The Woman Who Is Always Tan and Has a Flat Stomach

by Lauren Allison

  The contrast between the Woman Who Cleans Out Her Refrigerator Every Thursday Whether It Smells or Not and myself is stark. She has Black and Decker handheld vacuums stationed every five feet in the house. Never is there an unsqueegeed shower, or an unvacuumed floor. Her bed is made even when she’s sleeping in it. She crawls up and cleans the gutters around the roof herself. She unscrews and cleans the heating and cooling registers every week. She flips her mattresses once a month. I, of course, do none of these things although I did make the bed one day last week.

  The Woman Who Cleans Out Her Refrigerator Every Thursday wears a wraparound Velcro belt that holds a water bottle, sunscreen, safety kit, bottle opener, and tweezers (in case someone walks barefoot on a wood deck). (That is, a neighbor’s wood deck. Her wood deck would never have splinters.) Her kids wear shoes that are multipurpose—rain, snow, shine, hiking, kayaking, pool—shoes that work in any type of activity or weather. By contrast, for four years my daughter wouldn’t wear anything but sparkling ruby-red slippers, which she wore hiking, to T-ball games, and to the pool.

  Her car is spotless. Her drink holders are never filled with half-finished Diet Cokes. Junior Mints are never stuck to the armrest in the backseat. And no popcorn clings to her black wool skirt when she gets out of the car. But in my car, you never go hungry. For instance, while driving one day on my way to work, I remembered that I hadn’t eaten and was able to scrounge up something indefinable for breakfast off the floor.

  On another occasion, I was on my way to a party and realized I had forgotten to bring a dessert. Not only was I able to scrounge up several dozen cellophane-wrapped mints from the bottom of my purse, but I also found a plate in the trunk of my car from a previous party. It all worked out pretty well.

  She also outdoes me at parties by bringing the perfect bottle of wine, like an exquisite merlot that has aged to perfection. On the other hand, last weekend I took wine to a party, and as we were walking up to the door, I looked at the bottle and noticed that its vintage was “last Tuesday.”

  But it really wouldn’t be news to any of my neighbors that I’m not up to the standards of the Woman Who Cleans Out Her Refrigerator Every Thursday Whether It Smells or Not. My husband was standing out on our deck the other day and several of the neighbors were out in their own backyards. I was in the kitchen and he yelled to me, “You know, since you cleaned off the grill, I haven’t been getting the runs like I used to.”

  I just stood in the kitchen with a towel over my head. Thanks, sweetheart.

  15

  The Knitting Mom Who Breaks Down and Confesses, “It’s Just Like Drugs, But It’s Yarn”

  I first glimpsed the Knitting Mom at the community swimming pool. I didn’t know her, but she and her four daughters were all decked out in identical, adorable cotton-knit two-piece bathing suits, yellow with a daisy theme, which would probably cost ninety dollars each at one of those mother-daughter boutiques.

  My next encounter with the Knitting Mom was at a fall soccer game at school. Caroline and one of the Knitting Mom’s daughters were playing in the game, but the other three daughters were all wearing gorgeous sweaters. Subtly sneaking closer, I could see that the fronts of their sweaters depicted all the known completed panels of Monet’s water lily paintings.

  Later that fall, I picked up Caroline from a Girl Scouts meeting. The troop leader asked if I could take Annie, one of the “Monet sweater” girls, home. I said sure.

  Annie got into the car. She was wearing a darling little red-and-green hat shaped like a strawberry. I suppressed the urge to scream, “Where did you get that hat!” Instead I casually remarked, “That’s a cute hat, Annie. Where did your mom buy it?”

  “She didn’t. My mom knits and sews all my clothes, including my hats. Same with my sisters, and my daddy, too.”

  I instantly and overwhelmingly disliked Annie’s mother.

  Of course, after Annie had been dropped off, Caroline posed the dreaded question.

  “Could you knit a strawberry hat for me, Mom?”

  “I don’t know how to knit, sweetheart.”

  “You could learn, couldn’t you?”

  A wave of guilt washed over me.

  “Well, of course I can,” I said.

  I blamed my mother for not teaching me how to knit. But I wasn’t above faking it. When in doubt, hire it done.

  After consulting the Yellow Pages, I sallied forth with my charge cards to the closest yarn shop.

  “We have beginning classes. They run for six weeks,” the head knitter explained.

  “Actually, I just want to commission you to knit one of those little strawberry hats. Maybe in pink in time for Valentine’s Day.”

  “We could, but there’re lots of people ahead of you. Mostly mothers trying to pass.”

  A group of women knitting at a round table in the corner snickered.

  “Trying to pass?” I asked.

  “Yes, mothers and grandmothers trying to pass as knitters. The peer pressure, you know. They mistakenly think that if their child or grandchild has a couple of hand-knit articles, they themselves will look like real knitters.”

  “I wasn’t trying to pass,” I stammered. “I just want a hat for my daughter.”

  More snickering from the corner group.

  I adeptly lied. “Besides, I really don’t think my doctor would let me knit since I broke my wrist in two places while competing in a world alpine skiing event. Today’s the first day I’ve had my wrist brace off. Just one little hat would do it.”

  She eyed me suspiciously. “That’ll be $39.95 plus five dollars extra for a HAND-KNITTED BY MOM label.”

  I thought, “$44.95 for one child’s hat—she must be out of her mind!” I said, “That’s all? Great!” I handed over the money and blew out of there.

  Outraged, I sat and seethed in my car. I would show them. I was not going to be treated this way by a bunch of knitters.

  The pink hat was ready before Valentine’s Day and I sent my husband to pick it up.

  “Were the three witches from Macbeth knitting over in the corner?” I asked when he returned.

  “No, the shop was empty. They were just opening,” he replied.

  Good! I would know when to go if I had to sneak back.

  Unfortunately, Caroline and Annie, the Monet sweater girl, became friends. This meant that I was forced into getting to know her mother. After I drove up to her house to pick up Caroline one afternoon, I squared my shoulders and bravely marched to the front door.

  Annie’s mom answered the door, needles in hand. The front of her sweater depicted Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. The colors were just as delicate and lovely as those of the original painting. I wanted to cry.

  After a few minutes of chatting, she turned to me hesitantly. “I was wondering if you’d mind if I asked you a question.”

  I agreed.

  “Do you ever feel it’s an addiction?”

  “Is what an addiction?” I replied.

  “Knitting!” she cried. “I wouldn’t bring it up, but I see that you’re a knitter too. I peeked at Caroline’s hat after she hung it up and saw the HAND-KNITTED BY MOM label.”

  “That was… you know, it was, ah…” My voice trailed off.

  “I’m just afraid I’m over the top,” she went on. “It started out as just a harmless pastime when I was having my first child, but now, ten years later… let me show you.”

  I followed her to a large addition on the back of her house. She said, “Through here is my walk-in refrigerator where I store my yarns. Of course they have to stay at thirty-seven degrees.”

  “Well, naturally,” I said, as if I had been refrigerating yarn for years. There was clearly a whole lot more to this knitting thing than I had ever guessed. “And so you feel you may be addicted to knitting?”

  “I love to knit, don’t you?” she replied joyfully. “But,” her face fell slightly, “as my knitting friend Judy always says, ‘It’s just like drugs, but it’s yarn.’ ”

&n
bsp; Stifling a shriek of laughter, I tried to process this analogy to substance abuse. I could imagine treatment centers asking, “Tell me all the substances to which you are addicted: (1) alcohol, (2) cocaine, (3) marijuana, (4) methamphetamines, (5) heroin, and (6) yarn.”

  “Maybe there’s a ‘Knitters Anonymous’ program you can join. I don’t know much about addictions (except food of course), but I’ll do my best to help you find one.”

  “No,” the knitter said warily, “I had a bad experience with a Knitters Anonymous club. We had ordered a container-load of wool shipped directly from New Zealand to see if we could open it up, feel it, and then send it back again. A street fight broke out when it was unloaded. Knitters have a very dark side, I’ve discovered.

  “What I really live for,” the knitter added, beginning to expound the joys of her obsession, “is the big sheep and yarn festival in Scotland in May. I go every year. What worries me is that my oldest daughter is displaying a serious interest in it. I see all the signs. She goes into the cooler to touch the wool and talks wistfully about her favorite wool weight. So far, I’ve kept her satisfied with a small crocheting project, but it’s only a matter of time. I just cringe at the thought of her clutching some giant size-11 circular needles while obsessing over a king-size afghan.” She mentally floated off again. “Maybe something like the Muir Woods California redwoods. A watercolor feel.”

  The girls came running in and she regained consciousness. I silently thanked my mother for keeping me away from yarn. But if this woman’s daughter had the gene for knitting, it was only a matter of time.

  I only hope Betty Ford will accept knitters by then.

  16

  The Infomercial Couple Who Start Every Sentence with “But Wait! There’s More!”

  While watching infomercials is a way for couples to purchase items without leaving the comfort of their homes, it can go too far.

  For example, our friends Marlene and Dave have turned into an infomercial couple. The other evening, while Michael and I were at their house for dinner, instead of discussing their favorite biographies or the latest movies they’ve seen, they simply repeated phrases like, “But wait, there’s more!” or “Keep your cash from ending up in the trash!”

  We were no more than through their front door when Dave began telling us about their latest purchase, the Unbelievable Chopper. He had set up a folding table in the living room to give us a demonstration, and the dining-room chairs had been placed strategically around the table in a theaterlike fashion. He donned a chef’s hat and placed a peach pit in the container.

  As if he were addressing a large audience, his voice boomed, “Because of the amazing 750 megawatts of power, the Unbelievable Chopper will chop this peach pit into a fine dust.” He pressed the button, we listened to the 750 megawatts of power whirl around, and then he exclaimed, “Voila!” He poured the finely granulated peach pit powder on the table in front of us.

  Michael began to cough. I said to Dave, “I think Michael is allergic to peach pit dust.”

  Dave said irritably, “You’re missing the point.”

  I said, “No, I think it’s fabulous that the Unbelievable Chopper will make peach pit dust.”

  He said triumphantly, “That’s because of the 750 megawatts of power.”

  I wondered how “mega” power was different from regular power, but didn’t want to sit through the explanation.

  Michael stopped coughing. He said, “What do you use peach pit dust for?”

  Dave said, “You don’t use peach pit dust for anything. I’m just trying to prove a point. Now look. I’m going to place these pieces of concrete into the Unbelievable Chopper and it will turn them into a fine sand.”

  He hit the button and poured out the concrete dust. Michael started coughing again.

  “Good heavens,” said Dave, “are you allergic to everything?”

  I suggested, “Perhaps the Colorado Department of Transportation could use one of these to remove an old highway.”

  “You are missing the point,” Dave said irritably. “The Unbelievable Chopper is for chopping kitchen items.”

  I said, “Like old forks and spoons?”

  “No,” he shouted, “like tomatoes and mushrooms.”

  Marlene walked into the room. “Are you done showing them the Unbelievable Chopper? Because I want to show them my abs.” She lifted up her shirt to reveal perfectly toned abs.

  Michael coughed again. I knew it wasn’t the allergies this time.

  She said, “I got these abs with the Smart Stomach Machine. Just two minutes a day for two weeks. But wait, there’s more! I don’t have to go to the gym now, the gym comes to me!”

  Michael and I both nodded numbly.

  Weeks later, when I stopped by Marlene’s house, I noticed the Smart Stomach Machine sitting out on their curb for the garbage truck.

  As we sat down to coffee I said, “It’s too bad the Smart Stomach Machine didn’t work out. Why are you getting rid of it? Your abs look great.”

  “I didn’t have room for it.”

  “But your abs look great,” I insisted.

  She waved me aside. “I stopped eating banana splits every night.” Then she hesitated and said, “You know, I’m beginning to realize that infomercials are running our lives. I haven’t ordered anything for a whole month. But I’ll tell you who I’m worried about, it’s Dave.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s never been able to resist any salesperson. Did you notice the statues all over our lawn? There’s a new statuary place on his way to work. They have placed signs every hundred feet before the store, and he just becomes mesmerized and pulls in. Lately I’ve had to drive him to and from work, blindfolded, so he can’t see the signs. It’s getting to be a problem.”

  I would agree that having to drive your husband to and from work blindfolded would qualify as a problem.

  She went on. “I didn’t mind so much at first. He brought home statues of bunnies and a nice little fountain. But now he just buys anything they have. And frankly, I don’t like going into my backyard and seeing a fifty-foot statue of an alligator. I just can’t relax out there anymore.”

  I glanced out the window at the backyard. It looked like a scene from Crocodile Hunter. I said, “At least he confines the statuary to the backyard.”

  She sighed. “But we have an entire garage full of statues of the saints: St. Francis of Assisi, St. Catherine, St. Augustine, St. John, even St. Ricky. Come out to the garage and I’ll show you.”

  I followed her out and said, “St. Ricky?”

  She showed me the statues in their garage. “He lived during the seventeenth century in Barbados. We’ll have to put these statues out on the front lawn since the back is full. And I don’t think the neighbors will be too pleased.”

  I said, “They probably won’t mind, except perhaps the one of St. Ricky.” I’m just not used to seeing a saint holding a bottle of tequila.

  “The covenants in our neighborhood wouldn’t permit it anyway. I know they don’t say anything about prohibiting a statue of St. Ricky, but I’m sure the homeowners association will find a way to make us take it down. They’re so rigid.”

  I said, “Some people are like that,” thinking to myself that their neighbors don’t know how lucky they are. I needed to check to make sure the covenants in my own neighborhood excluded ecclesiastical statuary.

  I decided to try to console her. “With Dave it must be genetic. Remember that time his parents invited all of us over—and Dave’s dad went on and on about the fireplace utensils he’d purchased even though he didn’t have a fireplace?”

  “You’re right,” Marlene said. “I hadn’t thought of that before. Dave and his dad must share the same infomercial gene. I wonder if there’s a cure for that.”

  I said doubtfully, “I think that researchers are focusing more on Alzheimer’s, cancer, and heart disease. It’s probably hard to get funding for research on the genetic propensity to buy useless items.”

&nbs
p; Marlene threw up her hands in the air. “That just goes to show you,” she said indignantly.

  I tried to nod sympathetically. I said, “I’m glad that Michael doesn’t watch infomercials, because his dad bought all kinds of things they never used.”

  Later that evening, I walked in on Michael watching an infomercial. “Sweetheart,” I shrieked, “turn that thing off! You don’t want to get hooked!”

  It was too late. He said, “But wait, there’s more! I just ordered the Suck Up, which removes air from plastic bags and then seals them hermetically. We’ll be able to keep lettuce fresh for eight and a half months.”

  I immediately got on the Internet. Somewhere, someone must be doing research on the infomercial gene.

  I only hope they’ll find a cure before a tequila-drinking saint shows up on our front lawn.

  17

  The Woman with the Perfect Driving Record

  I was late for a meeting and got a speeding ticket. The policeman claimed I was going fifty-nine in a forty-five zone. Like that’s even possible.

  When I arrived at my women’s group, I decided I would blame being late on the ticket.

  “I’m sorry to be late. I got a ticket and, well, you know how long that takes.” I tried to sound remorseful.

  “Actually, Lauren, I don’t,” the chairwoman replied. “I’ve never received a speeding ticket.”

  A collective gasp arose from the room.

  “Never?” I stared in disbelief. (Neither had my mother-in-law, but that was because she never drove over fifteen miles per hour.)

  “Not even a parking fine,” came the reply.

  “Not even in high school?” someone asked.

  “No.” She was clearly enjoying this. It was probably a topic she introduced whenever possible.

  My adolescence must have been a teensy bit spicier than hers had been. I was from the old school of driving where you pull out of the parking lot and floor it.

  The Woman with the Perfect Driving Record went on, “I simply have too much respect for the law to ever break the rules.”