Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim

by Lisa Scottoline

  Normally this is good for a laugh, but the mere existence of the Fake Hang-Up takes the wind out of all future I’m-actually-really-angry hang-ups.

  Maybe that’s a good thing.

  But not all of our hang-ups are angry. The Commercial Break Hang-Up is the gentlest of all because it’s mutual; my mom and I both hang up on each other at the same time.

  This hang-up has a history. When I was growing up, every night I would climb into my mom’s bed with her and the dogs and watch the late-night talk shows. Now I’m old enough to have the TV in my bedroom, but too old to live with my mom. Luckily, we’ve found a way to restore the tradition.

  Whenever the guest is a particular favorite of ours, we call each other and watch together over the phone. That way, when Sarah Jessica Parker walks out, we can gush over her outfit in real time. Or if Hugh Jackman is on, we can discuss how the real reason we like him is because he’s a family man, and not because he’s gorgeous, tall, has washboard abs, that accent, or the adorable way his face crinkles when he smiles.

  Sigh.

  But our simulcast never works for long, because for some inexplicable reason our televisions never sync up. Both of us watch NBC in HD on the East Coast, and yet I can hear a half-second delay on my mom’s television, creating an annoying echo for both of us. Why is her identical channel slower than mine?

  Maybe everything sounds slower and wrong-er when it’s coming from your mother.

  So now we yap away during the commercials, then hang up on each other the instant the show returns, with not much more than an, “Ooh, show’s back on—”

  Click.

  Granted, it’s always a little insensitive to hang up on your family members, but this act comes from a place of love.

  For quality television.

  Sometimes my mom and I are blameless, as with the Dogfight Hang-Up. My mom and I will be enjoying a peaceful conversation, when all of a sudden I hear Tasmanian devils growling on the other end, my mom yells out, and the call drops. It’s dramatic until you’ve heard it the hundredth time. I usually give Mom a few minutes to get the whip and the chair, then I’ll call her back to make sure everything is okay.

  Considering my mother’s history with dogfights, I can’t be sure she’ll have a finger left to dial with.

  Why all the hang-ups? I’m supposed to be more mature than this, I’m twenty-five years old and my mom is, well, also mature.

  Maybe because most of the time we can’t stop talking to each other. She’ll call me “just to say good night,” and we’ll end up chatting for half an hour. Our calls never end with a simple goodbye. It’s usually a stutter-step of “Bye—oh, but I was meaning to tell you…” or “I have to get back to work, but before I forget…” There’s always one more funny story I want to tell her or one last worry only she can soothe.

  It’s hard to say goodbye.

  Sometimes it’s easier to just hang up.

  Nobody’s Passenger

  By Lisa

  I have often said that there are many pleasures to being single, and among them is that you get to be in the driver’s seat.

  I mean this literally. In other words, I’m not talking about the road of life. I’m talking about I-95.

  Not all of these columns are metaphorical. Sometimes a train is just a train.

  But a cigar is always a phallic symbol.

  I’ve been single for a long time now, and I’m used to driving myself everywhere. And I love every minute of myself as a driver. I’m a good and careful driver. I go slow and pay attention. I look around all the time. I watch out for the other guy. I scan his hands for a wedding band.

  Just kidding.

  I never got to drive myself when I was married, and I hated that. Why?

  Frankly, because I never really liked the way that men drive.

  Or maybe it was just my men, but it started with my late father.

  Let me say for the record that I adored my father. He was a great guy, calm and easygoing, except when he was behind the wheel. Then he didn’t become angry, but he liked to go fast. Not crazy fast, but well over the speed limit.

  And this in the olden days, when the speed limit was 65.

  You may be too young to remember those days. Back then, the retirement age was also 65, but times have changed. Nowadays the speed limit is 55, and the retirement age is 235.

  Which means that there are plenty of eighty-five-year-olds driving themselves to the office at 82 mph.

  Not a good combo.

  Anyway, even when my father drove at the speed limit, he sped to the traffic light, then stopped short, over and over and over, so the ride would be herky-jerky and ultimately nauseating. You could get carsick with my dad, even in the front seat. It drove my mother nuts, and after they divorced, it drove my stepmother nuts.

  Divorce doesn’t solve everything.

  Just in my case.

  We all nagged my father about his driving, and he tried to comply, but it didn’t last. He wasn’t passive-aggressive, but he was forgetful. He’d try to toe the line, but sooner or later, he’d go back to his old habits.

  Like me and chocolate cake, when I’m on a diet.

  It’s only a matter of time before we’re reunited.

  And it feels so good.

  Anyway, I think the way that my father drove is the way that all men drive, because every man I’ve ever driven with drives the same way. Thing One, Thing Two, and all the other things.

  Evidently, a car is a phallic symbol, too.

  Okay, I won’t speculate as to whether this habit is genital, or congenital.

  And as far as driving goes, it’s not that I’m a control freak. I just like to go slow, and enjoy the ride. I sing, I listen to audiobooks, and I think, or talk to myself.

  Yes, I’m that crazy lady in the car next to you. I act like I’m talking on a hands-free phone, but I’m talking to myself.

  Maybe Ruby can drive next time.

  And I don’t think I’m alone.

  I have figured out this much: Men drive to get somewhere, and women enjoy the process more.

  And because men are so concerned with Point A to Point B, they drive too fast. They don’t leave enough space between cars. They switch lanes too often. They pass all the time.

  And they never, ever use blinkers.

  It’s not that men expect you to read their minds.

  Women expect you to read their minds.

  Men expect you to deal.

  I was reminded of this again after my bunion surgery, when I had to ask a male friend of mine to drive me to the foot doctor. My friend is a great guy, calm and mellow like my father, but when he drove us, we zoomed and stopped, zoomed and stopped, the whole trip, and I got up close and personal with way too many bumper stickers.

  IF YOU CAN READ THIS, YOU’RE TOO CLOSE.

  And we were.

  Not even a podiatrist can cure a lead foot.

  Look, I know that men take more risks in life, and that’s a good thing. Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and even Christopher Columbus all took great risks and reaped great rewards.

  But what about that guy who married and divorced Kim Kardashian in seventy-two days, whatever his name was.

  Shoulda driven slower, if you ask me.

  I myself wait until I mail my thank-you notes to file my divorce papers.

  If it’s the road of love, I want it to last forever.

  All We Have to Do Is Take This Lie and Make It True

  By Lisa

  I just lost five pounds. As they say, Ask me how!

  The answer is, Denial.

  Not that I didn’t really lose the weight, but I lost it by going into denial.

  Denial is something I’m really good at. All of the Flying Scottolines are denial experts.

  Denial is in our DNA.

  In fact, we think DNA stands for Do Not Acknowledge.

  Our exciting family history is replete with examples. For example, none of us realized that Brother Frank was gay even though he never d
ated a woman, had a long-term guy “friend,” and was never without a tank top.

  Of mesh.

  And when Frank and his “friend” moved in together, they shared a bedroom and both bought bulldogs.

  Still, we missed that obvious clue.

  If you see matching dogs, look for a gay couple.

  And when Frank got a job as a bartender in a gay bar, we figured it was the only job he could get. And when he finally told us, we still didn’t believe it, and when we finally did and told other people, they all knew.

  Bottom line, it didn’t matter to my mother or father that Frank was gay, plus we were happy for the extra dog.

  I have top-quality, Grade-A denial, and it’s finally working in my favor.

  Here’s what happened.

  You may recall that I have high cholesterol, and I was going to see the doctor, so I needed a blood test. And it had to be a fasting blood test, which means that you can’t eat anything after seven o’clock at night.

  Uh-oh.

  I have a hobby, which is eating after seven o’clock at night.

  I actually look forward to seven o’clock, so I can start eating, especially in winter. Some people like winter white, but I like winter weight.

  Who needs a Snuggie when you are a Snuggie?

  I finish dinner and then start eating, so everything I eat after seven o’clock has a name.

  Dessert.

  But I knew I had a blood test, and I never cheated on a test before and wasn’t about to start. So I vowed not to eat after seven o’clock, and the way I accomplished this was by eating up to-but-not-including seven o’clock, then going upstairs and watching TV.

  I knew I had to put some distance between the refrigerator and me. The first floor ain’t big enough for the both of us.

  So I stayed upstairs and came down only to walk the dogs at eleven o’clock, and even then I passed the refrigerator with gritted teeth.

  So far, so good.

  But to make a long story short, the next morning, I got an important phone call and I couldn’t get to the lab, so I decided to postpone the blood test until the next day. And when the next night rolled around, I didn’t eat after seven o’clock, using the same method, for the second night in row.

  And succeeded!

  Then something else happened, merely by accident, or as proof of a God who watches over middle-aged women with middles.

  My bunion surgery got scheduled and I had to hurry up and get another blood test, and so I didn’t eat after seven o’clock, for the third night in a row.

  And when I got on the scale the next day, I had lost a whole entire pound.

  WOW!

  And suddenly, I decided to get a new hobby.

  Because I realized, if I had a blood test every day, I might be able to lose more weight. But of course, I didn’t need to have a real blood test, if I could convince myself that I had an imaginary blood test.

  So that’s what I did.

  And it worked!

  And then I had the bunion surgery and had to stay upstairs, and could only eat when kind souls brought me food, and one week later, I lost five pounds!

  It may not sound like a lot, but to me, it’s a miracle. And I hope to lose more, on my patented Denial Diet.

  Not that I think you can try this at home. You of healthy mind may not be able to convince yourself of a lie the way I can.

  After all, I convinced myself that nobody notices the dog-hair tumbleweeds in the corners of my house.

  I also convinced myself that the occasional turd in my fireplace is from a passing goose, and not from the cats, telling me to change the litter box.

  Going back, I had even convinced myself I had a happy marriage.

  Twice.

  And going forward, I have convinced myself that someday, I will find true love with a man.

  Who doesn’t wear a tank top.

  Hey, it could happen.

  Called to Order

  By Lisa

  I didn’t sleep last night, because I was at a board meeting.

  It was held in my bed, by myself, except for four dogs, who took notes.

  Here’s what I mean.

  Little Tony decided he had to go to the bathroom at three in the morning, which meant I had to take him out, and long story short, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I decided it was time for a Board meeting.

  This is something I do sometimes, but not every quarter. The Scottoline Board meets whenever I can’t sleep, which is rare. I sleep like a baby, because I’m old and tired. My problem isn’t sleeping, it’s staying awake.

  But the Board meeting is a good thing, because it’s how I figure out what I’m doing in my life. In other words, it’s my Board of Life, but not my Bored of Life.

  Quite the contrary.

  I feel lucky and have a great life, but it’s a busy time to be alive, for all of us. And I’ve found that it really helps me to set aside some quiet time and think about all the facets of my life, so that I can run it better.

  God knows when I started doing this, but it was when I remembered how we used to say we were “leading” our lives, and I realized I was living a life, but not leading one.

  I wasn’t running anything, and that was leaving me vulnerable to being run. I had no agenda, and I learned that if you don’t have an agenda, someone will have one for you. And it will be what they want, not what you want.

  Remember, nature abhors a vacuum.

  I abhor a vacuum cleaner.

  Plus my happy-go-lucky life without agenda resulted in some really bad marriages, I mean, er, decisions.

  So I realized that leading my life takes conscious effort and planning, and maybe some corporate overlay, but without the 401k.

  This is where you find out that I’m crazy.

  So what I do is picture a long, glistening mahogany board table, with me at the head.

  Because I’m the boss.

  I may not be the boss of you, but I’m the boss of me. Come to think of it, the Me Company isn’t a democracy, so really I’m Queen of Me.

  For Life.

  By the way, I did incorporate last year, when I named my company Smart Blonde, LLC., which is false advertising.

  None of us blondes is dumb.

  We’re not even really blond.

  Anyway, then I visualize five women sitting around the conference table, and each is Head of her Department, of which there are five:

  Family, Home, Work, Money, and Carbohydrates.

  Obviously, in order of importance.

  Next, each Department Head gives me a progress report, in order. For example, the head of the Family Department tells me that Francesca is doing fine, but doesn’t know if Mother Mary got her upright MRI.

  Hmm.

  I task her with calling Mother Mary, and I make a note in my BlackBerry, since I’m not sure imaginary board members own PDAs and I’m not taking any chances.

  That’s the kind of monarch I am.

  Next, the Head of the Home Department reports that we might need a TV in my office, since the old one stopped working two weeks ago and I’m paying for a cable box with no TV.

  I consider this carefully because, between us, the Head of the Home Department spends money like crazy. She wants everything—new rugs, new sheets, more curtains, and a nicer comforter. She even wants a mudroom. The more money I give her, the more she spends.

  I suspect she may have a substance-abuse problem.

  The substance is chintz.

  So I turn, metaphorically speaking, to the Head of the Money Department and ask her if we can afford a new TV. By the way, the Head of the Money Department is the only Department Head who isn’t me.

  She’s Maria Bartiromo.

  Nobody would trust me with my money.

  Maria reminds me that we have rewards points burning a hole in our collective pocket and we can get a small TV, for free. I task the Head of the Home Department with ordering a TV, but she seems disappointed. She still wants that mudroom.

 
Told you.

  I listen to the other reports, make notes, and end up with the Head of the Carbohydrates Department.

  She doesn’t think we needed that extra piece of toast at breakfast.

  What a bitch.

  So I fire her.

  It’s good to be Queen.

  I Am Mother Mary

  By Lisa

  Everybody says you’ll turn into your mother someday, but I already have.

  I realized this happened when I got a new computer. I’ve been a longtime PC person, though we’re meant to feel uncool by Apple ads.

  Ask me if I care.

  One of the many advantages of getting older is that you care less about what people think of you, or what’s cool. I’ll tell you what’s cool:

  Elastic waistbands.

  Right? Show of hands.

  Come on, even teenagers like elastic waistbands. Most of the time, they’re wearing sweatpants with drawstrings. But drawstrings are for the young. Why?

  They pee once a day.

  You know I’m telling the truth.

  Daughter Francesca is like a camel. Whenever we’re together, I’m in the bathroom ten times a day, to her one.

  This may be an overshare, but why stop now?

  Drawstrings are no friend to the middle-aged woman. If I had a drawstring, I’d be tying bows all day long, like I was wrapping Christmas presents.

  I write for a living, so my PC contained eleven novels, three hundred columns, various book reviews, and all of my reader email, including ads for cheap Viagra. I must get ten of these emails a day, and they evade my spam filter with deceptive subject lines like, “Lisa, here’s the answer to that question you asked.” Or “Lisa, should we finalize that meeting?”

  This makes me laugh. I’m at the point where if you use my first name, I ignore your email.

  Ironic, no?

  Also, it’s baffling that whatever evil genius sends these emails doesn’t realize that anybody with the name Lisa isn’t going to be the one buying the Viagra.

  I have a vagina, people.

  Maybe they can’t spell.

  Though I suppose there are women who do the Viagra shopping for their men, in the same way that some women buy the condoms, but if you ask me, that’s one step too far.

  Ladies, if you’re buying the Viagra, you’re not only wearing the pants in the family, you’re filling them.