The Woman Who Is Always Tan and Has a Flat Stomach Read online

  We told the concierge, Armand, who immediately notified hotel security.

  We went up to our room. As we began to unpack our bags, Armand knocked at our door and said that security had found our missing bag. He wanted Michael to check to make sure everything was there.

  I said, “Check to see if that new cashmere sweater I just bought you is in there.”

  “It’s here.”

  “How about all your shirts?”

  “Yes,” he replied, a little tersely.

  “What about that new jacket?”

  He stated indignantly, “They didn’t take anything.”

  “Michael, why do you sound so upset?”

  “I’m beginning to get the picture here.”

  Armand and I both looked at him, wondering what he meant.

  “It means that my clothes just aren’t good enough for the crook who took my bag.”

  We looked at him in disbelief.

  He went on, “It means that my clothes weren’t up to his standards.”

  “Mr. Perry, it doesn’t have to mean that at all,” Armand said, trying to placate him. “Maybe your clothes weren’t his size.”

  “A large sweater would fit most people. So don’t tell me that.”

  I said, “You don’t have to take this so personally.”

  “How would you feel if your clothes weren’t good enough for some thief? I don’t see how you wouldn’t take it personally.”

  I said, “No one stole anything from you. This is good.”

  “Well, my things are just as good as anyone else’s. My clothes have been cast aside as inferior by some fashion-conscious crook.”

  Armand said, “Excuse me, but it’s possible that you’re right. Now let me ask you this, Mr. Perry: have you ever had your color wheel done? You know, where you have a professional skin and makeup artist determine what colors you should wear according to your skin tones? Maybe the colors on your color wheel and the colors on the color wheel of the thief are different from one another.”

  Michael pulled me aside and said in a hushed voice, “What is he talking about?”

  I whispered back. “He just said that maybe the thief didn’t like the color of your clothes.”

  Armand said, “You know, according to your skin tones, you should be wearing warm colors—like peaches and golds and rich browns. What are the colors of your clothes?”

  “Blues, grays, and blacks,” Michael said defensively.

  “Then it’s possible the thief singled you out because of your skin tones. Then, when he opened your suitcase, he found colors completely different on the color wheel from what he expected. So he decided to return your clothes.”

  “What is this wheel you keep talking about?” Michael asked.

  “Here, Mr. Perry, I’ll show you my color wheel,” he said, taking it out of his suit pocket. “Here are my colors—which are considered cool colors, in the blue family, especially. See how when I hold this up to my face it complements my skin tones? But now when I hold this color up to your face, it doesn’t really do much for you. Here, come and look in the mirror.”

  Michael looked in the mirror. “I see what you mean. It makes me look terrible.” He sounded shocked.

  “When I hold up fabric that’s warmer, like this dark peach towel, for instance, it brings out that natural glow you have.”

  Excitedly, Michael said, “It really does.”

  “If you’d like, Mr. Perry, I know a personal color consultant, Sergio. I could arrange for him to meet with you to do your colors for you.”

  “That’d be great. I’ve been thinking that my clothes really don’t do much for me. You could set it up for me to meet with him?”

  “I’d be happy to, Mr. Perry.”

  “How soon could you do it?”

  “I’ll go call him right now.”

  Armand left.

  After the door closed I said in disbelief, “Let me get this right. You, the man who wore a gray shirt, brown pants, black shoes, and blue socks to our engagement dinner, are going to have a personal color consultation with some guy named Sergio?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just never been your style before now. I’ve picked out most of your clothes since we’ve been married. I always thought they looked good on you.”

  “Honey,” Michael asked, “why do you always have to take everything so personally?”

  4

  The Mom Who Made a Scrapbook So Large She Could Only Get It Downstairs by Hiring Professional Piano Movers

  One day over coffee at Starbucks, one of the moms said, “Well, I finished archiving my latest memory book on my youngest child’s first Happy Meal at McDonald’s.” A murmur of admiration rose from the table.

  I innocently asked, “What are you talking about?”

  They all looked shocked.

  I said, “What’s wrong?”

  The mom I knew the best said, “Archiving a memory book. You know—scrapbooking—where you take your photos and dress them up by putting buttons, cutouts of leaves, and all kinds of fun things on pages to commemorate a special event.”

  I said, “I know, but what does that have to do with a Happy Meal at McDonald’s?”

  They all looked at the floor. I retorted, “What?”

  Another mom explained, “Well, a child’s first Happy Meal is a very special event.”

  I said, “Yes, but only to the heirs of Ray Kroc, the guy who started McDonald’s.”

  Another mom said boldly, “Do you mean to say that you don’t have at least one scrapbook page detailing Caroline’s first trip to McDonalds?”

  Something inside me told me to run, but I foolishly passed up this little piece of intuitive advice.

  “No,” I said. “I had never even considered it.”

  They all gasped.

  After coffee, I went straight home. About twenty minutes later, another mom, Jane, called and said, “I just got word that you have never archived Caroline’s first Happy Meal at McDonald’s into a scrapbook. And I’m calling to offer my support.”

  “Support?” I asked.

  “Well, someone is going to have to take charge of archiving Caroline’s encounters with fast food and it might as well be me. Why don’t you come over Friday evening and join us for a cropping session? You’ll have fun,” she encouraged.

  “Cropping?” I asked.

  “That’s what we call it when we archive pictures of a special event onto vellum or other nonporous paper.”

  I had no idea what she had just said, but thought I might check it out.

  When I pulled up to Jane’s house, I couldn’t find a parking space closer than six blocks away. I thought that someone must be having quite a party.

  Approaching the house, I noticed the garage doors were open. The cars had been removed and six long tables had been set up, which were already packed with women poring over their scrapbooks. Strategically placed throughout the garage were propane heaters. Japanese lanterns had been hung from the ceiling.

  Jane walked up to me. “Welcome!” she gushed. “I should have told you to come earlier. All the spaces have already been filled.”

  I stood stunned.

  “I thought seventy-two spaces for working on memory books would be enough,” Jane continued, “but I was wrong. I’d be happy to put you on the waiting list. Why don’t you come in? Let me show you some of my favorite scrapbooks.”

  She led me into the house. In the living room, the furniture had been removed and replaced with a large table, with no chairs. In the dining room, there was also a table, again with no chairs.

  She caught my glance and knew I was wondering why she had such an unusual setup in her house. She said, “I permanently removed all the furniture and added another table so that I would have a place to display some of my favorite scrapbooks.”

  On each of the tables sat eight scrapbooks, where you would normally see china settings. Track lighting had been installed to illuminate each scrapbook. The music playing in the
background was Rod Stewart’s “Every Picture Tells a Story.”

  “I had mahogany stands built to raise each of the books for better viewing,” Jane said proudly.

  “Oh, really,” I said, feeling a little uneasy.

  “The table in the living room contains scrapbooks chronicling 1995 to 1999. The dining-room table chronicles 2000 to 2005.”

  I ventured to open a scrapbook labeled 2003. I turned to a page entitled, TRIPS TO TARGET. Her three girls were posed outside the store, and each wore red-and-white clothing that matched the Target sign.

  I said weakly, “I think I need to sit down.”

  She smiled. “Everyone on the waiting list is sitting out back drinking margaritas.”

  “Perfect,” I replied. At least the evening wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.

  I went out back and sat down next to a mom I had seen around school.

  “So,” she said, “I understand that you’re the one that needs help.”

  “That’s true on many levels.”

  “Would you like to see the photos I’m planning for my scrapbook?”

  I nodded.

  She said proudly, “These are photos of my summer shoe collection.”

  “Your summer shoe collection?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I thought that I had put everything I could think of into a scrapbook, and then at the seminar I attended, someone suggested a scrapbook of summer shoes. I will be archiving them into ten different categories:

  1. Dressy sandals (the white collection),

  2. Dressy sandals (the color collection),

  3. Casual sandals (white and colored combined),

  4. Casual athletic shoes that look good,

  5. Casual one-inch heels,

  6. Dressy one-inch heels,

  7. Open-toe two-inch-heel sling-backs,

  8. Pointed-toe two-inch-heel sling-backs,

  9. Closed-toe two-inch-heel pumps, and

  10. Pointed-toe two-inch-heel pumps.”

  In response to this little piece of information, I finished off my margarita and went to see if I could find any hard liquor. After I luckily found some gin in the kitchen, Jane grabbed me by the arm. “I’m so sorry you have to wait for a spot to get started. By my calculations, a place at table four should be opening up around three a.m.”

  “Three a.m.?” I cried, perplexed.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? We’re going to be cropping around the clock for the next seventy-two hours. You did arrange for someone to take Caroline to school on Monday morning, didn’t you?”

  “People are going to be cropping until when?”

  “Monday, of course. Oh, you haven’t seen my latest creation.” She pulled me upstairs. “Are you ready for this?”

  “No, I’m quite sure that I am not ready for this.”

  “Silly,” she laughed. “And now… my latest scrapbook.” She pronounced the last three words in a hushed voice filled with reverence.

  Ushering me into the upstairs hallway, she said, “This is the best scrapbook that I have ever archived. I have it sitting here on this table in the hall. The scrapbook is so heavy that I had to stack concrete blocks under the table; otherwise it starts to sag.”

  “The table starts to sag?” I said incredulously.

  “The problem is that I want to move the scrapbook downstairs to the family room, but it’s too heavy. I have scheduled piano movers to move it, but first we need to reinforce one of the floor beams under the family room. Two hydraulic jacks should do it.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling numb. “It looks great.”

  We went back downstairs and she turned to me, “Now, tell me what you’d like to start cropping. You could perhaps start with something the size of the book I just showed you, or bigger. What weight of paper would you like to use? How about the lettering? What kind of accents, design sketches, mats, journaling, borders, and patterns?”

  I downed the gin martini I had thankfully found earlier. Suddenly, I felt inspired. Perhaps I just could scrapbook my favorite liquors. Thinking back to the shoe archiver for inspiration, I thought, “Let’s divide martinis into five categories:

  1. The chocolate martini (my personal favorite: a dessert and a drink all at once; what could be better?),

  2. The sour apple martini (for when I’m feeling feisty),

  3. The lemon drop martini (always perfect for summer),

  4. The peppermint vodka martini (served during the winter holidays), and

  5. The James Bond martini (for drinking and drooling).”

  5

  The Woman Who Can Plant 145 Petunias Without Referring to Them as “Those Little Bastards” by the Time She Is Finished

  My lawn was a mess again this year. I got the hint when someone gave me a book about gardening with small explosives. Well, no more!

  The next day, I was out weeding (score: Lauren, 8; weeds, 1,756) when I remembered hearing stories about the Master Gardener in my county—a person who has passed a number of required courses on gardening and can give helpful advice. People spoke of her with reverence, so I thought I’d give her a call.

  When I dialed her number, a woman answered tersely, “Garden and Lawn Hotline, is this an emergency?”

  I was confused. “Is this the Master Gardener?”

  “Yes,” she said impatiently. “Is this an emergency?”

  “Ah, no. I’m just calling about a spirea bush.”

  “Is it about to die?” she asked anxiously.

  “No, it’s just not doing very well.”

  “I can’t deal with vague statements like that,” she said irritably. “Get over here as fast as you can. That spirea bush is probably about to die any minute and you don’t even know it.” She hung up the phone.

  When I arrived, she greeted me brusquely, saying, “I need to make a quick call before I can help you. Some idiot called and asked if he could put peat moss on his irises. Everyone knows that you can only use organic kelp on irises. I’ll be right back. Feel free to look around.”

  After much scolding of the kelp person, she came back with fifteen different pictures for me to see. They were labeled, SPIREAS IN DISTRESS—HOW TO DIAGNOSE THE PROBLEM AND DELIVER AID QUICKLY.

  “Which one of these pictures best describes your spirea?” she asked.

  Numbly, I pointed to number seven.

  “Oh—my—God,” she said, with a dramatic pause between each word. “How could you let that happen?”

  “Ah, well, ah, gosh, I don’t know.”

  “Okay,” she said briskly. “We’re going to need to overhaul your entire backyard. Come in here and we’ll get started.”

  She led me into a room that had been built off her garage. I looked around the room and saw there were computer screens everywhere monitoring different parts of her yard. Included on the screen were data about the pH level of the soil, what fertilizer had been used last, and the humidity in each area of the garden.

  She said, “Okay, let’s get started. Now I have a question for you. What is the foundation of a garden?”

  “What?”

  She rolled her eyes. “What is the foundation of a garden?” she said louder.

  “Dirt?” I tried.

  “No,” she said irritably. And then loudly and slowly she said: “Bulbs.”

  “Oh, of course,” I said, wondering if I made a run for it if she’d tackle me and hold me down.

  “Now,” she continued, “what courses have you taken in gardening at both undergraduate and graduate levels?”

  I was afraid to answer. “None?” I said hesitantly. I hate to put statements in the form of a question, but in this case I had no other choice.

  Suddenly, I heard a strange ringing.

  “That’s the red phone!” she shrieked and jumped to answer it.

  It was then that I noticed the ominous-looking crimson phone, which was now lit up and blinking wildly.

  She listened on the phone for a few seconds and then asked, “Address?” She jotted down the in
formation. “I’ll be right there!”

  “Lauren!” she shouted. “I need to go. Some abysmally ignorant fool is about to put down the wrong shade of gray mulch. I’ve had problems with my garage door, and I need you to help me get it open.”

  I rushed to help her with the door. We got it open and she jumped into her Hummer.

  “That’s an unusual color for a vehicle,” I commented to her. “I’ve never seen it before.” It was a kind of emerald-aquamarine color.

  “I had it custom-ordered,” she said. “I wanted my Hummer to match the color of my favorite fertilizer, the 30-10-20.”

  She glanced over at me. I must have looked afraid.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” she shouted while she backed up. “I’ve decided not to use the siren.” She squealed her tires and hit the road.

  As I drove home, I thought about reading that book on gardening with small explosives. It might feel good to blow something up.

  6

  The Mom Who Is Happy All the Time and Uses the Word “Golly” Whenever She Can

  Caroline and I arrived at the community swimming pool on a weekday morning. She waved and ran over to join her friend Gigi and I followed.

  “Are you Caroline’s mom?” a pretty, young-looking blond woman asked.

  “Maybe,” I replied cautiously. I had fallen into this trap before.

  “I’m Gigi’s mother, Dee Dee. Golly, Caroline, and Gigi were in the same class last year.” She giggled happily. “Gee whiz, if you’d like to sit by me, that would be really, really fun!” The girls left to swim.

  “Oh, okay,” I said, a little taken aback by her unmitigated enthusiasm.

  After we talked a bit, I realized I had never met anyone so wide-eyed and enthusiastically surprised by every topic of conversation.

  “Golly, Lauren, what’s your favorite color?”

  “My favorite color?” I said, thinking I hadn’t heard her correctly.

  She nodded brightly.

  “Well, I guess it’s black, unless I’m in a very festive mood, and then it’s gray.”

  She giggled, “Golly, Lauren, you’re such a kidder. My favorite colors are soft pink, sky blue, and buttercup yellow. Do you have any pets?”