I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool

by Lisa Scottoline

  The problem is that for nearly a year, we didn’t pay any dues, though not for lack of trying.

  The first time, the club president said it was a month before the end of their membership year, so he insisted we wait to buy in at the next meeting.

  But we didn’t go to the very next meeting. We went a few months later and offered again to pay, but the treasurer wasn’t there that night, and whomever we spoke to was worried he’d lose track of our twenty bucks.

  After that, we felt so guilty for singing for free and mooching the refreshments of Nilla wafers and apple juice, we wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  The treasurer still resisted. “Well, it’s the middle of the season, so I could prorate your dues…”

  “Don’t worry about it, really,” I pleaded. “I’m happy to pay, we want to support.”

  “All right then. And if you both join today, you can save money with a joint membership.”

  “Sure.” Anything to get him to agree and alleviate our guilt.

  We paid in cash. Then he told us to fill out a form to get our membership cards and monthly newsletter, The Palace Peeper.

  With great pride, he informed us, “We send out a proper paper newsletter—not a virtual one on the email.”

  To be fair, I sound like this when I talk about Snapchat. Time comes for us all.

  It was only when we were filling out the form later that I saw there was space for only one address.

  “Oh no, I think they think we’re married,” I said to my friend.

  “Nah, you just have to write small.”

  We looked at each other for a beat, brows furrowed.

  I know, what did I think joint membership meant? A platonic, bring-a-friend discount? I can only say our misunderstanding was genuine. I’m so single that married-people-perks don’t immediately come to mind.

  We certainly never said we were a couple.

  But then I started thinking … we do always attend meetings together.

  And after one meeting, in a discussion of cab-sharing with some other members, I said, “We live in the West Village.”

  I we’ed them!

  And at the Mikado sing-through last summer, they asked how we each came to love Gilbert & Sullivan, I recalled my friend’s answer:

  “We actually met our freshman year of college in a production of Pirates of Penzance. I was a pirate—”

  “—and I was a maiden,” I chimed in.

  “We got paired up for the Act 1 finale dance—”

  “—and he almost dropped me!”

  “I did, I almost dropped her. But we’ve been big fans ever since.”

  We told them our meet-cute.

  At that moment, I realized that we had accidentally scammed the Gilbert & Sullivan Society of New York, a group of perfectly lovely senior citizens.

  We are so going to hell.

  When it’s time to renew, I swear, we will definitely spring for two individual memberships. Right now, I’m too embarrassed to correct them.

  Someday, we’ll break it to them that we were never a couple and we won’t be giving birth to the next generation of modern, major, millennials.

  Maybe when they’re older.

  Adventures in Herpetology

  Lisa

  I have a new boyfriend.

  Unfortunately, he’s a snake in the grass.

  Literally, not figuratively.

  I divorced my figurative snakes.

  Let me explain.

  Spring has sprung, and last week on St. Patrick’s Day, I went out to my garden. I hadn’t done any gardening yet, which if you recall from last season, is not my forte.

  I started a perennial garden that’s perennially horrible.

  My problem seems to be one of excess, in that I do too much of everything. I don’t water plants, I waterboard plants.

  But hope springs eternal, just like weeds, and I went out to my garden last week to start all over again. The garden is right outside my front door, divided in two sides by my front walk, and it was mostly brown after winter. But it was green in spots, and I went into the garden and started to look really closely, to see if anything was growing.

  I thought I saw something moving, but I figured it was my imagination.

  So I looked closer.

  It wasn’t. It was a little green tip of something, sticking out from under a rock, and on impulse, I moved the rock.

  And freaked the hell out.

  Because right before me was a writhing mass of full-grown snakes.

  I ran screaming back into the house.

  By the way, recall that it was St. Patrick’s Day and the legend of St. Patrick is that he drove the snakes from Ireland.

  Evidently, he drove them into my garden, where they have taken up residence.

  I stood inside the house, shuddering and watching the spot where the snakes had been, but it was hard to see them from a distance. I couldn’t tell what kind of snakes they were, which worried me. If they were garter snakes, I could pretend that none of this had happened and go about my life.

  Of course, I was doubting that I would ever garden again.

  Or even walk to my front door.

  Not to mention that I’ve been thinking about adding a little room onto the front of my house that I’ve been calling the garden room, so that I could see the garden from the kitchen.

  Now I wasn’t sure I wanted to see the garden.

  Ever again.

  But if the snakes were poisonous, then I supposed I would have to call an exterminator, which I didn’t want to do. I like living things too much to kill them, even a snake.

  That’s just how I feel about animals.

  There are, however, a few people who remain excellent candidates for homicide.

  But I hear that’s against the law.

  To return to point, I got my courage up, went back outside, and stood at a safe distance to see what the snakes were up to. They were all gone except for one, slithering on top of the stone wall around the garden.

  At first he gave me the creeps, but the more I looked at him, the less scared I got of him. He was green and black, so I figured he was a garter snake and he wouldn’t try to kill me, so I wasn’t going to kill him. Then I took pictures and videos of him, and in short order, he became the most photographed snake in the world.

  If you don’t count certain politicians.

  Take your pick.

  My lips are sealed.

  Actually, they’re sssssssseealed.

  To make a long story short, I spent a lot of time watching that snake, and the next thing I knew, he was actually watching me.

  I’m not kidding.

  His face was turned in my direction, and his dark eyes looked at me directly, or as directly as they could, given that one eye is on the left side of his head and the other’s on the right.

  It’s not an attractive look for anybody but a snake.

  Plus he had a little red forked tongue, which he flicked in and out.

  Sexy.

  I mean, this was the Bradley Cooper of snakes.

  And you know what?

  I’m going to keep him.

  And in the end, maybe I turned out to be a great gardener.

  Because I grew snakes.

  The Scent of a Woman

  Lisa

  Did you hear about the new dating service?

  It works by smell.

  In other words, it stinks.

  Literally.

  It’s called “smell dating” and has a website all its own, which has a very large picture of nostrils.

  I’m not kidding.

  Don’t turn your nose up.

  In fact, it’s probably no worse a way to find a mate than the ways I found them, which led to Thing One and Thing Two.

  And two divorces.

  As I’ve said, I don’t regret the divorces.

  I regret the marriages.

  I didn’t notice the smell.

  But the flies did.

  Anyway, to sta
y on point, there is actually a new thing called smell dating, which advertises itself as “the first mail odor dating service.”

  Get it?

  And how it works is that you send the company twenty-five dollars and they send you a shirt to wear for three days and three nights, without deodorant.

  So far, so good.

  I have twenty-five dollars and I have been known to not change my shirt for three days and three nights.

  In fact, while we’re oversharing, I don’t wear deodorant anymore. Call me crazy but I don’t want to smear aluminum chlorohydrate, parabens, propylene glycol, triclosan, triethanolamine, and diethanolamine on my armpits.

  I save that stuff for my breasts.

  Just kidding.

  God intended me to sweat, and I like it that way.

  Lucky for me, everyone I live with feels the exact same way.

  Oh, wait.

  I forgot.

  I live alone.

  There is no relationship between these facts.

  It’s not my smell that compels my solitude.

  It’s my choice.

  Or maybe it’s my personality, but that’s neither here nor there.

  I know I’m not the only woman who doesn’t want to wear deodorant because I noticed that there’s a new company that has sprung up to market a natural deodorant made of charcoal.

  I’ve yet to do this. I’m not sure that smearing charcoal on my underarm is an improvement on perspiration.

  But it will come in handy in time for summer barbecuing.

  The truth is, I hardly sweat because I sit on my butt all day long and the only part of me that moves is my fingers.

  And when I do sweat, it smells like rainbows and rose petals.

  I know this because the dogs told me.

  Anyway, to stay on point, I always keep an eye out for news stories to report to you, and the smell-dating story caught my eye.

  And my nose.

  The way smell dating works is that after wearing the T-shirt, you return it to the company in a prepaid envelope and they send you ten swatches from Tshirts worn by other people, for three days and three nights without deodorant.

  Yes, you read that correctly.

  People are mailing their dirty laundry to each other.

  I’m hoping for the dating service that allows me to mail the company my dirty shirts, and they will wash them and send them back to me.

  Now if there was a guy who I could do that with, I would date him.

  But again, not how it works.

  After you smell the samples, you’re supposed to tell the company which sample you like.

  I know which sample I like.

  The guy who smells like chocolate cake.

  If someone whose smell you like happens to like your smell, then the company will allow you to exchange contact information and you can meet each other.

  At a bar.

  Of soap.

  I made that last part up.

  I don’t know if smell dating is a worse idea than any other, and I was curious about the research, so I turned to the website FAQ section and read the question: “I’m looking for a serious relationship, is this service for me?’

  Here is the answer:

  “The olfactory apparatus is a nontrivial source of information and the extent of its impact on our social lives is currently unknown.”

  Would you like me to translate?

  “We have no idea.”

  In other words, there may be no point to smell dating, at all.

  If you’re cynical, like some people we know (not me) (okay, me), you might think that the point would be the twenty-five dollars. After all, there might be enough smelly people who are also dumb enough to part with twenty-five dollars in order to get shreds of somebody else’s dirty laundry, in the vain hope of finding love, happiness, and joy.

  Or Cheer.

  But surprisingly, the company claims to be not-for-profit, and that its “finances are available upon request.”

  Should we request?

  I think so.

  Because something smells fishy.

  Pay the Troll

  Francesca

  To care about politics in the age of social media is to be a little angry all the time.

  If the twenty-four-hour cable news cycle wasn’t enough, Twitter and Facebook will help you find something new and enraging to click on 86,400 seconds a day.

  This primary election has been brutal. Even if you have a candidate you’re passionate about, especially if you do, the Internet can be toxic.

  Toxic yet alluring. Why is it so much more tempting to click on an article with a headline you abhor than one that you agree with?

  Lab mice are smarter than that.

  But I do it. I don’t generate many political posts myself, but I consume them, ravenously. And as a writer, I do enough stress-eating in front of the computer.

  Online rage isn’t cathartic, like yelling at a bad call on the football field, or “gesturing” at the cab that almost hit you in the crosswalk. You experience it alone, in silence, while holding a small, fragile, electronic device.

  A smartphone doesn’t have the heft of a pitchfork.

  Not that pitchforks belong in politics, but it seems many social media users are more interested in generating virtual angry mobs than productive political discourse, much less revolution.

  You can’t march in a straight line while looking down at your phone.

  The agita was getting to me, so I tried to reduce my Internet-induced bile.

  First, whenever I would see a political post that got my blood pumping, I’d recenter and pay it forward by retweeting a GIF of a kitten falling asleep, or a puppy doing a somersault, or any cute baby animal image I could find.

  The Internet’s greatest achievement is its catalogue of cute.

  Yeah, yeah, also the worldwide information exchange—but have you seen the GIF of the baby sloth handing a person a flower? It’s special.

  But cute couldn’t compete with the production line of click-bait hot takes and insulting memes.

  I tried “muting” or “unfollowing” those users who vehemently disagreed with me and following many more who shared my views, so that I could live in a peaceful bubble of validation.

  Yes, this is intellectually dissatisfying and goes against my belief in the value of varied opinions. But I might have stuck with it to get through this election, if only it had worked.

  Many of the strangers I agreed with online mainly wanted to vent their own rage to a receptive audience. They shared the most preposterous articles in order to point out the bias and falsehoods, and they retweeted the most offensive trolls to showcase their snarky retorts.

  The camaraderie of feeling in the trenches together came at the cost of feeling even more under siege.

  Echo chambers are still loud.

  I’m not interested in being right and proving others wrong. Political discussion has become so polarized, even within parties, that you can feel like you’re hated for your views—and that hurts.

  Or it infuriates.

  Then I had a novel idea: get off-line.

  My candidate was having a rally, and I decided to go by myself. I felt dorky and exposed, unused to having my political views out in the sunlight. But as I waited in line, I struck up a conversation with a fellow supporter. We gushed about our candidate, but also discussed how her brother supports the opponent. No one was angry about it.

  I was so moved by the positivity at the rally, I signed up to phone bank. Calling strangers is awkward, but when you’re talking human to human, even dissenters are pretty polite. And some of the supporters were so excited to get to the polls, despite hardships like caring for a sick spouse, or wrangling two kids under age six, or standing in line after a twelve-hour shift, I’d hang up the phone misty-eyed.

  I graduated to canvassing. Approaching strangers on the street goes against my training as a New Yorker, but after one tough day, I brought along the best icebreaker: my d
og. I crafted him a bandana with the campaign logo (the dork-ship has sailed) and had a great day talking to supporters.

  Volunteering has made me more invested in my candidate, and yet, I feel … happy?

  I’m reminded that politics is about community: people joining together to try to come up with the best answers to tough questions and the best ways to take care of each other.

  I prefer politics in person.

  Ball o’ Fun

  Lisa

  There’s a girl at my house having an orgy.

  But it’s not me.

  It’s my Susan The Snake, who lives in my garden with thirty of her new boyfriends.

  In fact, I just caught them having sssssssssex.

  I’m not making this up.

  Let me explain, because in all of my years writing about my misadventures in this house, this one is the most incredible.

  You will recall that I wrote previously about a garter snake that I discovered in my garden. I thought she was cute, and once I got over the initial heebie-jeebies, I liked having her around. I even took pictures and movies of her, because I thought she was interesting. I named her, like an idiot.

  Well, those days are over.

  Because I happened to walk down my front walk today and suddenly, on the flagstone landing was something I had never seen before in my entire life—a massive moving ball of live snakes, writhing all over each other.

  No, I wasn’t drinking.

  But I am now.

  I jumped back, screaming, and all of a sudden the snakes went in a million different directions, which was even scarier. I had no idea that snakes could move that fast, and they fled immediately for holes around the garden that I didn’t even know existed.

  I ran into the house, and Francesca happened to be home, so I did what any respectable mother would do.

  I fled into the arms of my daughter.

  Francesca gave me a hug, listened to my story, then we grabbed her phone to make a video. We both went outside, where she was much braver than I, so she filmed the snakes breaking up their snake ball. She thought the entire episode was incredibly cool.

  I did not.

  Instead, I went online to try to understand what I had seen, because that’s the way things are nowadays, wherein we require electronic means to understand Nature.