I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places

by Lisa Scottoline

  From now on, where are we going to get our self-loathing from?

  You think it’s easy to hate your body, overnight?

  You need good reasons, and Playboy gave us tons of them.

  Meanwhile, who else but Playboy would’ve ever thought of putting bunny ears and tails on women?

  Who knew we could be woodland animals, as well as human beings?

  Expanding our horizons!

  Not only that, but Playboy was educational. It showed us women lots of interesting ways we could sit on hay bales, tractors, and even boring old beds. There’s no reason to sit down and cross your legs, when you can lie down and form a flying wedge with whatever limbs you have available.

  Open your mind, ladies.

  And your legs!

  Plus Playboy taught me about fashion, like the fact that I should match my outfits to my setting, so that anytime I sat on a hay bale, I knew that I was supposed to have a folksy-looking straw hat pulled down seductively over one eye.

  Men are so into hats.

  Also hay bales.

  They love that.

  Besides, I learned so much more from Playboy magazine, which was a true friend to women. For example, I used to read the hobbies of the various Playmates, and without that information, I never would’ve realized that walking on a beach could qualify as a hobby.

  Good to know!

  Come to think of it, I don’t remember any of the Playmates saying that reading was her hobby.

  Maybe the joke was on them, since people evidently stopped reading Playboy.

  So I’ve clearly proven that life without Playboy will be terrible for women, but how would it be for men?

  Just as bad.

  How will young boys develop unrealistic expectations of women?

  You can’t expect them to go back to National Geographic.

  But wait, this just in.

  The reason that Playboy isn’t showing pictures of nude women anymore isn’t because people aren’t interested in pictures of nude women.

  It’s because there are so many free pictures of nude women on the Internet that Playboy can’t make money that way anymore.

  In other words, there are so many new businesses exploiting women that they are squeezing out the old businesses that used to exploit women.

  The legacy exploiters aren’t even being grandfathered in.

  Explain that to your grandfather.

  This is exactly the specter of technology that I’ve worried about.

  That the Internet will bring so much progress that nobody will ever have to pay for pornography, thus putting out of business everybody’s favorite pornographer.

  I don’t know what this world is coming to.

  But I have a feeling I’m going to find out.

  The Unofficial Wedding Party

  Francesca

  As wedding season throws its final handful of rice, I’ve reflected on what it means to be a great wedding guest. Anyone can show up on time, dressed appropriately, with a warm heart and well-wishes for the happy couple. But how can you take your guesthood to the next level? I’ve identified some key players at every successful wedding. See where you fit in, and make your next RSVP essential.

  Up first is the Master of Ceremonies. He or she is that friend with the right mix of warmth and seriousness to pull off the most important duties at the ceremony, like giving a reading or officiating. My buddy has been asked to give a reading at nearly every wedding he’s invited to. He’s a pop-culture junkie with an English PhD, so he finds the perfect excerpt, whether from an Edith Wharton novel or an episode of Gilmore Girls. It’s a gift. Don’t waste this friend as a ring bearer; a cute dog can do that. Get the Master of Ceremonies front and center to make us all look more mature and responsible than we really are.

  Another classic is the Cry Baby. Every wedding needs that one guest to provide the waterworks. I confess, I suck at this. When I was a bridesmaid, I warned my bride that the performance pressure of a wedding blocks my tear ducts like the Hoover Dam. But that’s why this role is important, not everyone can do it. Bonus points if you’re a male Cry Baby—man-tears catch like wildfire. Daily Double if the Cry Baby is somebody’s dad. Don’t be embarrassed, a wedding calls for sentimentality, so bring us on home.

  I’ve recently developed a specialty as the Off-the-Cuff Speaker. Speeches are high stakes at a wedding. I’m comfortable with public speaking, and I have a great memory for funny yet flattering anecdotes. As a writer, I can edit on the fly, so that hilarious spring-break story can be rendered appropriate for all audiences. Every newlywed needs that backup speaker in the wings in case the Best Man whiffs it. A good Off-the-Cuff friend ensures the reception is only a glass clink away from rescue.

  Once the reception gets rolling, the Crazy Dancer comes in. The Crazy Dancer can be crazy-good, or better yet, just crazy. He or she breaks the seal on looking cool on the dance floor and gives us all permission to cut loose. His manic enthusiasm is contagious and fun, in small doses. Stand near him too long, and you risk being struck by a flailing arm or the tail end of “the worm.”

  Then there’s the Child Star. This kid displays the attention-seeking behavior that can make for a terror in the grocery store but a superstar at a wedding reception. Slick moves in a tiny package, this kid charms everyone by dominating the dance floor—and giving us old people a much-needed breather—until the sugar buzz wears off. With that uninhibited charisma, the Child Star could grow into the next Jimmy Fallon or Jennifer Lawrence … or the next Crazy Dancer.

  The Social Media Maven. These days, your wedding is part of your personal brand. You need a professional, or a pal who acts like one. The Social Media Maven comes up with a punny hashtag based on the couple’s names and posts gorgeous candids of the day online—filtered to perfection, of course. Who can wait two months for professional photos to come out? Newlyweds need bragging rights on Facebook now. Consider yourself #blessed to have a friend like this.

  The After-Party Promoter. This person intuits the exact moment when the reception is dying down. Or if intuition isn’t your thing, just have the DJ play Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” and achieve the same end. The After-Party Promoter somehow knows a solid dive bar in whatever city he’s in. He’s the patron saint of Patrón. He gets everyone else drunk on shots, yet stays sober enough himself to herd us all back on the party bus or other safe transportation home. At the end of the night, he’s the bro-hero you need.

  Hopefully you recognized yourself in one of these key roles. But if not, don’t worry. You have until next wedding season to hone your skills.

  My Brain Hurts

  Lisa

  Have you ever heard the expression, Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me?

  Well, shame on me.

  With the plot twist that the person fooling me is myself.

  In other words, I’m trying to figure out how and why I make the same mistake twice, over and over.

  No, I’m not talking about my marital history.

  Thing One and Thing Two were distinctly different mistakes.

  I’m talking about dumb little mistakes that I seem to repeat, and for an example, I just did one of them. I was working, and my computer sent me a notice that my keyboard was running out of batteries.

  What’s the first thing I did?

  I ignored it.

  That’s a dumb thing I do over and over, but that’s not even the dumb thing I’m talking about, which came next.

  After a few days, I gave in and changed the batteries, which meant I went downstairs, got the new batteries, brought them upstairs, and shook the old ones out of the computer keyboard.

  Then I looked down at the four batteries rolling around my desk.

  And I forgot which were the new batteries and which were the old ones.

  Of course, I tried sliding any two of them back in the chamber of the keyboard, using as many different combinations I had patience for, but in the end, to no avail.

  I had to
throw all four batteries away and start over again.

  The second time I got it right, but it’s a mistake I make every time I have to change batteries, whether it’s on the computer mouse, the TV remote controls, or the flashlights. I use twice the number of batteries every year because I have to throw half away.

  I know, the solution is simple: just throw the old batteries away first, or at least note the new batteries when you take them out of the package, but I never remember.

  And still, none of my flashlights work.

  Because flashlights never work.

  You know it’s true.

  And I can’t bring myself to change the batteries in my flashlights routinely, because it seems so wasteful of batteries, especially since I have to keep extra on hand to throw away.

  And while we’re on the subject, I can never remember which way the batteries go in my keyboard. I know that one end of the battery has the thing that sticks out, the alleged “nipple,” which is what Thing Two used to call it.

  No comment.

  And the other end of the battery has the dimple, the little recessed thing that is supposed to fit against the metal contact.

  Or whatever.

  You see the problem I’m having. I can’t describe it because I don’t understand it, at all.

  I think one side is negative and one is positive, but I don’t know which is which.

  In any event, when I’m confronted with changing the batteries in my computer keyboard, I have no idea which way they go in.

  Like just now, after I had gotten a whole new set of new batteries, it took me fifteen minutes to figure out which way they went in. I had to keep testing the keyboard until I hit the final combination.

  You need a safecracker to get into my keyboard.

  And the same thing happened to me yesterday with the remote control. My TV remotes have a back that slides off and each one takes two batteries. At least Comcast gives me a little drawing to help me understand which way the battery goes in, but the diagram was worn away on my older remote and I couldn’t read it. So then I tried to reason it out, trying to figure out whether the nipple would go on the spring part or the metal-contact part.

  I chose wrongly at first, going for the spring part.

  Don’t ask me why, it made sense at the time.

  If you ever go to a casino, leave me behind.

  I did that to both batteries, but they didn’t fit in easy, so I had to jam them down on the spring. It should’ve tipped me off, but I’m not the kind of woman who gives in easily.

  When things don’t work, I force them.

  Then I tested the remote control on the TV, but it didn’t work, so I figured by sheer deductive reasoning that I had screwed up yet again.

  I took off the back of the remote, figuring that I could just pop the batteries out and turn them the other way, but I had worked so hard in jamming them on the spring that both batteries were stuck inside the remote and I couldn’t get them out.

  Impressed yet?

  I had to get a butter knife and wedge it under one of the batteries to get them out, which is a time-honored way of dealing with mechanical problems.

  Try to follow along, if you’re not as talented in the engineering department as I am.

  After about twenty minutes, I succeeded in getting the batteries out of the remote, but the metal springs were bent beyond recognition.

  I tried to press them down with my finger and mold them into their tiny springy coil, but no luck.

  I had to throw away the remote.

  So what have we learned?

  My brain doesn’t work, all the time.

  And that batteries are out to get me.

  Mother Time

  Lisa

  Tempus fugit.

  That’s the Latin for, when the hell did that happen?

  Or, literally, time flies.

  I say that because that’s how time feels, especially as we get older and we’re moving more slowly.

  In fact, not only is time flying, but so is everything else, and especially nowadays, when email is the new snail mail.

  I can’t remember the last handwritten letter I got, but then again, I can’t remember anything.

  These days, texting seems to be the preferred mode of communication, and it used to be that I texted only with Daughter Francesca and Besties Laura and Franca, but now my plumber will text me and so will any assorted tradespersons, including the guy who came to pick up the PortaJohns after my book club party.

  And no, his name is not John.

  But I digress, because my point is that time is a relative thing, which I think some smart guy said even before me, and I never realized it so much as I did this weekend, and actually, at the book club party.

  First some background.

  You may know that Francesca and I host a book club party at my house for book clubs who read my April books, to show them our gratitude. We had several hundred people to the house last weekend, on both Saturday and Sunday.

  I know it sounds crazy, but Mother Mary told me that if you really want to show someone you care about them, you have to have them over and feed them.

  So we do.

  And by the way, thanks to you, dear readers. More and more of you are supporting these books because last summer, the most recent in the series, Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat? became a New York Times bestseller.

  Yay!

  So thanks are most definitely in order.

  Anyway, back to the book club party. We fed them and gave them a show, at which both Francesca and I spoke, telling stories about our writing lives, our dogs, and mostly, each other. And when it was Francesca’s turn to speak, she told a funny story about me and happened to say that it drives her crazy when I tell people that she’s thirty, because she is only twenty-nine.

  That’s just the kind of line that made the twenty-somethings in the audience nod in complete understanding.

  And the fifty-somethings in the audience laugh and laugh.

  Time truly is relative, especially among relatives.

  But truly, I never gave validity to this point of hers until I saw all the younger people in our audience nodding, and most of them came up to Francesca later and told her that their mothers did the same thing about their ages and it drove them all crazy, too.

  Which is when I started thinking about why we mothers do this, and why it drives our daughters crazy.

  And I realized that, for mothers, time is related to memory.

  Mother Time.

  And I can clearly remember Francesca as an adorable little toddler, all blue eyes and curly blond hair, clutching a yellow giraffe that was her favorite toy. When any adult asked her how old she was, she would hold up three little fingers and say:

  “I am this many.”

  I’m willing to bet that there is no mother reading this who doesn’t remember her child saying, “I am this many.”

  And when you can remember a child saying I-am-this-many, you will have an impossibly difficult time dealing with your child’s age at all, once it gets over twelve.

  Much less when she starts driving.

  Or moves to New York City.

  I still can’t believe that Francesca is twenty-nine, so, in my mind, it doesn’t matter if I round it up to thirty or down to twenty-eight, I feel like all the years blur into one big year, so that a year or two doesn’t matter, either way.

  Except maybe it does.

  Who wouldn’t want an extra year at the very end?

  So maybe our daughters are trying to teach us something.

  Now all I need is sixty fingers.

  God Gave You Two

  Francesca

  I woke up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night to searing pain in my eye, knowing with total certainty that a dog had walked on my face and accidentally scratched my cornea. My first thought?

  Not again!

  That’s right, again.

  I’m embarrassed to admit that this freak accident has happened to me
twice. What are the odds?

  Apparently pretty good if you sleep with dogs.

  The first injury happened three years ago when I was staying at my mom’s house in preparation for our annual book club party. The night before, all five of our Cavalier King Charles spaniels slept with me—I’m their favorite—and as I was waking up, one of my mom’s puppies got excited to say good morning. He snuggled and squirmed all over my face, and, in a badly timed blink, he caught my eyeball with one of his claws.

  I knew it was bad, because I could feel the flap of my torn cornea when I blinked.

  Hope you aren’t squeamish.

  I went to the ER and came back in time to co-host the party, I’m hard-core like that, but by the end of the day, my eye had swollen shut like a prizefighter’s.

  They say the cornea of the eye has more nerve endings than any other part of the body. I felt all of them.

  I lay in bed trembling for the next few days, and that was with prescription pain medication. My eye did not reopen for two weeks, and full vision didn’t return for over a month. I still have complications from it.

  I remember my ophthalmologist asking, “Does the dog have to sleep in the bed with you?”

  Um, yes?

  And exactly three years later, home at my mom’s for the book club party, sleeping in a bed with five dogs, one scratched my eye again.

  The good news: this scratch wasn’t as bad as the last one, and I’ll make a full recovery. And in this case, it happened the day after the book club party. And finally, it happened to my other eye.

  That last one is arguably good news, since this was supposed to be my good eye, but hey, God gave you two for a reason.

  You’re thinking, surely now I’ll stop sleeping with dogs in the bed, right?

  Ah, no.

  What is wrong with me? Am I stubborn or stupid?

  Probably both.

  But dogs-in-the-bed is a way of life. As a little girl, I shared my bed with up to three golden retrievers. I told them stories before I fell asleep. Their snores were my lullabies. Their fluffy bellies were my big spoon.

  My current dog, Pip, has slept in my bed since he was a puppy. Cuddling him is an essential part of my routine to unwind. And every morning, instead of reaching for my cell phone and scrolling through emails first thing, I roll over and reach for his fluffy little body.