My three friends arrived at my place from an earlier game-day get-together a little gigglier than usual, but nothing that couldn’t be caused by a beer or two. So when my best friend produced a tinfoil-wrapped brownie from the last party, my only thought was:
Yay brownie!
“It’s a pot brownie,” the other said, sniggering.
“Oh.” I was genuinely disappointed. I imagined it would taste earthy and gross. Frankly, if it’s not going to taste sweet, it’s not worth the carbs. “No thanks.”
“Try it, they’re awesome. We each had like two at the party.”
“And you feel okay?” I asked.
The consensus was that they hardly felt it at all. I believed them, a) because they weren’t acting unusual, and b) because I had always guessed that hash brownies were something of an urban myth. It seemed like the Ouija Board of drug experiences, where you stir some herbal into your Betty Crocker mix and delude yourself into believing you can “feel it.” Baking takes precision; I didn’t think a stoner could pull it off.
Still, I wasn’t that into the idea of eating the brownie. I’d come this far without trying any drug, why start now? And soon, the pizza arrived, which they ate ravenously, and I hoped we could forget it.
But my friends would not let it go. I could barely focus on watching the game for all their teasing. They thought I was being weird, boring, annoying, and paranoid to refuse a delicious and harmless pot brownie. We went back and forth about it for nearly forty-five minutes.
“Fine!” I snapped. “I’ll eat the darn thing.” I took a careful bite.
It was surprisingly good. It tasted exactly like a normal brownie, which triggered the sugar addict in me, and I gobbled it up.
I was literally dabbing the crumbs from my mouth when my best friend sat back on the couch, her affect sour.
“I don’t feel so good,” she said.
“Me neither,” said my guy friend.
“Yeah, I’ve actually been feeling pretty nauseous for a while,” said the third. “I don’t know why anyone does this for fun.”
I thought they were kidding. “Ha, ha, very funny.”
The three of them sat silently on my couch, looking green.
“You cannot be serious,” I said. “You just convinced me to eat this!”
But they were all too baked to appreciate the irony or my indignation. Somehow, the very moment that I succumbed to their peer pressure was the same instant the high hit them, hard. Suddenly the mood was serious and they were all professing their queasiness. My friend’s girlfriend started freaking out, insisting she had “overdosed on marijuana.” I told her there was no such thing, but she demanded I Google it or call the police.
I can only imagine the humiliation of calling the NYPD to tell them you feel sick from a pot brownie. I opted for “Google it.”
But in the time it took me to locate online reassurance, there was a new demand being made.
“Change the channel, I need to watch something with a narrative!” she cried.
No one overreacts quite like an overeducated nerd.
“But, the game,” I pleaded.
But these pastry junkies were not having it. You don’t mess with someone tripping on refined carbohydrates. They wanted a movie and they wanted it now. Then they wanted glasses of water, which I fetched for them, and then blankets.
When one of them asked for a wastebasket, I knew I was in trouble.
Suddenly, it was surround-sound puking.
My one friend hurling in the trash can, my guy friend ralphing in my sink, and my best friend bolting for the bathroom.
She didn’t make it.
Remember that pizza I ordered?
My pristine apartment was now painted with it.
The worst part was, I sensed this Barfapalooza was just a sneak preview of my own impending doom. I didn’t know how much sober-ish time I had left, so I fought my own impending high to clean up as much as I could. With leaden limbs and unrelenting seasickness, I felt like housekeeping on an Italian cruise ship.
No one was going home that night, so my next step was getting these tweakers to bed, but moving them anywhere was easier said than done. My guy friend is over six feet and 200 lbs, so when he decided to cuddle up on the dog bed, Pip and I had no choice but to let him. And my best friend was so off-balance, she was crawling around on the floor like an extra in Saving Private Ryan.
Somehow everyone found a place to lie down and sleep it off. The next morning, despite brutal headaches, we were grateful for our second chance. We had survived the world’s lamest drug episode.
Not one of us had a single positive effect from that abominable baked good—baked evil, more like it. It was harrowing and yet, humiliating. I always thought the upshot of a bad choice was a good story, but this was just embarrassing.
I mean, a brownie? Really?
I suppose the lesson was this: If you’re a square, embrace your squareness. Do a square dance. You have all the right angles. You’re well balanced. Great things come in square packages.
Just say no to bake sales.
Bittersweet
By Lisa
This Thanksgiving will be wonderful in some ways, and sad in others. In a holiday that’s all about food, this one will taste bittersweet.
Because we just lost our friend and neighbor Harry. He passed away the other day at age ninety, in his home, next door.
I was out of town when it happened, though when I came back, I noticed that his light wasn’t on at night, usually a warm yellow glow through the dark branches of the trees, jagged and bare now, like black lightning.
I suppose I should have realized he had passed, but I didn’t, which is the paradox of death. It always comes as a surprise, even when it’s expected. The shock arises from its very gravity.
I felt that way about my father’s passing, ten years ago. I knew and I didn’t know, both at once. I was completely prepared, and I wasn’t prepared at all.
I still feel that way.
Harry didn’t look well at his last birthday, when Francesca and I went over, bringing him a gift sweater we knew he’d never wear, because he loved his old cardigan. It was only a few months ago, but his sharp blue eyes had lost a little focus, as if his brain had loosened the reins. He was using a walker for the first time, this man who used to stride two miles around the block at a clip, tall and upright, waving a handkerchief at passing cars—as a warning, not a surrender.
Never a surrender.
Harry had no wife or children, but lived alone and liked it, signing his email Harry the Hermit. He had his ham-radio license and kept in touch with friends all over the world. Francesca wrote a column about him a few years ago, and the three of us celebrated Thanksgiving together, for as long as I can remember. She called him her honorary grandfather, which he loved, his thin skin flushing with pride.
Harry was a delight to have at a holiday dinner, a former engineer whose conversation was peppered with references to politics, nature, and an ancient tabby cat he adored, named Spunky. Francesca and I used to worry about how Harry would survive when Spunky died, but it turns out he didn’t have to, and that’s bitter and sweet, too.
Francesca cried when I told her the news, over the phone, and we both talked about how we can’t imagine being at the table, without him. We remembered the Thanksgiving we tried to fix him up with Mother Mary, and how my mother broke the conversational ice:
“So, Harry, how many times do you go to the bathroom at night?”
Harry answered, “Mary, more times than I can count.”
He never missed a beat, either.
We’ll miss him for that, and for so many more reasons, and we’re both feeling sad, and happy, and, well, bittersweet.
But we’ll give special thanks for having known Harry, and for having him as long as we did.
Life is all the more precious because it doesn’t last forever. We learn that over time, and not just in an academic way, but at soul level.
&n
bsp; We live that lesson.
At the same time we’re with each other, we’re losing each other. Time isn’t a piece of string with a beginning and an end, not when it’s a lifetime. Then, it’s an overlay on the present, so that the past is with us always, as is the future.
We’re always taking the good with the bad.
We live the pain of the loss at the pleasure of the meeting.
The day I lost Harry, I remembered the day I first saw him, walking on the road. He took me up to his house and showed me the wiring he’d rigged through the trees for his ham radio and the pulley system he invented to feed his fish in a little pond. All of it, his own design.
He didn’t want a funeral, and I think I know why.
He designed his life, and his death, too.
He was loved by many, including Francesca and me.
And for him, we are thankful.
For each other, we are thankful.
Happy Thanksgiving.
You will taste the bitter, but may you savor the sweet.
Plan C
By Lisa
Our Thanksgiving was like no other, complete with a surprise ending.
To give you some background, Francesca and I had been on book tour, going to local stores to sign our previous book, Best Friends, Occasional Enemies. I think all of our books make a great gift for the holidays because they’re funny.
After all, who doesn’t need a laugh, especially around the holidays?
Me, especially.
Here’s why.
We recently lost our friend Harry, and we knew our holiday would be a little downcast without him. We were doing okay until Mother Mary called. Of course, we exchanged our Happy-Thanksgiving wishes, then she asked:
“How’s Harry?”
Uh-oh.
I hadn’t told Mother Mary about Harry yet. Okay, to be honest, I’m not sure I was rushing to give her the news. I knew it would break her heart, and I was waiting for the right moment.
By the way, when is the right moment to break your mother’s heart?
On the plus side, I know she’d never find out because she doesn’t read the column. There are reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond to watch.
And in her defense, and mine, she doesn’t read much of anything anymore, so she would have no way of knowing about Harry. But I had to answer her question, and I didn’t lie:
“He’s not here,” I told her.
And none of you are allowed to tell her, either.
Deal?
And in other unfinished business, many of you have written to Francesca and me asking what happened to Harry’s beloved cat, Spunky.
Well, we all got the answer to that on Thanksgiving, too.
Harry had arranged for Spunky to be adopted, but my neighbor called me on Thanksgiving to say that the plans had fallen through and that Spunky needed a new home. Apparently, the plan was that the vet would find Spunky a new home, but as it was turning out, there weren’t many takers. Spunky is fourteen or so and has a few health problems and you get the idea.
Spunky isn’t so spunky anymore.
He’s a vet bill on four legs.
So you know where this is going.
The neighbor wanted me to take Spunky.
And so did Francesca.
We discussed it over the holiday meal of buttery brussels sprouts, candied yams, and other saturated fats. I said, “I feel bad for Spunky, but we already have two cats, remember? Mimi and Vivi?”
“But we have room for another,” Francesca answered, though she wisely didn’t mention that at that very moment, Mimi was jumping up on the chair and making a swipe for a turkey leg.
You haven’t lived until you’ve fought your own cat for a meal. I cannot have a bowl of cereal without a cat staring me in the face. Same with cheddar cheese, vanilla ice cream, or anything else I’m not supposed to eat.
Cats are portion control with fur.
But to stick with the story, I lifted Mimi off the table. “Plus, what if Spunky didn’t get along with Mimi and Vivi? They already hate each other.”
Francesca had to admit that much was true. Mimi and Vivi are more than occasional enemies. They’ve raised cat fighting to an art form. Right now they’ve achieved a peace as stable as the Greek economy.
Francesca said, “They’ll get used to each other.”
I considered it. “But what about the dogs? Spunky never lived with a dog.”
Welcome, Spunky!
“He can stay upstairs, like the cats do.”
Which was also true. The cats stay on the second floor during the daytime, set off by a gate. At night, when the dogs and I go upstairs, the cats go downstairs. Actually now that I tell it, it’s a living arrangement that makes a lot of sense. If I’d had done that during my marriage, I wouldn’t be divorced.
I still wasn’t sure. “But do you really think we’re the best home for him?”
Mimi jumped up on the table again, but stayed at the other end, crouching, keeping her own counsel. I couldn’t tell if she was listening, and I didn’t ask. I tore off a piece of turkey and gave it to her.
Francesca grinned. “I take it that’s a yes.”
And of course, she was right. We can take care of Spunky.
Got you covered, Harry.
Snow Job
By Lisa
Today, we discuss regret. Which I have, in spades, of late.
I don’t regret something I bought, which is called buyer’s remorse. I regret something I didn’t buy, and I don’t know what that’s called.
Cheapskate’s remorse?
Or just plain dumb?
I didn’t buy the thing in question because it was expensive and I thought I could do without it, but after doing without it for ten years, I find myself full of regret. I made a mistake. I wish I’d bought one. I yearn for one. I even fantasize about one.
Odd.
I used to lust after men, or jewelry. Thoughts of either could keep me up all night. Men bearing jewelry would be ideal. Men wearing jewelry would not.
But neither of those things is the object of my fantasy, anymore. There’s only one thing I don’t have that would really turn me on.
Nowadays, my idea of a sex toy is a snowblower.
Oh baby.
I want it so bad, it’s good.
But at this point, I’m not sure I can bring myself to buy one. Why?
Regret.
It all started when I was watching the TV news, during the last storm. I love snow coverage, and as soon as there are flurries in the forecast, I switch on the TV. I wait for the anchorman to stand in the middle of the flakes, like a doll in a snowglobe. Or for him to plunge a yardstick into the drift, like a doctor with a thermometer. Or for the Doppler to creep across the map, inching ominously toward us.
Doppler doesn’t mess around.
It’s radar.
But then the storm comes and goes, and the next day on TV, everybody groans and whines as they shovel out their sidewalks, cars, and driveways. There’s only one happy person.
The guy with the snowblower.
He’s not bent over at all. His hands aren’t cramped, and his nose doesn’t leak. All he has to do is walk around, with his snowblower doing all the work, parting the drifts like a motorboat in Margate Bay, making a frothy wake.
Oh, yes.
I want one bad.
And I regret that I don’t have one, at the same time that I’m not sure whether I should buy one.
I’ve done without a snowblower for a decade, and I worry that, if I get one now, I’ll get the worst of both worlds. If I’d bought it a long time ago, I could’ve been blowing snow all this time, and gotten one cheaper. Because I didn’t, I’ll have done without for a decade, and I’ll be buying one when it costs more.
It’s two for one, mistake-wise.
Regret, regret, regret.
But I kept thinking about getting one, so I went online and studied the websites to make a decision, which is easier said than done. First problem,
there are two types of machines, one called a snowblower and one called a snowthrower.
Who knew?
I read the websites, but I couldn’t figure out the difference between a snowblower and a snowthrower. I have never blown or thrown snow. I have only shoveled it, scraped it, swept it, and cursed it. I’ve gotten excellent at cursing it, and done correctly, it won’t sprain your back.
Only your middle finger.
I bet you curse snow, too. It rarely responds. I suspect its feelings are hurt. It’s used to being wished for, around Christmastime, then oohed and aahed at, even photographed. It remembers when we loved it and called it our winter wonderland.
Then regret sets in, and we regret even the snow.
What happened to those beautiful snowflakes, each one unique?
Who cares?
Die, die, die. Get blown and thrown.
Go away.
The weatherman came on the TV and said there was another storm coming, so I chose the snowblower page and found a grid that let me Shop by Brand, Shop by Type, and Shop by Engine. Then I spotted a category that made it easy:
Shop by In Stock.
Ideal for girls like me.
Who put off buying a snowblower for ten years, and then couldn’t take it anymore and drove to the store, saying:
Gimme what you got.
Sell it to me and stick it in my car.
I don’t care if it blows, throws, or packs the snow into a cone and squirts it with cherry juice.
I want it gone.
And finally, no regrets.
Lisa Hits the Eggnog
By Lisa
I love the holidays, because it’s the time of the year when we all think about others.
We have no choice.
Even the crabbiest among us has to stop and think about somebody else, because with every gift, we have to ponder what that person really needs, wants, or loves.
It’s automatic unselfishness.
That’s why I never view gift-giving as commercial. Every harried shopper at the mall just wants to make somebody else happy.
And in so doing, they make themselves happy.
How great is that?
Giving really is getting, and if you want to prove it, watch somebody you love open a gift.
Avoid giving fruitcake.
Or if money is short, give your time. Do somebody a favor. Carry in the groceries. Take out the trash.
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