The Woman Who Is Always Tan and Has a Flat Stomach

by Lauren Allison

  A wave of nausea spread throughout the room.

  A discussion began over women who apply makeup while driving. Sinking down into my chair, I hoped no one had noticed the makeup mirror I had installed on my car visor.

  “I hear they are going to start ticketing for that!” said one woman who was self-righteously wearing no makeup at all.

  “Oh, great,” I thought. I would have to remove those containers of cotton balls and moist towelettes I had superglued to my dashboard. And all my long-tube makeup and eye-liners had fit so nicely into those cup holders.

  During the meeting, my mind drifted back to my very first ticket. I was sixteen years old, had my mom’s car after school, and was cruising around with my friends. Apparently, I was driving a little too fast.

  And of course I was looking particularly lovely in full battle-dress eyeliner and badly bleached hair. When the policeman asked for my license, I realize now that I probably shouldn’t have asked him to hold the ice-cream cone I was eating.

  As I thought back, I was amazed that I even passed the driver’s test. I remembered that I was given the statement “If you are driving in a 30 mph zone and the person in front of you is going 25 mph, it’s okay to speed up to 50 mph to pass him.” I answered true. It is that kind of logic that makes sense to a sixteen-year-old, which is why none of us should ever leave our homes again.

  At age seventeen, after I lamented to an older friend about the evils of getting a ticket simply for speeding, she gave me a tip. “Just bat your eyelashes and speak with an ever-so-slight Southern drawl.”

  For over twenty years, this worked well.

  Then, when I was approaching forty (as if that weren’t bad enough), I had my first encounter with a fifteen-year-old cop. He didn’t seem to care about my eyelashes, my Southern accent, or anything else I tried to send his way.

  That evening, I complained to Michael, “I am no longer little and cute to policemen.”

  “You were way overdue anyway,” Michael replied unsympathetically. “You have just been skating by on those tickets for years.”

  Of course Michael thinks I’m a bad driver, but like I always say, why have a four-wheel-drive if you aren’t going to drive over a few curbs?

  18

  The Woman Who Has Her Christmas Cards, Shopping, and Decorating Done Before Thanksgiving

  Christmas is extremely stressful for me. Last year, on December 22, when I called my husband at work and his secretary said he was out of the office, a wild thought went through my head: “Gosh, what if Michael is having an affair? And if so, I wonder if the woman he’s seeing would be willing to write the Christmas cards for his family this year so I don’t have to do it.”

  When he came home later that day, I asked, “Are you having an affair?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I shouted, “Well, fine, I’ll do all the Christmas cards again this year,” and walked out of the room.

  He followed me. “I believe the point here is that I’m not having an affair.”

  I said irritably, “Oh, sure, just see it from your perspective.”

  The next day, as I was composing our Christmas letter, I wrote that I had actually been so stressed out that I had hoped my husband had been having an affair so that this other woman could help me out with the Christmas cards. I decided to include a letter to the minister and his wife at the local church my husband and I attend, since I knew they had a sense of humor.

  Shortly after Christmas, I volunteered with ten other women for an evening project at the church. We were hard at work when the minister’s wife walked in. She exclaimed, “Lauren, I just loved your Christmas letter!”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  Then she said, “And that part about your husband having the affair—I just loved it!”

  Silence enveloped the room. Everyone’s eyes focused on me.

  Without the use of clairvoyant abilities, I was able to determine that they were thinking:

  1. “Why would anyone write about her husband having an affair in her Christmas letter?”

  2. “Why would the minister’s wife enjoy that so much?”

  I cleared my throat. I looked around and mumbled, “Well, you know, you really had to read the whole letter.” It was difficult to explain.

  People find many different ways to be annoying before the holidays. A week prior to Thanksgiving a friend of mine called and said, “I’m having a party three days before Christmas.”

  “What? I’m at the peak of my shopping three days before Christmas.”

  “It’s a potluck, so you need to bring a covered dish that’ll serve forty people.”

  “Are you kidding? I barely have time to feed the cat before Christmas.”

  “And, by the way, we’re doing a little gift exchange. Bring a wrapped gift suitable for a man or woman you don’t know and keep the cost under two dollars. We’ll open the gifts one by one to see who came up with the best one.”

  I shouted, “I’m not coming to your stressful, time-consuming little party!” and slammed down the receiver.

  This led me to come up with the solution for the holidays: polygamy. While polygamy has been frowned upon in many circles, it deserves another look. It wouldn’t have to be all year round—just a temporary “polygamy for the holidays” kind of arrangement. Think about it: you have one man and, say, six women. One woman does the holiday baking, one does the holiday decorating, one writes the cards, one buys the gifts, one wraps the gifts, and one pretends to enjoy herself. What could be better than this little plan? Are the wives of polygamists well rested during the holidays? Yes. Are they stressed out? No.

  Every year on December 26, after I recover from all the tranquilizers I’ve taken, I think, “I’ve once again missed the meaning of Christmas.” Which is why, next year during the summer months at the neighborhood pool, I’m going to start lining up dates for my husband.

  19

  The Husband Who Either Asks for Inane Instructions or Else Gives Inane Instructions

  The other night before dinner, the following conversation occurred:

  I said, “Michael, would you slice those potatoes for me?”

  “Sure.” Silence. “What do you want me to do with the potatoes again?”

  “Cut them up.”

  “How do you want them cut?”

  “Thin.”

  “Thin meaning paper-thin so you can see through them? Or thin meaning opaque?”

  “Opaque.”

  “Okay, but how opaque? One-eighth inch, one-quarter inch, something in between?”

  “One-eighth inch is fine,” I said, holding up my fingers to show him how far apart.

  He sighed.

  I said, “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know what you want.”

  “Why?”

  “You said one-eighth inch but you demonstrated more like one-quarter inch.”

  “Just cut them up.”

  He began cutting up the potatoes. Then he said, “How do you want them arranged in the casserole dish? Do you want them stacked one on top of the other in rows going up and down? Or do you want them to overlap?”

  “I want them to overlap. Don’t forget, you need to salt them as you put them in.”

  “What?”

  “Just add some salt.”

  “Where do I find the salt?”

  “Do you really live here?”

  “I just don’t know where the salt is.”

  “It’s in the cupboard with the spices.”

  “And that would be where?”

  “Are you sure you’re not just a guest in this house?”

  “I found it. Now how much salt?”

  “About half a teaspoon.”

  “You want each individual slice of potato salted? Or should I just add some here and there?”

  “Just add some here and there.”

  “But then what happens if some of the slices don’t get an
y?”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “I’m beginning to get worried about it. I don’t think each individual slice will have enough salt.”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t think the potatoes are the only thing to be worried about.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ll be right back. I need to go and take some kind of pain reliever.”

  20

  The Culinary Mom Who Brings Crab Aspic with Red Pepper Coulis to Her Child’s School for Snacktime

  One day outside my daughter’s classroom, I saw the Culinary Mom. It was our day to bring snacks, and she had brought crab aspic with red pepper coulis. Unfortunately, the children loved it—go figure. I had brought a large bag of Sam’s Club potato chips.

  Sad to say, one day I had to drop off some school information to the Culinary Mom. Before I had time to say that I was late for something, anything, she pulled me into her house.

  “I just wanted to show you my new Mauviel,” she said with a ring of superiority in her voice. “They just arrived by messenger.”

  “Great,” I said. “What are they?”

  Silence. Then, “You don’t know what Mauviel is?”

  “No.”

  “Mauviel is the best copper cookware money can buy.”

  “I never use pots and pans, I just microwave.”

  She gasped in horror. “Without pots and pans, how do you make poussins?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Poussins. You know, game hens?”

  I was confused. Then I brightened. “You mean the rotisserie chicken at the supermarket?”

  She gasped in horror again. “You don’t eat those, do you?”

  “Only on special occasions.”

  “But those supermarket chickens have no aroma, no taste, no piquancy.”

  I was confused again, but decided to just get used to it.

  She went on, “Certainly you must have a pan to make crisp-fried julienne of leeks?”

  It was hard to know how to respond.

  Bad as she is, the Culinary Mom is no match for the Culinary Dad. And it doesn’t take much for a man to define himself as a Culinary Dad, either. If they mix three ingredients together they believe they’ll be asked to cater the Vanity Fair party next year after the Academy Awards.

  We witnessed the Culinary Dad in action at a recent dinner party. He’d made the standard canned green bean casserole, but had decided to add fresh, not canned, mushrooms. He must have brought up this wild leap he had made into creative endeavors during the dinner conversation maybe six or seven times.

  His wife, a true Culinary Mom, had made chicken Kiev in the likeness of Lenin’s face. But of course the Culinary Dad couldn’t even mention it.

  One evening as we were eating dinner my husband said, “Wow, I was so impressed with that dinner the other night—that chicken Kiev really did look like Lenin. Why don’t you ever do stuff like that?”

  I looked at our dinner. “But honey, I did. See how I cut your meat loaf into the shape of the state of Colorado?”

  “Why, yes, I hadn’t noticed. How very nice.”

  Thank goodness my husband isn’t a Culinary Dad. Little did he know that all meat loaf is cut into rectangles resembling the state of Colorado.

  21

  The Husband Who Has a Cold but Believes It’s Malaria

  When I was first married, I would get worried when my husband would catch a cold or the flu, because, from the way he complained, I truly believed him when he said he thought he was going to die. When he would stare vacantly ahead, as if he had just been told of an impending nuclear attack, I would think, “This must not be just a cold, it must be malaria like he claimed.” I would get scared and rush him to the doctor, only to have him sent home with nose spray. Luckily, he wasn’t sick very often.

  One Saturday, I had a doctor’s appointment. While still in bed, Michael asked, “Does our doctor make house calls?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to be seen also. But I’m too weak to get out of bed.”

  “I didn’t even know you were sick.”

  “I’ve had this terrible flu for weeks now.”

  “The flu? I didn’t know that. You’ve been going to work every day.”

  “I’ve been trying to go on in spite of this horrible disease, which is wreaking havoc with my sense of well-being.”

  I rolled my eyes with a look toward the heavens at all the women I knew who had moved on to the Other Side. The heavens smiled back. But I did call the doctor’s office to see if Michael could sneak in to see the doctor during my appointment. They said they had time.

  Soon after we arrived, we were ushered into the doctor’s office. The nurse took our temperature, blood pressure, throat cultures, etc. My husband took about five minutes explaining to her in detail all his symptoms, and wondered if he might have double pneumonia and would need to be hospitalized. She left the room.

  Then the physician walked in, examined both of us, and said to me, “You have severe bronchitis and a horrible sinus infection. You’re positive for strep throat and you’ve got an ear infection in both ears. I’m giving you two kinds of antibiotics, a decongestant, cough medicine, and a steroid for ten days.”

  Michael said, “What about me?”

  The doctor glanced casually at him and said, “You’ve got a case of the sniffles.” He wrote “sniffles” in the diagnosis part of the medical statement and gave it to Michael.

  “Surely I must need some kind of medication,” he said indignantly.

  “You might try some herbal tea.”

  My husband glared at him.

  But once in a while miracles happen. A few months ago we met another couple, Jeff and Karen, after work for a quick dinner. Jeff walked into the restaurant with his right shoulder seven inches higher than his left, with his right arm limp at his side. Michael and I exclaimed, “Oh, no, what happened to you?”

  Karen replied a little tersely, “He just gave blood.”

  I said, “Did something go wrong?”

  “No, nothing went wrong. This is just how he acts after he gives blood.”

  Jeff sneered at her, holding his arm. “The needle stick was horrendous. You have no idea the amount of pain I’m in right now.”

  She said snidely, “Apparently not.”

  We were ushered to our table. Jeff had difficulty sliding into the booth, but eventually made it. Karen rolled her eyes.

  When we were all seated, Karen said, “I don’t know why you men are such martyrs.”

  He weakly held up the menu with his left hand, as his right arm remained limp at his side. She looked at him and rolled her eyes again. After we ordered I said, “What a great thing to do—to give blood.”

  He said, “Studies show that giving blood four times a year dramatically decreases a man’s risk of heart disease and cancer. So I’d like to say that I’m giving blood out of the goodness of my heart, but it’s actually to lower my risk of these two diseases. Karen wants me to do it so I’ll be around longer.”

  She muttered under her breath, “I’ll be so thrilled to have that.”

  “What did you say, honey?” He turned to her.

  “I said I’ll be so thrilled to have some food. I’m starving.”

  He said, “I’m starving, too. In fact, I’m feeling faint.”

  “Didn’t they give you anything to eat after giving blood?”

  “Lemonade, Lorna Doone cookies, and a Snickers bar.”

  “Well, then, you should be fine.”

  He leaned forward and held his head in his hands. “Tell them to bring us some food, any food, right away. I think I’m going into shock.”

  She just stared at him and didn’t move a muscle.

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, straightened up, and said, “But I’m feeling better now.”

  She turned to me. “How’s the writing going?”

 
I smiled. “I’m finding more material all the time.”

  Our food arrived. Jeff ate with his left hand, which was noticeably awkward, but Karen pretended not to notice. Then the check came. Jeff reached back with his left hand and struggled and struggled to remove his wallet from the back right pocket of his pants. He finally came up with it and placed it on the table.

  And then the climactic moment occurred. While his right arm remained limp at his side, Jeff, with a great deal of effort, fished the money out of his wallet using only his left hand. It took several minutes to get the money out, as well as to put back in everything else that had fallen out of his wallet. We all sat looking at him and then we all looked at each other.

  And that’s when the best part of all happened. Jeff realized how he looked trying to remove money from his wallet with one hand and, miraculously, smiled to himself. And then the rest of us smiled. And then he began to laugh, and then we all laughed until we hurt.

  I thought, “What a breakthrough for medical science.”

  22

  The Mom Who Throws a Cinderella Birthday Party for Her Daughter by Installing a Drawbridge to the Front Door and Digging a Moat Around the House

  My daughter’s first two birthday parties were a snap. All adults, a few pink decorations, and Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

  But by the time Caroline turned three, she had many friends of her own. I innocently invited twelve children to her party. My husband and I played “duck, duck, goose” with them, and “bounce the balloon in the air,” and then we did a craft project I had planned where they glued elbow macaroni onto construction paper. Unfortunately, all of this took only fifteen minutes. You soon learn that when you have twelve kids in your home, time becomes warped and what seems like seven hours is only about six minutes.

  We moved on to cake. I had purchased a cake at the grocery store, but had forgotten to buy candles. I searched the house completely and finally found three large pillar candles I had purchased about a month after Caroline was born. I had waited since then for the moment my husband and I could use them for a romantic evening. The candles had never been lit, if you know what I mean.