News flash, chickens like club sports.
The hens sat on the golf balls all day long, and I couldn’t get the balls from them without being pecked, and when I succeeded, the balls were so hot they were practically hard-boiled.
Yum. Cooked Titleist.
Yet again, I went back to the Internet and found out that you could buy a fake wooden egg that was guaranteed to train chickens out of eating their own eggs, so I ordered a few.
And it worked!
Today my fake egg yielded a real egg.
Evidently, I tricked my chickens.
That makes me the trickiest chick of all.
Anniversary
Francesca
Exactly one year ago, I was assaulted in my neighborhood.
It’s not the sort of anniversary you want to celebrate, but one you can’t help but remember.
During the attack, I believed the stranger could kill me. Thankfully, I escaped only badly beaten and robbed. My assailant was never caught.
In the months following, I dealt with some of the typical posttraumatic psychological issues. But my most lingering fear wasn’t that I would be attacked again.
I was afraid of becoming a different person.
I liked myself before the assault, and I was afraid of becoming a fearful person, damaged, weak.
Now a year has passed, and I am a different person.
I’m a better person.
I have a greater love and compassion for myself. I was confronted with my human frailty—the parts that bruise and the wounds that can’t be seen. But what I feared would break me didn’t, and it gave me a greater belief in my own strength and resilience.
I have greater empathy. I am kinder to strangers. I know bad things happen, and I don’t assume the person next to me is immune.
I even have empathy for the person who was so desperate and misguided that he resorted to violent crime for extra cash. I’ve forgiven my attacker. His world is undoubtedly uglier and more frightful than I could ever imagine.
And I have a greater love for my neighborhood. I still live on the street where my blood stained the sidewalk, but I’d never consider moving. One could call that cognitive dissonance, but I disagree. Yes, this is the place where I was hurt, but more important, this is the place where I was healed.
My neighbors aren’t just the people who live next door, they’re the people who called the police, or who walked their dogs with me at the same time of evening. They’re the doormen of other people’s buildings who wave to me every night. They’re the ones who made me feel happy and safe again.
And yes, I do live with more fear. I was humbled by it, and as a result, I’m less trusting of strangers and more vigilant of my surroundings.
But that doesn’t take away the rest. My fear does not eclipse my strength, or my empathy, or my love of my neighbors. Despite the darkness I know exists, I find daily joy and light in the world. That the two coexist makes the goodness even sweeter.
Still, I had my eye on the calendar, wary of any unexpected emotions that might rear up as I approached that anniversary of violence.
Then, just one week shy of my one-year mark, I was stunned and horrified along with the rest of our nation when a far more heinous act of violence exploded in an Orlando nightclub and into our collective consciousness.
This was brutality on a terrifying scale. A massacre. The worst terrorist attack since 9/11. A hate crime. It was every horrible form of hatred, bigotry, and obscene violence at once.
Watching its aftermath, we witnessed trauma on a national stage. The profound trauma of the victims rippled outward to their loved ones, friends and family, coworkers, acquaintances, the LGBTQ community, allies, Floridians, Americans, and beyond.
Now, we are grieving. So many innocent and beloved people’s lives were stolen and cannot be replaced. There is no salve for the pain of their loss, no silver lining to this tragedy, and no easy takeaway message. We can only try to comfort each other.
I attended a vigil for the Orlando victims outside of the civil-rights landmark, The Stonewall Inn. Gay people are some of my best friends and family, and I wanted to pay my respects to the lives lost and the LGBTQ community at large. Stonewall is in my neighborhood. These people are my neighbors. We are a community.
The enormous crowd stretched down Christopher Street and across Seventh Avenue. Many held signs with expressions of love and tolerance. The speakers talked of connection and unity. Together we mourned as the names of the forty-nine victims were read. It was heartbreaking and beautiful and powerful.
I’ll never forget it.
Claim love
But a year from now, when the date stands out in our mind, a blot on the calendar, I wonder, how will we be different?
How will we as a country, as a community of Americans, be changed?
The fear is real. Trauma will leave its mark. But it doesn’t have to change us for the worse. We can be weathered but not hardened.
I hope we can come together to protect and heal those in pain, to prove the resilience of our American values of freedom, equality, and tolerance, and to grow in love and empathy.
A year from now, let’s be the country where we were healed.
Batter Up!
Lisa
It was last summer that I got major news.
Specifically, it was major-league news.
I’m was going to throw out the first pitch at a Phillies game.
The game was on August 20, when the Phillies played the Cardinals, which was Ladies’ Night. Francesca and I were both there, meeting and greeting Ladies before I feared I’d make a fool of myself in front of both genders.
(As you read this, it has happened already, but let me continue as if it hasn’t, to give you that you-are-there feeling. Because I WAS THERE!)
It was the day that baseball changed forever.
How often do you think varicose veins show up on the pitcher’s mound?
Exactly.
This is Virgin Varicose Territory.
Before I explain how this amazing event came about, let me first state the obvious. This is a huge honor for a hometown girl like me, and I’m very grateful to the Phillies. When I first got the news, my instant reaction was incredible excitement, and my second reaction was:
What do I wear?
Well, it’s Ladies’ Night, and I think like a Lady.
But also I think like a Middle-Aged Lady who realizes that it’s hot in August and that means I can’t wear my fleece sweatshirt and fleece sweatpants, which Francesca affectionately calls my teddy-bear clothes.
And that means that I have to wear shorts, displaying to advantage my thigh cellulite, wrinkly knees, and aforementioned varicose veins, running up and down my legs like I-95.
At some point, we Ladies become Google Maps.
I am now Driving Directions.
The only good thing is that the game isn’t until August 20, which gives me more than enough time to lose fifty pounds.
Or maybe five.
Or one.
Plus, I have to learn to pitch by then.
No problem.
I looked it up, and the distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate is sixty feet six inches, so I’m pretty sure that I can get the ball over the plate if I stand six inches away.
l want to make a good showing for Ladies everywhere, so when I got the news that this was actually happening, I did the first thing most Ladies would do.
Go shopping.
In order to practice my pitch, I needed a ball and a baseball mitt, though at one point in my life I had both. But my ball and baseball mitt went the way of my sanitary belt, and probably for the same reason:
Who needs it?
So I went out to the store to buy a ball and a baseball mitt, where I was the only sixty-year-old in the aisle trying on baseball gloves.
I picked out a black mitt because it’s slimming.
Also it was a Ladies’ mitt because it has pink laces.
Actua
lly, I don’t think that’s sexist, or even if it is, it’s not the end of the world, because pink is my favorite color.
You know the joke, there are two times in a woman’s life when she likes pink—the first time is when she’s six years old and the second time is when she’s in menopause.
Wrong on both counts, pink haters.
For me, menopause is a memory.
And now I don’t remember.
It’s like sex, that way.
To return to point, I didn’t have to buy a jersey, or T-shirt, or whatever you call the thing that baseball players wear on top because the Phillies are actually providing me a Phillies baseball jersey that will have my own name on the back.
How cool is that?
Ladies love personalized items.
Just ask Frontgate.
By the way, the Phillies asked me what number I wanted on the back of my jersey. I instantly thought 60, for obvious reasons, but the numbers don’t go that high.
Also I didn’t want to advertise my waist size.
LOL.
So then I chose number 1, because all Middle-Aged Ladies should be number 1 in their own mind, even if we are number 293874646828238 in the world’s mind.
But number 1 was already taken.
Probably by some egomaniac.
So I chose 2.
I try harder.
And I always will.
See you at the game, Ladies.
And thanks, Phillies!
Diaper Genie
Lisa
I just bought diapers.
For Ruby The Crazy Corgi.
Before I explain, let me warn you. If you’re squeamish, stop reading now. Go read something else.
Preferably one of our other books.
Or enjoy life some other way.
It’s up to you.
This is America.
Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, if you’re truly squeamish about things like poop and peepee.
By the way, before we even begin, let me mention something about things scatological.
(That’s an SAT word for poop and peepee, in case you didn’t know. I wanted to save you the trouble of looking it up. Because I want to make your life easier. I care, people.)
I honestly don’t understand why people get squeamish about bodily functions, and I will say now, even though men might write me nasty emails, that I think this is gender-related. Because I have never known a woman to be that squeamish about poop and peepee, undoubtedly because we started changing diapers first. I know that men change diapers, too, but I bet they come to it after the seal’s broken, and by that point, they know they’re not allowed to express their squeamishness or they will get yelled at.
And then, in time, they get cured.
The cure for squeamishness is Get Over Yourself.
And nothing teaches Get-Over-Yourself faster than being a parent.
Anyway, if having a baby doesn’t cure you of squeamishness, a dog or cat will. If you own a pet, or a pet owns you, you will get up close and personal with poop, peepee, and whatever glop they’re hocking up on your rug, bed, or foot.
So what’s happening with Ruby is that, as she got older, she developed degenerative myelopathy, a back disorder that paralyzed her hind end. She uses a doggie cart to get around, and she’s otherwise happy and healthy. The vet told me the odds were that she would not become incontinent.
Proof that you should not take me to a casino.
Especially if you’re going to play craps.
Because I’ve been knee deep in the stuff, cleaning up when Ruby poops and pees on rugs, floors, and even her doggie cart.
What’s a mother to do?
I tried to anticipate when she would go to the bathroom and I put her outside in the backyard at those times, but that didn’t work. A dog’s poop schedule is as predictable as a presidential primary election.
Not that these two things are related.
End of political discussion.
I went to the pet store and got special diapers they make for dogs, but the small-dog-size diaper was too small. Corgis may have short legs, but they’re bootylicious.
I returned to the store and got the bigger size, and though it fit her butt, it was too big to use with her cart.
Ruby is the Goldilocks of paralyzed dogs.
Also, the tape strips on the doggie diapers weren’t very adhesive. They may have been strong enough for a chihuahua, but for a corgi, you need duct tape.
Don’t think I didn’t try that.
You haven’t lived until you’ve duct-taped a diaper on a dog.
The problem was that she required three diaper changes a day, necessitating a new duct-taping every time, and you may recall that I have a full-time job.
Those books you should be reading aren’t going to write themselves.
So then I decided to try regular baby diapers, but before I went to the store, I went online to the Pampers website to get an idea for sizing. The webpage said, “Need help finding your baby’s size? Tell us his age, size, and weight!”
Unfortunately, there was no setting for a twelve-year-old handicapped corgi.
I couldn’t even understand from the website which sizes the Pampers came in, except that there were flashy new lines named Cruiser and Swaddler.
I was looking for Pooper.
But they didn’t have them, either.
So I went to the store, where, long story short, I gave up on the Pampers altogether and went for the Depends because they didn’t have any tape and seemed like they’d fit Ruby better.
I bought them in the self-checkout.
I didn’t want to hear myself say to a cashier, “They’re not for me, they’re for my dog.”
Then I took them home and put them on her, easy as pie.
Did they work?
It depends.
So far, so good.
But don’t call them diapers, call them adult underwear.
Or adult dog underwear.
Princess Ruby and her royal carriage
And they have Fit-Flex, so they “move with you”—or your corgi.
They’re a “neutral peach color,” which matches Ruby’s fur.
And they fit in her doggie cart.
So we’re rolling.
Problem solved.
And whatever adult underwear is left over, I know I’ll use myself.
Someday.
Or when I sneeze.
One-Piece of Mind
Francesca
My friend invited me to her birthday at Rockaway beach in May, but I didn’t exactly have my summer body back yet.
That usually takes until Labor Day.
So I had disproportionate what-to-wear anxiety. In my bedroom, I tried on every bikini I owned. None fit me the way I liked.
Or as it always is with bathing suits, I didn’t fit them the way I like.
Whether I had actually gained weight or it was all in my head, the effect was the same: dread.
Like most women, I’ve always had a complicated relationship with two-piece suits.
When I was a preteen, I was dying for a bikini. I hassled my mom constantly to let me get one. One-pieces were for little girls, and I wanted to be grown-up.
When I turned thirteen, I got one. It was white and had little embroidered yellow daisies along the edges. I absolutely loved it.
I just didn’t love it on me.
That bathing suit did not transform me into the gorgeous sixteen-year-old I wanted to be. Instead, it showed me I had a little potbelly and not-quite-there breasts.
My body confidence has gone up and down since then, but two things have remained true:
I’ve never felt 100 percent great in a bikini, but I never went back to the one-piece.
Wearing a one-piece has always struck me as an admission of defeat. A capitulation to the notion that only certain bodies are “bikini-ready.”
Anybody who wants to wear a bikini is bikini-ready, damn it!
At the same time,
maybe wearing a revealing two-piece is capitulating to sexual objectification. I don’t have to serve myself up on a platter to every man with eyes. They have to earn it!
But what if the reason I want to wear a one-piece is because I feel bad about my belly?
Not exactly stickin’ it to the patriarchy.
I’m so confused how to be a feminist at the beach.
We live at a particularly excruciating moment of feminism, where as young women, we are aware of a more progressive stance on body positivity, yet we were raised in and still live in a sexist society.
It’s not easy to hit the eject button on deeply ingrained beauty norms.
What if I’m a feminist who wants to look hot?
What if I’m body-positive but still struggle with body-confidence?
How do you snooze on the beach when you’re woke?
I was still unsure, but all I knew was I felt miserable in these bikinis. I decided to buy a one-piece to have the option.
Browsing the styles, I remembered that women have one get-out-of-body-guilt-free card:
Breasts.
If God didn’t want us to flaunt them, She wouldn’t have put them out in front.
Sisters of the one-piece [credit: Maureen O’Connor]
So I chose a simple, black one-piece with a plunging neckline that laced up.
A good compromise between classy and trashy.
The bottom of the suit had a high-cut leg, very Bo Derek.
I get why we bailed on white girls wearing cornrows, but why did we ever abandon this style?
It’s much more flattering than having the elastic cut across the mushiest part of your hip. My legs looked super long.
I could get used to this.
When the beach party rolled around, I wore my new one-piece with cutoff shorts and a gauzy white button-down. I felt good. Even sexy.
I was so emboldened, I ate breakfast.
So I get to the party and what’s the first thing I see? Another guest wearing almost an identical black, lace-up, one-piece.
Was I mad?
Not in the slightest.
Women’s empowerment doesn’t exist without sisterhood.
World Police
Lisa
I’m exhausted from my relaxation.
Let me explain.
We begin with the fact that I’m on deadline, which means that I’m counting minutes.
Literally.
When I’m on deadline, I don’t do anything social, and the only time I take off from work is to exercise, because I think it’s good to keep blood flow to my brain so I can write better.
I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool Page 7
