“We can get you into a hospital gown.”
Yes, because being naked would really improve this situation.
I told her I appreciated her concern, but “I really want to go home.”
“I just worry, that you’re going to get home alone and totally freak out,” she said.
“I have a dog.” I thought of my sweet-faced Pip wiggling his furry body in greeting. “I feel safe in my home.”
It felt good to hear myself say it. It was true.
She gave in, and I was released not long after.
On the ride home, Officer Green let me ride shotgun in the patrol car and stuck his partner in the back. They made me laugh on the ride home, teasing each other about their weight. They both lamented the difficulty of finding healthy food when your shift runs all night. We all expressed a hatred of cardio.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like a crime victim and felt like their kid sister.
It was almost dawn when we pulled up to my apartment building. I started to thank them and say good-bye, but Officer Moon stopped me.
“You said you have a dog, right? Don’t you have to walk him?”
I nodded.
“So get him, we’ll walk him with you.”
I thought my heart might burst.
And that’s how two New York City police officers ended up standing outside in the rain with me, waiting for my dog to choose a place to pee, just so that I would feel safe.
Back inside my apartment, alone, I did not freak out. I scooped up the dog, walked gingerly to my bed, and fell fast asleep.
Safe in the knowledge that while the city can be a scary place, the good guys still outnumber the bad.
It’s Not About Me
Lisa
I just wanted to add a word or two about Francesca’s assault, because I know that many of you moms must be wondering how I reacted, or how you would react, if you were in my position.
Specifically, if you were awakened by a telephone call at four thirty in the morning, and it’s from your daughter. Her tone is tense but controlled, and she begins the conversation by saying:
“Mom, I’m at the hospital, but I’m okay.”
So how did I react?
I would say, well enough.
Or maybe, not terribly.
After all, I’m a rookie at my daughter being assaulted.
But I’m not a rookie of being a mother in an emergency situation, and I didn’t burst into tears, freak out, or fuss. I stayed calm because truly I felt calm, if tense. I dressed quickly, let the dogs out to go to the bathroom, and got in the car to New York City, where I made it in only an hour and a half.
It’s usually a two-hour-and-fifteen-minute drive.
But there was no traffic.
Or maybe I drove faster than I ever had in my life.
When Francesca opened the door to her apartment, I got the first full view of how bruised and battered she was, and you can imagine what I felt like, but the fact is, I kept it inside.
I hid my shock at how distorted her face looked.
I hid my outrage that this had happened to her.
I hid my fear that it could have been so much worse, that she could have been killed.
I hid my fury that someone could do this to her.
Instead, I gave her a massive hug and told her I loved her, which is something I do every single time I see her, so this was no different.
The thing I tried to remember was not to make it about me.
Because I know how smart and loving she is, and I could see that she was trying not to worry me.
And I didn’t want her to have to worry about worrying me.
If that sounds like a confusing state of being, it is, but I bet every mother understands what I’m talking about. She had been through something I had no experience with, and I said to myself, give her the space to have her own reaction.
We went back and forth about whether she should go back to bed, and we did, but the detectives arrived early the next morning, and I listened to her tell them the details of the assault, hearing them for the first time.
She remained remarkably calm, even with the detectives.
So did I, hiding my horrified reaction.
Because she wasn’t a kid anymore, she was my adult daughter and she was handling things beautifully, including her own emotions.
And I realized I just had to follow her lead and do what she wanted to do, whether that was getting her a new phone, or her glasses fixed, or even a replacement lipstick.
Frankly, I didn’t know which was the best thing to do. I didn’t know if we should run around and do errands or if we should rest, and I suspect the two of us were in a confused state, trying to hold on to each other and muddle through.
And, I think, we did.
And to a certain extent, we still are. Candidly, I think you can see from the essay she has written that she is still processing this crime and will do so in the months to come, maybe even years.
Any victim of violent crime probably goes through the same thing.
So I know she is not alone.
And she’ll always have me.
I don’t know whether I help her, but I don’t think I make things worse.
All I want is to be there for her and not to screw up.
Because mothers screw up all the time, myself included.
It’s a given that we love our children, but it’s not a given that we love them the right way or give them what they need at any point in time.
And I learned that it doesn’t get any easier as our children grow into adulthood.
Life can make a rookie of anyone.
And the best we can do is our best.
And I will always do my best, for her.
And I will always be there, for her.
That’s what a mother is, isn’t it?
And it never ends.
Because love never ends.
Mother Mary Flunks Time Magazine
Lisa
You may have read the article in Time magazine, entitled “The Five Things Your Kids Will Remember About You.” It was predictably sweetness and light, but none of it reminded me of Mother Mary, who was anything but sweetness and light. She was more olive oil and vinegar.
In fact, I considered the five things that Time set forth and compared them to Mother Mary, to see how she measured up, magazine-wise.
You can play along, with your mother.
Or if you’ve read the previous books in this series, you could probably fill in the same blanks with Mother Mary stories.
But no spoilers.
So don’t tell anyone about the time Mother Mary refused to use the discount Batman bedsheets because she didn’t want a life-size Batman lying on top of her.
Or the time she took to wearing a lab coat because it gave her an air of authority, plus pockets for her cell phone and backscratcher.
Or the time she grabbed her doctor’s butt to prove that she was ready for cardiac rehab.
Nobody would believe those stories, anyway.
So, to stay on point about the Time magazine article, the first thing that your children are alleged to remember about you is “the times you made them feel safe.”
Awww.
How sweet.
Except that with Mother Mary, what I remember are the times she made me feel unsafe.
Because those were truly memorable.
And my general safety was a given, if less dramatic.
For example, when Brother Frank and I were little, we used to fight, which drove my mother crazy. I remember, one day, she yelled at us to stop fighting and we ignored her, so that she took off her shoe and threw it at us.
She missed, but that didn’t stop her.
Because she had another foot with another shoe.
So she took that shoe off and threw it at us, but she missed with that one, too.
We stopped fighting.
You’re probably thinking that she missed us intentionally, and I’ll
let you think that, but you didn’t know Mother Mary. She loved us in a fiercely Italian-American sort of way, which meant that motherhood and minor personal injury weren’t mutually exclusive.
So lighten up, Time.
The second thing in the article was that your children will supposedly remember “the times you gave them your undivided attention,” and the magazine advised parents to “stop what you’re doing to have a tea party” with your kids.
Again, growing up, I had no doubt that I had my mother’s attention, but it was never undivided and she wasn’t into tea parties.
But she chain-smoked.
Does that count?
Mother Mary was a real mom, busy doing laundry, cooking dinner, and cleaning the house, and though she was always available, she wasn’t staring deeply into our blue eyes. But every night, my family, The Flying Scottolines, would sit on the couch and watch TV, giving it our undivided attention.
We all loved TV, so by the property of association, we all loved each other.
Good enough for me.
The third thing was, your kids will remember “the way you interacted with your spouse.”
This doesn’t apply to The Flying Scottolines, since the statement assumes that the parents interacted.
You can’t win them all.
My parents barely talked to each other, but at least they never fought, and nobody was surprised when they divorced. But happily, they both loved us to the marrow, and my brother and I knew that.
What I learned from growing up in a house with an unhappy marriage is that divorce is better.
And so I’m divorced twice.
Which I think is the good news, considering the alternative.
If I can’t have a happy marriage, I’ll have a happy house.
The fourth factor was, your kids will remember “your words of affirmation and your words of criticism.”
I don’t know if Italian-American families have things that can be characterized as words of affirmation, except “I love you.”
And as a child, I heard that at least ten times a day.
But I also heard, “Don’t be so fresh.”
So I grew up thinking that I was lovable and fresh, which might be true.
The last thing in the article was that children would remember “family traditions,” like vacation spots and/or game nights.
The Scottolines weren’t the kind to have “game nights,” but every summer, we did go on vacation to the same brick rowhouse in Atlantic City, New Jersey. All day long, we played on the beach while my parents smoked, and at night we sat on the front porch while assorted relatives dropped by and the adults talked, drank beer, and smoked into the night. When the mosquitoes got too bad, we all trundled inside the house, where the adults played pinochle until my brother and I fell asleep on the couch, to the sound of their gossiping and laughter, breathing in the smoke from their Pall Malls and unfiltered Camels.
We had no oxygen, but a lot of love.
And it wasn’t Norman Rockwell.
But it was perfect.
Looking back, I wouldn’t change a moment.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
I love you.
And I’m still fresh.
Barbarians at the Frontgate
Lisa
Today I’m reporting from the front gate of suburbia.
As well as the Frontgate.
I wanted to buy a new chair for outside, because I like to read or work in the sun and I have only two chairs.
I know what you’re thinking.
One person for two chairs, what’s the problem?
There are five problems, and they all happen to be dogs.
Often when I come outside with my book or my laptop, the dogs are already occupying both chairs. If I move them off one chair so I can sit down, the five of them spend all day fighting over the second chair.
Most people would solve this problem by training the dogs to stop fighting.
But these people never heard the expression, You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.
I’m the old dog.
I gave up teaching my dogs anything, and I try to avoid most of my problems, in this case by buying a new chair.
In other words, some people buy dog beds, and other people buy dog chaise lounges.
Anyway, the chaise lounges I have are ancient wrought-iron affairs with basic green cushions, and that’s what I wanted.
So I picked up one of the three hundred catalogs that come in the mail, which I usually pounce on and thumb through, fantasizing.
The Frontgate catalog is porn for suburban women.
Everything in the catalog is color-coordinated, monogrammed, and effortlessly glamorous, and I am none of the above, except for effortless.
Which is Frontgate for lazy.
Not to pick on Frontgate, because I looked at a bunch of other catalogs, and you can’t just buy a simple reclining chaise lounge anymore, because they don’t make them.
I’m here to tell you, exterior furniture has lost its mind.
In every catalog, there were pages and pages of exterior furniture, and none of it looked like it belonged outside. There were fancy long couches with matching club chairs, end tables, dining-room and coffee tables, as well as love seats and even a chair-and-a-half.
To fit your butt-and-a-half.
All of it looked nicer than my inside furniture.
There were at least twelve “collections” of exterior furniture, with names like Hamptons, Palm Springs, and Palermo.
Surprisingly, there was no Philly.
Yo.
The photos showed fleets of overstuffed furniture beside pools and gardens, but it would have been more appropriate in a living room or a conservatory.
You have a conservatory, don’t you?
It’s next to the library, and Colonel Mustard is waiting for you there.
With a wrench.
Every catalog had pages of multicolored-fabric options for the megacushions in an array of different styles, such as tufted, piped, double-piped, or knife-edge.
For the felony-lover in you.
I flipped the page, looking for normal-weight fabric in basic green, then I came across “outdoor rugs.”
I blinked and blinked.
This concept was new to me.
Evidently, now we need outdoor rugs to put under our exterior furniture, to “protect against hot and cold patio and deck surfaces for luxurious underfoot comfort.”
I thought that’s why we had “shoes.”
Not only that, but there were massive gas grills, stainless-steel refrigerators, and tall patio heaters. There was even a TV with a giant projection screen that you can watch outside. And finally, there were curtains, so-called “outdoor draperies,” and their purpose was to “help you define the ultimate outdoor room.”
What’s an outdoor room?
I thought rooms were supposed to be inside.
And the whole point of going outside was to not be in a room anymore.
Hence the technical term—out.
Isn’t this inside-out?
Or upside-down?
I felt dizzy from the possibilities.
If I get an outdoor rug, do I have to vacuum it?
Or do I need an outdoor vacuum?
Do I want to food-shop for an outside refrigerator, too?
Where will I lose the remote for the outside TV?
Hint: check the azalea.
And what’s next, moving the bathroom outside?
Oh wait. We used to have outside bathrooms, but we brought them inside.
Back when we were sane.
Bottom line, is it really a good idea to construct a second house in the backyard of the first one?
The thought makes me tired.
I’m going outside to lie down.
On the grass.
The ultimate outdoor carpet.
Milestone or Millstone?
Lisa
By the time you read this, I will have turned sixty,
and my birthday will have passed.
Hopefully, I won’t have passed, too.
I can’t say I’m delighted about this birthday. It’s not that I hate aging, it’s that I hate dying.
This feeling caught me by surprise. Generally, I love my birthday because it always involves chocolate cake.
But now I’m wondering if the cake is compensation for my death, in which case, we need to do better.
Oddly, I didn’t realize I was having negative feelings until I got the idea to renovate my kitchen.
Let me explain.
You may remember that a few years ago I planted a perennial garden, which has somehow survived all the beginner mistakes I made. For example, first I watered it too little, then I watered it too much, so much in fact that I broke an underground water pipe.
Backhoes were called. It adds a whole new dimension to gardening when you bring in the heavy equipment.
A much prettier view than stainless steel
Not to mention expense. I don’t want to think about how much that garden cost. After I soaked the flowers, they soaked me.
But the thing is that the garden is now going gangbusters, though most of it is weeds, but that is neither here nor there.
The point is, I like to look at the garden, but there’s no window that looks out onto the garden from my kitchen. The only windows that overlook the garden are on either side of the oven. I want to look at flowers, but I’m looking at stainless steel.
So lately I found myself wishing that I could replace the oven with a window or maybe even a door, then I could not only see the garden all the time, but go out into it. And maybe if I put a little flagstone patio there, I could have a cup of coffee and maybe write outside, in my garden.
Plus the garden colors are so gorgeous, with pink primrose, yellow coreopsis, and purple delphinium. And stainless steel is, well, gray.
Like my roots.
I investigated the cost of renovating the kitchen, and while it wasn’t massive, it was a chunk of change that left me wondering, can you spend that money on a kitchen, when you’re turning sixty?
Shouldn’t I be saving it for retirement?
Or at the very least, a walker?
Do people my age renovate their houses? Will we live long enough to see the renovation? Are we still even buying green bananas anymore?
I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places Page 8
