I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places (12 page)

Plus the garden colors are so gorgeous, with pink primrose, yellow coreopsis, and purple delphinium. And stainless steel is, well, gray.

Like my roots.

I investigated the cost of renovating the kitchen, and while it wasn't massive, it was a chunk of change that left me wondering, can you spend that money on a kitchen, when you're turning sixty?

Shouldn't I be saving it for retirement?

Or at the very least, a walker?

Do people my age renovate their houses? Will we live long enough to see the renovation? Are we still even buying green bananas anymore?

And I'm just one person, so shouldn't I be thinking about downsizing rather than upsizing?

Unfortunately, the only way my sizes ever seem to go is up.

Not only that, but I started to wonder if I should just be happy with what I have. I already love my house. I've painted it red, orange, yellow, green, and blue. You see I have a thing for color. It's like living in a paintball war.

Plus I just added a sunroom that I love and use as an office. I renovated the sunroom in my fifties, but is sixty the cutoff?

It made me think of the larger question, which is, if renovation is growing, do we ever stop growing? Does the garden? Or the weeds?

Evidently not.

Writing a book is the same way. You can always edit it to make it more like what you want it to be, or what you have in mind, its best version of itself.

So you see where this is going, and now I do, too.

If a book and a garden can always be improved, then so can the kitchen.

And so can I.

No matter how old I am, I'm going to keep trying to grow and improve, into some final edited version of myself, full of color and fun, until I have to type The End.

I want to be a page-turner of a person.

Or a garden so great that you can ignore the weeds.

And then I can die.

So I just decided I'm giving myself a kitchen renovation as a gift for my sixtieth birthday.

I want to be closer to my daisies.

Until I'm pushing them up.

 

Topping the Leader Board

Lisa

Mama's got a brand-new bag.

As in golf.

Fore!

Watch out, friends!

Stay off the course. Also any adjoining roads in the tri-state area.

When did this insanity start?

After my last birthday when I realized that procrastination is a luxury I no longer have.

And for the past few years, I noticed that when a golf tournament came on TV, I left it on. Not that I actually sat and watched it, but I had it on while I worked, like suburban background noise.

And every time I looked at the TV, the screen showed pretty green grass. The only way to improve it would be to add perennials.

I wonder how many golfers are also gardeners.

Or as I prefer to call us, weeders.

Maybe people golf to escape weeding?

My plan, exactly.

Plus I liked golf on TV because of the whispering voices of the commentators and the polite clapping of the spectators, punctuated by the occasional thwack of the ball.

It all seemed so relaxing, for an alleged sport.

There was no running around, or even exertion in general.

I work up more of a sweat at the mall.

Where I
walk
from store to store.

Shopping is cardio for women.

Just kidding.

I know that women play golf, but I can never find a women's golf tournament on TV.

There's a surprise.

Plus, the golf on TV shows lots of good-looking men.

Hey, I'm not dead.

And all the men in golf tournaments are dressed so nice.

How often does that happen in reaI life?

Not at the mall, am I right, ladies?

Women dress up for the mall.

God knows why.

We go to the mall because we have nothing to wear, but we have to find something to wear to the mall.

Ironic.

Anyway, to stay on point, men don't bother to dress up for the mall. They just find a chair and flop. If they're dressed up, they must have a funeral after.

Or a wedding.

Or a golf tournament.

Anyway I mentioned my interest in golf to my best friend Laura, and lo and behold, for my birthday, she surprised me with a set of golf clubs!

Wow!

They were women's clubs, a pretty blue with little rhinestones on the bottom, which actually appealed to me.

Diamonds are a golfer's best friend!

And the tag on the golf bag said these clubs had “increased distance, accuracy, and ultimate forgiveness.”

Who doesn't need ultimate forgiveness?

These are golf clubs for people with feelings!

Girls!

Also, the clubs have socks that match.

So they're better dressed than I am.

I unwrapped the clubs like the rookie I am, introducing myself to the mysteries of my new hobby.

For example, all golf clubs have numbers.

Who knew?

Unfortunately, there was no number 1, 2, 3, or 4 club in my new bag.

My set might be defective.

And one club had an S on it.

For Scottoline!

Another club had a special sock that read DIVINE.

So clearly, somebody has an attitude problem.

Obviously there's a lot I don't know about golf, so I bought a few golf books, then I went online and emailed a bunch of local public and private courses for lessons.

A few of the private places said I had to be sponsored by people to join a club, but I don't know any sponsors, or how much it costs for a membership, or which club has the best-dressed men.

Heh-heh.

But one club said I didn't have to know anybody to take lessons, so I signed up and I'm in!

I have to fit them in on a weekly basis, with my busy schedule of weeding, bicycling, and riding Buddy The Pony. Oh yes, and writing three books a year.

This must be why people retire.

Because earning a living gets in the way of living.

So my life at sixty will be divided into fore and after.

I start my golf lessons after I come back from tour for our book,
Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?

I may even have a title for the next one.

DOES THIS GOLF COURSE MAKE ME LOOK FAT?

 

Upgrading the Macaroni Necklace

Francesca

When it comes to giving a gift to your mother, kids get a pass for a long time. But when your mother has a milestone birthday like sixty, a macaroni necklace will not do.

It was time for me to get my mother a grown-up gift.

This is not to say that I haven't gotten her nice things in the past, but this year I wanted it to be really special. Maybe because I know that my mom is single, I wanted to get her a gift as nice as a husband would get.

Not one of her husbands—a really good husband.

I got in my head that it had to be jewelry.

I'd never bought a piece of fine jewelry before. First, I studied. For months leading up to her birthday, every moment of procrastination was spent searching the websites of jewelers and department stores for every item within my budget.

Since I couldn't afford ninety percent of their inventory, this took less time than you might think.

After obsessively zeroing in on a few favorite options, I decided to make a trip to Cartier. Embarrassingly, I'd dressed up for the occasion. I wore a shirtdress that I thought said, “I use ‘summer' as a verb.”

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Then I took the subway there, because real rich people are cheap.

I arrived at the flagship store on Fifth Avenue. The storefront's heavy, rotating door expelled the dirty city air from entering its pristine interior with a satisfied sigh.

Luxury, vacuum-sealed.

As soon as my feet sank into the cream-colored carpet, I felt self-conscious. Maybe it was just the tiny spotlights dotting the ceiling. I suppose they're meant to make the diamonds sparkle, but it felt like high-end interrogation lights.

Also, there were almost no other customers in the store, so I felt the hopeful eye beams of every sales associate appraising me and their possible commission from behind the glass countertops.

I couldn't make the first move. Thankfully a saleswoman with perfectly lined red lips stepped forward.

She asked if I'd like anything to drink, because the world of Cartier eliminates minor suffering like thirst. “Water, coffee, champagne?”

I said water and immediately regretted it. I should've gone for the booze.

Always go for the booze.

But I didn't feel like I was going to spend enough to earn it. I was surprised they offered me anything. Free liquor? How gracious and generous of them!

I didn't connect that, considering my intended purchase, I had just refused the most expensive glass of free champagne in the world.

Then she asked me if I had a budget in mind. I told her my budget, my voice apologetic.

You know you're a people-pleaser when you feel guilty for giving someone your business.

A true professional, she didn't blink and pleasantly showed me around.

I had three items in contention, which I had reviewed so many times on the website, I could've recited the model number.

But I wanted to seem cool and casual, like I impulse-buy jewelry all the time. So I played dumb and let her explain each piece to me.

“Piece” is how you refer to jewelry if you have a lot of it.

Also, I love spiels. If I'm going to spend this much on a gift, the least they can give me is a good story to tell.

She talked to me about the materials used, the origin of the design, and all available variations. The one detail they don't include is price, unless you ask.

I couldn't afford to be cool. I asked.

It's good I went into the store with a clear and firm budget in my mind, because the consumerist thrill is a real thing. There's a magpie effect when you're looking at those shiny objects; you get hypnotized. Plus the saleswoman got me chatting about my mom and our relationship, which got me thinking about love instead of money.

Can you put a price on Mom?

My bank account can.

I settled on a necklace.

“I'll take it.”

The saleswoman beckoned me to a private booth where I sat across a desk from her. I was offered water and candies on a silver tray. I held out my credit card, which she quickly put out of sight somewhere under the desk, so I couldn't suffer the obscenity of seeing her swipe it. We chatted, and she printed out the receipt, an eight-by-ten piece of paper for me to sign with a fountain pen.

My undergraduate thesis wasn't printed on such fine stock.

Again, at no point does anyone say the price aloud. It's too crass.

Then, a new sales associate appeared at my side to present a freshly boxed version of the necklace for my inspection. The item looked perfect, but the box had a small ding in the corner. I touched the dent lightly and frowned.

“We'll find you a new box,” the saleswoman said, shooting her colleague a pointed look. He swept away.

I smiled politely, now fluent in their nonverbal language of luxury. She nodded in apology.

They had created a monster.

After I'd approved the new box, we went through the inspection process again after it had been elaborately wrapped in white origami paper and sealed with an actual red-wax stamp. I was impressed. Finally, my gift was placed in its little red bag. I reached for it.

“One more thing.” She pulled out a white cardboard bag and put the red bag inside it. The white bag even had a flap over the top to hide it entirely from view.

“Is that a decoy bag so I don't get robbed on the way home?” I joked. Well, half-joked.

She looked at me aghast. Crime, like tap water and curling receipts, do not exist in the world of Cartier. “Oh no, the forecast said it may rain today. This is to protect your bag.”

A bag to protect my bag. Of course! I can't present my gift in some rumpled bag. They think of everything.

When I left, the streets looked dirtier than I remembered. Descending to the deepest depths of the M train, I clutched my bag-in-a-bag to my chest like it contained the Hope diamond.

But inside, I was giddy with excitement. You would have thought I had bought my mom a house, I was so happy.

Spending money is so fun!

But of course it wasn't that. It was the feeling of accomplishment when you have achieved a degree of independence and success that allows you to give back to the person who got you there. To indulge the person who sacrificed for you. To repay a debt, or start to.

It was the joy of showing someone that you can take care of them.

I've never been so excited about a present in my life.

When I gave it to my mom, she cried.

And the next day she looked up the price and yelled at me.

 

The Amazing Disappearing Middle-Aged Woman

Lisa