Best Friends, Occasional Enemies: The Lighter Side of Life as a Mother and Daughter (Reading Group Gold) (15 page)

So maybe that, I’ll use.

Or eat out of the jar.

But I’ve never used any of the spices in the rack, and the test tubes don’t say when they expire, so the bottom line is, the French tarragon should have stayed in Paris. It was a waste, even though it cost nothing.

Paradoxical, no?

The spice rack taught me that even though something is free, I might not want it. I don’t need it. I’m not going to use it. If I had really wanted the spice rack, I would have bought it, and the fact that I didn’t means I shouldn’t have it in my house.

Even free.

That was my life lesson.

Let me interject to say that the problem may be endemic to spices. Even before the test-tube spice rack, I’d been known to buy spices that I’d never use. Mainly because I want to be the kind of person who cooks with green curry, I’d buy some and throw it out when it became a solid block of greenness. I’d make this same mistake around the holidays, when I’d pick up fresh jars of allspice, ground cloves, and cinnamon, which is the kind of thing I imagine the Cake Boss tosses into his shopping cart. But I never use it, and I’m no Cake Boss.

Cake is the boss of me.

Come to think of it, the real problem may be that I’m a stinky cook, as I barely use any spices at all, and in this regard, I’m my mother’s daughter. There was no spice rack in our house growing up, and only four spices: dried oregano, garlic salt, onion salt, and salt.

Mother Mary cooked Italian, and salt.

We didn’t even have pepper, because Mother Mary is enough pepper for anybody.

And to this day, when she visits me and makes meatballs or tomato sauce, we first make a trip to the grocery store to buy her salts, with their preservatives included, the faker the better.

And you know what?

Her food tastes delicious.

And I feel rewarded.

Almost free.

Can’t Start A Fire Without A …

By Lisa

You may have heard that I’m single, and I like being single, because after two marriages and two divorces, I’m finally the boss of me.

What a great boss I am!

And what a great employee!

In both capacities, I’m easy and fun to work with. I never dock my pay and I always do my best. I give myself great performance reviews, and now I’m thinking about eliminating performance reviews altogether. Who’s to stop me?

Nobody!

Yay!

And going along my merry single way, I’ve learned to do many of the tasks that Thing One and Thing Two used to do.

There weren’t that many.

And to tell the truth, there was something that both Thing One and Thing Two could do very well.

Make a fire.

Whether it was in the fireplace or the grill, they were good at fire.

I’m not.

I try not to think that this is gender-related, but men have made fire since caveman days, while women stayed inside, swept the cave, and plotted divorce.

Anyway, since I’ve gotten single, I’ve cleaned gutters, taken out trash, painted walls and windowsills, and even hammered something.

I’m pretty sure I did that, once.

Or, again, to tell the truth, I’ve hired somebody to do all of the above. So I have all the same things I had before, except the fire part, which I have done without, to date.

But now, ages later, I’m missing fire.

Not the barbecue. I’m single enough without smelling like lighter fluid.

But I do miss a fire in the fireplace. I liked having a homey family hearth, even though I’m a family of one.

I count!

That’s the trick to single living. Don’t do less for yourself just because you’re the only one around. Don’t discount yourself. It’s no way to live, with the idea that your wishes don’t matter.

And this is true, whether you’re married or not.

I think it happens a lot around the holidays. We go on discount, selling ourselves cheap, like a January white sale. It might happen because we do Norman Rockwell math, namely that ten people around the table = family.

But family can be you, alone.

After all, this is a country founded on the notion that one person matters. Think of one man, one vote. If you matter on Election Day, you matter the rest of the year. So make yourself a nice lasagna and pour yourself a glass of Chianti.

You get the leftovers, too.

Back to the story. I was missing a fire in the fireplace, but I’d never done it myself and I found it mystifying. Again, the caveman thing. Ooga booga. Fire is magic!

But I decided to give it a whirl. I remembered something about kindling, so I went outside and picked up sticks, then I remembered something about rolled up newspapers, so I did that, too. Next, I found some old logs and stacked them up in some sensible manner. And thanks to Bruce Springsteen, I knew I needed a spark.

Then I lit the mess.

Well.

You know the expression, where there’s smoke, there’s fire?

It’s not true.

I had smoke, but no fire. And furthermore, I had a family room full of thick gray clouds, smoke alarms blaring, dogs barking, cats scooting, then phones ringing, and burglar alarm people calling, which ended in me giving them my password.

Which is HELP!

I called Daughter Francesca and told her what happened, and she said: “I’ll be home next week. I’ll teach you how to make a fire. It can be done, and by a girl.”

And one week later, she came home, piled the kindling, rolled the newspaper, stacked the logs, and made a perfect fire. The cats, dogs, and I stood in an awed and happy circle.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“You gotta warm the chimney first. Hold the roll of newspaper up, like this.” Francesca hoisted a flaming torch of newspaper, like the Statue of Liberty. “See? You can do this.”

“Sure I can,” I said, inspired.

I count!

I vote!

I’m American!

So I can be the Statue of Liberty.

She’s a girl, too.

Cold Comfort

By Francesca

It’s cold in my apartment.

No seriously, it’s really cold, way colder than whatever you just imagined.

Let me paint a picture. While I’m writing this, I’m bundled in three layers on top, a blanket on my lap, a hat, scarf, and fingerless gloves. I’m warming my hands by the glow of my laptop, like some sort of yuppie hobo.

Carrie didn’t look like this on
Sex and the City.

Why is it so hard to heat 400 square feet?

First off, the building’s radiant heat doesn’t kick in until the afternoon. I would complain about this, but I am so extraordinarily lucky to work at home every day, I accept the tradeoffs:

Cold mornings, and I can’t steal toilet paper from myself. Sacrifices.

Also, my apartment is as drafty as a barn. Why? Well, all the windows in my “newly renovated apartment” have sunk in their frames, so that a tiny sliver at the top opens directly out to the air, even when the window is shut. I used my Can-Do attitude to assess the problem. I figured out that, to fix it, I’d have to push the top window all the way up and somehow hold it there with a one-handed Spidey-suction grip, then with my other hand, press the bottom windowpane back down, and finally turn the lock to hold everything in place.

Easy, right?

But the window is very tall, so I had to stand in the windowsill. I was pushing up on the top with my nose pressed against the icy-cold glass, when I looked out and down to the alley six stories below. It occurred to me that the only thing between me and those ant-sized pigeons was an already-malfunctioning window.

Can-Do attitudes go right out the window when you realize you Can-Die.

So now I pull the shades all the way up and embrace denial.

But I can’t blame it all on the building, I’m partially responsible for the chill in the air. How?

I’m cheap.

I could get a space heater, but do you know how much energy that sucks up? I’d like to say I’m opposed on behalf of the environment, but I’m mainly an advocate for the environment of my bank account.

Numbers are dwindling. Extinction is a constant fear.

Did I say cheap? I meant I’m a conservationist.

Money is green, isn’t it?

So I had an epiphany—put on another layer. Genius!

But I’d heard it somewhere before.

Oh right, Mom.

This fight was an old favorite when I was a kid. I used to always complain that it was too cold in the house.

I’d come downstairs for breakfast in my pajama pants and a T-shirt and announce, “It’s freezing in here!”

“You’re barefoot. It’s too cold for bare feet,” my mom would say.

“But I hate socks.” I do, especially sleeping in them. They always come half-off in the middle of the night, and why? What kind of inferior clothing item falls off of you when you’re lying still? Anyway, “Can’t we just turn up the heat?”

“No. You aren’t dressed warmly enough. It’s winter.”

“Outside, it’s winter. Inside, it’s home. Home is supposed to be comfy.”

“I am comfy, wearing this sweater. Go upstairs and get one. And put on socks.”

I’d pretend to cooperate, but later, I’d tiptoe over to the thermostat in my newly be-socked feet and try to kick it up a few degrees. But I never got away with it. My mom is positively reptilian in her sensitivity to heat, and within minutes she had it back down.

Why did I think I could fool the woman who has accurately guessed my temperature on every sick day since I was four years old?

If I accused her of stinginess, and I probably did, she’d tell me it wasn’t about the money:

“You adapt to the world, the world does not adapt to you.”

Well, it took me twenty-four years, but I finally got it.

So look Ma, more layers!

But she isn’t here to see. That’s the thing about moving out—your parents aren’t around to enjoy the fruits of their nagging, and you don’t get that hug or approving smile for a job well done. You have to be warmed by the knowledge of a lesson learned.

Cold comfort.

Lunatic

By Lisa

Great news! There’s a new line of “toning” sportswear that loses weight for you. All you have to do is put it on. So go get some ice cream and make yourself a milkshake. Let’s lose some weight!

Count me excited.

I knew this would happen, someday. It proves that America is the greatest country on Earth, making genuine scientific advances, one after the other.

Excuse me. Pass the chocolate cake.

If we can put a man on the moon, I knew it wouldn’t be long until we did something that really mattered.

Because who wants men on the moon?

That’s lunacy.

If you ask me, we need all the men we can get, down here. For a long time now, I’ve been noticing a general scarcity of men on the planet. Or at least in the tri-state area. Or perhaps only in my vicinity.

Or my house.

If not for the UPS guy, I’d never see leg hair.

I mean, somebody else’s.

Thank God we’ve stopped sending men to the moon and we’re now inventing clothes that lose weight for you.

Obviously, we do care about weightlessness. Only on Earth. Near our hips.

USA! USA! USA!

If you remember, it started a while ago, with the shoes that exercise your legs and butt for you. Maybe you read about them. They look like double-decker sneakers with extra padding in the heels, which is the special secret invention for weight loss. I got a pair when they came out and put them on lickety-split. Then I sat down and waited.

Wait, wait, wait.

But I lost no weight, weight, weight.

They didn’t work. They must have been defective. But I didn’t return them, because that would have involved getting out of my chair.

Sit, sit, sit.

Come to think of it, maybe these inventions began before weight-loss sneakers, as far back as weight-loss books. I bought a ton of them, then sat down and read them all, but they didn’t work either.

Still, I never give up. I’m American, and when it comes to losing weight, I’ll buy what it takes.

So now I’m pinning my hopes on clothes. If I just buy the right clothes, I feel sure I would lose weight. That’s the thing about losing weight. They tell you that all you have to do is to diet and exercise, but that’s not possible, as anybody who has tried it knows. There has to be a special secret thing you have to buy, that all the skinny/rich/Hollywood people know about. Well, to be honest, I’m not sure who else knows it, maybe the people who got the good pair of weight-loss sneakers. Or maybe everybody but me.

I used to think they’d invent a weight-loss hat. Or maybe a wand that you could wave around. A weight-loss wand.

Bibbity bobbity, butt!

But today, I read in the paper about the toning tights, tank tops, shorts, and Capri pants that make you lose weight. They’re black, which is a great start, if you ask me.

I’ll be a stick of licorice in no time!

I went to the company website and clicked on body toning gear, where they explained that the special layering of fabric in the clothes increases muscle effort by 50 percent.

See? It’s “special” fabric, that’s why it works. You’re probably wearing “normal” fabric.

Silly.

How can you expect to lose weight if you don’t buy something special?

You need special layers to get rid of your layers.

The tank is $40, the pants are $55, and the shipping is $8. So let’s do the math together. That’s about a hundred bucks, and if you have three layers of fat around your waist, like some writers we know, then that’s about thirty bucks a layer. I’d pay thirty bucks to get rid of one of my layers.

What an invention!

One online review of the clothes said that the special fabric increases “blood flow and oxygenation,” which makes your muscles work more efficiently.

See, that’s another problem. I have inefficient muscles. You might, too. But if we squeeze our slacker muscles into the special secret toning gear, we’ll lose weight, ipso fatso.

As soon as I finish my pizza, I’m going to the store to get the special clothes.

Or maybe I’ll just shop online.

Darwinian

By Lisa

I met yet another woman who’s into scrapbooking, which makes me feel guilty.