You get the idea.
I’m crazy.
Everything I do has to be justified as benefiting work, or I’m not allowed to do it. I’m not complaining. I really love writing and I’ve learned, in twenty-five years as a professional writer, that I have to protect my time.
But I also have to protect my sanity.
Hence, blood flow to my brain.
Which is how I came to decide the other day, after a day of writing, that it would be okay to go for a quick bike ride, then return to work that night.
In other words, I scheduled my relaxation.
It struck me as funny, considering the way I was raised. The Flying Scottolines did not schedule anything, especially not their relaxation. Both of my parents worked, and after dinner, they relaxed.
Which meant they sat in front of the television and smoked.
Then my father quit smoking, so he relaxed in front of the television and played postal chess.
Mother Mary just drove us postal.
With love.
Bottom line, when they were relaxing, they did nothing.
When I’m relaxing, I do everything.
Anyway, so my first outing on my bicycle, I’m riding from the parking lot when I see a dog jumping around frantically in a locked SUV. Part of me wants to ride by, because I’m on the relaxation schedule and I can’t afford the time it would take to investigate, but then again, I love dogs and I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to the dog, so I rode to the car to see that the dog was panting and barking, worked up. And by the way, when I’d left my car, the temperature read 102 degrees inside.
You guys are smart enough to know that it can be 30° hotter in the car than outside, which is why I love you.
Unfortunately, not everyone is as smart as you.
So I went into the store and asked them to make an emergency announcement, but they refused, though that would have been best for the dog’s health and the author’s scheduled relaxation.
But I still couldn’t turn my back on the dog, so I called 911. I waited twenty minutes, but the dog’s owner arrived before the police did, so I yelled at her without the use of profanity and asked her to stop trying to kill her dog.
Then I was on my way, almost an hour late and totally cranky, which must have interfered with the blood flow to my brain because I didn’t write very well when I got home.
I figured my next scheduled relaxation would be more relaxing.
But the next day, I was about to get out of my car and get on my bike when I noticed another dog being left in another car. I also noticed that the couple leaving their dog in the car hadn’t gone into the store yet, so I hurried after them and told them that it wasn’t safe to leave the dog in the car.
They told me they would “be just a few minutes” and “she’ll be fine.”
I told them that I beg to differ, it was dangerous to the dog and it was illegal.
They told me to mind my own business and it wasn’t illegal.
I may have said something like, “Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that!”
Again without the use of profanity.
So I called 911, though I wondered if the police would remember that I was the same lady who had called them yesterday about a different dog in a different car.
Either way, I could feel my blood rushing to my brain, and I realized that my relaxation was stressing me out.
If I were an animal-control officer, this would be my job and I could kill two birds with one stone.
But as it stands, my job requires people not to leave dogs in cars in the tristate area.
So I end this story with a plea.
To dogs.
Dogs, please do not let your completely idiotic owners, who are obviously not as smart as you, leave you in the car in the summertime.
Even with the windows “cracked.”
Even for “just a few minutes.”
I’m begging you, dogs.
The police have better things to do.
And I’m on deadline.
Good Morning!
Lisa
Guess who’s coming over this week?
The USA.
Okay, I’m exaggerating.
But only a little.
Let me explain.
I found out that Francesca and I were scheduled to be on Good Morning America, which is very big news. We were booked to talk about our funny series, as well as my thrillers and novels. We were superexcited because the show has a bazillion viewers, and obviously, this would expose our books to a national audience.
But on the downside, it exposes me to a national audience.
And I can’t be my usual slobby self.
Loyal readers know that I have recently gained weight, live in teddy-bear clothes, and let my roots go until they’re incarceration-length.
Also, I have been known to pluck my chin in the car, at a stoplight.
Oh, you didn’t know that?
Well, that secret has yet to be told.
Spoiler alert.
In my defense, the light is better in the car and the mirror is close enough that I can see it without my reading glasses.
Also in my defense, I saw a woman beside me doing the same thing the other day, as her husband drove.
Maybe that’s why I need a husband.
To cart me around while I pluck in public.
Anyway, as soon as we got booked on Good Morning America, I started exercising to lose weight.
They say the camera adds ten pounds, but I disagree.
Carbohydrates add ten pounds.
I never ate a camera.
But if you bake it in a chocolate cake, stand clear.
I also scheduled an appointment to lighten my hair.
And my teeth.
I’m pretty sure Hemingway did that, too.
Okay, so far, so good.
But then the most amazing/terrifying thing happened.
Good Morning America called to say that they had changed their mind and they weren’t going to have us to NYC for the show.
They said, instead …
Wait for it …
That they were going to come to the house and film us for the show at home.
Whaaaaatttt?
Of course this was the most amazing news ever, and it will be even better than in the studio, because it will include all the dogs, and you know how they are.
When they see a camera, they come running.
Not when we call them, however.
But what that means is not only do I have to get myself camera-ready, I have to get my entire house camera-ready.
Yikes.
First, I have to have the place cleaned.
Please note that I didn’t say I would do it.
Sorry not sorry.
You can’t write three books a year and do it all yourself.
I have to get cleaners to come in, but I’ll clean before they get here and after they leave, too. Because you have no idea how much dog hair is produced in my household in one day.
Welcome to our home, America!
Francesca and I with the great Deborah Roberts of ABC-TV’s Good Morning America
And all of a sudden I’m noticing that there’s dog damage around the bottom of the door and windowsills, where their nails dig into the wood, so I have to get busy doing something about that.
And the rugs smell rank from you-know-what and you-know-who, and that will have to be dealt with.
Also there are snakes in the garden.
But nobody has to know that except for us.
Well you get the idea. It’s very exciting that Good Morning America is going to come to the house, but it’s also terrifying that they’re going to come to the house.
I mean, when was the last time I had anyone over?
And when was the last time I had America over?
Anyway, they’re coming in two days and I barely have the time to finish writing this because I have to start gathering books, magazines, and other ess
ential clutter, then hiding it all in my bedroom closet, where ABC-TV presumably won’t go.
I have to start rearranging the furniture, so the house looks bigger.
And I have to jump on a bicycle, so that I look smaller.
I’ll need hair, makeup, and a miracle.
I’ll be getting the house, myself, and the tristate area ready until the very last minute, when I open the front door and say:
Good morning, America!
Blond and Blonder
Francesca
I’ve always hated the phrase, “dumb blonde.”
I hate it even more when it applies to me.
I recently got my hair highlighted and one, little section got overbleached. It’s toward the back, but it shows when I pull my hair over my shoulder, which I do often.
And I can’t stop thinking about it.
I know it’s dumb, I know. I feel dumb writing this now.
The modern woman faces many real challenges. We also face some made-up ones. Obsessing over your hair is the latter.
Sometimes, as women, we’re prisoners of our own making. Though we can give some credit to centuries of patriarchal oppression, too. We’ve internalized these sexist beauty standards, and it’s a battle not to let them rule our lives. Concerns about our hair, nails, and weight occupy way more mental space than they deserve.
I know better, I try to rise above, and yet …
Turns out I’m only “woke” enough to feel guilty for being vain and superficial.
I’ve been getting the same, barely there blond highlights about twice a year for the last decade. I keep the look “natural” because I tell myself I’m fooling people, and because I can’t afford to do it more often.
Highlighter’s remorse
It costs a lot of money to look like you did nothing.
This last time, I had to see a new colorist. Trusting a stranger sent my preappointment anxiety into overdrive. And where do nervous women go?
Pinterest.
Because if there’s one way to make yourself feel better, it’s comparing yourself to others.
Soon, I had a full board of pinned images of the same three models, Gisele Bundchen, Gigi Hadid, and Rosie Huntington-Whitely, photographed with their heads at slightly different angles.
Had such a photo collection been on a real corkboard, you would alert the authorities.
Serial killer? No, just my search for killer hair.
But when I got to my appointment, I was too embarrassed to show any of the pictures to my colorist. I couldn’t admit I had devoted this much time and research to my hair goals.
Oh God, I have “hair goals.”
Not to mention that pointing to pictures of supermodels and demanding, “Make me look like this,” feels far-fetched.
There’s only bleach in that bottle, not a genie.
So instead I gestured vaguely, said words like “warm” and “summery,” and pretended to be chill.
When we were all done, the reflection in the mirror was brighter and lighter than I had expected, but she did a beautiful job. I looked like a bombshell.
Yet, immediately I zeroed in on that too-bright patch.
Because that’s another thing women are great at: focusing on the flaw.
Passing every shop window on the way home, and catching myself in every mirror in my apartment, my eyes darted to that bleach splotch. And when I couldn’t see it, I could feel it, mocking me with its trashy fakeness.
While the rest of my head was pulling off a plausible I-just-got-back-from-vacation blond, this lemon-yellow stripe was calling my bluff.
But another part of my brain, the part with a college degree and the right to vote, hated that this bothered me. I decided I would just get over it. It would be good for me, at best, a growing experience.
At worst, a growing-out experience.
I made it three days.
Then I went back to the salon, full of apologies and rehearsed explanations, and asked if she could tone that one section down.
“Oh sure. I can fix it no problem.”
Twenty minutes later, the offending swath had been corrected and blended perfectly into the rest.
The fog of beauty angst lifted. I was returned to myself again.
Maybe the lesson is that true empowerment is asking for what you want without fear of judgment. Maybe empowerment is being less self-critical, even of our more superficial desires. Maybe empowerment is the perfect shade of blond.
Nah, it’s really only hair.
And someday I’ll grow out of caring so much.
Potted
Lisa
Many things are harder than they look.
The best example of this is marriage.
The second best is houseplants.
As we all know, I’m divorced twice.
But we may not know that I cannot grow a houseplant to save my life.
Guess which thing I regret.
Heh heh.
Our houseplant drama begins last summer, after I had started a garden in front of the house, which I’m completely in love with. It has all sorts of pretty perennials like black-eyed Susan, lavender, coneflower, and a whole bunch of other flowers that I secretly take credit for growing.
Never mind the fact that it’s the perfect location, on a hill protected from wind, nurtured by full-day sun, with excellent soil, since this used to be a dairy farm.
Still, I take credit.
I mean, why not?
I bought the plants, which should count for something.
And I pay somebody to weed, which should also count for something.
Okay, all I do with this garden is look at it, smell the roses, and avoid the snakes.
No, they haven’t returned yet. I’m holding my breath. Maybe on Halloween?
In any event, because the garden worked out so well and made me so happy, I thought it would be nice to start growing plants inside. I’m probably the only person on earth who never bothered with houseplants, mainly because I have so many damn pets that require full-time attention, especially Ruby. She’s the crazy corgi who unfortunately got DM, paralysis of her hind, which means that she has to be in a wheelie cart and lately, has to be diapered three times a day.
Great.
You haven’t lived until you’ve had an incontinent corgi.
I know I’m not alone in this, because the diaper aisle at the pet store is huge and even has diaper liners, which are like big sanitary napkins that you can stick on your own panties and put on your dog, if you happen to run out of doggie diapers and don’t feel like driving to the pet store.
Not that that has ever happened.
But Ruby looks pretty good in a pair of size 6 Hanes, bikini-cut.
So you see why I was in no rush to start with the houseplants, but I thought it would be nice, and around the same I time was thinking this, I found out that Good Morning America was coming to the house, which meant that I ordered a bunch of indoor flowers, so I could pretend I’m the kind of woman who lives in a house with fresh-cut flowers.
Instead of the kind of woman who dresses up an incontinent corgi in her own underwear.
And while I was on the phone with the florist, they said they were having a sale on indoor hydrangea, which were a very pretty blue, and since I have pink hydrangea outside, I thought it would be nice to have blue hydrangea inside, so I ordered three potted hydrangeas.
Beautiful while they lasted
I thought, how hard could it be to grow them inside?
I mean, buy a potted plant and water it.
Isn’t it even an expression, “sitting there like a potted plant?”
It should be dumb and easy.
So the indoor hydrangea looked gorgeous for the Good Morning America shoot, but after that, it was Goodbye Hydrangea.
The flowers started to die, so I watered them more. Then I went online, and it said not to water them too much.
So then I didn’t water them at all for about four days, but they just kept
dying.
They’re supposed to be fine in indirect light, but I moved them into the sun, and they still kept dying, then moved them into a shady part of the house, and they were completely dead.
Then I went back online and it said that indoor hydrangea can be shocked back to life with very very hot water, and I did that.
And you know what?
It actually worked.
The plants perked up and started to grow new leaves.
My heart soared.
Until two days later, when all of the leaves started to get white spots on them, that looked suspiciously moldy. So I went back online and discovered that they actually were mold, and one of the remedies suggested spraying the plants with a solution of one quarter milk and three-quarters water.
Which I did.
Now the whole house smells like curdling milk, the plants remain spotted and molding, and the ones that aren’t moldy are dying.
God knows why.
It looked easy, but it wasn’t.
Next time, I’m ordering fresh-cut flowers.
Because that’s the kind of woman I am.
Happy Birthday
Lisa
By the time you read this, I will be a year older.
But no wiser.
Because I almost got killed this morning doing a dumb thing.
Or maybe the best thing I ever did.
You be the judge.
We began on a quiet Saturday morning, and I was going to meet my best friend Franca so we could ride our bikes on the trail.
Yes, it’s that time of year again, when Franca and I go bicycle-riding and try to remain upright.
I was driving to meet her, and there was only light traffic because it was early in the morning on a summer weekend, but as I turned onto this main, four-lane road near my house, I happened to notice a flock of mother and baby geese about to step off the curb on the other side of the street and cross the road.
So right away, you know where this is going.
We’re in world-police territory.
And I could tell what was going to happen. There was a car stopped at a red light at this major intersection, and the mommy goose had just stepped off the curb to make her way across four lanes of inevitable death.
I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t ignore it, and I certainly couldn’t do nothing.
I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool Page 8