Where’s a good moderator when you need him?
Eventually, I escaped to the bar.
Election Day can’t come soon enough.
Twelve Hundred of My Closest Friends
Lisa
I have good news to report for the world.
People are awesome and getting even better.
How do I know this?
Because of a completely unscientific study conducted every October at my house, in the form of a massive party for complete and total strangers.
Here’s how it works.
As you may know, when I’m not writing fun stories like these, I write novels that involve murder, mayhem, and the Philadelphia suburbs.
They’re fictional.
Allegedly.
Specifically, I write three books a year; a standalone that published in April, one of these fun books with Francesca in July, and an installment in the Rosato & DiNunzio series, which comes out in August.
I’m the Jekyll and Hyde of authors.
Dark Lisa writes thrillers, and Light Lisa writes jokes.
So whatever your mood, read me.
I can make you happy or homicidal.
Just ask Thing One or Thing Two.
I’m happy to say that book clubs read my books, so to encourage and reward such exemplary behavior, Francesca and I host a party in October for book clubs who have read my last April book. The party is at my house, since Mother Mary taught me that the best way to show people that you care about them is to have them over and feed them carbohydrates.
We started the party eleven years ago, when only one hundred people came.
My favorite weekend of the year!
Only.
Now we’ve grown to a two-day party, with six hundred book club members each day.
That’s one thousand two hundred guests total, which is approximately 20,283,829,012,938,383 carbohydrates.
I live on a farm, so I have plenty of room to accommodate everyone, except for my dogs and cats, who are imprisoned in various bedrooms for the weekend. Francesca’s dog Pip is permitted at the party, since he’s the only one with manners, obviously because he has a better mother.
To get to my point, if you invite six hundred people to your house, the only way to greet them properly is to hug them.
I’m a hugger.
So is Francesca.
And what that means, in terms of the book-club party, is that we hug every guest when he or she arrives.
By the way, men come to the book-club party, too.
I personally enjoy hugging them very much.
But they don’t smell as good as the women, who are positively fragrant.
Now in terms of my unscientific study, I am here to report to you that eleven years ago, when I started hugging unsuspecting book-club members, they didn’t know how to react. Some looked startled, others simply drew away. They weren’t expecting to be hugged by a complete stranger, which is a thoroughly reasonable expectation. Plus they’d read only the Dark Lisa books, so they didn’t know what to do when Light Lisa tackled them with love.
There were plenty of Awkward Hugs.
An Awkward Hug is the worst thing ever. You know how it goes, one person is the hugger and the other person gasps for oxygen.
I’ve had marriages that were one long Awkward Hug.
Boy, bye.
But over the years, I’ve noticed that people at the book-club party have started hugging back, and not only that, they want to be hugged. In fact, our most recent book-club party was this past weekend, and many book-club members said, “Where’s my hug?”
And these weren’t people who had been to the book-club party before, but were book-club-party virgins.
They had never met me or Francesca, but they were happy to be hugged, and we all hugged each other like crazy.
And I’m telling you, this is a change that I have seen over eleven years.
Either we need more love or we’re giving more love, but either way, this is a miraculous and wonderful improvement for all mankind, womankind, and book kind.
By the way, if you’re wondering how long it takes to hug six hundred people, the answer is, two and a half hours. That means I got and gave five hours of hugs this past weekend, and I’m betting it will add five hours to my life.
And seriously folks, if you ask me the reason that I not only read books but write them, it’s to connect with people. That’s the highest and best purpose of the arts, and I believe there is nurturance, happiness, and love in that human connection. Book clubs are a way for people to connect to each other through a book, forming a soul-to-soul bond that can become a friendship lasting ten, twenty, and even thirty years. I’ve seen it happen, and if you’re in a book club and you agree with me, let me hear from you.
And if you’re not in a book club, why not start one?
Then come over my house and get a hug.
Love is better than hate, at all times.
Running on Empty
Francesca
I don’t think my body was made for running.
I took a human evolution class in college, and the professor presented his theory that early humans evolved as a species because our bodies were uniquely suited to long-distance running. Our quick-cooling slender body shape, our flexible cervical spine keeping our heads steady with our body in motion, and other traits allowed us to successfully hunt large prey animals, like zebras, by simply chasing them for long distances in the hot sun until they collapsed from exhaustion.
I must’ve descended from the zebras.
My body type as a little girl was the sort that made people say, unprompted, “Kids grow out, then up.”
They were mostly right, but I could’ve used some extra inches up.
I wasn’t unathletic. I was very into horseback riding, the only sport you can do sitting down.
But running has always been a slog. I used to dread the mile test in gym class. I’d try my hardest, but my lungs would burn, my sides quickly cramping with a stitch.
Yet every spring, I make a halfhearted attempt to get into running. I long to be one of those people who craves a run. I want the trim body, the quick calorie burn, the endorphin rush.
You know, the results.
But after a winter of hunkering down on various deadlines and letting my fitness go by the wayside—and a little on the backside, but I’m most bothered by the middle frontside—I decided I had to just do it! I would learn to love running through sheer will.
First, I tried to buy enthusiasm. I ordered new, custom-colored Nike sneakers to trick myself into getting excited about cardio.
I went for an inaugural run, full of optimism.
But even my optimism was out of shape.
After a half hour, my left knee hurt so badly I could barely walk home.
Everyone said I probably had the wrong sneakers.
The wrong, unreturnable, custom sneakers.
So I went to a running store called Jackrabbit, another animal better suited to running than I am. I brought my dog Pip for moral support.
The salesman asked me to jog on a treadmill while he filmed my feet in order to analyze my stride. He held on to Pip’s leash while I did so.
As soon as I began to run, Pip lost his mind. My normally mellow pup barked his head off as if the treadmill were trying to kill me.
I always said he was smart.
The salesman showed me the video, shaky as it was thanks to Pip’s freak-out, but even I could see my ankle collapsing inward with every step.
He shook his head and informed me that I’m a serious “over-pronator.”
In addition to my wonky stride, my arches are too high, and I run slightly duck-toed, all of which adds to my knee pain.
Over a hundred dollars later, I was the new owner of bulky stability sneakers, advanced orthotic inserts, and an inferiority complex.
How is it possible that I’m so naturally bad at my species’ seminal advantage?
Maybe my running genes
have been watered down by my Italian heritage, generations of breeding that favors painting, writing, and other butt-based activities.
Italian cardio is mostly wild gesticulation.
Our endurance is judged by one’s ability to stand in a hot kitchen.
I once fried sixty-five meatballs in a galley kitchen in July using only a ten-inch pan. Where is my medal?
But that’s my background; the American in me is a relentless striver.
So I’m lacing up for another miserable run.
Here’s hoping I can evolve.
If You’re a Woman, They Only Want One Thing
Lisa
We’re having a moment, this election season.
By we, I’m talking about Women in the Philadelphia suburbs.
Like me.
I live in the Philadelphia suburbs.
In fact, it’s all about me.
These days, you cannot turn on a TV channel, listen to the radio, or read an article online without hearing about whether one of the political candidates will get the vote of the Woman in the Philadelphia suburbs.
MEEEEEEEE!
I don’t know how this started, but probably with political pundit Chris Matthews, who’s from the Philadelphia suburbs, and Jake Tapper, who’s also from the Philadelphia suburbs, and Michael Smerconish, who’s not only from the Philadelphia suburbs, but still lives in the Philadelphia Suburbs.
Okay, full disclosure, Smerconish once had his book club read my latest book and he also nicknamed me Hottoline.
That’s right, me.
Hot.
It was a long time ago, okay?
I cleaned up well, back then.
When I actually cleaned up.
Anyway, with the spotlight being on Women in the Philadelphia Suburbs, the candidates and their celebrity surrogates visit here all the time.
It’s swinging to be in a swing state.
And the political commercials are nonstop. Some people don’t like them, but I do. Especially since my other choice is a catheter commercial.
Plus my phone is ringing off the hook.
I keep hoping it’s Bradley Cooper, but it’s not.
He has my cell phone.
And my heart.
To stay on point, the calls come on my landline, which is a giveaway for robocallers and other calls that I ignore.
But not in election season.
Pollsters are calling to ask questions about the election, and I take the call. I answer every question they have. I yap and yap about my views. In the beginning of our phone conversation, they love talking to me. They’re so used to being abused that they keep asking me questions, and I keep answering.
Then they can’t shut me up.
They try to say good-bye, but I won’t let them.
I talk and talk and talk.
In the end, they hang up on me.
I make them sorry they ever called a Woman from the Philadelphia Suburbs.
I turn the table.
The kitchen table.
Heh heh.
Why do I do this?
Because I might never get another chance.
Because it’s taken too damn long for anybody to care what suburban women think, whether they live in the Philadelphia, Cleveland, New York, Los Angeles, Boston, Atlanta, Dallas, or any other suburb.
Because we’ve heard ourselves called soccer moms, hockey moms, dance moms, and every other kind of mom, whether our kids play any sport or whether we’re moms at all. Because we’re not considered, much less considered individuals. We’ve heard ourselves talked about, but never talked to, and more importantly, listened to.
We’re women, constituting over half of the population of the United States, and we should count more than we have in the past.
Because even though we’re marketed to for purchases from backpacks to eyeliner, boob jobs to liquor, we’re rarely asked what we think.
And when we answer, nobody listens.
And if they listen, nothing changes.
So I hope that women in whichever suburbs—as well as women in the cities or exurbs—will finally get some attention. I hope that people will finally care about what we think, even if they never have before, in our lifetime.
Maybe we shouldn’t be picky. We’re used to being wanted for our bodies. It’s an improvement to be wanted for our votes.
Plus you have to start somewhere. It’s almost a century after we got the vote, and they just realized we have one.
Better late than never?
So whichever political candidate you support, I encourage you to vote.
Especially if you have ovaries.
Or used to.
I believe I still have ovaries, but I’m dead below the waist. They’re there, like my appendix. Cute, but extra weight.
I can’t wait to vote and I’m enthusiastic about my candidate. I hope you feel the same way about yours. But if you don’t, I hope you feel enthusiastic about voting, because it matters, now more than ever. Our great country stands strong, as one of the world’s most stable democracies, founded on wonderful ideals and freedoms for each and every one of us.
So show whoever’s listening—even momentarily—that women have enormous political power, market power, and personal power.
It’s time for them to hear us roar.
It’s time for them to hear us, at all.
Mother Mary Gets an Idea
Lisa
Certain smells bring back memories of Mother Mary.
Among these are Estée Lauder Youth Dew perfume, More 100s cigarette smoke—and mozzarella.
Not exactly sentimental, but there you have it.
You can trust that all the memories of The Flying Scottolines will relate to carbohydrates.
Let me explain.
The other day, I was walking through the food court in the mall and I caught a whiff of a distinctive aroma.
Bad pizza.
Specifically, frozen pizza.
By way of background, my mother was a terrific cook, especially of Italian food. She made us homemade spaghetti, ravioli, and gnocchi from scratch. As a child, I’d spend hours watching her.
And it took hours.
If you’ve ever watched anybody make homemade spaghetti, it’s a domestic miracle. A loaf of dough that somehow ends up being rolled out and then fed into a spaghetti maker, coming out like flour-y tinsel.
Same with ravioli, because she mixed the ricotta cheese and seasonings according to her own secret recipe that had a tangy cheesy salty taste I could never duplicate and wouldn’t even try.
And when she made gnocchi, she started with the dough, but rolled it out into long, skinny tubes, cut it into little chunks, then floured her fingers and pinched each chunk, making the special dimpling that marks the best gnocchi—made by hand, dimpled by fingertips.
The problem was pizza.
When we were growing up, I wanted to be like the other kids, who got pizza delivered or had somebody go pick up pizza and brought it home. We never did that, because Mother Mary felt that since it was Italian food, it would be heresy to buy it at a restaurant. But she had no interest in making homemade pizza, and who could blame her, so she would buy it frozen at the Acme.
Or as we say in South Philly, the Ac-a-me.
She bought a no-name brand in a plastic bag, with ten small pizzas stacked on each other, as appetizing as hockey pucks.
She cooked it at home.
For three hours.
Okay, I’m exaggerating, but she overcooked the pizza every time, refusing to follow the directions. She wouldn’t even let me follow the directions. It was her kitchen, so she did the cooking, which meant that our pizza always sucked.
And let’s be real, back then, it was the dark ages of frozen pizza.
In fairness to Mother Mary, overcooking was the only chance that frozen pizza had of drying out, otherwise the crust stayed soggy and the tomato sauce distilled to hot ketchup.
So as I entered high school, I ended up at a friend
’s house and they ordered pizza from a great neighborhood pizza place, Marrone’s.
I was hooked.
So one night, when Mother Mary wanted to make frozen pizza, I told her about the magic of store-bought pizza at Marrone’s, but she wasn’t having any. We fussed about it, but amazingly I persuaded her to give it a try.
Mother Mary was delightfully stubborn. You could move the Mummers up Broad Street easier.
So I went to Marrone’s, bought an actual takeout pizza, and brought it home.
Mother Mary opened the box, and we all waited in suspense while she slid out the first piece and cut the mozzarella strings with the gravity of a surgeon severing an umbilical cord. She took a bite, chewed, swallowed, then said with a wink:
“I knew it would be better than frozen.”
From that day forward, we ordered from Marrone’s.
And I forgot all about that story until I walked through the mall the other day, and smelled the mozzarella.
I knew that somewhere, Mother Mary was winking.
Grief is funny that way, bringing back the good and the bad, the funny foods and the dumb fights.
And most of all, the love.
That never goes away.
And the best of it is homemade.
Picture Imperfect
Francesca
My best friend has been living in London for the last four years, and I’ve been dying to visit. In preparation, I’ve been saving my money, browsing TripAdvisor.com, and drinking enough Earl Grey tea to earn a title myself.
Thank goodness I checked one more thing before buying my ticket:
My passport.
Expired.
Like, three years expired.
I don’t know why I was surprised; I got it when I was seventeen.
I’m forever twenty-seven in my mind.
It’s no great loss, my old passport photo was horrible. Caught in midblink, my eyelids are half-mast, so I look, in a very official capacity, sloshed.
The photo came at an unfortunate time about a year after my lone, teenage-rebel subversive act—a pixie haircut.
You know you’re a goody two-shoes when the most rebellious act of your teen years is accidentally getting a butch hairstyle.
My old passport photo—believe it or not, taken sober
As any woman who has cut her hair very short knows, some stages of the growing-out process are better than others.
I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool Page 12
