So I pulled the car over, parked in the turn lane, and put on my blinker, then jumped out and started yelling, “Stop!”
I think I was yelling to the cars, like, “stop, don’t kill me!” or “stop, don’t kill the baby geese!” or maybe even “stop me from doing something stupid like this, because I’m older and should know better!”
But the general idea was STOP.
I ran across the two lanes toward the geese but there were two cars coming toward me. I told myself not to worry, that I was plainly visible and I was waving my arms like a madwoman and any idiot could see what the problem was. One of the cars slowed to a stop, evidencing respect for human and avian life, but the other one not only didn’t stop, but actually drove around me without even slowing down.
I cursed, at decibel level.
The other car honked.
So did the geese.
Unfortunately they also scattered in about twenty-five different directions, all over the road.
I tried to shoo them back to the curb and a few of them went, but they freaked as more and more cars started arriving on the scene, most of them stopping but many not even breaking stride at the sight of a middle-aged woman on the eve of her birthday, frantically trying to convince random geese to obey her when her own dogs will not.
Luckily, the geese started to get the idea, fleeing away from me, the yelling drivers, and racing cars, and they waddled back to the grass where they had been, then I ran back across the street to my car. But I was worried that they were going to try to cross again and I knew I needed help.
My law-enforcement specialty is dogs-in-hot-cars, not geese-trying-to-commit-suicide.
So I called my good friends at 911.
Don’t think I take this lightly because I know emergencies are a serious thing, but I thought this qualified, and I am newly deputized to protect all animal life.
Still I half expected the dispatcher to answer, “Lisa, again?”
Or, “Don’t you ever mind your own business?”
But they didn’t, and they sent out a police car, with the happy ending that the geese were saved and I was able to complete my bike ride.
I didn’t even fall down.
Or get run over.
It might’ve been the best birthday ever.
And I’m taking cake to the cops.
Pushed Around
Lisa
You know what a cutlet is?
Men think it’s something you eat for dinner.
But women know better.
For those of you without estrogen, a cutlet is a piece of fake-cotton padding in a bra.
And all of a sudden, cutlets are everywhere, aren’t they?
I say this because I went online shopping for bathing suits, which taught me many new things about the world of fashion.
Before I begin, let me explain why I was shopping online for bathing suits instead of going to a store.
Exactly.
That requires no explanation.
There is nothing that will kill your soul faster than going into an actual fitting room and trying on bathing suits in the horrible fluorescent lighting, hoping that the store surveillance system does not include some unlucky schmo whose job it is to watch you squeeze your cellulite into what is allegedly a medium.
Enough said.
Plus I don’t care what the bathing suit looks like. I know my size, the aforementioned medium, and all I want is a simple two-piece bathing suit so I can doggie-paddle around in my pool. And yes, I wear a two-piece because it’s fun to run around half-naked, especially if your only audience is four Cavalier King Charles spaniels and a handicapped corgi.
I doggie-paddle with doggies.
Anyway, my old bathing suit was looking crappy, so I decided to get a new bathing suit and went online shopping. I clicked around, found some decent two-piece suits, added them to my online shopping cart, then went to check out. But when I double-checked the order, I found that I had ordered bathing-suit tops, but no bottoms.
What?
I went back to the webpage, where I realized that nowadays, bathing-suit tops are sold without bottoms.
Why?
I had just assumed that a bathing suit included a top and a bottom.
Because I’m normal.
Who buys a top without a bottom?
My first thought was, people are having way too much fun in summer.
Then I realized that it was probably because people wanted to get different sizes for different body parts, and I guess that’s progress, but then the website didn’t even suggest which bottom went with which top. In fact, under each bathing-suit top, there was the standard shopping suggestion, IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE, but the suggestions were for cover-ups, not for the correct bottom to the top.
Which left me completely confused.
Normally I’m a sucker for IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE, not to mention PEOPLE WHO LIKE THIS ALSO BOUGHT, but perhaps I’m putting too much faith in PEOPLE.
Anyway, to make a long story short, it turned out there was a whole separate section on the website for bathing-suit bottoms, and I spent the next hour trying to find a bottom for the top, whether it matched or not, which is another new thing.
In the olden days, the top of the bathing suit matched the bottom.
But no longer.
All this progress.
Now we get to design our own bathing suits.
What happened to keep it simple, stupid?
And oddly, none of the bottoms that remotely matched was in stock—though all of the tops were, which I cannot begin to understand or explain.
Who’s buying more bottoms than tops?
Whatever the reason, it made shopping for bottoms a pain in the bottom.
(I kept that joke clean for you.)
And it also proved that shopping for bathing suits online could be just as soul-killing as shopping in an actual store.
A bricks-and-mortar store.
Because evidently, bricks-and-mortar goes together more certainly than top-and-bottom.
To stay on point, when the bathing suits arrived, each of them had cutlets in the tops, which I removed instantly, on principle.
If I wanted a push-up bra, I would’ve ordered one.
I mean, what’s the point?
Do I have to look busty for my dogs?
(By the way, Busty is a great word and a great dog name, which never happens.)
Or are we supposed to hide our nipples?
World, we have nipples.
Deal with it.
I thought it was ironic that tops came with cutlets but not with bottoms.
Maybe the idea was that you wear the cutlets as a bottom?
Tape two together, front and back.
Like a fig leaf made of Lycra.
Anyway, I’m not a cutlet fan.
Cutlets are not just for dinner anymore.
Can’t a woman catch a break?
Isn’t there any time we don’t have to worry about what we look like?
I say the time is now.
Every woman deserves to relax, especially in July, floating around half-naked in front of dogs or people.
That’s the very definition of summer.
Ladies, throw away your cutlets.
Don’t let anybody push you around.
Or up.
Beach Bums
Francesca
People-watching on the beach is a time-honored tradition. Looking at the ocean is our communal alibi, sunglasses are the universal disguise, but we all know what we’re up to. But despite the smorgasbord of humanity that parades past, there are certain beach bums who show up in one form or another every time. See if you’ve ever run into one of these characters, or if you happen to be reading this on the beach, let’s play a little game of I Spy …
The DJ. This is the person who thinks they’re doing you a favor by pumping their crappy music through crappier plastic speakers. Because why would you want to enjoy the sounds of the
waves or children laughing when you can listen to Top 40 music from two seasons ago remixed to the speed of a jump-rope workout? Do not attempt to engage the DJ by politely requesting they turn it down—these people are overgrown teenagers, any attempt to educate them will only inspire defiance. The only recourse is to give them a withering gaze over your sunglasses as you gather your things to find a new towel spot.
The Wipeout Artist. This person is an ER visit waiting to happen. A frat bro doing backflips into shallow water. A teenage girl practicing wobbly round-offs on packed sand. A kid venturing into rough surf with a boogie board twice his size. Whatever they’re doing, it looks like a bad idea. You watch with a mixture of motherly concern and schadenfreude.
The Smoker. Smokers, I get it. We’ve precluded you from smoking in all your favorite places, restaurants, bars, airports. I’ll anticipate your argument: nobody owns the beach! Who are we, holier-than-thou nonsmokers to say you can’t enjoy a few puffs as we all pee in the ocean? You have a point. But the charm of a day at the beach is the natural beauty and the fresh sea air. And it’s a bummer when you see a little kid making a sandcastle with a Marlboro chimney.
The Mammarelle. This term might be exclusive to Italian-American dialect, but you know who I mean: the little old lady who stands at the edge of the surf. She hasn’t updated her swimwear since the days when they called it a “bathing costume,” but she doesn’t care; time has washed away all fashion and body insecurities, thank God. Either she can’t swim, or she doesn’t swim, but she surely has no fear—she stands, still and unflinching, as huge waves crash or a body-boarder swerves around her or a football whizzes by her head. Her activities are limited to gently crouching and splashing water on her thighs, disapproving of children, and staring out at the horizon with the wisdom of the ages. She is as salty as the sea itself. I want to be her.
The Missing Link. This guy has a back so hairy, it looks like he’s wearing a fur cape. To be completely honest, I love this guy. I never make fun of him. Human enjoyment of the beach is so pure, it feels primal. We’re all animals, this guy especially, and we should all feel free to enjoy the breeze on our skin and the sun on our shoulders. He’s a symbol of body acceptance we could all stand to emulate.
Disclosure: I once dated a guy in college who had the furriest back and shoulders, and I shaved the back of his neck for him so that, in his words, “there would be a break” between his head hair and his back hair. Readers, if you have a son or brother who is single, think of this and what a nice girlfriend I can be.
The Bad Parent. If you sit at the beach long enough, you’re gonna see somebody smack their kid. Then you have to decide whether saying something will make it better or worse. Here’s the thing, kids at the beach are going to kick sand, and steal toys, and not come in from the surf when you tell them to, they’re kids! My theory is that parents feel more on display at the beach, so they overreact to their children’s misbehavior. The irony is, the fear of judgment that makes them react harshly is exactly what incurs that judgment from others. My request to the bad parent is this: if I promise to give you the benefit of the doubt this one time, will you please find a better way to discipline your kid?
The Lovers. Honestly, I’m more grossed out by these people than the hairy guy. Look, you already get to be nearly naked and lying down next to each other. You even get to lube each other up with suntan oil. I will allow a few kisses on top of all that. But if you need MORE erotic interaction than what I just listed, please, for the sake of the children, go home.
The Space Invaders. Um, hi, we’re right here, in case you didn’t notice. I think you did notice, because you just kicked your sandy flip-flops off onto my blanket. Your cooler just nudged my head. Your bag of chips just tipped over onto my magazines. You know I am here. More importantly, you know I was here first. So please, just acknowledge me and my personal space so we can work this out. On a crowded beach, a simple, “is this okay?” turneth away wrath.
The Loud Talker. A beach is not a library, it’s the great outdoors, knock yourself out! The beach is a symphony of sound: the crashing waves, the propeller airplanes, the children squealing in the surf, their mothers calling to them. But there are some people whose voices cut through the din like a squawking seagull. You try to refocus on the page of your book—maybe even this book!—but you can’t ignore them. You’re transformed into an unwilling eavesdropper, listening to a boring story about their mother-in-law or the football game or lunch plans or Susan’s divorce. (Susan, I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re better off.) I don’t know if it’s the volume of their voice or the timbre or the direction of the wind. The truth is, it isn’t their fault, but I blame them for it anyway.
The Angel Child. Maybe it’s just me and my ovaries going “knock knock, anybody home?” but I always get fixated on one magical child at the beach. Last time it was a family with three kids under age six who squeezed in next to me and my friend. I confess, when I first saw them setting out their things so close to us, I worried this was too many kids-per-square-foot of sand, but these kids were a dream. The older brother and sister played nicely with one another, but the youngest was the sweetest of all. She sat under the umbrella with her dad and watched her siblings, squeezing the sand in tiny fistfuls, her hair in little beaded braids, her head as perfect and round as a marigold. Later, we gathered our things to go home, I stopped to tell their mother how sweet her kids were and that “anyone should be so lucky” to sit next to her family at the beach.
That’s the wonderful thing about the beach, it’s big enough to fit everyone, no matter their wacky habits and body-hairstyles, without bothering anyone too much. Any petty irritation is outweighed by our common goal—to relax and let the sun, sand, and water ease summertime into our bones.
Even better than watching beach bums is becoming one yourself.
Work Zoned
Lisa
Francesca and I just returned from book tour, driving to bookstores in Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and Cape Cod. It was wonderful to meet our readers, and the only downside of the tour was the fault of the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission.
Let me explain.
I’m not the bravest driver in the world, especially when I’m crossing the Bay Bridge in Maryland. In fact, Francesca drove us over the bridge while I was in the passenger seat, driving myself over the deep end.
I would like to meet the person who designed the Bay Bridge, which zooms straight up into the clouds, veers left at a seagull, reaches heaven, then plunges back down again, barely skimming the top of the briny deep.
It’s not a bridge, it’s a roller coaster.
I had been dreading the Bay Bridge since before the tour started, when I looked at Google Maps, determined that we had to cross the bridge, then noticed an article reporting the bridge was so terrifying that there’s a service whereby people will drive your car over the bridge for you.
While you pee yourself in the backseat.
The cost for this service is $25, but I would’ve paid $250, though unfortunately, the service has to be booked a few months in advance because sanity still exists.
I wish I could meet the people who booked the service. I feel sure that my future ex-husband would be among them.
So Francesca got us over the bridge, but I took the wheel when we crossed into Pennsylvania, where I got mad at my own Commonwealth. Because when I wasn’t looking, the Turnpike Commission raised the speed limit to 70. Of course, if the speed limit is 70, everyone’s going 75 and even 80, with the result that your favorite author (me), was doing 55 in the slow lane.
Because I still remember 55 Stay Alive.
In fact, I could find statistics that prove that there are fewer accidents at a speed limit of 55, but I can’t look it up right now as I am still shaking from driving on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.
Anyway, you don’t need statistics when you have common sense, and it makes sense that if you drive slower, you’re less likely to have an accident. Or
if you have an accident, it’s less likely to be one that turns you into middle-aged road pizza.
In any event, you can imagine how the trip through Pennsylvania went, as I drove in the slow lane doing a completely sensible 55, but was nevertheless honked, tailgated, and given the finger 55 times, which I’m pretty sure was a coincidence.
Needless to say, my beloved daughter watched cars passing us with increasing horror. “Mom,” Francesca said, “you have to speed up.”
“No, I refuse.”
“But this isn’t a safe speed.”
“Incorrect. I’m the only one going a safe speed. Every other single person on the highway is going an unsafe speed.”
Mutual unhappiness ensued.
The only time I felt relaxed was when when we drove through a work zone, where the speed limit lowered to 40 and everyone else drove at snail’s pace, too.
World Order, restored.
I love the work zone. I would live in the work zone if I could. Orange really is the new black.
Everyone else complains about highway construction.
I pray for it.
Otherwise, I felt most scared by big trucks, and when I saw them behind me, I would put on my hazard lights to let them know that I was a nervous author driving at a speed limit that doesn’t exist anymore.
Some of them passed me, but others rode my bumper, flashed their lights, and gunned their engines, and I can’t tell you that I thought nice things about them. That is, until a lovely woman at one of our signings said that she loved our books and also that she was a trucker.
She bought a book, and I liked truckers all over again.
I’m easy that way.
But by the end of the trip, which also took us over the Falls River Bridge in Massachusetts, as well as the Bourne and the Sagamore Bridges in Cape Cod, I hated driving altogether. Even when Francesca was doing the driving, which she was, in all of the above.
So this is my message to my amazing daughter, who showed skill and courage behind the wheel:
We survived thanks to Francesca!
Thank you.
And this is my message to the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission, who made me feel unsafe on the roads of my very own state:
Okay, forget it, I’ll keep it clean.
I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool Page 9
