I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places (18 page)

I-95 isn't a highway, it's a video game.

And next week, Francesca and I have a wedding in Newport, a route that goes over the Claiborne Pell Bridge.

Which is the longest suspension bridge in New England.

This starfish is flying.

 

Party Hearty

Lisa

Happiness is a warm puppy.

I didn't make that up.

I just believed it, and somehow I ended up with five dogs.

Which stopped being puppies way too fast.

Although they still leave the occasional present on the rug.

I've learned that housebroken is a misnomer.

Your dogs don't end up broken for the house.

Your house ends up broken for the dogs.

Or at best, the house starts to smell, more and more each year, but after a while, you stop noticing. People entering your home for the first time will ask, Is something dying in here?

And you will answer, Yes.

I am.

Anyway, I bring this up because I've read that there's a new company in Brooklyn that will rent you puppies for parties.

The cost is a few hundred dollars.

Which proves that there's a chew toy born every minute.

The company's specialty is renting you puppies for your child's birthday party.

Which makes perfect sense, because we all know children love puppies.

For thirty seconds.

The company also rents puppies for a Student Stress-Relief Puppy Party, a Sweet 16 Puppy Party, and a Corporate Puppy Party.

For corporate puppies.

You could also have a Quinceañeras Puppy Party, at which you can teach your puppy to sit, stay, and pronounce Quinceañeras.

Good luck.

The company is not called Party Poopers.

But it should be.

Anyway, I think this is an excellent idea.

In fact, I want to get in on the fun.

And the money.

For a small fee, I will happily rent you my dogs. I will drop them off at your house for an hour. They will bring presents and leave them on the rug.

They will break your house for you.

Okay, I take that back.

I will pay you to take my dogs for a few hours.

You name the price.

In a related story, I read that there's a company in California that will rent you reptiles for your party. Some of the reptiles included are snakes, iguanas, turtles, monitors, frogs, toads, bugs, and lizards.

If this sounds like a plague that you pay for, it might be.

I don't want a reptile in my house.

It reminds me too much of my second marriage.

I didn't need a divorce lawyer.

I needed an exterminator.

Also a fumigator.

And an exorcist.

Pet rental must be a thing, because I read that there are restaurants popping up in California, called Dog and Cat Cafés, where you can eat a meal among dogs and cats.

I live in the dog and cat café.

But I never get to leave.

I think these companies are onto something.

And I was imagining things I could rent out for parties and make some dough.

For example, most of the women I know are middle-aged, which is the new term for sixty-year-olds.

Have you heard that seventy is the new twenty?

Take it from me, it is.

Or it will be until I turn seventy, when eighty will be the new twenty.

However, not all of us are ready to be grandmothers, and not all of our children are ready to be parents.

So what's the answer?

I might start renting out babies for parties.

I could just drop off a bunch of babies at your house and you could kiss and hug them for a few hours.

They could leave you presents, too.

Post-Menopausal Parties!

Bring your own eggs!

We could make Estrogen Replacementinis!

No?

Okay, instead I could rent out a bunch of handymen for your party. I could drop off a carpenter, an electrician, a painter, and a plumber at your house and pick them up an hour later.

Now we're talking.

Honestly, between a handyman and a baby, every woman I know would take the handyman.

And we're all mothers.

In fact, between a handyman and a male stripper, every woman I know would take the handyman.

That's why I think it's so funny when male strippers dress up like handymen.

They think we're fantasizing about sex.

We're really fantasizing about a new bookshelf.

And a house where everything that's broken gets fixed.

Even the dogs.

 

Rings of Love

Francesca

Last weekend, I got to be a bridesmaid in my best friend's wedding, and I loved every minute of it.

I was so excited to be included, all summer I had to stop myself from calling it “our wedding.” I loved seeing her try on gowns, I loved the bachelorette party, I loved the bridal shower.

I even loved my bridesmaid dress.

I'm a really good friend.

I did everything except diet with her.

I'm not
that
good a friend.

The wedding weekend itself was full of spectacular events, ramping up in order of magnificence. And when the big day arrived, it was more beautiful than anything I could've imagined.

And I didn't mess up! I gave a heartfelt, if inebriated, speech at the rehearsal dinner. I did not trip and fall when we processed down the aisle.

I did accidentally sit on her veil when we were getting ready, but nobody saw.

All told, she got hitched without a hitch.

At the reception, I gave the bride space to spend time with her guests and enjoy the few breathers alone with her groom. With the pre-wedding events, especially the epic bridal party primping session that had begun at 10
A.M.
, I'd gotten a lot of girl-time with her.

So I scanned the dance floor looking for other friends to boogie with, and I spotted my best guy friend from childhood.

We've always had each other's backs on the dance floor, whether I was making sure he had someone to slow-dance with in seventh grade, or when he rescued me from going to the senior prom alone after my boyfriend dumped me a week before.

He's not a friend, he's a brother.

As we broke it down to Beyoncé, same as we had back when she was in Destiny's Child, it struck me how surreal it was that we found ourselves together that night.

In a twist of fate, he was invited because his fiancée is the bride's best friend from childhood, and we introduced them.

Not only that, this very wedding might not have happened if we hadn't introduced them, because his fiancée was returning the matchmaking favor when she introduced the bride to the groom!

We're better than Tinder.

I shouted to him over the music, “Do you realize, we've been friends eighteen years?”

“Since sixth grade, baby!”

“And in three weeks, we'll be dancing at your wedding!”

“I know, it's crazy.”

But maybe it isn't that crazy. Maybe this is how it's supposed to work.

One good heart tossed into the world ripples out to embrace other good-hearted people.

Love multiplies.

And each outer ring protects the inner ones.

I didn't see that before. Amidst all my excitement about my best friend's wedding, I had a little apprehension, too. Not that I'd lose her—we studied abroad in college together, which ensures lifelong friendship, by blackmail at the very least—but apprehension that things might change.

Come to think of it, I had the same apprehension when my guy friend and I graduated high school and left for college six hundred miles apart.

And yet, here we are, friends old and new, tighter than ever.

Change can be a good thing, despite the bad press it gets, and even close friendships have room to grow outward. It'd be too hard for one person to gather enough people to love all on their own. It's a group effort. And the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

At the end of the night, all the guests lined up on either side of the long entrance hall for the grand send-off of the bride and groom. We cheered and snapped pictures and shook tambourines as the newlyweds scampered down the aisle, laughing and waving on their way to their getaway car.

I blew them a kiss that I'm not sure they saw. But that twinge of melancholy at seeing my best friend wave good-bye and disappear into the limo lasted only a moment.

Yes, she's about to embark on a new phase of her life. And yes, my role in her life may change. But as time goes on and our hearts grow more rings, we don't have to leave anyone behind. We can hold on to each other, and collect new hearts to hold, from this day forward, as long as we all shall live.

 

Thanks for Asking!

Lisa

I feel so loved.

By corporate entities.

It begins Saturday night after I come home from having gone to a movie with my Bestie Franca. I open my computer and there's an email from Fandango:

“Lisa, did you enjoy
Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation
?”

Aw, how nice of you to ask, Fandango!

The email also asked, “How many stars would you give the movie? Do you want to rate it?”

I didn't rate it, but I give it five stars. Tom Cruise is at his Tom Cruisiest, this time with a strong female heroine.

Who should be me, but isn't.

Never mind that I can't shoot a gun, drive a motorcycle, or wear liquid eyeliner.

Then I got another email, this time from Trip Advisor, an app that Francesca and I used on our book tour:

“Lisa, how did you enjoy Mystic, Connecticut? Do you want to post a comment?”

Well, I did like Mystic, Connecticut, but I hadn't known Trip Advisor cared so much. And I didn't want to post a comment because I didn't feel as excited about Mystic, Connecticut, as I did about
Mission Impossible: Rogue Nation
.

And really, who has the time to post a comment? I had to get back to answering my email from all the other companies that were totally in love with me.

I had an email from Yelp, an app that Francesca and I had used to find a restaurant on tour:

“Lisa, did you enjoy your meal at Elvira's Pancake House?”

Yes, and thank you for reminding me that I cheated on my diet. My jeans are telling me the same thing, so you two might be in cahoots.

Later I got an email from Amazon because I had recently bought research books online:

“Lisa, did you enjoy
The Serial Killer Files
?”

Frankly, I enjoyed
The Serial Killer Files
as much as you can enjoy a book about serial killers, but it's my job to read the occasional book about serial killers, so I'm not complaining.

Thanks for asking, Amazon!

You may remember the good old days, when you came home and somebody asked you, “How was your day?”

And in response, you answered by telling them about your day, though you did not rate it, assign it one-to-five stars, or post a comment online.

I seem to recall this is called conversation.

It usually occurs face-to-face over a dinner table, but it also occurs on the telephone, in which case it takes much longer and usually devolves into a conversation about dogs, carbohydrates, or back pain.

So it's not really the worst thing in the world that corporate entities ask us the same question.

I think of them like our corporate friends and family.

And like our friends and family, they often ask us to help. They want us to recommend restaurants, movies, or books, so that more people will use their website, and they can make a living.

I don't begrudge them that. Because I love them back.

However, I have learned to be wary of online reviews, because people tend to be harsh, especially in book reviews. You could write the Bible, and there would still be people who post:

“I give it one star. Not enough action.”

Or, “I give it one star. Too much action.”

I don't rely on online movie reviews either, because they can be quirky. I've loved movies that got a low rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and I've hated movies that got high ratings. Once, Bestie Franca and I walked out of a movie that had gotten a 98 percent rating. We got so bored waiting for something to happen that we made something happen.

We left.

I don't post reviews of anything I don't like, and I review only things I like. The same is true when I review a book for a newspaper. I always remember that there's an actual human being at the receiving end. I follow that old-school motto, If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all.

However, my beloved Mother Mary followed Dorothy Parker's motto, which was, “If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me.”

So we differ.

Why am I the way I am?

Because life is too short.

And at the end, I wonder if we'll all get one last email:

“Lisa, how did you enjoy your life?”

 

Looking at My Garden

Lisa

This is the time of year that gardeners hate.

Or at least, this gardener.

It's mid-October, and the leaves on the trees are turning gorgeous reds, oranges, and yellow.

Unfortunately, my garden is turning brown and black, and I scan it sadly.

The bee balm has dried into black pom-poms, like a cluster of punctuation marks.

The day lilies that used to be a vibrant yellow have closed their leaves like a bankrupt business.

The groundcover is the same color as the ground.

The milkweed has morphed into weird pods that remind me of a science-fiction movie.

The rosebushes have succumbed to the Japanese beetles who ate their leaves, making them as fragile as my ex's ego.

God knows where that thought came from.

An ex-husband is the gift that keeps on giving, and every woman should have at least one.