But I watch the cooking shows differently than I used to. I don’t try to remember the ingredients they’re using or the things they’re doing, because I have no intention of ever making the recipes.
I’m not taking the course for a grade anymore.
On the contrary, I’m barely auditing.
Yay!
The only downside to my new life is that once you decide that you don’t have to cook a proper dinner, then all bets are off.
If there’s a slippery slope, I’m sliding to the bottom.
Last week for various dinners I had Fiber One cereal, Honeycrisp apples, roasted red peppers, leftover Stacy’s Pita chips with cheese, and a massive bag of popcorn. Dessert was Hershey’s Kisses with Almonds and gummi vitamins.
Yum!
But not exactly healthy eating.
Hmmm.
Somebody needs a mother.
But I’ve flown my own coop.
Women’s Rights and Wrongs
By Lisa
Everywhere you look you can see enormous regard for women, especially among big business.
I’m talking about two great new products.
The first is the wine rack.
No, not that wine rack.
Not that shelf with the holes that hold wine bottles.
Silly.
I’m talking about a bra that has two plastic bags, one in each cup, and you can fill the bags with wine, which you can drink through a tube attached to the bra.
The “wine rack.”
Get it?
It’s so punny!
Anyway, what a clever idea, right?
I’m sure that every woman has wondered whether she could drink wine out of her bra.
That is, everyone but me.
Although to be fair, I have wondered if I could eat chocolate cake out of my bra.
Then I could have cup cakes!
See, I can think of stupid puns, too!
By the way, I don’t know where your breasts go if the cups of your bra are occupied by wine bags. Evidently, you can’t be picky when your underwear doubles as a beverage-delivery system.
And who doesn’t want their wine warmed by body heat?
In any event, it’s good to know that American business is constantly thinking of innovative ways to meet the needs of women.
Alcoholic women.
In fact, if you look up the wine rack online, they call it “every girl’s best friend.”
Really?
More like every girl’s best frenemy.
Because, let’s be real. It’s a bra.
Every girl’s best friend is going braless.
Amazingly, in addition to the wine rack, I came across another genius product for women, called the Shewee.
Yes, you read that right.
According to its website, the Shewee is a “urinating device that allows women to urinate when they’re on the go.”
In other words, if you have to go while you’re on the go.
I’d like to describe a Shewee to you, but good taste prevails.
For a change.
The bottom line is that it’s plastic and it’s shaped like—well, it’s for girls who have penis envy.
In other words, no girl ever.
Only a man would come up with the idea that women have penis envy. Because anybody who has ever seen a penis knows that no woman would want one.
You know what’s in men’s pants that we want?
A wallet.
To stay on point, the Shewee is the “the original female urination device.”
Copycats, beware.
Accept no substitutions.
Like a Tupperware funnel.
The website says that the Shewee is perfect for “camping, festivals, cycling, during pregnancy, long car journeys, climbing, sailing, skiing, the list is endless!”
It doesn’t say anything about being middle-aged.
Too bad, because I’m pretty sure that if you’re middle-aged, you’ll want one of these babies. Even if you don’t camp or go to festivals, and your days of pregnancy are behind you.
We know why, don’t we, ladies?
Do I have to spell it out for you—in the snow?
I myself am about to order a gross.
Because it’s gross.
My favorite thing about the Shewee is that it comes in seven different colors.
Oddly, there was no yellow.
If you ask me, that’s a no-brainer.
Get your marketing together, people.
My favorite color was “Power Pink.”
Because nothing says empowered like being able to pee where you want, damn it.
Sayonara, rest stops.
I’m gonna pee in my car!
Woot woot!
So with the holidays around the corner, now you know the perfect gifts for all your girlfriends.
If you get them the wine rack, I guarantee they’re going to need the Shewee.
Hot or Not at the Gym
By Francesca
Getting started is the hardest part of any growing experience.
I can tell you it gets better, because I’m on the other side of it now. But in the beginning of any fitness journey, you’re going to feel bad about yourself. Even when you’re working out at the gym, you’ll feel bad. Especially when you’re working out at the gym. It’s a cruel trick.
Because when you feel bad about how you look, everyone else looks great. I never notice more thin people than on those days that I feel fat.
This is the definition of neuroses.
But it’s amplified at the gym.
Those first months working out at my new gym were brutal.
Naturally, I was convinced it was the gym’s fault.
It’s in downtown Manhattan, home to fashion models and gay men—the two most beautiful demographics statistically.
I’d pass the mats and always see some lovely, lithe woman stretching out her spider limbs. Or some gorgeous man making squat sets look like B-roll from Magic Mike.
Maybe I just tell myself the men are gay because I can’t have them.
But these people were just too fit to comfortably exercise with.
In other words, this gym was too effective.
Everyone there seemed so purposeful except me. I felt conspicuously clueless wandering around the machines, so my solution was to take a lot of group classes instead. But that plan wasn’t without its drawbacks.
See, I work best with positive reinforcement, and the mirror was being kind of a jerk.
During Barre Burn, for instance, I’d see myself in the mirror and feel like Santa in line with the Rockettes.
The other girls’ tank tops pulled only across their breasts like comic-book heroines, while my tummy pushed at my shirt.
My jumping jacks were more jumping jiggles.
And thank God I got to face away from the mirror for downward dog.
I didn’t even have the right clothes. There was a uniform among the women of trim black yoga pants and cute strappy sport tops. I typically wore an oversize T-shirt and puffy basketball shorts.
My mental spin on this was that I’m simply too down-to-earth to buy nice clothes to sweat in. But after a couple weeks of avoiding my own reflection, it occurred to me:
They’re not showing off; I’m hiding.
So I bought some new, flattering tank tops, slimming pants of my own, and a sports bra that showed tasteful, workout-cleave instead of binding my breasts into the dreaded mono-boob.
And I felt a little better about myself.
Money can buy you self-love.
But the locker room was a fresh hell. Who are these women who wear such beautiful underwear to the gym? Matching sets, lace, thongs.
Squats in a thong? Ouch.
Lunges? (Shudder)
I saw one woman in such elaborate lingerie, I can only assume it was Dita Von Teese without makeup.
Personally, I work out in drugstore granny-panties, and I don’t apologize for it.
&nb
sp; I just need a pair that say, “My Other Underwear Is a G-String.”
And there’s always that one show-off in the women’s locker room. Like the woman who blow-dries her hair in the mirror while standing stark naked. Or the one who lathers her body in moisturizer with more sensuality than Cinemax after midnight.
Your nipples aren’t that chapped, dear.
But the steam room is my oasis.
It’s the antidote of the see-and-be-seen nature of the rest of the gym. There’s a collective understanding that if we’re all going to be naked in a little room together and have any hope of relaxing, we must suspend our judgmental and self-critical impulses and allow ourselves to just breathe.
Bodies of all ages, shapes, and sizes are equal in the foggy eyes of the steam room.
I give myself all sorts of mental pep talks in there. I work out plot twists in the novel I’m ever editing. I envision meetings with agents going well. I say positive affirmations about what I like about my body. I plan out date outfits whether or not I have a date. And I always leave feeling detoxified.
Which is why I dislike this one young woman. She always struts in the steam room completely naked, not even the gesture of carrying a towel to lie down on.
That’s just unsanitary.
Now, is she beautiful? Absolutely. She looks in her early twenties, blond, and in perfect shape. She’s stunning and she knows it. Am I jealous? You bet. But I swear this isn’t sour grapes. I’m not taking issue with her beauty. I’m taking issue with the performance.
This is her routine. First, she makes a big show of standing and posing as she rakes her fingers through her hair before twisting it up.
Please, now you’re making it unsanitary for us and getting your hairs everywhere. And I speak as a curly-haired shedder myself when I say, keep it outside.
Then she begins to stretch. We’re talking full-on-naked lunges.
The general etiquette in the steam room is a benign disregard between women. So when The Hot Girl started her naked yoga near where I was lying down, I resisted the urge to move away so that I wouldn’t offend her. But as she did a full bend right by my head, I wished for more steam to cover my eyes.
I saw more of her than I’ve seen of myself.
And let it be noted that she doesn’t do the awkward stretches. You know the ones, where your belly folds, or your one hand behind your back blindly gropes for the other hand. No, she only does the sexy stretches—those combinations of sun salutations and Playmate poses.
My point is, it kills the vibe. You can feel the collective shift of the other women to cover themselves when she enters.
But then the other day, I entered the steam room while The Hot Girl was in the midst of her act, and the other women were tucked away in the corners, avoiding her. I hoped the steam hid my side-eye as I took a seat as far away from her vagina as possible.
And then, while she was arching her back in some sort of breast stretch, it happened.
She farted.
Twice.
Once mid-stretch, and again when she tried to sit down like nothing happened.
And we all heard it.
Farting in a steam room is pretty rude. It’s one step above space suit for impolite places to bust a toot.
But luckily it didn’t smell. Because, of course, it didn’t.
For about thirty seconds, The Hot Girl tried to act casual, but then the embarrassment got to her and she high-tailed, or likely clench-tailed, it out of there.
A couple of us giggled after she left.
Not to laugh at her, per se.
But because no human can escape the occasional indignity of the gym.
Twisted Sister
By Lisa
So it turns out I have an occupational hazard.
I’m not complaining, because at least I have an occupation.
The only problem with my occupation is that I spend a lot of time occupying a chair.
And the first occupational hazard is that my butt is spreading.
What, I can’t blame that on my job?
Fair enough.
Thanks a lot, carbohydrates.
Actually, the best part of my job is that I get to sit around all day in a chair, and I have set up my office so that my desk is in the middle of the room, with the TV to the left. I keep the TV on while I’m working, just to have some background noise that isn’t dogs farting.
But a year ago, my back started to hurt. I ignored it for a while, then when my book deadline was finally finished, I got my big butt to the doctor, who said:
“We X-rayed your back, and you have scoliosis.”
I thought he was mispronouncing my last name, which everybody does, and I don’t blame them. I tell them Scottoline rhymes with fettuccine, but this word sounded different. Lisa Scoliosis isn’t a good name. I asked, “Scolli-what-is?”
The doctor answered, “It means a rotation of the spinal column, but in your case it’s not congenital. So you’re an author?”
“Yes,” I told him. I always put that on my medical records, so that my doctors will buy my books. I would say it’s free advertising, but given the general cost of a doctor’s visit, they would have to buy 3,293,737 of my books for me to break even.
The doctor continued, “So you probably spend a lot of time sitting and you must be turning to the left. Why are you turning to the left?”
“Because that’s where the TV is?”
“Hmmm,” he said, just like a doctor in the movies.
Or on TV.
I was getting the general drift, because I’m a mystery writer and I don’t need a lot of clues. “So you mean to tell me that just because I sat on my butt and watched TV while I worked, for twenty-five years, I rotated my spine?”
“Yes.”
So this was all TV’s fault. Thank God it wasn’t my fault. It can never be my fault.
The doctor added, “And you’re probably crossing your legs, too.”
I thought about it. “I probably am. How else can you keep a dog on your lap while you work?”
The doctor laughed. He thought I was kidding.
You and I know I wasn’t.
Maybe he should start reading my books.
Anyway, I got serious. “Now what do we do?”
“Work out.”
I tried not to groan.
Why is “working out” always the answer?
Why is the answer never “chocolate cake”?
Meanwhile, I tell the doctor that I walk the dogs, ride a bike, and even sit like a lump on the back of a pony, but he says none of this counts. He sends me to physical therapy, telling me to dress comfortably.
I don’t need to be told to dress comfortably.
I’m a middle-aged woman.
We’re too smart to dress any other way.
I’ve already gone to two sessions of physical therapy, which are held in a big open gym with a lot of other people who were sent there for respectable reasons that had nothing to do with watching too much television.
There, I do twenty reps of the Backward Bend, the Press-Up, Bridging, and an array of other horrible exercises, all of which require a Neutral Spine.
This doesn’t come easily to me.
Not only because I hate working out, but because I’m not neutral about anything.
I have opinions.
My least favorite of the exercises is one called Isometric Stabilization, and the directions on the sheet say that I’m supposed to “tighten abdominal muscles as if tightening a belt.”
In other words, suck it in.
Oddly, I’ve been doing this exercise my entire life.
In any photo of me, I’m engaging in Isometric Stabilization.
Now I have a sheet of floor exercises to do three times day at home, with pictures to show me the correct form.
Oddly, none of the pictures shows my dogs jumping on my head, licking my face, or walking across my chest while I do the exercises.
Any pet owner who tries to work out at hom
e knows how helpful dogs can be.
If you have twenty reps to do, good luck getting through rep two.
Or maybe they are helpful?
Good Grief
By Lisa
Today is Mother Mary’s birthday, which is both a sad and happy occasion, since she passed away in April.
Good grief.
It’s an interesting expression and applies perfectly, capturing completely the push and pull of emotions of a day like this, on which I’m mentally celebrating her life and mourning her passing.
In fact, it’s the paradox of death itself, which is losing somebody and loving them, both at the same time.
We don’t stop loving somebody just because they’re not around anymore.
And that’s true whether they’re in the next room, on a trip to Belize, or simply passed into another realm.
They’re away, but they’re here, both at once.
Time and space are conflated on a day like this, collapsed into one another, each crashing the other’s party.
At least that’s how I’ve been feeling, these seven months past her passing—which never really passes.
I’m not sure if this is the correct way to experience the death of a parent, but it’s the only one I’ve got, and it’s the same one I had ten years ago, when my father passed away.
To me, they’re both still here, and this is either sound mental health or the most merciful form of denial.
In any event, I’ll take it.
I have no choice.
And to be completely honest, it isn’t the way I thought it would be. I spent most of my life fearing the loss of my parents, because I was close to them both, but in different ways.
My father was fun-loving, smart, and warm, a benign presence in my life. He lived nearby and he was my go-to guy for advice, a sure laugh, or an outing to a movie. Father Frank would go anywhere, at any time. He was game and supremely easy to get along with. As a novelist, I know that actions describe character better than words, and the act that describes him perfectly is his habit of going to the movies on a Saturday night, around eight o’clock and buying a ticket for whichever movie he could see the most of at the time.
When he went to the movies, he went to the movies.
All of them, any one.
He never planned it, because it wasn’t his nature. He figured all the movies were pretty good, and he never met a movie or a person that he didn’t like.
Mother Mary, whom you know if you’ve read about her, was his exact opposite, which was probably why they were headed for divorce the day they married.
Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?: True Stories and Confessions Page 17
