I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places (6 page)

In other words, my lower body had been transformed into a cylinder. I had become the cardboard in the roll of toilet paper. I no longer had saddlebags where God intended.

Also the elastic waistband was giving me a do-it-yourself hysterectomy.

Plus I couldn't breathe.

Actually, that's incorrect. I could inhale, but not exhale.

Turns out you need both.

Who knew?

I didn't understand the product, so I went to the website, which explained that they were “slimming apparel.” The website claimed that “these innovative undergarments eliminate VBL (visible bra lines) and VPL (visible panty lines).”

Would this be a good time to say that I'm in favor of VBL and VPL? Especially VPL. In fact, I want my P as V as possible.

You know why?

Because I wear P.

I don't know what kind of signal we're sending if we want our butts to suggest otherwise.

Also, when I looked in the mirror, I noticed that the fat on my hips was being squeezed upward, leaving a roll at my waist that could pass for a flotation device.

I checked the website, and Spanx had the solution, in “slimming camis.” That is, camisoles that fit like Ace bandages, which presumably grabbed the fat roll at the waist and squeezed it upward, so that it popped out at the top, as breasts.

Ta-da!

Or rather, ta-tas!

So I was cranky about my Spankies.

I threw them out and wrote about how much I hated them.

At the time, some women replied by email, agreeing with me, but most disagreed, saying they loved their Spanx.

But evidently, no more.

Or maybe they died from lack of circulation.

Today I saw an article in the newspaper, reporting that Spanx sales have taken a downturn.

I don't normally rejoice in the misfortunes of others, but YAY!

And why are sales sliding?

Because women wanted to be comfortable!

Also, their spleens staged a protest.

Because you can't keep a good woman down.

Or compressed.

We got depressed.

Because we were oppressed.

Women are learning to accept themselves, just the way we are.

Go, us!

But the same newspaper article also said that women were ditching their Spanx for yoga pants, which is like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

I have a pair of yoga pants, but on me, they're yogurt pants.

And believe me, the fruit is on the bottom.

In fact, as I get older,
everything
is on the bottom.

But Spanx isn't taking this setback lying down.

Which is surprising, because if you wear Spanx, that's all you can do.

Spanx has a new president, and she's starting to stress comfort, such as bras with “soft-touch underwire contouring.”

When was the last time you saw a “soft” underwire bra?

I have an underwire bra, which feels like under-barbed-wire.

I wear it for book signings, when I want to look younger.

It rides up to the middle of my breasts, leaving a red line on my skin that looks like somebody played connect the dots with my nipples.

So I won't be buying the “soft-touch” underwire.

Why?

I'm not a soft touch.

 

Advice to a Young Tradeswoman, Written by an Old One

Lisa

Benjamin Franklin coined the expression, “Time is money.”

I'm coining a new expression—“Time is money is calories.”

I know.

I'm a genius, right?

Franklin used his term in his book,
Advice to a Young Tradesman, Written by an Old One
.

I'm using my term in this book, which has a lot funnier title.

Let's be real.

Franklin may have written the Constitution, but did he ever write a book called,
I've Got Sand in All the Wrong Places
?

I don't have much in common with Ben Franklin, except that we're both from Philly and we both wear bifocals.

Though one of us
invented
bifocals.

I know, he was such a show-off.

Also I went to Penn, and he invented Penn.

But still, not my point.

Besides, he was famously single, and I am famously celibate.

Sort of the same thing.

He had illegitimate children, I have illegitimate dogs.

Anyway, I can give Franklin's maxim a modern spin, because of the epiphany I had at the end of the day, when I was lying in bed thinking about life.

I know what you're thinking.

Don't think about life at the end of the day.

At the end of the day, you're too tired to think about life. This is generally true for me. I lie in bed and am too tired to think positively. Even Shakespeare said, “sleep knits the raveled sleeve of care.”

At the end of the day, my care sleeve is unraveled.

That's why the best thing to do at the end of the day is drink.

Or failing that, watch TV until you are really really tired, then quickly switch off the TV and fall right asleep. This way, you can avoid thinking about your life until it's too late to do anything about it.

And you're dead.

Too dark?

To stay on point, it was at the end of the day, not a very good day, and frankly, I was beating myself up.

I'm the only person who beats me up, and I'm as good as any prizefighter.

I win and lose, at the same time.

Anyway, the other night, I started to think about all the things that I was supposed to get done that day, but the day had just slipped away from me. I had lost track of time.

I started to worry about money, because I was wondering if I saved enough for retirement, but I knew I hadn't. I didn't know when I would be able to retire or where all my money was going. I had lost track of my money.

And then about the same time, I was feeling fat. I had gained three pounds, and I was wondering how the hell that had happened, since it feels like I never eat anything and still I gain weight. I had lost track of my calories.

Time is money is calories.

These worries are a threesome.

No, not that kind of threesome.

I know they're not the same worries, but I can't separate them, and they're all solved basically the same way.

For example, if I had a Things To Do List, then I would be able to keep better track of my time and get more done.

And if I had kept an online budget, then I would know where my money went and I could save more.

The only way I ever lost weight was using the Lose It app, which records the calorie count of everything I eat.

So I'm going to change my ways.

Or maybe not.

Life is short.

You know what else Benjamin Franklin said?

“I wake up every morning at nine and grab for the morning paper. Then I look at the obituary page. If my name is not on it, I get up.”

Truth.

 

How Much Is a Tracksuit?

Francesca

I recently turned twenty-nine, which is the first birthday (for women) that people start consoling you over. But I wasn't bummed at all. I love cake. And I'm not afraid of getting older. I want to live forever.

I just don't want to work forever.

So this tax season, I realized I have to start saving for my retirement.

I've never been a procrastinator, but it's hard to feel like you
need
to plan for something thirty-five years in advance.

I haven't made plans for Memorial Day.

But when I started doing the math, I got scared. I don't make a lot of money, and since I've chosen to make a career telling stories, I probably never will. If I want the small amount of money I can live without to grow into enough money to live on, I need to start investing now.

Or yesterday.

Or in the womb.

I can't afford to grow into the idea that I'm going to grow old someday.

So I figure I've got about forty years of hustling until I'm seventy. By that time, I'll need to have saved enough money for, let's say, thirty more years of life.

Think living until a hundred is optimistic? You seriously underestimate how much kale I eat.

When I graduated college, my mom gave me a book by Suze Orman called
The Money Book for the Young, Fabulous, and Broke
, and while the title was right on the money, there was one problem: it was published in 2007.

Before the economy hit the fan.

The advice was geared toward people working at traditional companies that provide retirement plans and employer-matching 401(k)s.

Do those jobs exist anymore? And are they hiring?

Most of my friends are self-employed or juggling one dream career while working part-time elsewhere—in short, no benefits.

Social Security will be long extinct by the time my generation goes gray. And unless
Jurassic Park 4
is about finding pension-DNA stuck in tree sap, it's not coming back.

National debt finds a way.

Why doesn't anyone tell us how to do this? I went to Harvard, yet the entirety of my finance knowledge came from Kristen Wiig's
SNL
impression of Suze Orman and Google.

Is everybody my age secretly socking away cash and not telling me?

FOMO is Fear Of Missing Out. I have FORO.

Fear Of Running Out.

So I said farewell to youth and embraced retirement planning. I was so proud of myself for figuring out that I need an IRA, I didn't realize that was only step one. I still had to choose between a Roth IRA, a traditional IRA, a SEP IRA, and probably others I'm supposed to know but don't.

They all shelter your investment from taxes but prevent you from withdrawing your money until you're fifty-nine-and-a-half.

I thought we stopped counting halves after age nine.

The IRS is so immature.

But there are all these minute differences about who can contribute to what, and which ones lower your taxable income, etc. For example, a Roth IRA allows you to withdraw money early to buy your first house.

Whereas a traditional IRA would prefer you wait until marriage.

When I opened my IRA, the bank associate asked me how much I'd like to contribute. I'd done my homework, and I knew the annual limit for people like me was pretty low, so I told her I'd like to put away the maximum I'm allowed.

“Okay. But I can't tell you what that is.” She smiled.

“You don't know?”

“Well, I'm not allowed to tell you. You'd have to ask your accountant.”

Why is everything tax-related cloaked in secrecy? The IRS is this Oz-like master, with questionably corrupt forces at the top getting all the benefits, while the rest of us pay lots of money for purposes unknown, but we obey, because we're too confused by all the categories and acronyms and pages upon pages of rules, rules that if anyone actually read, would make absolutely no sense.

Is this the federal tax code or Scientology?

In either case, I don't want to get audited.

But I did it! I successfully started saving for my retirement. This calls for cake!

I can only lick the icing now, but in thirty-and-a-half years, I can eat a whole piece.

 

Doggie Dramz

Lisa

I can't figure my dogs out.

It may be they're smarter than I am.

In which case, they'd better be able to write a book, because that's what pays the bills around here.

My latest dog drama concerns something that should be simple.

Food.

In fact, if I were going to pick two areas in which I would consider myself generally knowledgeable, it would be dogs or food. But evidently, when dogs and food are put together, I'm stumped.

To give you some background, I've had dogs my entire life: mutts, rescue dogs, purebreds, all kinds of dogs. And all of these dogs reacted exactly the same way when there was a bowl of food put in front of them.

They gobbled it up instantly.

The only problem I've ever had with dogs at mealtime is that when I've had more than one dog, I feed them in separate places, so they don't get aggressive.

Still, in the past, this has not been a problem. I have crates for all my dogs, and I feed them in their crates, which makes them love their crates the way I love my kitchen.

Ruby is just happy she is not the one causing trouble.

Because it's delicious.

So what's happening is that I have Ruby The Crazy Corgi, who eats reliably, like a normal dog. I put her in her cage and give her a bowl of kibble, and she wolfs it right down.

That is, if wolves had four-inch legs.

Ruby is not the problem, for once. She's reveling in the fact that the others are getting in trouble this time.

Because the four Cavalier King Charles spaniels—Little Tony, Peach, Boone, and Kit—are as fussy about eating as the name of their breed. And the weird thing is, they're not fussy about what they eat, they're fussy about the way they eat it.