I Regret Nothing: A Memoir

by Jen Lancaster

  “I’ve noticed that,” he says. “The cigarettes don’t stink. I wonder if the Italians do something different during the manufacturing process? Or the filters are different?”

  Given the quality of everything else we’ve experienced so far, I guess it stands to reason the Italians would rule tobacco, too.

  The gentlemen have a couple of battered sawhorses set up, with two of the same large shutters that we’ve seen all over the neighborhood placed on top of them. They wield two crusty cans of forest green paint, which they slowly but meticulously apply with wide, worn brushes. They take a few strokes and then pause to raise their faces to the sun, inhaling the sweet Roman air.

  And just like that, any question of whether or not the Romans appreciate their surroundings is answered.

  I continue to watch them paint, their practiced hands performing the same operations so deftly that they don’t even need to look at their work. They smoke, they laugh, and they chat with such enthusiasm and familiarity that I’m suddenly transported to the back room of my Sicilian grandfather’s shoe repair shop. In this moment, these men remind me so much of my grampa Vitale that it hurts my heart.

  While they labor, a small dog wanders out of their shop, thus snapping me out of my melancholy because he’s the most ridiculous creature I’ve ever seen. The dog is some sort of black-and-white terrier, deep-chested and extra long, but with stubby little legs. What’s incongruous is that he has the head of a horse. It’s a miracle of physics that he’s able to support his enormous melon with his tiny body.

  “Look at that little guy!” I exclaim. At this point, Fletch is accustomed to me pointing out every pup in the city. I can’t get over how different the dogs are here, from their personalities to their relationships with their owners to their level of independence. Their physicality is the biggest difference, as they’re all so squatty. There has to be some kind of story why they’re such low-riders. I assume these breeds were the best at catching rats, which would have been abundant because of the plague.

  BTW, does everything here relate to the plague? I make a mental note to find a book about the Black Death when I get home, as clearly this was a thing.

  (Sidebar: At home, I learn the Black Death killed more than two hundred million Europeans in the most gruesome and painful way imaginable, so yes, (a) this devastating pandemic was more than a thing, and (b) I am an asshole who’s clearly never taken a history course on anything other than Lewis and Clark. But that’s going to change soon.)

  “That is the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen,” he says, not unkindly.

  I reply, “Yet somehow he’s possibly also the cutest.”

  A complicated set of body harnesses completes Ugly Dog’s ensemble, giving him the appearance of a tiny leather daddy or a miniature Hannibal Lecter. The dog circles each of the sawhorses, as though inspecting his masters’ work. Satisfied with their progress, and that they did not, in fact, miss a spot, he settles into a sunny patch a few feet in front of them.

  Our pizzas arrive and we dive in—they’re just as good as we’d hoped! Fletch takes an enthusiastic bite of his pizza, hoovering in an entire slice of prosciutto in one mouthful. The downside of this trip is that I’m going to be ruined for regular pizza, particularly Chicago-style, which I never quite liked. The crust here is so thin, and the cheese so sparse, with but a spoonful of tomato sauce. There’s only a couple of ounces of thinly sliced meats on top, so technically, their pizzas are inconsequential, but each bite is so fresh and packed with flavor that there’s no need to go over-the-top with the toppings. Plus, I like that this pizza hasn’t been dusted with cornmeal to keep it from sticking in a not-hot-enough oven—somehow cornmeal feels like a shortcut.

  While we cram in as much pizza as our mouths will hold, a trio of floppy-hat-wearing Chinese girls walks down the street. They look to be in their late teens to early twenties. I wonder, what would it have been like to come here while I was still that age? How would that have affected my life’s trajectory? Would I have fewer regrets now? I couldn’t understand how travel broadens before now, because the only travel I’d ever done has been of the off-to-work or sit-by-the-pool variety.

  But this?

  This is addicting.

  I never wanted to go anywhere before and now I want to go everywhere.

  Two of the Chinese girls peel off to hit the gelato shop across from us, while the third waits for them in the sun. She spots Ugly Dog and tentatively approaches him. She bends down, offering her hand, and the little fella horse-head-butts her leg in a show of affection. Her whole face lights up and I watch as these two fall immediately and profoundly in love. Little cartoon birds busy themselves carrying hearts back and forth between them.

  “Ooh, look at Ugly Dog!” I squeal. (I suspect I’m really missing my own pups right now. According to the photo updates we received from the kennel, they’re having a wonderful vacation, too, but still.) “Hims love her!”

  She pets the homely boy, who couldn’t be more effusive or demonstrative. As a dog fanatic myself, I can tell that she’s already taking measurements, trying to figure out if this handsome bloke will fit in her carry-on bag. The Italian men are charmed by the instant bond between man and beast, and they exhale lots of smoke and gesticulate in approval, as they don’t speak a common language with their soon-to-be new daughter-in-law.

  Her friends finish buying their gelato and walk back out into the street. The two Chinese girls sit on a bench to eat their treats so the third reluctantly looks back at the dog, before walking away to rejoin them. Ugly Dog trots behind his new girlfriend, only to be summarily yanked back by the younger man.

  The two girls are taking their time with the gelato, so the third wanders back over to the dog, an action that is clearly the greatest thing to ever happen in his entire canine life. Their reunion is that of two long-separated lovers slow-running through a field of flowers in a sun-dappled meadow. The tenderness between them is inspiring to watch.

  “Are you paying attention here? That girl is about to steal the dog,” I say, gesturing over Fletch’s shoulder. “They’re going right back to the Vatican to solicit the Pope to make a decision on interspecies marriage. And the new guy is really progressive; I bet he’d consider it.”

  Fletch brushes stray crumbs off of his new shirt. “No, that girl is about to do something stupid, which will make the dog nervous. Just watch. Trouble is brewing.”

  “Impossible,” I reply. “They’re soul mates. Besides, you see trouble brewing everywhere and I guarantee this isn’t one of those times.”

  Convinced I’m wrong, Fletch turns around to watch. We witness the girl lifting the dog up in order to get closer to him.

  “Aw, she’s going to kiss hims’ sweet, sweet face!” I cry.

  She places him on one of the sawhorses, which immediately begins to wobble.

  “Trouble,” he counters. “Mark my words.”

  Before I can even roll my eyes, what happens next unfolds like a terrible silent movie.

  The short version is that Fletch, as always, is right.

  The long version is that Ugly Dog begins to panic as the shutter wobbles, so the girl swoops in to rescue him. But he doesn’t see her as a liberator. Rather, she is the asshole who caused the problem in the first place.

  Having quickly tired of this ill-fated intercontinental romance, the Ugly Dog demonstrates his displeasure by solidly biting the Chinese girl on the hand while she’s placing him on the ground. She yanks her hand back so fast and with such force that she knocks off her own sun hat, while the older Italian man throws up his arms in a gesture best described as that of a caricature of an old Italian man in distress.

  Her two companions, who I strongly suspect would be my friends if I lived in China, don’t rush in to help. Instead, they begin to point and to laugh so hard that they knock their own behatted heads together on the bench. The younger Italian painter s
imply takes another puff of his smoke before he picks up Ugly Dog by his BDSM harness and hauls him back into the shop.

  The look on the dog’s face transmits exactly what he’s feeling:

  I regret nothing.

  The folks at the gelato shop become involved when the bitten girl runs in and points at her hand. Wads of napkins are passed over the cooler and there is much pointing and blotting on her part, even though there’s no blood or discernable damage. I’m not sure she’s hurt physically so much as she is damaged emotionally.

  Her hand will heal, but in her heart, she may well become a cat person.

  She and her friends walk away and I watch as the Italian men shrug and smoke and commence sunning themselves again, like nothing ever happened. I suspect this is not the first time this odd little dog has behaved badly, nor is it the last, thus proving my theory that the dogs here are jerks.

  Fletch wipes his mustache with his napkin. “I told you so. Saw that coming a mile away.”

  I feel really sorry for the girl and yet there’s a part of me that’s grateful for having witnessed the whole scene. Because now I have my go-to story about the best day of my life.

  20.

  RUN FOR YOUR LIFE

  “More prosciutto?”

  “Yes, please!”

  “You want any of the nice buffalo mozzarella?”

  “I do.”

  “There’s homemade ricotta and sunflower seed rolls, too. You interested?”

  “Definitely.”

  I load up our plates and return to my seat with the breakfast offerings, setting our breakfast in front of our cups of morning-only cappuccinos. We’re dining alfresco again, taking advantage of the break in the weather. I gaze out at the surroundings, a riot of green grass and fuchsia flowers, illuminated by the morning sun.

  I say, “Looks like we have a beautiful day on tap. But I think it’s supposed to storm later.”

  Before Fletch can reply, Hambone farts with such intensity that she propels herself forward. She whips around, brow furrowed, searching for the source of the noise.

  Glancing down at Hambone who’s now bent herself into the shape of a doughnut in her zeal to inspect her noisy posterior, Fletch replies, “Yeah, I’d never guess we weren’t in Rome anymore.”

  “Hey, at least our dogs aren’t jerks, even if they lack Roman dignity,” I argue.

  “True enough.”

  Ever since we’ve gotten back, we’ve tried to implement all that we enjoyed about Italy, starting with cheese for breakfast. Instead of wolfing down a microwaved breakfast burrito in front of the computer, we’re both taking the time to sit together outside to start the day. Maybe we don’t arrive at our desks quite as soon this way, but is the world really going to end if I respond to an e-mail at eight thirty-two a.m. instead of eight?

  Even though we ate like kings in Italy, I returned about five pounds lighter, due to walking for hours every day. But having been home for almost a month, I’m pretty sure I gained everything back . . . and then some. I need to weigh myself, but I’m afraid to confirm my suspicions. Last I checked, the number on the scale was fantastic for a bowling score, but not so much in terms of living without regrets.

  Of course, if anyone asked what this number was, I’d lie, much like I’ve been lying for the past thirty years, starting in 1985 when I did a local pageant. Some sadist found it necessary for the emcee to announce our weight alongside information about our families, our hopes, our hobbies, and our college prospects. I couldn’t fathom why my plans to study tele-journalism at Purdue were given no more import than whether or not I might be carrying three extra pounds of water weight.

  I remember my naked shame at clocking in at one hundred and thirty-five pounds back then, despite being almost five-foot-eight. Ironically, I wasn’t stressed about slicking Vaseline on my teeth, parading around in a bathing suit in front of an entire auditorium, or being judged on nothing but my looks, which is odd. Yet hearing the actual number was too much to bear, so I shaved off ten pounds from my total. Then I figured the whole audience would be hip to my fib, so I ended up bungling the swimsuit portion, desperately struggling under the weight of my ten-pound lie.

  How fucked-up is that?

  Hold the phone—I vaguely recall having to stand with my knees bowed so it wouldn’t look like my thighs touched each other. So I guess standing thigh gaps have always been a thing.

  I wish I knew how skinny I was back then. If I could talk to seventeen-year-old Jen, I’d say, “You look great, okay? And even if you were fat, you’d still be fine. You won’t even know you’re funny until you gain weight and can’t skate by on cuteness alone, so it all works out. P.S. buy another bike now because that shit is hard to relearn.”

  At this point, I don’t need or want to weigh one hundred and thirty-five pounds, because have you ever seen what happens to the people on The Biggest Loser when they hit their goal weights, especially when they’re over thirty years old? They shrivel into human raisinettes! They look like dehydrated versions of their former selves and all I want to do is offer them a glass of Gatorade. I’m way less concerned with the state of my ass than that of my face, where the key to not going full-on Shar Pei is a little extra fluff. Not bowling-score-worthy amounts of fluff, but some.

  Still, one of my bucket list goals has been to drop twenty pounds, not for vanity so much as health. My gynecologist told me that the heavier I am, the more likely a return of my uterine squatters and I’d rather not pay another visit to the OR. Also, because I’m carrying too wide a load, my knees constantly ache and I’ve been experiencing a weird numbness in my hands and arms when I lie down. That can’t be healthy.

  My plan was to hit the gym hard this summer, all Jillian Michaels–style, but other priorities keep popping up, such as eating breakfast cheese and putting on a second furniture show. The first iteration went so well that the gallery’s asked me to do another.

  I want to up my game in terms of new products, so I’ve spent the past week trying to paint a Union Jack on the front of a dresser, which is so much more math-y than I ever imagined due to how the piece curves. (BTW, if the fate of Earth depends on my being able to divide by three, be sure to kiss your loved ones good-bye.)

  There’s no way I can charge enough to recoup the cost of the twenty-plus hours I’ve put into it, yet I’ve been determined to get it right. I finally finished last night and I’m elated with the results.

  So, as I sit here eating breakfast in the morning sun with my kind husband and flatulent dog, I’m concerned about my weight, but not quite concerned enough to actually go to the gym.

  Story of my life.

  The least I can do is to weigh myself after I’ve finished eating, just to get a baseline.

  In which case, I may as well have another slice of prosciutto.

  • • •

  I’m tidying up my work area when I hear Fletch let forth a professional-grade string of profanity. As he’s been operating the table saw, my assumption is that he’s cut off a finger, hailing as he does from a long line of nine-fingered Fletchers. But then I remember this past spring when he debated whether or not to upgrade to the SawStop with the electronic sensor that brakes the blade within five milliseconds of detecting anything even vaguely organic, such a hot dogs or thumbs. He wasn’t sure he wanted to spend the additional money, but I said if we amortized the cost of keeping all his digits over the next thirty years, it worked out to sixteen dollars a year to continue operating a remote control and not give a really creepy handshake. He agreed and made the buy.

  (Sidebar: I could totally have a second career selling SawStops.)

  Anyway, the swearing’s not a lost-finger thing; that I can confirm. In terms of being shout-y, Fletch trends toward the far end of the bell curve, particularly when inanimate objects are involved, so I’ve long since learned to tune him out. His loudly grousing abo
ut something is benign background noise at this point, much like when people live by the airport and don’t even notice the planes anymore. Plus, years ago, an army dentist tore a piece of the inside of his cheek and he’s perpetually accidentally catching the loose flesh in his teeth, so that accounts for about seventy-five percent of the outbursts. In short, I’m sure he’s bitten himself again while eating his “secret” stash of peanut butter M&M’S, so I pay him no mind.

  (Sidebar: There’s no such thing as secret chocolate in this fat chick’s house. I have the snout of a truffle pig.)

  We’ve both been in the basement all night, readying my pieces for the show later this week. Having weighed myself this morning, I’m loath to sit in front of the television, assuming my inactivity coupled with a newfound love of breakfast cheese and pork is why I’ve hit a new all-time high. I suspect the Roman way of eating works only when coupled with the Roman lifestyle. (I imagine this is why Italians aren’t usually fat, while Italian Americans are, at least if my extended family is any indication.)

  To avoid dwelling on the numbers, I’ve been working on the finishing details of my pieces, such as adding a second coat of wax, or gilding the raised portions of the hardware. Really, though, everything’s done and our only crucial task is to move the twenty new pieces from the workshop to the gallery.