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’” And then I added, “And thank you for donating your time for such a worthy cause.”
“I’m happy to do it,” Larry David said with a pleasant smile, at which point Rita Wilson stepped in and arranged us for a photograph, which someone else took.
Guess what?
Larry put his arm around me for the photo.
!!!!!!!
Luckily, my middle-aged breasts were hidden inside my coat.
And my dignity was restored.
Until now.
This Is the Pits
Lisa
Just when you think women’s health isn’t getting enough attention, along comes good news.
Whew!
I’m talking about a new medical procedure developed to address one of our most pressing female problems:
Sweat.
Yes, we sweat.
And something needs to be done about it, evidently.
You may have seen the news story, which reports a great advance in scientific knowledge for women. A machine has been invented that will microwave your underarms and thus eliminate sweating and underarm hair.
So much about this is wonderful that I don’t know where to start.
I guess with the microwave part, because I love my microwave and I’m always looking for new things to microwave. I hadn’t thought to look under my own arms, but you learn something new every day.
This news is especially welcome in the summer months, when it’s hot and we’re microwaving instead of cooking.
Nobody wants to slave over a hot oven in August.
By the way, we both know that August is a total excuse.
Nobody wants to slave over a hot oven in December, either, but let’s keep that secret.
Just play along.
They’ll never know.
If you end up having to slave over a hot oven in August, then you can be a real martyr and give everybody guilt.
Don’t miss the opportunity to Be a Martyr/Give Guilt.
This is how you teach people your True Value.
Of course, if you microwave your armpit, you won’t have to sweat in August.
Or, ever.
The way armpit-microwaving works is that the machine concentrates energy on the sweat glands and hair follicles in the underarm area, creating such intense heat that it destroys the glands and follicles entirely, so they don’t regenerate.
Now there’s a good idea.
If this sounds like a brush fire in your armpit, it might as well be.
The side effects are pain and swelling.
Also screaming at the top of your lungs.
They say this procedure is “noninvasive.”
I beg to differ.
If I lift up my arm and you torch my glands, that would be the very definition of “invasive.”
That might even be “criminal.”
In a related story, I read about hospitals in New York that are having hairstylists come to maternity wards and blow-dry the hair of the new moms, who want to look pretty for their Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter pictures.
Another great idea.
I think it’s extremely important for women to look their best at all times, and fifteen hours of painful labor is no excuse.
Not to mention nine months before that, of growing another human being inside your very body.
It’s only the miracle of life.
Stop slacking.
In fact, if pregnant women microwaved their armpits before they entered the hospital to give birth, then they wouldn’t sweat even during labor.
Clearly, somebody’s thinking around here.
Plan ahead, ladies.
One stylist who fixed a new mom’s hair in the hospital explains that women want their hair to look spruced up, but not fussy.
I think that’s because the baby’s supposed to be fussy, not the mother.
The stylist said that new moms don’t want “black-tie-event hair.”
That makes sense.
After labor, the only thing I wanted tied was my tubes.
The news story reported that a hospital-room booking with a stylist from an upscale salon can cost as much as $700.
I can’t think of a better use for the money, the day your baby is born.
College funds can wait.
The only way to improve this idea is to have the hairstylist blow-dry the infant’s hair, too.
Nobody’s hair looks worse than on the day they’re born.
Babies don’t have bed head, they have birth-canal head.
It’s not pretty, and infants need to learn the importance of pretty from day one.
You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
Especially if it’s your very very first impression.
Of course, both of these major developments in women’s health came about not because hospitals or government wanted them, but because women want them.
We have met the enemy and it is us.
We haven’t gotten the message that our True Value has nothing to do with the way we look.
It has to do with how many people we make feel guilty.
Judge Doorman
Francesca
Manhattan doormen are famous for being completely discreet and nonjudgmental. Somebody just needs to tell mine that.
My doorman is totally judgmental. He’s the most opinionated man I’ve ever met, and he never holds fire. He’s a macho Dominican man who can throw drag-queen levels of shade.
And I love him.
You know how everyone needs that friend who tells it to you straight? He’s mine.
My closest girlfriends don’t tell me the truth. They flatter me and build me up, and I like that about them. Female friendship is based upon voicing your fears and insecurities and having someone to go, “SHUT. UP. You are so perfect.”
My doorman provides balance. He works the day shift, so he sees me first thing in the morning when I walk my dog. If I get any less than eight hours of sleep or skip the mascara, I hear:
“You look tired, Princess.”
And yes, he calls me “Princess.” And “mi corazón.” And “my dear.”
These pet names help soften the blow when he says something like he did last week: “I don’t see you in your gym clothes anymore.”
“I’m going at night!” I lied.
But the next morning, I got my butt to the gym. He keeps me accountable. And he was a pretty great cheerleader last year when I was trying to shape up.
He also gives unsolicited fashion advice.
“I don’t like that coat.”
“I just bought this coat!” It was a camel-colored wrap coat that I had finally splurged on after obsessing over it for a month, trying on six different versions of it in various stores, and texting dressing-room selfies to my mom and best friend.
He s
hrugged. “Mmm, I don’t like it. It’s too big for you.”
“It’s oversized and slouchy, that’s the look.”
“You don’t need to hide in a big coat. You lost weight since the summer.”
Guilting me about the gym had paid off.
But I still think my coat is chic and have defiantly worn it all autumn. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t tie it a little tighter at the waist.
Sometimes I seek out his opinion—why, I don’t know. Last month, I bought a watch online for my best guy friend’s thirtieth birthday. I was so excited when my doorman told me it had arrived, I opened it up right there in the lobby to show him.
“What do you think, pretty nice, huh?”
“Gold?” He furrowed his brow.
“Yeah, well, in color.”
“I prefer silver watches. It’s more masculine. But if he likes gold…”
I snatched it back. Luckily, when I presented the watch to my friend, he did like gold. At least, I think he was telling me the truth.
When it comes to my love life, my doorman is the wise-cracking, overprotective father I never had. He sizes up every guy I bring by, and although my doorman is as inscrutable as the Sphinx to their faces, behind their backs, he gets catty.
When I dated a European: “Can he take you out in those tight pants?”
When I dated a quiet guy: “Does he talk?”
When I dated a short guy: “Pick on someone your own size!”
But despite my doorman’s expertise in snap judgment, he’s surprisingly perceptive when it comes to the heavy stuff. When my last long-term relationship started to sour, he noticed it almost before I did.
“You all right? You don’t seem happy. Make sure he makes you happy.”
The morning after we broke up, when my eyes were puffy from crying, he glanced at me and shook his head. “Say the word, Princess, I’ll kick his ass.”
It made me laugh.
Because whether I agree with him all the time or not, it’s nice to know that someone has your back.
My mom and my doorman are best buds, because she gets the warm, funny version of him that I see every day, and they’re both no-nonsense when it comes to keeping me safe. So I often relay his one-liners to her over the phone.
When she came to visit shortly after my breakup, she had a private chat with him.
“You know,” my mom said, leaning over the front desk, “I didn’t think that last boyfriend was right for her, either.”
She told me he replied only, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t comment on the personal lives of our tenants.”
Got Limes?
Lisa
You may have seen the news story that one of the major big-box stores has applied for a liquor license, which would allow consumption-on-premises.
In other words, you could drink while you shop.
Yay!
Happy days are here again!
Reportedly, the store is doing this because it’s expanding its grocery and food items, but I don’t care why.
Bottom’s up!
I already love shopping in big-box stores.
Why?
Everything is BIG!
If you need to buy laundry detergent, the smallest bottle is 187 ounces.
And that’s concentrated, so it’s the equivalent of an entire ocean of laundry detergent.
That’s why I buy All laundry detergent.
Because it’s ALL.
In fact, you will die before you run out of laundry detergent, and you can bequeath it to your children. So after you have given your all, you can give them your All.
If you buy a can of coffee, it will be shrink-wrapped with forty-seven hundred other cans of coffee. You’ll have more caffeine than you’ll ever need and you can share some with your neighbors, so your entire block will be highly productive.
Or start a war.
I also buy multicolored gummy vitamins in a big-box store, and I now have 32,029,348 vitamins. If I took them all, I would gain a superpower.
Or grow a third breast covered with rainbows.
Which might be the same thing.
But you get the idea, the bottom line in big-box stores is that everything is big, plentiful, excessive, and way out of proportion.
Ain’t it great?
The shopping carts are humongous, too, perfectly in scale with the massive stores, so that between the immensity of the space, the gargantuan shopping carts, and the over-the-top quantity of each item, when you step inside the store, you’re a Lilliputian stepped into Brobdingnag, which is the land where the giants lived in Gulliver’s Travels.
You probably knew that.
But I had to look it up.
Impressed?
Anyway it’s a good analogy, because that’s pretty much exactly how I feel when I’m pushing around one of those big carts, and like you, I go into the big-box store for one item and leave with several hundred.
In fact, I have been known to leave the store with two full carts, which shows you that Lilliputians love to shop.
Now that big-box stores will allow you to drink while you shop, I’m imagining myself walking those glistening, extrawide aisles behind my cart-as-big-as-a-house, a Lilliputian sipping Lambrusco.
I don’t have that many inhibitions to start with, and for me, liquor only makes things worse.
Or better.
I buy too much in the big-box store when I’m sober, but if I shop while I’m drinking, I’ll shop until I drop.
Or until I drip.
Or both.
I might buy EVERYTHING.
Whether you think drinking-while-you-shop is a good thing depends on whether you’re the massive corporation that owns the big-box stores or my retirement fund.
Either way, I’m in.
It certainly improves people’s attitudes about running their errands on the weekends, if they can do them beer in hand.
It changes your Things To Do list into a Things to Drink list.
I’m wondering if the shopping carts will have cupholders in the shape of wineglasses or maybe tiny ones small enough to hold a shot glass.
Shot! Shot! Shot!
Shop! Shop! Shop!
But what happens when people start drinking while they’re driving those scooters in the store?
I foresee major collisions.
It brings a whole new meaning to, “Pick up in aisle four.”
Employees will come with a broom.
And a Breathalyzer.
I Saw the Sign
Lisa
We’re coming up on the anniversary of Mother Mary’s passing.
But this isn’t going to be sad.
Nobody hated sob stories more than Mother Mary.
You know her well enough to agree, if you’ve read the stories that Francesca and I have been writing about her for the past six years, in the newspaper and our books.
You may even have met her, if you came to one of our signings, where she was happy to monopolize the microphone.
I was delighted to have her at signings, because she did a hell of a job.
Also the price was right.
She told every family secret there was to tell, and when she ran out, she made them up.
In other words, it’s in my DNA to write fiction.
She also dressed better than Francesca and me, standing out in her lab coat like a geriatric Doogie Howser.
She often brought her backscratcher to the signings and hit me with it, for effect. Otherwise she used it to scratch her back in front of the crowd.
We Scottolines don’t always confine our personal grooming to the house.
I could go on and on, saying things I remember about her, and those of you who have lost family members could do the same, about your loved ones who are no longer with us, in a physical sense.
You don’t need me to tell you that they are always with us, in spirit.
And in fact, what’s great to remember about Mother Mary is her spirit.
I alw
ays loved the story about the time I made her fly north to avoid a major hurricane heading for Florida. When she got off the plane, she was approached by a reporter who was interviewing people about the hurricane. The reporter came up to her, asking, “Did you come north because you’re afraid of the hurricane?”
Mother Mary replied, “I’m not afraid of a hurricane. I am a hurricane.”
This story is especially relevant because of something I’ve noticed in the time since she’s been gone.
Because I think she sent me a sign.
Have you seen a sign?
I’ve talked to my friends who have lost family members, and many of them think that their family member has sent them a sign from beyond, or wherever we go when we’re not hanging around the kitchen anymore, standing in front of the refrigerator looking for something to eat.
One of my friends says that when she sees a monarch butterfly, she knows it’s a sign from her late mother, who loved monarch butterflies. Another friend of mine thinks that a double rainbow is a sign from her late father, who loved double rainbows.
Even famous people see signs.
I heard Paul McCartney give an interview, wherein he said that after he lost his beloved wife Linda, he sat on a hill at night and asked for a sign from her about whether he should remarry. An owl hooted, and Paul decided that it was the go-ahead, so he married Heather Mills.
Whom he later divorced at a cost of $48 million.
After the Paul McCartney story, I started to be skeptical about signs from the departed.
I mean, come on, Paul.
Owls hoot at night.
But here’s the sign I think I got from Mother Mary, and you tell me if I’m crazy.
Because it’s a sign that only she could send.
Let’s go back for a moment, to the day of her memorial service, which was very sad. It was a small and tasteful ceremony, but everybody was predictably teary, and that day, it was raining.
In fact, it was raining very hard.
It was raining almost hurricane-hard.
And after the service, we came home to my house, and it had rained so hard that my entrance hall was flooded.
I’m not talking about one or two inches of water.
I’m talking about four inches of water, so much that wet rugs had to be removed and you had to wade through it to get to the front door.
The water had evidently come in under the front door of the entrance hall, but that had never happened before.
I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places Page 6
