Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim (11 page)

Let that be a warning, laptops.

Anyway, I’m about to plug the detector into a power strip when Francesca notices a little door on the back. “Look,” she says, pointing. “It has a place to put in a battery, for backup.”

I think,
So what?
I’ve never put in a backup battery in my life. I have plenty of appliances, from alarm clocks to coffeemakers, and they all have little doors for backup batteries, but I don’t bother. People who love shortcuts scoff at backup batteries. And when I look at the little door on the detector, I notice that it requires a screwdriver to open.

I say, “Let’s just plug it in. It’s too much trouble to get the screwdriver.”

“But what if it falls out of the surge protector? Doesn’t that mean it won’t work?”

I think,
Well, yes. Technically.

Francesca shrugs. “It probably doesn’t matter. Let’s just plug it in.”

But I look at her big blue eyes, and I love her more than shortcuts.

At least this particular shortcut.

“I’ll go get the screwdriver,” I tell her.

Doggie Universe

By Lisa

You would think that if you live alone, you get to be the boss.

As in, you’re not the boss of me.

Because now that it’s only me, I should be the boss of me.

In fact, I’m self-employed, so I am, literally, my own boss. But that’s just literally, or maybe for tax purposes, but not in real life. In real life, my dogs are the boss of me.

And my cats are my slavemasters.

I realized this a moment ago, when I was working on my laptop, with two dogs sleeping on either side, Peach and Little Tony, each with its head on my lap. I like to work with the TV on, and some horrible show came on, but I couldn’t reach the remote to change the channel without waking up Little Tony. And he’s cranky when he wakes up. In fact, he growls if you move him once he’s asleep.

He’s not a morning dog.

So I let sleeping dogs lie, and it became the moment when I realized that I wasn’t the boss of me. The only way it could have been clearer was if the show on TV was
Who’s the Boss?

Answer: Little Tony Danza.

Something similar had happened the night before, during which I slept with three dogs. Why three? Because two slept on the floor.

Even
they
didn’t want to sleep with three dogs.

Normally I sleep with Peach and Little Tony, and they flank me at night, one on my left side and one on my right, their positions as established as seats at a family dinner table. We arrived at this arrangement because they’re jealous of each other, and they fight at night.

Over me.

Yes, I still got it.

Peace is maintained if one dog sleeps on either side, with me in the middle, like a postmenopausal Switzerland.

But I’m dog-sitting for Daughter Francesca’s Cavalier, named Pip, and it put us over the top. Who knew that Pip would be the tipping point?

Or the Pipping point?

We all went to bed last night, and Peach and Little Tony settled into their customary positions. Evidently this left Pip feeling as if he had nowhere to sleep, so he spent the night walking around the bed, trying to cuddle with my head, then moving down by my feet, then circling up to my head again, orbiting me until dawn. Of course, that created a disturbance in the canine solar system, roughly akin to the introduction of a new planet.

Not only do the dogs take over, so does Mimi.

Do you want to tell Jupiter to move over?

I don’t.

Especially not if Jupiter growls.

So Peach and Little Tony went into their own new orbits, and everybody circled me all night long, trying and rejecting their different sleeping spots, hoping to reconfigure their canine galaxy.

I was at the center, like a cranky sun.

Just because I’m postmenopausal doesn’t mean I’m postcranky.

I’m still a woman.

I think.

Anyway, I started to worry that all of this intergalactic travel would mean that Peach would need to go to the bathroom, which created its own problem. I was too tired to get up and take her out, but not tired enough to go back to sleep and just forget about it. In fact, I have been known to wake up at night and
not
go to the bathroom because I didn’t want to wake Peach, because then I’d have to take her out.

In other words, Peach’s bladder trumps mine.

And isn’t that the way, with pets?

And owners like me?

I’m not a boss, I’m a people-pleaser.

And now I’m a pet-pleaser.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Unspecial Delivery

By Francesca

I recently moved to a new apartment, so now I get to start the happy business of furnishing it. Already, this is an easier process than it was in my old place. In my last apartment, the “living room” was like a bowling alley but not as long. It was so narrow, the heat from the TV screen could warm you on the couch—like a crackling fire with commercial breaks.

Although it was fun to realize my childhood fantasy of living like
The Boxcar Children,
it was an inconvenient layout for home furnishing. Thankfully, my new apartment has a more sensible layout and is sized for adult humans, so I’ve been saving up to get the coffee table of my dreams.

I found one I loved, but it was at the top of my price range. I needed a bargain, or better, I wanted a
steal.
So I staked out the company website, waiting for a sale. Every plan needs a man on the inside, so I went to the store a few times to befriend a salesperson—code name: Brendan, real name: also Brendan.

After months of lying in wait, a sale popped up.

I was on the phone with my boy that very day. I had just recited my credit-card number into the phone when Brendan said, “Now, as far as shipping, we recommend white-glove delivery with this item.”

I asked how much that cost.

He told me and I almost dropped the phone.

I assured him “standard” was fine.

“Just to be clear, standard delivery means curbside.”

Curbside? Even Domino’s will bring the pizza to your door.

I live in New York City; anything left curbside will be either stolen or peed on by about fifty passing dogs and several humans.

“For ninety-nine dollars more, we also have the ‘Room of Choice’ delivery option.”

I live in a tiny apartment, there’s really only one room to choose.

And for ninety-nine dollars, they
still
won’t open the package for me?

Brendan, I thought we were friends.

“The nice thing about white-glove delivery is that they’ll make sure the item is not damaged in any way.”

I said I assumed if the table came damaged, that wouldn’t be my problem.

“But in that case, we can’t know whether the item arrived damaged or if you damaged it.”

Presuming the buyer is lying at all times—customer service for the new economy.

He continued, “With white-glove service, they’ll unpack it, inspect it, assemble it, and clean up the mess.” He proceeded to go into a lengthy explanation of how the glass is delivered in a wooden crate that’s hard to dispose of, etc., etc.

I interrupted that, while I appreciate the heads-up, I don’t need to pay someone to take out the trash.

“It’s not just that. The glass top weighs about 150 pounds,” he said. “It’s difficult even for me. There’s no way a woman could lift it.”

I wondered if he could hear my jaw set.

I don’t like to be told I can’t do something. I get that from Mother Mary.

And I’m not some dainty little lady. I work out lifting weights. I can squat over 100 lbs. Admittedly, that requires me getting the thing across my back. Here, we’re talking about a large, round, unwieldy piece of glass, and with Pip as my only spotter, it didn’t sound like a wise move.

But the cost of white-glove delivery would cancel out any discount earned during the sale. I smelled a conspiracy.

But people who believe in conspiracies aren’t taken seriously, so I couldn’t say that. Instead, I thought of the one person who’s always taken seriously.

Mom.

WWMD?

So in my best Mean Mommy tone, I told him I was “very disappointed” in these options and I would have to think about it.

Then I didn’t call what’shisname back for two whole days.

On the third day, he called me saying they could add on an employee “Friends and Family” discount to my sale price.

They only want you when they can’t have you.

Salesmen are still men.

We had a deal! Two weeks later, my long-awaited table was set to arrive. I could finally stop drinking my coffee out of an adult-size sippy cup.

I don’t know what I expected “white-glove” deliverymen to look like, but the two cranky, schlubby guys frowning at me from my doorway were not it.

Is there some rule that deliverymen must be paired in the style of Mutt and Jeff? There’s always a short, squat one and a tall, reedy one. Ironic in a profession that requires carrying things at more or less the same height.

And there’s only ever one who does the talking, while the other stands mute. I’m always suspicious that the talker is keeping the tips to himself.

The two rushed in with the
cardboard
box (wooden crate, my foot) and assembled the table so quickly you’d think they were contestants on
Minute to Win It.

They were almost out the door when I realized the table’s asymmetrical legs did not match the picture on the instructions, and I called them back.

Jeff said they had built it correctly, the instructions were wrong.

Mutt blinked in agreement.

I wasn’t buying it.

Well, technically I’d already bought it, but I wasn’t happy. So we went back and forth about it, and in the end, Jeff won, because I couldn’t figure out how to make it match the diagram either. I had to let them go.

After they left, I got the bright idea to make a paper-doll version of all the table’s parts so I could experiment with the assembly.

So there I was, sitting on the floor with my arts and crafts project, rapidly cutting and folding like some master of origami, when—
Eureka!
In making my model, I had identified the mistake and knew how to fix it.

Guy Fieri, where’s my million dollars?

With no time to lose, I bolted from my apartment, burst on to the street, and ran down the delivery truck just as it was rounding the corner. When the truck stopped to see what this madwoman was doing, I actually leapt up to the driver’s side and stuck my head in the window.

“You have to come back,” I panted. “I figured it out.”

“We have other deliveries to make, and you already signed for it—”

If they didn’t think I was crazy already, they knew for sure when I exploded with, “THIS IS WHITE-GLOVE DELIVERY!”

And back they came. I showed them my paper-crane model, and they begrudgingly reassembled it. I thanked them, they grunted and left.

When Brendan called to check how my delivery had gone, I told him the whole story. He seemed genuinely frustrated for me, which made us friends again.

“You’re sure it’s right now?” he asked.

I said yes.

“If there’s any other problem, call me. I’ll come to your apartment and fix it myself.”

Now that’s customer service.

There Was a Little Girl, Who Had a Little Curl

By Lisa

I thought the days were over when I worried about my grades, but I’ve been checking the mail with college-acceptance levels of anticipation.

Let me explain.

A few years ago, I went to my great cardiologist for a checkup, and he did a blood test that showed my cholesterol was 258, which was high. Oddly, this was about the same as my math SAT score, which was lower than low. In fact, it was downright embarrassing and maybe half my brain is missing.

The cardiologist explained that cholesterol is composed of bad cholesterol, or LDL, and good cholesterol, or HDL. I remember which is which by thinking that the L stands for lousy and the H stands for you can buy green bananas.

Also I had something called triglycerides, but I didn’t know what they were, only that I had 67 of them. I don’t know how many biglycerides I had.

2?

So okay, in the olden days, my LDL was 149, which earned me a bold-faced
HIGH
on the results, though my HDL was also
HIGH
, at 96. Basically I had a whole lot of bad and a whole lot of good in me.

So when I’m good, I’m very, very good.

And when I’m bad, I divorce somebody.

You probably know what cholesterol is, but I read on the Internet that it’s a waxy gook that creates plaque on the wall of your arteries. I always thought that a plaque on your wall was a good thing, but no.

Apparently, something had to be done about my cholesterol, and it didn’t help that I had gained a little weight.

I was cholesteroly-poly.

So the cardiologist told me to exercise and put me on Crestor, and in no time, my grades improved. My cholesterol dropped to 164, and my LDL to 66, even though my HDL stayed
HIGH
at 88, but that was all good. I became an honors student, even though it took drugs, but that’s okay. Half of the student population is on drugs, and at least mine were advertised on TV, albeit by men with gray hair.