I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places

by Lisa Scottoline

  “One year we were on the football team at the same time…”

  She probably loves running, she runs on vacation. She used to be a gymnast. Or a ballerina. Or play collegiate beach volleyball—is that a thing?

  “… new job, it’s not the usual finance…”

  She has never had a pimple, but she heard of them, and they sound awful.

  “… What year were you?”

  Shit. Focus—what was he saying? You two went to the same college so …

  “I was class of ’08,” I said. A lucky guess.

  “That’s why we never met, I was 2011.” He paused. “But, I’ve always dated older women.”

  Twenty-nine years old and already I was the older woman. This did not boost my confidence.

  I told myself that now that he has seen me in the light of day, he would recognize that we’re different categories of human and return to dating the girls Derek Jeter or Leonardo DiCaprio had just dumped. Reassured that this ordeal was our first and last date, I started to relax and enjoy it.

  I learned that he played football in college and was an avid Patriots fan. He deduced from my hometown that I might be an angry Eagles fan.

  “I plead the Fifth,” I said. “I’m trying to get you to like me.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that. I like you.”

  He put his hand on my leg. I stared at it.

  The audio of him saying, “I like you,” echoed in my mind in slow motion.

  I floated home.

  But dating someone so good-looking was a roller coaster for my self-esteem. The first few times, I still believed he was out of my league. I got ready for dates like I was getting ready for prom, deploying all my makeup tricks until I was basically wearing an Instagram filter on my face.

  Although I will say, I gained a new understanding of taking artistic inspiration in beauty. Over the next few weeks, I caught myself sketching his perfect face. In one drawing, I captured him quite well. I briefly considered texting him a picture of it.

  Thankfully, I thought better of it.

  In the modern dating world where speaking on the phone is too intimate, sending someone a portrait you drew of him is equivalent to sending a bloody ear.

  But when a few more dates proved the “I like you” comment wasn’t a hallucination sent by the Muses, it started to go to my head.

  Was I secretly stunning? Maybe I had a rare beauty that had not been properly appreciated until this moment. I’d been selling myself short all this time. I was a ten in six’s clothing.

  The next time we went out, I wore a crop top.

  I was drunk with power.

  He’d suggested we go dancing to reprise our first meeting. That Studly Do Right wanted to do something so sentimental had me convinced we were fated to be together. I was already imagining our genetic-lottery-winning children scampering around together.

  And we had a great time. We chatted over rosé before going downstairs where a DJ was spinning nineties hip-hop, and we danced the night away. People were looking at us, we were such a hot couple.

  See how quickly I’d transitioned to “we”?

  At around 1 A.M., we went back upstairs to get some air. It was the first date with him that I hadn’t felt like a total mess. I thought I had played it perfectly.

  “Oh, my friend just texted me,” he said. “They’re in Meatpacking. Want to meet them at a club?”

  A club in the Meatpacking District? A friend? This was all wrong. I was ready to go home. With him.

  But I couldn’t cop to being tired. Exhaustion is for old, ugly people.

  We arrived at 1 Oak, the clubbiest of clubs. The next three hours were a blur of strobe lighting, smoke machines, and very, very overpriced bottles of Grey Goose.

  I gave it the old college try. I drank vodka–Red Bulls, a disgusting cocktail that tastes like Mountain Dew concentrate. I tried to dance without choking from the smoke machine. And I made friends with a group of drag queens, because they struck me as the most authentic women in the room.

  One thing was clear: hot or not, I was too old for this.

  At five in the morning, I got my wish and went home with the hottest guy in the room.

  Where we slept on top of my covers, fully clothed.

  He woke up at eight thirty, bright-eyed and handsome as ever. I woke up with a hangover that felt like the afterlife.

  Still, waking up with a deadly hangover next to him was better than alone.

  Emily Dickinson, another Romantic poet and fellow spinster writer, put it well: “If I expire, let it be in sight of thee.”

  We went out a few more times, but in the end, we fizzled out. I can’t say a bad thing about him, but we were missing some secret ingredient to make us fall in love.

  It turns out looks aren’t everything.

  Percy Bysshe Shelley, a poet who’d been married twice by my age, got it: “Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds depart.”

  Finding someone incredibly attractive doesn’t guarantee a connection between two souls.

  But it does give you something to write about.

  Over Troubled Waters

  Lisa

  I just got back from book tour with Daughter Francesca, which was wonderful except for one thing:

  Bridges.

  As in, I’m newly scared of driving over them.

  Please tell me I’m not alone.

  We were touring for our book titled Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?, so our publisher scheduled us for a book tour of bookstores in beach resorts, and I’m not complaining. But I knew I was in trouble on day one, as I drove toward Rehoboth, encountering my first bridge. It rose ahead of me like a concrete tsunami, and all of a sudden, I felt weak in the knees.

  And not good weak-in-the-knees, like Bradley Cooper weak-in-the-knees.

  More like squeeze your sphincter weak-in-the-knees.

  In other words, the wrong kind of puckering up.

  The bridge was the Chesapeake & Delaware Canal Bridge, and even though it was new, it looked unfinished. It didn’t have a top or any structure to hold it up, but only weird spikes that rose in the center, attached to things that looked like strings.

  I own bras with more support.

  The other problem was that the bridge didn’t have any sides. As we got closer, I imagined sliding right off into the water, which I admit might have been irrational, or a big tractor-trailer behind me pushing me off, which seemed completely likely.

  Francesca looked over, worried. “Mom, are you okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay,” I lied, because I’m a good mother.

  A good mother doesn’t communicate her irrational fears to her child.

  A good mother lets her child develop her own irrational fears.

  But as we drove onto the bridge, the more nervous I got, and Francesca could tell. “Mom, why are your knees shaking? Are you thinking about Bradley Cooper again?”

  So I confessed that I was afraid of the bridge, and being the great daughter that she is, she didn’t tease me, but turned into my cheerleader/therapist.

  “Mom, just keep your foot on the gas and follow the car ahead of you, and we’ll be fine.”

  We got over the bridge without lethal event, but my heart was thumping. I cursed the bridge, its architects, and my hormones in general, because I remember reading somewhere that fear of bridges can be correlated to estrogen levels.

  Unfortunately, I’m fresh out.

  The only liquid I have in great supply is Diet Coke.

  Our book tour took us to independent bookstores in Avalon, Westhampton, Mystic, and Westerly, Rhode Island, which meant we crossed about three thousand bridges, or maybe it just felt that way. I was a wreck, and Francesca took over the driving, which only made me more nervous.

  What mother isn’t nervous when her kid drives?

  I braced myself in the passenger seat, and Francesca said I looked like a starfish.

  Plus I still had to close my eyes when we went over a bridge, whe
ther I was driving or not, and by the end of book tour, I had become a full-fledged Nervous Driver. All around me, traffic moved way too fast. Speed limits have increased from fifty-five to sixty-five, which means that everybody goes seventy to seventy-five. Cars changed lanes willy-nilly, passed on the right, and even drove on the shoulder.

  I-95 isn’t a highway, it’s a video game.

  And next week, Francesca and I have a wedding in Newport, a route that goes over the Claiborne Pell Bridge.

  Which is the longest suspension bridge in New England.

  This starfish is flying.

  Party Hearty

  Lisa

  Happiness is a warm puppy.

  I didn’t make that up.

  I just believed it, and somehow I ended up with five dogs.

  Which stopped being puppies way too fast.

  Although they still leave the occasional present on the rug.

  I’ve learned that housebroken is a misnomer.

  Your dogs don’t end up broken for the house.

  Your house ends up broken for the dogs.

  Or at best, the house starts to smell, more and more each year, but after a while, you stop noticing. People entering your home for the first time will ask, Is something dying in here?

  And you will answer, Yes.

  I am.

  Anyway, I bring this up because I’ve read that there’s a new company in Brooklyn that will rent you puppies for parties.

  The cost is a few hundred dollars.

  Which proves that there’s a chew toy born every minute.

  The company’s specialty is renting you puppies for your child’s birthday party.

  Which makes perfect sense, because we all know children love puppies.

  For thirty seconds.

  The company also rents puppies for a Student Stress-Relief Puppy Party, a Sweet 16 Puppy Party, and a Corporate Puppy Party.

  For corporate puppies.

  You could also have a Quinceañeras Puppy Party, at which you can teach your puppy to sit, stay, and pronounce Quinceañeras.

  Good luck.

  The company is not called Party Poopers.

  But it should be.

  Anyway, I think this is an excellent idea.

  In fact, I want to get in on the fun.

  And the money.

  For a small fee, I will happily rent you my dogs. I will drop them off at your house for an hour. They will bring presents and leave them on the rug.

  They will break your house for you.

  Okay, I take that back.

  I will pay you to take my dogs for a few hours.

  You name the price.

  In a related story, I read that there’s a company in California that will rent you reptiles for your party. Some of the reptiles included are snakes, iguanas, turtles, monitors, frogs, toads, bugs, and lizards.

  If this sounds like a plague that you pay for, it might be.

  I don’t want a reptile in my house.

  It reminds me too much of my second marriage.

  I didn’t need a divorce lawyer.

  I needed an exterminator.

  Also a fumigator.

  And an exorcist.

  Pet rental must be a thing, because I read that there are restaurants popping up in California, called Dog and Cat Cafés, where you can eat a meal among dogs and cats.

  I live in the dog and cat café.

  But I never get to leave.

  I think these companies are onto something.

  And I was imagining things I could rent out for parties and make some dough.

  For example, most of the women I know are middle-aged, which is the new term for sixty-year-olds.

  Have you heard that seventy is the new twenty?

  Take it from me, it is.

  Or it will be until I turn seventy, when eighty will be the new twenty.

  However, not all of us are ready to be grandmothers, and not all of our children are ready to be parents.

  So what’s the answer?

  I might start renting out babies for parties.

  I could just drop off a bunch of babies at your house and you could kiss and hug them for a few hours.

  They could leave you presents, too.

  Post-Menopausal Parties!

  Bring your own eggs!

  We could make Estrogen Replacementinis!

  No?

  Okay, instead I could rent out a bunch of handymen for your party. I could drop off a carpenter, an electrician, a painter, and a plumber at your house and pick them up an hour later.

  Now we’re talking.

  Honestly, between a handyman and a baby, every woman I know would take the handyman.

  And we’re all mothers.

  In fact, between a handyman and a male stripper, every woman I know would take the handyman.

  That’s why I think it’s so funny when male strippers dress up like handymen.

  They think we’re fantasizing about sex.

  We’re really fantasizing about a new bookshelf.

  And a house where everything that’s broken gets fixed.

  Even the dogs.

  Rings of Love

  Francesca

  Last weekend, I got to be a bridesmaid in my best friend’s wedding, and I loved every minute of it.

  I was so excited to be included, all summer I had to stop myself from calling it “our wedding.” I loved seeing her try on gowns, I loved the bachelorette party, I loved the bridal shower.

  I even loved my bridesmaid dress.

  I’m a really good friend.

  I did everything except diet with her.

  I’m not that good a friend.

  The wedding weekend itself was full of spectacular events, ramping up in order of magnificence. And when the big day arrived, it was more beautiful than anything I could’ve imagined.

  And I didn’t mess up! I gave a heartfelt, if inebriated, speech at the rehearsal dinner. I did not trip and fall when we processed down the aisle.

  I did accidentally sit on her veil when we were getting ready, but nobody saw.

  All told, she got hitched without a hitch.

  At the reception, I gave the bride space to spend time with her guests and enjoy the few breathers alone with her groom. With the pre-wedding events, especially the epic bridal party primping session that had begun at 10 A.M., I’d gotten a lot of girl-time with her.

  So I scanned the dance floor looking for other friends to boogie with, and I spotted my best guy friend from childhood.

  We’ve always had each other’s backs on the dance floor, whether I was making sure he had someone to slow-dance with in seventh grade, or when he rescued me from going to the senior prom alone after my boyfriend dumped me a week before.

  He’s not a friend, he’s a brother.

  As we broke it down to Beyoncé, same as we had back when she was in Destiny’s Child, it struck me how surreal it was that we found ourselves together that night.

  In a twist of fate, he was invited because his fiancée is the bride’s best friend from childhood, and we introduced them.

  Not only that, this very wedding might not have happened if we hadn’t introduced them, because his fiancée was returning the matchmaking favor when she introduced the bride to the groom!

  We’re better than Tinder.

  I shouted to him over the music, “Do you realize, we’ve been friends eighteen years?”

  “Since sixth grade, baby!”

  “And in three weeks, we’ll be dancing at your wedding!”

  “I know, it’s crazy.”

  But maybe it isn’t that crazy. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to work.

  One good heart tossed into the world ripples out to embrace other good-hearted people.

  Love multiplies.

  And each outer ring protects the inner ones.

  I didn’t see that before. Amidst all my excitement about my best friend’s wedding, I had a little apprehension, too. Not that I’d lose her—we studied abroad in colle
ge together, which ensures lifelong friendship, by blackmail at the very least—but apprehension that things might change.

  Come to think of it, I had the same apprehension when my guy friend and I graduated high school and left for college six hundred miles apart.

  And yet, here we are, friends old and new, tighter than ever.

  Change can be a good thing, despite the bad press it gets, and even close friendships have room to grow outward. It’d be too hard for one person to gather enough people to love all on their own. It’s a group effort. And the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

  At the end of the night, all the guests lined up on either side of the long entrance hall for the grand send-off of the bride and groom. We cheered and snapped pictures and shook tambourines as the newlyweds scampered down the aisle, laughing and waving on their way to their getaway car.

  I blew them a kiss that I’m not sure they saw. But that twinge of melancholy at seeing my best friend wave good-bye and disappear into the limo lasted only a moment.

  Yes, she’s about to embark on a new phase of her life. And yes, my role in her life may change. But as time goes on and our hearts grow more rings, we don’t have to leave anyone behind. We can hold on to each other, and collect new hearts to hold, from this day forward, as long as we all shall live.

  Thanks for Asking!

  Lisa

  I feel so loved.

  By corporate entities.

  It begins Saturday night after I come home from having gone to a movie with my Bestie Franca. I open my computer and there’s an email from Fandango:

  “Lisa, did you enjoy Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation?”

  Aw, how nice of you to ask, Fandango!

  The email also asked, “How many stars would you give the movie? Do you want to rate it?”

  I didn’t rate it, but I give it five stars. Tom Cruise is at his Tom Cruisiest, this time with a strong female heroine.

  Who should be me, but isn’t.

  Never mind that I can’t shoot a gun, drive a motorcycle, or wear liquid eyeliner.

  Then I got another email, this time from Trip Advisor, an app that Francesca and I used on our book tour:

  “Lisa, how did you enjoy Mystic, Connecticut? Do you want to post a comment?”

  Well, I did like Mystic, Connecticut, but I hadn’t known Trip Advisor cared so much. And I didn’t want to post a comment because I didn’t feel as excited about Mystic, Connecticut, as I did about Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation.