Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim (9 page)

Okay, those I can ignore.

But a fresh ep of
The Bachelor
?

Please. I’m only human. And the world’s oldest-living
Bachelorette.

Somehow the TV shows had finagled their way onto my Things To Do list and gone straight to the top, simply by virtue of being recorded. Francesca and I were up watching TV until after one in the morning, and we were sleepy the next day.

It’s all technology’s fault.

Before I got a DVR, I got plenty of ZZZs.

But now the tail is wagging the dog, Francesca, and me.

Stay tuned.

Kicking Tuches

By Francesca

On a lark, my friend and I decided to take an introductory class in Krav Maga.
Krav Maga
means “contact combat” in Hebrew, and it’s comprised of the physical training and self-defense techniques developed by the Israeli National Army. It is a no-rules, no-holds-barred style of combat intended for street fighting.

Still, I don’t think either of us was taking it too seriously. We like to work out together, so when the class was offered on an online sale site, we signed up. The morning of, we met up outside the building with our bouncy ponytails and a spring in our step, excited for our fitness adventure.

The studio was on the third floor, but taking an elevator to a fitness class seemed hypocritical, so we opted for the stairs.

By the first landing, we regretted our decision. The stairwell was dark, dirty, and industrial, lit by a crackling fluorescent light. It was as if the entrance had been designed to convince you that you need a self-defense course. You need one yesterday.

They should stage mock muggings around the corner to drum up business.

When we made it safely to the studio, our bravery was rewarded with a free T-shirt. A huge man with a very precise haircut was handing them out. I imagined they chose him for the job to deter women from asking to “see the small,” when we all know we’re a medium. Fortunately, all the sizes looked like baby clothes in his meaty paw.

“We got two colors, black or blue,” he said.

I laughed. See, that’s funny, because black-and-blue …

His stony affect indicated the pun was unintended. This guy seemed like the type for less wordplay, more gunplay.

I swallowed and took my shirt.

My friend and I sat in our matching blue T-shirts, giddy with nerves. I was surprised to see we were the only ones who hadn’t chosen black.

Perhaps “baby blue” wasn’t the best color to convey intimidation.

Excuse me for wanting to bring out my eyes during combat.

Two female instructors entered and introduced themselves. I was relieved they seemed more personable than the human-Cerberus guarding the T-shirts.

Within the first few minutes, I could tell these women were badass. They stood with their feet superhero-width apart. They said the F-word. They looked good in drawstring pants.

I was impressed.

In a quick demonstration, they morphed into Krav Maga Tasmanian Devils, a whirlwind of spinning and shouting and kneeing and grunting.

People who feel comfortable grunting in exertion fascinate me. That kind of confidence is like a superpower. Can they say, “I love you,” first? Can they also poop at work?

I was already feeling empowered.

Until they started talking.

The best and worst thing about Krav Maga is that the instructors make no bones about the objective. Krav Maga is not treated as the “practice” of an “art,” but a set of practical methods of hurting someone, or, as with this women’s self-defense class, stopping someone from raping and/or killing you. This frankness makes the information both easy to understand and completely terrifying.

The instructor began describing the scenarios and attacks that we would address in the seminar. I listened as she outlined what to do if someone is a) choking you against a wall, b) choking you while forcing you backwards, or c) pushing you forward into a car or trunk.

As she spoke, I caught sight of my face in the mirror.

I looked like I was going to pee myself.

This was not the face of Krav Maga.

But then, as she described our defensive moves such as gouging his eyes, kneeing him in the “nut sack”—a technical term—ripping back his thumb, etc., I caught myself making the same pained grimace.

Feeling sorry for your hypothetical attacker:
so
not Krav Maga.

After we had learned the basic stances and practiced some defense moves on our own, we paired up for role-playing, acting out attacks and defenses in a slower, controlled way. Thank God I had a friend with me, because fighting with a total stranger would be awkward.

Or awesome, if you asked the one instructor who cried, “This is the only time you get to choke a total stranger for fun!”

In the first go-round, I played the choker and my friend was the chokee.

Let me tell you, it’s extremely difficult to throttle someone, even pretending, and not make weird faces. I don’t know how serial killers do it.

I discovered this when, instead of breaking my grip with a shoulder swing, then jabbing me in the face with her elbow, my friend was laughing at me.

“I’m sorry, but you’re making a funny face,” she said.

“That’s my attacker face! I’m attacking you!”

“It’s just so funny.” She dissolved into giggles.

After sufficiently mocking me, she pulled herself together for another try. I approached her again, this time slowly placing my hands on her throat with a forcibly relaxed expression.

She didn’t react at all.

I dropped my hands. “What now?”

“Oh, did we start? I didn’t realize,” she said. “Because you didn’t make the face!”

We both cracked up.

Then the instructor made a general announcement, clearly pointed at us, about not talking during the exercise. It was just like high school, except this time, we obeyed.

No need to test her stance on corporal punishment.

The rest of our exercises went better: we were starting to get the hang of it, although we were the most polite sparring partners ever—“Shoot, I forgot to kick you in the balls that time, I’m sorry.” “Oh no worries, I’ll try to remind you next time. You’re doing great!”

At the end of the class, our instructors asked if we had any questions. Ever the teacher’s pet, I raised my hand.

“How do you make the judgment of when to keep fighting versus when to run away?” I asked.

She instantly began explaining my legal rights. “If you seriously injure or even kill your attacker, you are not liable because it was done in self-defense…”

Only in a city as litigious as New York would they explain the liability of fighting off a mugger.

I should’ve been flattered, but the likelihood of my destroying my assailant too thoroughly was not my concern.

“I meant, more for my own safety.”

“Oh.” I could see her mentally readjust to the average-wimp mind-set. “Then you stop fighting when the other person is no longer a threat.” She must have seen the disbelief on my face, because she then advocated a minimum of three months’ instruction in order to master the basic skills.

I was intimidated but also inspired. Most of the advice for women on how to protect themselves focuses on preventing an attack. While this information is valuable, it teeters dangerously on victim-blaming, implying that women have control over every random criminal who might want to hurt us. I liked that this instructor could look me in my scared saucer eyes, and tell me that, with time, I had the ability not only to avoid an assault, but to stop one.

As my friend and I walked home, we each felt happy we’d taken the class, despite the unfortunate side effect of eyeing every man on the street with suspicion.

We both also agreed we’d take a full course of classes.

Because the only thing scarier than learning Krav Maga?

Not learning it.

Labor Day

By Lisa

It was the summer of our discontent.

Where to begin?

An earthquake, a hurricane, and a visit from Mother Mary.

A disaster trifecta.

The perfect storm of catastrophes.

The Manny, Moe, and Jack of nightmares.

Just kidding.

She was here for two months, and now that she has gone back to Miami, I miss her. When I feel sad, I turn on
Everybody Loves Raymond,
really really REALLY LOUD.

And then I don’t miss her anymore.

She came up because a sewer main broke under her house, necessitating all manner of repair work, and I figured it would be best if she weren’t there to tell the workmen they were working too hard or they were really cute.

But we got off to a rocky start, which is to be expected, as we met only fifty-six years ago.

Here’s our problem. We both have our own way of doing things. Actually, to be accurate, we have the exact same way of doing things, but we still disagree.

This is even harder than it sounds.

Spaghetti is a case in point.

I think it should be cooked for six minutes, or
al dente.
She thinks it should be cooked for thirty minutes, or
al dentures.

That’s Italian for mushy.

She thinks my spaghetti tastes like sticks, and I think hers doesn’t taste.

Of course, we’re both adamant about our cooking times. That’s what I mean when I say we do things the same way. We’re both adamant, all the time, about everything. Adamance runs like lifeblood in Scottoline women. If I die driving off a cliff, just know I was going the right way.

So at our first spaghetti meal, Mother Mary and I strike a compromise. I cook the spaghetti for eighteen minutes, which is too soft for me and too chewy for her.

The only thing we agree on is that we both hate compromise.

The next night, I try a different take.

Lying.

If you can’t lie to you mother, who can you lie to?

So I tell her I cooked the spaghetti for thirty minutes even though I didn’t, because she can’t see the clock anyway.

Also, we disagree on whether to salt the water. I never salt it, but she always does. I think if we salt it, I’ll get high blood pressure and die. She thinks if we don’t salt it, we’ll be defying centuries of Italian culinary history, so we might as well be dead.

Either way, spaghetti is life-or-death.

If you don’t think your dinner is a medical emergency, you’re not adamant enough.

It occurs to me, at one point, that we should try and negotiate, so I tell her I’ll salt the water if she lets me cook the spaghetti for less time, but she won’t go for it, and we have gridlock that even Congress can’t match.

Because they’re not adamant enough, either.

That’s the problem with the Democrats and Republicans in Washington. They’re just too flexible. Too willing to listen to each other. To see the other side. To work together and cooperate, for the greater good.

Mother Mary has to wait for her food to cook the way she likes it.

Scottolines don’t make fundamental mistakes like that.

We show no such lapses of judgment.

Those politicians should come over to my house and take a lesson. Mother Mary and I could school those pikers. They’re adamance rookies. They might be able to shut down a government, but we can shut down a
kitchen.

Which would you miss first?

I know.

So the solution for our spaghetti war was simple, and we did it the rest of the summer. I boiled two pots of pasta, each time. One was salted and one wasn’t. One was cooked properly.

And one wasn’t.

Thus we resolved our impasse. Or our impasta.

Sorry.

Of course, most nights, the temperature in the kitchen hovered at three hundred degrees.

But that had nothing to do with boiling water.

And we never got to eat at the same time, either. I ate during the first half of
Seinfeld,
and she ate during the second half, so it worked out fine, by Scottoline standards.

You can’t have your spaghetti, and eat it, too.

I Stink, Officially

By Lisa

One of the good things that happened this summer was that I won an award, from a magazine that gives out Best of Philly awards.

I didn’t win one of those.

I won Worst of Philly.

I hate to brag, but I won for Worst Columnist.

Yay! Thanks, magazine.

I was hoping it came with a car, or maybe some money, or a book entitled How Not to Suck.

But I’m not holding my breath. It’s the thought that counts.

Why am I so happy?

I love having haters. It means I’m getting somewhere. Someone cares enough to hate me.

It used to bug me, but now I revel in it. This is the best attitude to have in my business, where you get your report cards from magazines, newspapers, and anybody with Internet access. I used to cry and worry, but now I just laugh. Unfortunately, Mother Mary doesn’t feel the same way, and she was here when I won.

It wasn’t pretty.

But it has a surprise ending.