I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere but the Pool

by Lisa Scottoline

  So @WildBluePress bewildered me with its follows and unfollows, adding me to lists and taking me off them.

  I’ve dated men with fewer intimacy issues.

  And much like I respond with men, it made me try harder.

  I assumed it was my fault. I would try to be more interesting and retweet fewer cheesy baby-animal pictures—or more baby-animal pictures, tell me what you want, @WildBluePress!

  All the Wi-Fi access in the world, but no communication.

  I never unfollowed @WildBluePress, to prove my loyalty.

  I’m here for you when you’re ready to let down your walls.

  But when the account’s behavior seemed truly random, I had a terrible thought?

  Is it a bot?

  I have heard of Twitterbots, robot accounts programmed with automatic posts, or set to automatically follow and engage with users that fit certain criteria. But I thought all bots and spam accounts had sexy-girl avatars and repetitive offers to “make money working from home!”

  All this time, I was feeling my heart lift at my latest notification from you, but was I being played for a fool?

  I feel so betrayed, I feel a country song coming on:

  Your retweets meant nothing.

  Your red hearts, untrue.

  How could you do it, Wild Blue?

  I still don’t really know. I can’t bring myself to ask directly. To know might hurt too much.

  So, @WildBluePress, if you’re reading this, I’m not like the other authors you follow.

  I care.

  Please follow me back.

  And stay.

  Built Ford Tough

  Lisa

  Everybody talks about how men love cars.

  But so do women.

  Especially this woman.

  I even love trucks.

  I know you’re surprised. You thought I was a highly cultured member of the literati.

  Oh, wait. You didn’t think that?

  Good.

  Because what I really am is a lady who writes books for a living and lives on a farm with a bunch of crazy animals—Cavalier King Charles spaniels, cats, chickens, and horses, plus one incontinent corgi, which is a different species altogether.

  By the way, if that sounds great to you, it absolutely is. It’s my life’s dream, made possible by the support of my beloved readers, and believe me when I tell you that I thank God for you, every day.

  No kidding.

  And the best thing about living on a farm is that it gives me an excuse to drive a truck. And not only that, but it’s a very butch truck, which might be redundant.

  It’s a cherry-red Ford F-150 with a ¾-ton engine, which is powerful enough to pull a horse trailer or get me to the library.

  I have to tell you, it’s fun to drive around in a truck, feeling big, powerful, and generally manly. I fill its tank with gas and testosterone.

  I like knowing that I can move anything I have to, and I love lending it to people when they need a truck. Because I have a truck, and I can do anything!

  People always say to me, you have a truck?

  I nod happily. You can have a truck, a brain, and ovaries—all at the same time.

  They’re not mutually exclusive.

  Plus my truck has a snowplow on the front and a dump bed in the back, which makes it more fun to play with. It’s cool to press a button to dump things out, especially if it’s a load of horse manure.

  Are you completely disillusioned yet?

  And I never have more fun than when I’m plowing snow from my driveway in wintertime, with the radio blasting and a hot cup of coffee fogging up the windows. I will never forget the year when I got carried away and ended up plowing my whole street.

  Nothing will make you feel as unstoppable as a snowplow.

  I promise, you’ll end up praying for snow.

  Sometimes I think that driving a truck is empowerment on wheels.

  Again, not even kidding.

  Maybe you’re secure enough and you don’t need it, but I do. From time to time, I need to be reminded that I have strength and power, especially when there are setbacks. The world throws us curveballs. A friend falls ill. Somebody breaks your heart. You don’t get the job you wanted.

  Life can be hard and unfair, and you have to persevere.

  Whenever I need bucking up, I truck up.

  I take a drive around the block.

  It’s a way to remind my body what powerful feels like, and even though it’s external, swathing me in Ford-tough military-grade steel, I can recall that feeling later, like muscle memory.

  I feel the same way when I ride a horse. I’m sure there’s not a woman in the world who doesn’t stand a little taller after she gets out of a truck or off a horse.

  And if you haven’t had those experiences, I bet you feel that way after you work out or go for a run. Or after yoga.

  Or after whatever you do to remind yourself that you’re stronger than you think.

  I’m thinking about trucks now because mine is now fifteen years old and needs to be replaced. It’s dripping gunk and doing other undesirable things, and I’m going to miss it. But it gives me the chance to go truck-shopping, which for this girl, is almost as much fun as shoe-shopping.

  Trucks are high heels with four-wheel drive.

  So here’s my advice, when the going gets rough.

  Do whatever it takes to make you stand taller.

  And go forward.

  Women are built Ford tough.

  Weeding

  Lisa

  You probably have heard by now that in this past election, California, Massachusetts, Nevada, and Maine legalized the recreational use of marijuana.

  Are you moving?

  From or to?

  When I found out, I was jealous, mainly because everybody’s about to become a better gardener than I am.

  They grow weed, and I only grow weeds.

  This is where you find out how boring a person I am, because the truth is, I never even tried marijuana.

  Or, as we called it back in college, dope.

  I know it’s not called that anymore.

  Now when something is dope, it’s good.

  And when something is sick, it’s awesome.

  Ask me anything. I’m an expert on outdated slang.

  You go, girl!

  Anyway, the reason I bring this up is because somebody has figured out how to grow weed that is allegedly an aphrodisiac, which is being marketed to women.

  It’s called Sexpot.

  I’m not making that up.

  I wish I were. It’s almost as good a pun as Chick Wit.

  Anyway, I’m always interested in products that claim to be aphrodisiacs, when we all know that the one and only aphrodisiac is a man volunteering to build you some bookshelves.

  So I started to research Sexpot, which is when I learned that marijuana has different strains, strengths, and funny names, all of which was news to this weed rookie.

  For example, Sexpot is apparently derived from a strain of marijuana named Mr. Nice.

  Okay, now I see why it’s an aphrodisiac.

  Who wouldn’t want to ease under the covers with Mr. Nice?

  That’s all we really want, isn’t it, ladies?

  Somebody nice.

  The only guy better would be Mr. Right.

  But not Mr. Right Away.

  Mr. Right Away is never good in bed.

  Mr. Right Away is good for picking up his socks.

  Mr. Marriage Material would be ideal, but I’m not getting the impression there’s any weed named after him.

  Or better yet, Dr. Marriage Material.

  Still, not happening.

  Anyway the interesting thing I learned about Sexpot was that it has 14 percent THC, which is apparently a low amount and therefore better for women.

  We always get gypped on the THC.

  Evidently, the low amount of THC “allows the toker to settle into a right mellow headspace without being too high to focus on se
xual sensations.”

  Wow.

  First off, do people still say “toker”?

  I remember that from the song about the midnight toker.

  So maybe I’m hipper than I think.

  Secondly, how is a right mellow headspace different from a mellow headspace?

  And why does headspace have a hyphen?

  Then I learned that Sexpot is related to cannabis lube, which is supposed to be a product that improves sex and can actually “get one’s vagina high.”

  Really!

  You know what gets my vagina high?

  The King of Prussia Mall.

  Chocolate cake.

  Bradley Cooper.

  That’s about it, for now.

  In truth, I can’t remember the last time my vagina was high.

  I suspect it’s been slacking.

  Well, it’s definitely slack.

  Then I kept researching and I found a recipe to make your own cannabis lube for your vagina, which had so many steps that it reminded me of Mother Mary’s gnocchi recipe.

  The main ingredient was two cups of organic extra virgin coconut oil, which I assume you could find in the organic aisle at Wegman’s or in CVS, next to the Monistat.

  Then you have to liquefy the coconut oil in a saucepan over low heat and add two grams of cannabis, which evidently you can buy in every state but Pennsylvania. Because the Commonwealth doesn’t want a lot of high vaginas running around.

  Would you?

  It’s a recipe for trouble.

  Anyway the third step is that you have to submerge the cannabis in the coconut oil and cook it for ninety minutes, stirring occasionally.

  Ninety minutes!

  That’s quite a commitment to vaginal lubrication.

  You’d have to be either a home cook or total slut.

  I mean, I don’t know any woman who would bother.

  We’re busy!

  Plus I can’t think of another food that takes that amount of time and attention except for risotto, which I made once and never again. It was delicious, but so much work that I would only bother for a carbohydrate.

  Not for sex.

  I have priorities.

  Now if I could microwave it, that would be a different story.

  On the other hand, I know a better vaginal lubricant.

  Bradley Cooper.

  Keep Calm and Carry On

  Lisa Scottoline

  It’s summertime, when you get to pack your bags and head off on vacation, maybe even someplace far away.

  But if you’re flying, you can skip the packing. Because one of the airlines just announced that they’re going to limit passengers to only one carry-on bag per person, and it has to be small enough to fit under the seat.

  Great idea!

  I’m completely behind it.

  So what if you’re on vacation for a week or even two?

  According to the airlines, you can wear the same thing every day.

  I do that already, and I’m not even going anywhere.

  In summertime, I wear a T-shirt and shorts, and in winter we’re talking a fleece top and fleece pants.

  I only change if I’m expecting a package. I don’t want the UPS man to look at me funny.

  Besides, I think the airlines are doing this to look out for us.

  They don’t want us to worry about our appearance.

  Or our aroma.

  The airlines care about us, bottom line.

  Of course, they care about their bottom line as well.

  I suspect they’re doing this as a cost-cutting measure, but I don’t understand why it costs an airline more to fly the plane if a passenger has two carry-ons rather than one. If it requires extra fuel, can it be so much extra?

  I mean, back in high school, I asked my pals to chip in for gas one road trip.

  But then, I graduated.

  To being classy.

  Doesn’t an airline have to figure out how to make money by providing the services that people reasonably expect, namely that they can get on board with two bags?

  Do we have to pay for the fuel, too?

  How about we bring our own toilet paper?

  Because this is a load of crap.

  This is exactly why, when they offer me a bag of pretzels, I always take two.

  Out of sheer spite.

  And then I eat both bags, just to show them that it’s all their fault I broke my diet.

  I wonder if the airlines will announce more cost-cutting measures. If they’re cutting down on the weight of clothes, why not charge extra if the passenger decides to wear pants?

  Pants take up an obvious amount of extra room, and they are completely unnecessary, in my opinion.

  For example, does Bradley Cooper really need to travel with pants on?

  I don’t think so.

  How about shirts?

  He doesn’t need one of those either, not on my account.

  I would cover him with a blanket.

  Me.

  But not all rules apply only to Bradley Cooper.

  Some could apply to me as well.

  For example, I think airlines should start charging women if they want to wear bras on board.

  Take it from me, bras are completely superfluous. And given the padding and underwire in mine, I’m single-handedly weighing the plane down.

  My fuel costs are 36B.

  In fact, if you think big picture, there is probably a lot of dumb stuff on board a plane that we could jettison and save the airline money.

  What about those flotation devices under the seat? We’re never flying over water anyway, and if we are, something tells me that when we hit the water, my pancake of a seat isn’t going to help my pancake of a body.

  Too dark?

  Okay then, how about those dumb airline magazines that nobody reads? Who really reads the Sky Mall or Hammacher Schlemmer catalogue.

  (I do, because I read everything in my general vicinity, like cereal boxes. But at least I know that’s weird.)

  And what about that big inflatable slide that looks like so much fun?

  It probably weighs a ton, but it could come in handy.

  And it’s an excuse to have a damn good time in an emergency.

  Drunk Click

  Francesca

  I was working at my desk when my doorbell rang.

  I opened the door to find a cardboard box sitting in my hallway, large enough to fit a person inside,

  The box bore no brand logos or identifying marks, just a shipping label addressed to me.

  But I wasn’t expecting any package.

  I tried to pick it up, but the weight of its heavy contents shifted, and I nearly dropped it. So I shuffled it into the middle of my apartment, and regarded it suspiciously.

  I opened a pair of scissors, held them like a dagger, and took a breath before plunging the blade into the belly of the box.

  I looked inside and recoiled with horror and despair.

  Not because I didn’t recognize it, but because I did.

  I had purchased cat furniture.

  In my defense, I was drunk at the time.

  The memory returned to me: I had come home from being out with friends to find my cat, Mimi, clawing the arm of my couch.

  Again.

  “That’s it!” I said, though it probably came out like, “Thazzit!”

  I logged on to Amazon.com and bought the top-selling cat scratching post with one click.

  Online shopping under the influence is a crime against the self.

  What percentage of Jeff Bezo’s fortune is attributable to drunken Amazon purchases? You know that’s why they instituted “1-click” ordering.

  Sober people have time for two clicks.

  My buyer’s remorse was twofold. First, I had completely underestimated the size of this item. I’d thought it was maybe two feet high, easy to tuck out of view.

  Now I stood before a sisal-wrapped column that was nearly my height.

  To be fair, I make errors of s
cale with online shopping when I’m clearheaded, too. Like the time I bought fishnet stockings for a Halloween costume and they arrived in a toddler size.

  Why do toddler-sized fishnets exist in the first place? Never mind, I don’t want to know.

  The other source of regret was that, as a single woman, purchasing any large-scale cat furniture feels like an admission of defeat.

  It’s a monument to spinsterhood. A totem pole to protect you from a sex life.

  It’s the opposite of phallic symbol. It’s an anti-phallic symbol.

  I considered returning it, but I’d have to drag this heavy, unwieldy box to the post office. And I glanced at the once-neat lines of my chic, modern couch, now frayed to something more shabby-chic, or just shabby.

  In vino veritas. I surrendered to the scratching post.

  As if the indignity wasn’t enough, I had to assemble it, directions not included.

  If you ever want to feel like your college degree was a waste of money, try to assemble cheap furniture without directions.

  After some struggling, I managed to attach the base and top in a way that was sturdy.

  Mimi raised her head from where she had been sleeping on the dining table (where she is not allowed to be). To my surprise, she jumped down and sauntered over toward her present.

  My heart swelled with hope. If she actually liked this thing, I take back everything I said: I’ll gladly be single forever, it will be worth it.

  Pleasing a man is easy; pleasing a fussy cat is satisfying.

  She smelled it, bumping it with her little black nose—I held my breath.

  She looked at me—I met her gaze, my eyes wide with hope.

  Then she changed course, strolled right past me and over to the cardboard packaging, and flattened her body on top of it.

  “No, no, look, Mimi, this, this is your present.” I crouched beside the post and made kissy noises.

  She rolled onto her back, nuzzling the cardboard with her head.

  I rubbed catnip all over the post and mimicked scratching it with my own nails to show her what a delight it was.

  It actually wasn’t bad.

  Mimi watched me do this, then began licking the cardboard.

  “Okay, you win.”

  Since then, I’ve seen the sisal on the post grow more and more ragged, so I know she uses it, but only when I’m not around to see.

  Because the only thing that will deny your satisfaction more than owning a giant piece of cat furniture, is owning a cat.