Have a Nice Guilt Trip (13 page)

It’s a miracle!

A Christmas miracle.

Happy Holidays!

Happy New Year Dotcom

By Lisa

It’s the New Year, and as you may know, I don’t like to make conventional resolutions, because that requires me to think about how much I suck.

Who needs it?

Too negative.

Instead, every new year, I prefer to make unresolutions. I think about the things I like about myself and resolve to keep doing them.

As in, I resolve to keep kissing my dogs on the lips.

I can’t be the only middle-aged woman with puppy breath.

And this year, I have one big unresolution, which is to continue to dream about harebrained schemes to make money.

I know I’m not alone in this, either.

Does Powerball mean anything to you?

Look, I know I’m lucky to have a job, much less one that I love, but that didn’t stop me from buying a lottery ticket when the jackpot reached $500 million. Unfortunately, I didn’t win, and neither did you.

Or if you did, and you’re single, you need to call me.

Powercall me.

I love to dream about winning the lottery. If I won, I don’t know if I would quit writing books, but I would sure like the opportunity to find out.

I wonder if it would be The End.

Anyway, I resolve to keep thinking of harebrained schemes to make money, though other people have me beat. I’m talking about the guy I read about, who sold his last name for $45,000.

His name was Jason Sadler, and he auctioned off his last name to a company named
Headsets.com
, so he’s going to change his name to Jason HeadsetsDotCom.

That’s a good ideaDotCom.

Why didn’t I think of thatDotCom?

Scottoline isn’t that great a name, and for that kind of money, I would change my last name to SomethingDotCom. After all, lots of women change their last names when they get married. Why buy the cow when you get the DotCom for free?

I was going to change my name to Lisa Clooney, if you-know-who called, but now I moved on to Mrs. Bradley Cooper, because for him I would give up my first and last names, without charging a dime.

I’m a bargain!

Then I read about another guy who tattooed Mitt Romney’s name on his face and got paid $15,000.

Another great harebrained scheme to make money!

I could start tattooing names on parts of my body, and lucky for me, I have a lot of body.

My butt alone could contain several pages of the phone book.

Maybe I could tattoo my headsets?

Then there was yet another harebrained scheme I read about, where somebody stole $18 million worth of maple syrup from a maple-syrup cartel in Quebec.

First off, who knew there was such a thing as a maple-syrup cartel?

And who’s the kingpin, Mrs. Butterworth?

And where do they keep it, a Log Cabin?

I heard they arrested Aunt Jemima.

I’m guessing their hangout is International House of Pancakes.

The police caught them right away, probably because their fingers were sticky.

Whoever they are, my hat’s off to them. They didn’t kill anybody to take the syrup, and to me, the only thing worth stealing is carbohydrates.

In fact, if somebody hijacks chocolate cake from a chocolate-cake cartel, cover for me.

Of course, the news is full of harebrained schemes to get money, and the biggest dreamer of all is the federal government, because it’s currently driving us over the fiscal cliff.

Maybe we could tattoo the members of Congress?

Or maybe just their body parts.

You know which part.

But we’d have to find it first.

Happy New Year!

Being Good in the New Year

By Francesca

I was gleefully naughty this holiday season—like Santa, I assumed any unattended Christmas cookie was meant for me and ate them all. But now it’s a new year and I am full of good intentions.

You remember what they say about good intentions.

My girlfriend and I wanted to start off on the right foot, so on New Year’s Day, before we went to a movie, we decided to get dinner at a popular vegetarian restaurant in the East Village. We took a seat at a tree-stump tabletop and opened a menu with as many folds as a road map, including a back page labeled “glossary.”

In retrospect, this was the first red flag.

But we are young. To us, red flags are life’s accessories, like a cute scarf.

The second warning sign, also unheeded, was the group of ballerinas who were seated after us.

“How did you know they were ballerinas?” my boyfriend interrupted, when I was telling him the story later. “Did they walk in so gracefully?”

“No, they were starved and limping.”

My friend and I were starving as well, so we didn’t waste time trying to decode the menu. As soon as the waiter came over, we gave our order. My friend chose cauliflower soup and a vegan “Reuben” sandwich, and I decided on the seitan special, whatever that is.

“Would you like any basics?” the waiter asked me. He was tall and thin, with his hair buzzed on the sides and fluffy curls at the top, like a human bean sprout.

“Basics?”

He sighed. “Basics are sides of vegetables to add to your dish.”

“What do you recommend?”

“Definitely the sea vegetables.”

My brain immediately jumped to the image of a sea cucumber, which I’m pretty sure is a giant slug. “Um, maybe I’ll go with the kale.”

“It’s and/or, so I’ll put you down for two orders of kale.”

“I have to get two?”

“It’s and/or,” he repeated, as if this explained everything. “So you can get kale and kale, kale or something else, or kale and something else. And/or.”

Pretzel logic, gluten-free.

I opted for the kale AND lentils.

After what felt like forever, our food finally arrived. My friend received a cup of soup and a half-Reuben the size of a tea sandwich. I got a dish with a wet pile of steamed greens and brown beans.

“That sandwich looks small,” I said, squinting to see it better.

“Yeah,” my friend answered. “Yours looks … healthy.”

She ate her tiny food in roughly four bites, I ended up pouring balsamic vinegar on mine to make it more palatable. We wanted to be good, but even good girls have their limit. We snagged the attention of our waiter.

“Could I get the other half of this sandwich?” my friend asked sweetly.

“I’m sorry, we can’t do that,” said the waiter.

I couldn’t help myself. “Seriously?”

“Well, I’ll have to check with our kitchen,” he said.

“Also, I know you guys are busy, but is my entrée coming soon?”

“Did you order something else?” he asked, now looking like a surprised bean sprout.

“Yes, I ordered the special. These were just the basics.”

Francesca’s a woman, not a rabbit! (The ears are fake.)

He looked at me blankly.

It was and/or, I wanted to cry!

“Let me see what we can do.” It was like he had never encountered two women so hungry. Like we were the Hungry Hungry Hippos, gobbling all the soybeans he could shoot at us.

By the time the waiter rustled up some more spartan food for us, we had to leave to make the movie. We paid—“Sorry, cash only”—and escaped.

At the movie theater, we approached the snack counter. I glanced over my shoulder, in case the ballerinas were behind us again.

“Should we get candy?” my friend asked.

We looked at each other.

I got the Raisinets, it has antioxidants. She got an Almond Joy, it has nuts.

For now, that would be good enough.

They Call Alabama the Crimson Tide

By Lisa

Spontaneity is a great thing.

But not for Mother Mary.

You would think I would have known this by now, but in fact, I didn’t learn it until Daughter Francesca and I went for an impromptu visit.

Which was too impromptu.

It all started back on New Year’s Eve, when I called Mother Mary at midnight, as we do every year. God knows when we started this practice, but I’ve been doing it for several marriages, no matter where I am or what I’m doing on New Year’s Eve. To be real, I’m never doing anything on New Year’s Eve, so calling my mother is the highlight of the night.

So during our most recent conversation, we wished each other a Happy New Year, but then Mother Mary says something she never says: “I miss you.”

I thought I had the wrong number.

My mother and I love each other, but it’s not always smooth sailing twenty-four/seven, and I’m trying to figure out exactly what about our fights she misses.

Still, I say reflexively, “I miss you, too,” but after we hang up, I realize that I actually do miss her. And it being New Year’s Eve and all, I get a little misty. My remaining drops of estrogen leak from my eyes, and I begin to wonder how many years I have left to fight with my mother.

Because I could go any day now.

So by the end of the week, I’m calling Francesca, then some airlines and hotels, and the very next weekend, we’re booked on a plane to Miami to visit Mother Mary. Of course, when you book a flight that late, the only seats available are in first class, but I can work with that. It’s nice to have a treat once in a while, and I have only one mother to fight with.

Also it turns out that the only hotel available is crazy expensive, and I stay there only on book tour, when my beloved publisher is paying. But then again, the visit is spontaneous, so beggars can’t be choosers. Never mind that I’d be the only beggar at this swanky hotel, but I can work with that, too, because you-know-who deserves it.

That would be me.

I deserve it.

But Francesca is surprised. “Mom, that’s not where we usually stay.”

“No,” I tell her, “but it goes to show how much we love Mother Mary, that we’ll force ourselves to fly first-class and stay in a fancy hotel, all for her.”

Francesca’s eyes narrow. She wasn’t born yesterday, nor was my mother, who freaks out when I call to tell her about our upcoming visit.

“You’re staying
where
?” she explodes, incredulous. And then she adds, “Why are you coming down anyway?”

I blink. “Because you said you miss me.”

“Oh hell,” she mutters, but doesn’t elaborate.

Fast-forward to Friday night, when Francesca and I are checking in to the swanky hotel, knee-deep in a crowd of cranky travelers. I slide my credit card across the desk, which is when the clerk slides back a form that shows the room rate increasing a third on Saturday night then doubling on Sunday night.

I look up from the form. “You’re kidding, right?”

The desk clerk lifts an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“I understand that the rate increases a little over the weekend, but it costs
twice
as much on Sunday night?”

“Yes,” the clerk answers, simply.

Francesca snorts. “What, does the room get bigger?”

Proud of her, I nod. “Yeah, does it turn into Versailles? Or do I just own it outright?”

Nobody laughs except Francesca and me. The travelers behind us begin to grumble, and I feel too embarrassed to ask any more questions, much less refuse to pay, and I know there are no other hotels available anyway. Then I look around and realize that everyone else is wearing either red or green, which I had thought was a nice holiday touch, but the mood isn’t Christmass-y at all. In fact, it’s downright hostile.

It’s only later that I learn that my spontaneous visit is on the weekend of the Orange Bowl, and the hotel is raising its rates because the big game is on Monday night. All weekend, Miami is overrun with battling Alabama and Notre Dame fans, and after a few dinners with Mother Mary and Brother Frank, I learn that the Fightin’ Irish have nothing on the Fightin’ Italians.

Still Francesca and I had fun, and so did Mother Mary and Frank, so we’re glad we went.

But we’re glad we’re home, too.

Roll, Tide.

Unreal Estate

By Lisa

I have an old house, which I love.

And hate.

I’m one of those people who says I love old houses.

But I lie.

I’m beginning to accept the truth, which is:

Old houses are a pain in the back porch.

This realization strikes me every year when the weather turns cold. My house has stone walls that are incredibly thick, which means that come October, it’s freezing inside. Today it was seventy degrees outside, and fifty in my house.

So you say, turn on the heat, right?

I can’t.

Because my house has radiators, which hiss, clang, and bang. I can’t hear myself think when the heat is on. If you talk to me on the phone when I have the heat on, you’d think someone is breaking and entering.

So I heat my house by hot flashes.

That’s the only way you can live in an old house. If you
are
an old house.

By the way, it’s no more habitable in summer, when the weather turns warm. I can’t open any windows, because their sashes are broken.

Yes, my windows have sashes.

Don’t ask me why or even what that is. My windows are from an era when dresses had sashes, and I guess they went sash-crazy.