I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool

by Lisa Scottoline

  On the pen it read, Marriott Hotels.

  Go figure.

  And have a great school year.

  Girl Vitamin

  Francesca

  Why do men expect women to cure them?

  Is it the mom thing? It’s the mom thing, isn’t it?

  But why do we fall for it?

  I’m as guilty of it as anyone. I never date jerks. I date sensitive guys, men in touch with their needs and their feelings.

  They just aren’t in touch with mine.

  But I swear I’m not ferreting these men out, they aren’t needles in haystacks.

  They’re the hay.

  They’re everywhere! Every guy in black jeans thinks he’s Johnny Cash looking for his June to set him straight.

  The fantasy is twofold: that the man is the star, the lovably flawed hero of the story, and the woman is a supporting player, there to clean up his mess and set him on his destiny.

  It’s like the women’s movement got just far enough to convince men they no longer need to take care of us and stopped dead.

  Sure, it’s progress that wives no longer need to ask for allowances and call their husbands “Daddy.”

  But we didn’t work that hard to become Mommy and take care of our partners in perpetual boyhood.

  That isn’t empowerment; it’s women catering to the male ego from a different angle.

  Why is it so hard to find an equal partner?

  Maybe because we women convince ourselves this rescue fantasy is romantic.

  We’re conditioned to find male helplessness endearing. Like it’s a fun, prebaby challenge to our nurturing sides, or a roundabout way to ensure a man’s loyalty and devotion via total dependence.

  We’ve been sold a fairy tale of a damaged man who needs us desperately, from Mr. Rochester to Jerry Maguire.

  We’ve repeated, I’ve repeated, the same pattern of overfunctioning in relationships, then being shocked when the man doesn’t step up.

  I’m tired of the “you make me a better man” line.

  If a girl makes a guy feel like a better man, it’s probably because she washed the dishes he left in the sink.

  Listen, I’m not telling men they have to be perfect. We are all a work in progress.

  But women aren’t the construction workers and men the glorious monument. The building up and support has to go both ways.

  When I’m not exhausted by man-baby behavior, I’m actually a very nurturing person. I enjoy doting on my partner, and I try to be generous in all my relationships. I only want to find a man who won’t take advantage of it.

  Somehow, even when I explicitly try to avoid this dynamic, it sucks me back in.

  I started seeing a guy who was open about how he had often dated girls who needed him to fix them. And I thought, yes! Finally, a man who gets it.

  After all, it goes both ways. Just as women suffer from the Mr. Rochester trope, the damsel-in-distress narrative unfairly burdens men.

  I was ready to jump into a post-fairy-tale romance.

  But then he couldn’t stop talking about those exes. He compared me to them constantly:

  “You’re so different from…”

  “… used to always do that. But you’re nothing like her.”

  The only compliment he gave me that wasn’t relative to another woman was, “You’re exactly what I need.”

  It raised concerns, but I wrote them off. I admit, I was flattered. And I told myself that this was the sort of self-reflection in a man that I’d been looking for. That he happened to think aloud was unfortunate, but not a deal-breaker.

  Nobody’s perfect.

  I felt like we were stuck in our heads, well, his head, so for our third date, I suggested dinner and dancing to loosen up.

  We didn’t make it that far. Before they brought the check, he asked, “Should we talk about how this is going or just go dancing?”

  Post-fairy-tale indeed.

  I told him it sounded like a rhetorical question, but he insisted I go first. I brought up the ex-talk.

  “I feel like you’re viewing me in opposition to these other girls, like I’m the antidote. But I’m a person, too. I’m not a girl-vitamin.”

  He burst into laughter. He told me I was exactly right, that “girl vitamin” was “perfect” and “so apt.”

  He wagged a finger at me. “That’s why you’re a writer.”

  Thanks?

  He explained that he thought I would be good for him, that I’d break his bad habits with women, but “I guess I don’t feel that spark with you.”

  No thanks.

  So I have a message for all the men out there:

  Women don’t exist to complete or inspire or cure you.

  Women are not vitamins.

  Women are not muses.

  Women are not anchors.

  Women are not crutches.

  Women are not your mom.

  Loving us may make you happier, healthier, more motivated, or more responsible, but that’s not our sole reason for being.

  Take your vitamins.

  Then give us a call.

  Which Spices Would You Take to a Kitchen Island?

  Lisa

  There’s nothing like home improvement to improve your life.

  At least, not in theory.

  I say this because I’m adding a garden room to my house even though I don’t know if that’s a thing because I have a garden and I want to see it from a window.

  Like TV, only with flowers and butterflies.

  In other words, children’s TV.

  The garden room is attached to the kitchen and since it needed a door, the oven and cabinets had to be moved, and in any event, you see where this is going. Adding a garden room meant that a section of the kitchen got remodeled. Because the thighbone is connected to the leg bone and the leg bone is connected to the wallet.

  Anybody who’s ever started home improvement knows that as soon as you improve one thing, you have to improve other things, so that everything is New and Improved, like detergent, only much more costly.

  But I’m not complaining.

  I feel lucky to be able to make these changes, and since I work at home, I’m spending twenty-four/seven on the premises, I want the premises to suit me. And while we’re turning that frown upside down, let me add that since I’m still terribly single, it’s great to have everything exactly the way I want.

  Finally.

  And then I’ll die.

  My epitaph will read:

  HERE LIES LISA SCOTTOLINE

  DID SHE IMPROVE ENOUGH?

  To stay on point, remodeling the kitchen means that I’m starting to look hard at my priorities, namely, spices. Please tell me that I’m not on the only woman who owns approximately 75,932 spices, accumulated over decades, and that the spices are dusted off every decade, which is the only time they’re even touched.

  I’m looking at you, cardamom.

  How this came about is that when I moved the oven, I lost the shelf above it, which is where I kept the aforementioned spices, and that meant that I had to find the spices a new home or concede the obvious and throw them out.

  So I began to cast a skeptical eye at my spice rack.

  And it took me on a tour of my own life.

  Let’s begin with Marriage Rookie Enthusiasm.

  In that time period of my life, I had just married Thing Two, my daughter Francesca was young and I had two stepdaughters living at home. I wanted to be not only the best mother of all time, but also the best stepmother, so I instantly bought American Mom spices, which you use when you bake apple pie. You know the autumnal array of allspice, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.

  I made exactly one apple pie.

  Divorce ensued, but I got custody of the spices.

  Then it was just Francesca and me, and being Italian-American, I decided that I was going to make homemade tomato sauce, or gravy. Mother Mary made the best gravy ever, but she refused to give me the recipe because I was a lawyer.

&
nbsp; Don’t ask.

  I watched her do it and she always used onion salt, garlic salt, salt salt, and extra salt.

  No fresh spices were involved.

  Yet it was delicious.

  Still, I could never make gravy as good as she did, and in time I gave up, though I still have the garlic salt. I feel certain that Mother Mary approves, smiling down from heaven and hoping that the garlic salt has solidified into a sodium bullet.

  The next stage of my spice life was Francesca going to college, and that was when I decided I wasn’t going to act mopey because I was an empty nester, and believe me, I got over that fast.

  LOL.

  But in spice terms, that was the time of my Indian Awakening, an idea I got from a Williams Sonoma catalogue. I bought every Indian spice known to man, extending well beyond starter curry into garam masala, turmeric, and vadouvan. They came in round pots full of orange and yellow powders, like nightmare blusher.

  These were the coolest spices ever, but I never looked at them again because as an empty nester, I stopped cooking altogether.

  Which was coolest of all.

  This brings us to the present day, when the only spices I use are salt and pepper.

  They require neither shelf, rack, nor cabinet.

  They’re sitting alone together on the kitchen island, like survivors of a suburban shipwreck.

  Where they’ll stay until the next Williams Sonoma catalogue comes in the mail.

  Legends of the Fall

  Lisa

  My friends used to tell me, when you fall, you fall hard.

  They were talking about love.

  But they’re not anymore.

  I still fall hard, but this week it wasn’t about love.

  It was one of those little things that turns out to be a bigger thing, at least for me. I find life lessons in everything because I miss Oprah.

  To give you some background, this is what is happening in my life right now:

  The end of September is the deadline for my next book, construction on the new garden room, and my Eleventh Annual Book Club Party, for which one thousand two hundred book-club members will be coming through my house.

  Honestly, I’m not complaining. I like when things are hopping, but the problem is, so was I, literally.

  I was trying to hop over one of those indoor dog gates, and at the time, I was carrying a jar full of dog biscuits.

  Can we pause to reflect on what a great dog mom I am?

  Not only do I have stupid gates all over my house, but my errand was making sure that the dogs not be without their biscuits for one whole minute.

  Somebody must’ve put the dog cookie jar in the dining room, so I had to fetch it.

  I’m the only one in my house who fetches.

  The dogs sit on the couch and wait for room service.

  Anyway, I was bringing back the dog cookie jar and hopping over the dog gate when I tripped and went flying.

  For a brief moment I felt like Superwoman, but I landed like Wile E. Coyote.

  I fell flat on the hardwood floor and miraculously, the cookie jar did not break, but the dog biscuits came tumbling out. The dogs rushed immediately to my side, concerned about my health and welfare.

  Okay, what really happened was that the dogs rushed immediately to my side and began eating all the biscuits.

  I got up, dusted myself off, and let them lick the floor clean because who needs to sweep anything when you have five dogs.

  They keep house better than I do.

  But by the end of that night, my back was killing me.

  Coincidentally, at the time I was reading Amy Schumer’s book, The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo. And I became The Girl with the Lower Back Ache.

  I could barely walk, I couldn’t bend, and I couldn’t open the refrigerator door, so you know this was a catastrophe.

  A catastrophe caused by dogs.

  Ironic.

  I went immediately to my computer and started Googling bad medical information, which is like having a doctor who makes house calls, but is alcoholic.

  I spend more time on WebMD than most people spend on online porn.

  In fact, WebMD is my online porn.

  Who doesn’t want to date a doctor?

  Anyway, I gathered all the bad medical information to arrive at my own misdiagnosis, which was either that I had muscle strain or kidney cancer.

  I took the road less terrifying.

  Unfortunately, the treatment for muscle strain was to ice the area immediately.

  Too late.

  The treatment after the ice was heat.

  Now, right there, I need somebody to explain to me what it is with this hot-and-cold business. How can icing be the treatment in the first hour and heating be the treatment for the second? Maybe if we didn’t spend time icing it, we wouldn’t have to heat it.

  In any event, since I had missed the icing window, I went directly to heating, which was more fun. I was living with ThermaCare in the daytime and a heating pad at night and trying to finish my novel, clean my construction site, and get ready for the book-club party by my deadline, by which point I was pretty sure I would be dead.

  And all along, I kept thinking about falling. I started to become afraid to fall. I couldn’t afford another fall. I didn’t have time for a strained muscle or a broken bone. I used to worry about Mother Mary falling, and even though I’m not that old, I felt that old after because I was obsessing about falling. I started to wonder if I fell because I was rushing around trying to do too many things at once.

  Then I remembered that we had been working on balance in my yoga class, yet I still have the worst balance, and it struck me that maybe that was my problem.

  I don’t have good balance.

  I’m doing too much at once, and I need to get some balance in my life.

  Literally.

  Remember what I told you about the life lessons?

  Ta-da!

  So I resolve to get more balance in my life.

  After my deadline.

  Political Partisan Seeks Same

  Francesca

  I’ve become obsessed with this election.

  I won’t tell you whom I’m supporting—just assume I agree with you so you can get through reading this.

  I stay up late reading every new article and poll, my Twitter timeline reads like the watercooler at every major newspaper and not-so-major online rag, I listen to five different political podcasts on rotation, and I watch more cable news than your grandma.

  There’s only one area of my life left to get the political filter:

  I want a partisan boyfriend.

  If any guy wants to date me before November 8, we need to agree about this election.

  I’m not advocating for this, I’m merely confessing to it. To those in an interparty relationship, I tip my hat to you. You have your priorities straight.

  Well, one of you does.

  In general, I don’t think ill of the opponent’s supporters. Everyone has different needs, perspectives, and opinions, and I respect their views.

  I’m just not taking my clothes off for that view.

  So until November 9, I’m friend-zoning the other team.

  I need a break from the constant contentiousness, and it’s so much easier if we’re on the same page.

  Plus, what’s more attractive than a man who already admits you’re right?

  We can exchange eye rolls over the slanted coverage and share a laugh over all the same memes.

  Forget Netflix, I want to CNN and chill.

  We’ll watch the debates cuddled under a cozy blanket, and he’ll hold me during the scary parts. Then, when it’s over, the mood will be set—either by the thrill of victory or the frisson of the impending apocalypse.

  And my partisan boyfriend won’t criticize that hyperbole, because he’ll be right there with me.

  True love is being heavily biased in your partner’s favor.

  I’m not the only one who feels this way. Many dating
apps have offered photo filters and stickers to let you announce your fierce partisanship—but in a fun way!

  My friends who don’t want to turn their selfies into campaign propaganda instead mention their affiliation in their bios.

  I also have friends who subsequently took it out of their bios because they received too many hateful, trolling messages from fans of the other candidate.

  Women on dating apps expect to be harassed with lewd sexual come-ons, but partisan insults?

  Please, have some decency.

  Just as we may irrationally apply bad traits to those who disagree with us, I irrationally project good qualities onto those who share my views. I find myself Googling my favorite pundits and reporters’ marital status.

  Just my luck, my political crushes are gay or married. All the best pundits are taken!

  (Actually, one is single, and I hope he has noticed my pointed liking of all his tweets.)

  Recently, one of my friends helped host a fund-raiser for our candidate. I went to support the cause and take advantage of the target-rich environment for finding the ideologue of my dreams.

  I dressed as hot as is acceptable for the politically conscious. I aspired to look like Scandal’s Olivia Pope during Sweeps Week.

  Through my political beer-goggles, all the men there were attractive. They seemed smarter, more sensitive and thoughtful than most. I knew they respected me and my opinions, and I appreciated that. What better foundation for a relationship than shared goals and worldviews?

  And, wow, donating to a political campaign? That showed they cared about others and had disposable income. I was impressed.

  And I hadn’t even talked to one yet.

  Knowing we had at least one thing in common, I was more outgoing. I struck up a conversation with a well-dressed, sophisticated man standing by the cheese plate. We got to talking about campaign strategy.

  And at some point, through my fog of preapproval, I noticed he was lecturing me. He seemed to think he knew exactly what our candidate should do. He asked me only rhetorical questions to set up his next point. And he didn’t ask my opinion at all.

  I guess he thought he didn’t have to.

  I practiced my debate-podium smile as he speechified, but I was thinking he didn’t look sophisticated as much as he looked too old for me. He seemed more capable of pedantry than insight. I wondered if he was ever going to stop talking.