Nevertheless, I decided I should think about getting into shape. Another mom told me about a yoga class she was taking and loving. She invited me to try it out.
When I showed up for the class that next week, I noticed all of the women wore skintight leotards and had not one-eighth of an inch of excess flab. Their stomachs were not only flat, they were concave. Their makeup was perfect, their hair was perfect, their nails were perfect. Did I mention it was eight in the morning? Obviously, I left.
So I decided to try one of the 847 cable channels we pay for every month but never watch. I found Yoga with Brandy, which I hoped might be a cooking show, but unfortunately was an exercise show. There was Brandy, looking great in her skintight black leotard, with two other great-looking workout people, on the beach in front of the ocean. I looked around the room. What was missing? Let me see—oh, I’ve got it—the ocean. I couldn’t possibly be expected to do yoga without an ocean.
Next, I tried the Pilates channel. Shawna and friends looked about the same as Brandy and her sidekicks, and she also had an ocean. I complained to another friend.
“Why don’t you just take an aerobic walking class?” she asked. “I just started a new one that you could join.”
“Well, I suppose…” I said doubtfully.
“It’ll be fine,” she said. “You’ll love it. But first, what kind of athletic running shoes do you own?”
“The kind where you put them on and start running.”
“Do they have stride sensors?”
“What are stride sensors?”
“I thought that everyone has at least one pair of running shoes with stride sensors. Where did you buy your running shoes?”
“Wal-Mart, I think.” I shrugged.
“Wal-Mart?” she said incredulously. “Wal-Mart doesn’t carry running shoes with stride sensors.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Well, you need to replace your running shoes every five hundred miles. How long have you had yours?”
“I believe I bought them when I was a junior in college, which would be about eighteen years ago. See, they’re right here,” I said, pointing to my shoes in the closet.
“That’s odd, they look brand-new.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrugged.
She turned back to me. “What pedometer do you currently own?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Okay, then, before we start, you need to buy the SportBrain iStep XII pedometer. You can download the data to the Internet and it will graph your distance, speed, and caloric output.”
And to think I used to worry that people could only gain access to my credit card information over the Internet.
“But what if I don’t want a graph charting my caloric output?” I complained. I wondered if the term “flatliner” meant anything to her.
“Well, of course you want to chart your caloric output. Now let’s go over the basics of walking.”
“The basics of walking?”
“Most people don’t know how to walk.”
“Well, I have been walking without any problems for about forty-seven years now. But okay, tell me how to walk.”
She cleared her throat and started talking as if she were reciting something from memory. “Walking is done in a rolling motion. First, you strike the ground with your heel. Then you roll through the step from heel to toe. Then you push off with your toe. And then you bring the back leg forward to strike again with the heel.”
I tried it and fell over.
“No, no, no,” she said impatiently. “Let’s go over it again.”
The next time I fared better. I made it to the couch and back.
“See,” she said triumphantly. “I knew you could do it.”
We promised to meet to walk the next morning and she left. I was pleased. I wondered how high my caloric output level had been during the excursion to the couch and back. Surely it must have been enough to cover the three chocolate chip cookies that were left in the kitchen.
So far, my decision to get into shape was working out pretty well.
35
The Perfect Halloween Mom Who Carves Forty-three Pumpkins in the Image of the U.S. Presidents
Naturally, I was running late for Caroline’s autumn party at school. Luckily, I had been the first one to notice the sign-up sheet regarding what to bring, and put my name down under “paper plates.” The unfortunate moms who don’t stay alert and watch for the sign-up sheet often end up having to bring items such as cookies decorated with bats or other time-consuming treats. I, however, like to stay alert in this department.
As I was walking in from the parking lot, an overachieving mom was returning to her car. “Oh, hi, Melinda,” I greeted her. “Are you leaving so soon?”
“Oh, no,” she said happily. “This is my fourth trip back to my U-Haul. I had so much to bring for the party, it’s taken me a while to get it all in.”
“U-Haul?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s it over there,” she said pointing across the parking lot. “I rented a U-Haul to bring everything here for the party. I needed it for the forty-three pumpkins I carved.”
“Forty-three pumpkins?”
“I carved the faces of all forty-three presidents into pumpkins. Since I am in charge of the autumn party this year, I thought I’d try and combine it with U.S. history.” I vaguely remembered that Melinda had been a history major at Stanford. “I’ve always thought you can learn so much about history through the use of produce.”
“I’ve always thought that, too,” I said nonchalantly, hoping she didn’t realize I was being sarcastic.
She continued. “Actually, would you mind helping me? I’ve already brought in George Washington through James Monroe. I’ll take Buchanan and Cleveland. If you could grab William Howard Taft, that would be great,” she said, pointing at an enormous pumpkin.
“Why is Taft so much larger than the others?” I asked.
“Because Taft weighed over 350 pounds, of course. Once he gave up his seat on a streetcar, and three women were able to sit down.”
“I didn’t know that. I can’t believe all the work you’ve put into this.”
“Yes, I started back in September. I had to buy three extra refrigerators for my garage to store them. And let me tell you, it wasn’t easy, especially carving all the curls on George Washington and John Adams.”
“Wow.”
“In the glove compartment,” she continued, “are historically correct wire-rim eyeglasses for Teddy Roosevelt, Woodrow Wilson, and Harry Truman. I tried to use smaller pumpkins for them so the glasses would fit. It’s funny, but no antique shop I checked had glasses large enough to fit pumpkins. I finally found some on eBay.”
A few more moms walked up and offered to help.
Melinda gave out the instructions: “Okay, Michelle, you grab Pierce and Fillmore. Ellen, you grab Tyler and Jefferson.”
Michelle said hesitantly, “I’m not sure how to tell which ones are Pierce and Fillmore.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Melinda said with irritation, “you obviously don’t know much about the presidents. Everyone knows that Pierce was the best-looking president—even Harry Truman said that.”
Michelle said hesitantly again, “And which of these pumpkins is the best-looking?”
Melinda stood above the Pierce pumpkin and pointed down at it. “It’s this one,” she said irritably.
The other moms averted their eyes.
Ellen retorted, “Well, Truman said that only because John Kennedy hadn’t been president yet. I think he was the best-looking, and I’m taking him in.”
Michelle said, “No, I’m taking him in.”
“I said first,” Ellen said, grabbing John Kennedy and running to the door. I thought to myself that this is exactly what happens when women with young kids haven’t had sex for a while.
I turned to Melinda and said, “You’ve certainly outdone yourself this time.”
“Yes,” she said wearily
, “this has been much more difficult than I had planned. Some of the presidents were extremely difficult to do. I know that Lincoln was one of the greatest presidents, but he was definitely the most difficult to carve. Can you imagine? The angles in his face, the mole, the unsightly beard. No wonder his wife went nuts. People should consider these things when determining presidential greatness. At this point, he’s definitely off my list. In fact, he didn’t turn out that well. I think I’ll just leave him in the car.”
As Michelle and I followed her in with the remaining pumpkins, I felt sorry for Lincoln. All that work: the exact timing of the Emancipation Proclamation, the simple eloquence of the Gettysburg Address, the daunting task of keeping the Union together. All that, just to one day be left in the car.
36
The Wine Connoisseur Woman Whose Wine Rests More Than I Do
At a recent party, I was talking to Jennifer, a woman I had known in school. Her husband walked into the living room where we were talking and said, “Our host asked us to taste this wine and tell him what we think.”
Jennifer replied, “Is it a reserva? I thought we were supposed to taste a reserva.”
“No, I just tasted this wine and it can’t possibly be a reserva. I detected a hint of oak when I tasted this wine, so it was probably stored in an oak barrel for a few weeks.” He paused. “Oh, I saw someone in the kitchen who I wanted to speak to about a new contract at work. I’ll be right back.” He left the wine with us.
Jennifer poured wine into each of our glasses.
I drank all of mine and lifted my glass and said, “Tasted good to me!”
“No, no, no, Lauren,” said Jennifer. “First you must ‘nose’ the wine and notice the delicate aromas. Then you must swirl the wine in the glass, let it rest, and then nose the wine again, whereby you will then notice an absolutely profound difference in the aroma. Here, let’s try it.”
She poured more wine into my glass.
“Okay now, remember, nose the wine, swirl, rest, nose again.”
I sat down on the couch and drank up all the wine in the glass.
She said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m resting. Didn’t you say I needed to rest?”
“No,” she said, “I said to let the wine rest.”
“Why would the wine need to rest? I’m the one who vacuumed my whole house today.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” she said. “Here, let me pour you more wine,” she said, pouring more wine into my glass.
She continued, “Okay, let’s go over this again. First nose the wine, swirl, rest, nose again.”
“What do you mean, ‘nose the wine’?” I asked. “Do you mean that I need to drink it so fast that it sloshes up against my nose?”
“No, it means to smell it,” she said impatiently.
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
“Okay, let’s try it again. Nose the wine, swirl, rest, nose again.”
I smelled the wine, rested on the couch, and drank up the wine in my glass.
“No, no, no, you were supposed to nose the wine, swirl, rest, and then nose again.”
“I did. I smelled the wine, rested, and drank it.”
“No, no, no,” she said again impatiently. “You never ‘smell’ a wine. You ‘nose’ it.”
“You shouldn’t say ‘nose’ it, rather you should say that I ‘know’ it.” I walked over and opened a window, as it was really getting hot in there.
She poured some more wine for me. “Okay, first, nose the wine. Let’s see you do that.”
I sloshed the wine up against my nose and then drank it.
“Now what?” I asked, sitting down on the couch again. I called out loudly to the other room, “Could someone in there bring me a pillow?”
“Oh, my God, I’ve never seen anything like this. I’m going to try this one more time. Nose the wine, swirl, rest, and then nose it again.” She poured me more wine.
“If it’s all she same to you, I don’t feel much like twirling.”
“I didn’t say ‘twirl,’ I said ‘swirl.’ ”
“Well, that makes even less sense.” I drank all the wine in the glass. “Hey, where’s my pillow?” I called out to the other room.
“Okay, I’m going to try this once more. Nose, swirl, rest, nose.” She poured me more wine.
I drank the wine. “I’m really going to need a pillow in here,” I hollered at the people in the other room.
Her husband walked into the room.
“Where’s my pillow?” I asked him.
He said, “When I was in the kitchen I thought I heard someone yelling for a pillow, but I didn’t know it was you.”
I replied, “You mean you didn’t nose it was me.”
“What?” he said blankly.
“Do you guys think it’s hot in here?”
“No.”
I yawned. “Well, I guess I’ll call it a night. I’m going to bed.”
“But you don’t live here,” she said.
“What’s your point?” I asked. I wandered off, found a bed upstairs, and crawled into it. Now, if only the room would stop twirling. Or swirling. Whatever.
37
The Woman Who Puts All Her Photographs into an Album the Same Day She Gets Them Back
One afternoon, just as I was getting ready to finish off the dessert I had made a few hours earlier, the phone rang.
“Lauren, this is Peggy at Photo I. How are you?”
“Fine, Peggy. What’s wrong?” I knew her casually, but I couldn’t imagine her calling just to chat.
She whispered loudly, “I’m calling to let you know that the store owner is getting ready to clean out all the photos that have been left here for several years. You have eleven packages. They appear to be of Christmas, Thanksgiving, Halloween, your trip to Disneyland, the Fourth of July, and your vacation at the lake.”
“How embarrassing,” I thought to myself. I said, “Thank you so much, Peggy. I’ll be in tomorrow by noon.”
“Oh, and I just found some Easter pictures of yours, too, but I don’t know which year.”
“I’m only one woman,” I joked. “I can’t be expected to do everything.”
“Right!” she said and hung up.
Standing in line at the photo shop, I saw a woman I had met in a cooking class. We had been friendly and had been meaning to get together and have coffee one day. She said, “I know this is spur of the moment, but why don’t you come over now if you have time?”
“Great,” I replied. “I have over an hour before I need to pick up Caroline, so that would work out well.”
I followed her to her house, which was nearby. As soon as the coffee was brewing she led me into her family room, where she began to place her new photos into volume twelve of her twenty-four-volume leather-bound set of albums.
“I hope you will excuse me, but I really like to get photos properly placed immediately. You know how it is,” she graciously apologized.
“Oh, yes,” I lied, as my method was somewhat different. I would leave my pictures strewn out on the countertop. Then as they began to get sticky with orange juice after a few days, I would throw them in a shoebox where they could never be found or separated again.
“Take your time,” I said and began to walk around the room.
On the walls of the family room were photos of her four daughters dressed up for the holidays with adorable coordinating outfits. And then I noticed the beautiful dance recital pictures of each of the girls, perfectly lit and unhurried. Charming. At Caroline’s last recital, I forgot to take pictures until we were on our way home, but I did get a good picture of her in the backseat of the car.
As we sat down in the kitchen to have coffee, I spotted a wall series of adorable hand-painted frames entitled FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL FIRST GRADE, FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL SECOND GRADE, and so on. Each was filled with a child’s snapshot posed in front of the same back door. Each girl’s lunch box coordinated perfectly with her outfit. I felt slightly sick.
/> Then, as I sat at the kitchen counter drinking my coffee, I saw, to my dismay, that the Photo Mom had her Christmas card order form ready with several fabulous proofs waiting (it was only September). They showed her entire family in coordinating Christmas outfits with perfectly matching hair decorations. Even the dog had a coordinating ribbon around his neck. The ornaments on the tree, the wrapping paper on the presents, and the girls’ dresses all matched.
As I commented on how nice these pictures were, the Photo Mom said, “Well, it is rather a pain to put up our Christmas tree in July to get our Christmas photos done, but I hate to wait until the last minute.”
“Oh, I do, too,” I sighed. “You put up your tree in July?” I felt sick again.
“Yes, I take it right down again and then put it up again at Thanksgiving.”
My mind drifted back to last year when I had to use an Easter picture of Caroline for the holiday cards since I had run out of time to do anything else. I had really tried to get the three of us together for a picture, but the only clothes that I could find for us that matched were Bronco T-shirts and jeans. Somehow, that wasn’t the look I was going for.
Suddenly, I remembered one Christmas when I was in high school and my mother sent out a lovely picture of herself and the dog in front of our Christmas tree. In the card she explained that she had forgotten to tell the rest of the family about the appointment with the photographer.
Genetics do explain a lot.
38
The Husband Who Asks You Every Day, “Can You Call Someone About That?”
According to the International Journal of Male Brain Structure, a particularly annoying aspect of the husband brain structure is how it triggers him to to repeat over and over, “Can you call someone about that?” It doesn’t matter what you are talking about.
The Woman Who Is Always Tan and Has a Flat Stomach Page 10