Have a Nice Guilt Trip (17 page)

They got conned, so they’ll get Canned.

Relationship Spoiler Alert

By Francesca

My boyfriend isn’t caught up on
Breaking Bad.
This may not sound like a crisis to you, but it is.

There are only two episodes left in the greatest show on television, and as if that weren’t traumatizing enough, the writers are torturing my favorite characters to the bitter end. And I can’t say a word to my boyfriend.

No spoilers.

I suffer alone.

We love watching our favorite shows together. But with the advent of DVR and Netflix, watching a show as a couple has gotten complicated.

When it comes to appointment-television, how do you sync your calendars?

First, my boyfriend got me into
Game of Thrones.
He was sweet enough to rewatch the entire first season with me in prep for the second, and that’s after having read the books, so it was truly selfless.

This is the courtly love of the modern era.

He tried to guide me through the labyrinthine plot, patiently explaining the characters’ complex family trees and alliances, but I couldn’t even keep their names straight. I made up my own nicknames and left him to interpret.

I’d say, “Oh, so Incest-Hottie killed the Dragon-Blonde’s crazy dad?”

He’d translate: “Yes, Jaime Lannister killed Daenerys Targaryen’s father, King Aerys Targaryen, a.k.a. the ‘Mad King.’ That’s why they call Jaime ‘Kingslayer.’”

Even the show bails on their real names.

It was after I caught up that the trouble started. Since my boyfriend works on Sunday nights, we promised to wait to watch each new episode until we could watch together.

But one night, he came over looking sheepish. “I have something to tell you…”

Never words a girl likes to hear. My mind raced through the terrible options: You cheated, you’re getting back with your ex, you’re moving abroad, you’re ga—

“… I watched
Game of Thrones
already.”

BETRAYED!

I had to know the details. “When?”

“Three days ago.”

Twist the knife, why don’t you?

It wasn’t so much that he watched it that made me mad—people slip up—but that he delayed telling me. It had taken all my willpower to resist watching the episode on my DVR. I thought our
Game of Thrones
relationship was exclusive.

“But I’ll watch it again with you,” he said.

So we tried that. But watching a show twice within days is boring, and bored men can think of only one thing. His mind and hands would wander, and I’d swat him away.

It’s not you, it’s HBO.

It was my turn to get him addicted to a show with
Breaking Bad
. I binge-watched the first four seasons on DVD and thought it was the best thing I’d ever seen. No junkie likes to be alone, so I got him hooked by rewatching the first season.

When his band had to go away on tour, I gave him the entire DVD set to catch up on the road. We planned to watch the fifth and final season together.

That was last December.

He had nine months to catch up, yet he only got halfway through season three. Women give birth in less time.

But he was busy living his life—priorities?—and we’re both to blame, because we thoughtlessly spent our time together in other ways and neglected our TV homework. It didn’t seem like an issue until the final season began airing this August.

And now I can’t tell him anything.

It’s torture! I never keep secrets from him—except for my real weight, my “number,” my elaborate skin-care rituals, what I tweeze, or that I have ever in my life farted—but other than that, no secrets!

We share everything, our hopes, fears, dreams, colds, and yet I can’t tell him what happened to Hank in the last episode. And did you
see
last week’s episode?

Okay, sorry. No spoilers.

And I won’t be able to hide my face in his shoulder when they do what you
know
they’re going to do to Jesse before the series ends.

This is not a spoiler. It’s an inevitability. Prepare yourselves.

But this, too, was unavoidable. My boyfriend is on tour again now, and he’ll miss the series finale, so even if he had caught up, I’d have to go it alone.

Why don’t I hold off watching the finale and wait for him?

I’m spoiled.

Engagement Ring-A-Ding Ding

by Lisa

Valentine’s Day is upon us, and if you’re single, you know what that means.

Depression, shame, and chocolate cake.

I’m not saying you should feel that way. I’m just saying you might, if you’re single, divorced, a widower, or a widow.

And if you do, I have a few words on the subject.

But before I begin, I have to admit that I’ve had more than a few Valentine’s Days by myself, so much so that I’ve even written about it several times already.

Top that, for pathetic.

You can’t.

But what I wrote before, and what I still believe, is that love is all around you. And you can’t control whether you get love, but you can control whether you give it, and your heart won’t know the difference.

If your heart were that smart, it would be your brain.

So this Valentine’s Day, love something.

I’m going to be loving Daughter Francesca, Mother Mary, Brother Frank, besties Laura and Franca, and all my girlfriends, plus my furry and feathered family, including two puppies who right now are sharing my lap.

I’m not exactly proud to admit that I have a two-puppy lap.

But I took it one step further this year, and did something I never did before. I bought myself a present for Valentine’s Day.

I know it’s going to sound strange, but the present is a diamond ring.

Jewelers call it a right-hand ring, because the way the jewelry world sees it, the only way to get an engagement ring is if somebody else gives one to you.

And then you have to marry them.

I disagree, respectfully.

On both counts.

I’ve done all the marrying I’m going to do, and I’ve never regretted either divorce, not for a minute. I don’t miss Thing One or Thing Two, but there is something I did miss.

The diamond.

And I’ve learned that if there’s something you really want, the best course is to get it for yourself, instead of waiting for somebody else to give it to you.

So I bought myself an engagement ring.

You know why?

Because I’m still engaged.

Let me explain.

I think that the people I’ve mentioned above, the single, divorced, or widowed, sometimes feel left out of life in general, especially as we get older. I’m honest enough to admit that I’ve felt that way sometimes, and I definitely know girlfriends who do. It’s easy to feel that way if you’re not one of a couple, like you’re a little bit of an odd duck, out of the mainstream.

Marginalized, or on the sidelines.

You find yourself going to movies with couples or sitting with them at weddings, which can be awkward and uncomfortable. Or it just gets old, as you get old.

And in time, you stop bothering.

You quit going to things, you opt out. You stay home. You make excuses.

Bottom line, you stop being engaged.

Allow me to suggest that that’s not a great idea.

Life is meant to be lived, not viewed from the sidelines, and if you’re not part of a team, there’s nothing wrong with an individual sport.

So come out and play.

I still go alone to lots of things I get invited to, and now I have my pretty sparkly ring to remind me to live my life, and on my own terms.

And make myself happy.

You may not be as literal as I am, and you may not need a ring to remind you to stay engaged.

Or you might be a little more careful with your money.

But I’m wearing the prettiest engagement ring I ever owned, and I know I’m going to spend the rest of my life with the person who gave it to me.

For better or for worse.

In sickness and in health.

I do.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Extremely Speedy Delivery

By Lisa

Do you remember when you wanted mail?

I don’t.

If you do, you must be younger than I am, or have a better memory, which is basically the same thing.

Bottom line, I’m not sure when this happened, but there came a time when mail started to suck.

Correction. I know exactly when this happened.

When I grew up and started paying my own bills.

We can all agree that bills are no fun, but that’s not even the problem I have with my mail. Because at least bills are important. After all, they mean I did something or used something or ate something or bought something, and now it’s time to pay the piper.

This is America.

And I get that.

The problem is that the bills are the best part of my mail, which tells you how much my mail sucks.

I don’t know why I bother walking to my mailbox every day, and to tell you the truth, I don’t bother. I let the mail pile up, and the only reason I get it after a few days is that I want people to know I’m still alive.

My mailbox is at the end of the driveway, but it’s barely worth the walk to get a flurry of coupons I can’t use, Valpak’s for mediocre Chinese restaurants, offers for free vacations that aren’t really free, or cards with an 800 number I can call to claim unclaimed property or freight that I know will not belong to me.

I have all my property.

And I divorced all my freight.

Most of the time, I walk from my mailbox directly to the recycling bin. In fact, if the mail were addressed to my recycling bin, that would save a lot of time.

But yesterday I got the suckiest piece of mail ever, and I thought I would share with you, because I bet you don’t live within a ten-mile radius of a nuclear reactor.

Like I do.

Did I mention I’m selling the house, as of today?

I didn’t even know I lived within ten miles of a nuclear reactor until I got the notice in the mail.

Well, come to think of it, I knew there was something vaguely nuclear in the distance because I could see the weird towers, but I figured they were farther away than ten miles.

Like maybe in Detroit.

Also, now that you mention it, I hear an earsplitting alarm the first Monday of every month, which is testing the system for nuclear emergency, but who doesn’t need a good alarm on a Monday?

Also the nuclear reactor is in a town called Limerick, and you can understand how this name contributed to my denial. Limerick reminds me of shamrocks, leprechauns, and green happiness in general.

Erin Go Boom!

If I were going to locate a nuclear reactor anywhere, I would name the town something as appealing as Limerick, too.

Like Luckyville.

Or Moneytown.

Or Lotsasinglemenburg.

And the company that runs the nuclear reactor is called Exelon, which is another great name.

My nuclear company would be called Awesomey.

Or Fantasticon!

Or Besty McBesterson Enterprises.

Anyway, to return to the mail, it was a cheery pastel-colored brochure, which I thought was for another lame Chinese restaurant until I opened it and read the top of the first page:

WHAT IS RADIATION?

Answer: you don’t want to know.

But it’s good you like green, because that’s your new skin color in the event of a nuclear emergency.

I read through the pamphlet, which contained a section on how to prepare for the emergency, and it suggested that first thing, I should pack my portable radio.

I’ll get right on that. I’m sure it’s around somewhere, like in 1965.

The brochure also said that in the event of a nuclear accident, I should stock up on potassium iodide, but I’m pretty sure I have a couple of bananas lying around, which is probably the same thing.

Finally, the brochure made clear that in the event of an evacuation, only service animals will be permitted inside shelters.

No problem.

I’m getting maids outfits for all the dogs and cats.

They’re serving me as we speak.

Frankenfood

By Lisa

I have good news for you, and it concerns carbohydrates.

Somebody in New York came up with the cronut.

In case you haven’t heard, a cronut is a cross between a croissant and a doughnut, and people are lining up around the block for them. In some bakeries, they cost $40, and scalpers are even selling them for $100.

Trust me, if a food has a scalper, it’s either a carbohydrate or crack cocaine.

Cronuts are so popular that one newspaper called them a “viral dessert.”

I’m not sure this would be my word choice.

I generally like to separate my desserts from my viruses.

I quarantine my food.

Cronuts come rolled in sugar, filled with cream, or topped with glaze, and bottom line, I can’t wait to get my lips around one.

Maybe that came out wrong.

I might be on the next train to New York.

The bakery is in SoHo. I’m gonna be SoHappy.

People are saying that cronuts are the new cupcakes, but I never believe it when people say something is the new something else.

Except that seventy is the new fifty.

Speaking as someone over fifty, I can tell you that’s true.

But not if you eat a lot of cronuts.

Don’t get cronutty.

If you ask me, the cronut is the high-rent version of Dunkin’ Donuts’ new Glazed Doughnut Breakfast Sandwich.

Yes, you read that right. Dunkin’ Donuts has come up with the idea of putting eggs and bacon between slices of a glazed doughnut, and they’re hoping you stick it in your mouth.

I will, except for the bacon.

I never eat anything smarter than I am.

Unless it’s a carbohydrate.

I’m trying to understand when the combination platter turned into the combination food.

Because it’s obviously brilliant.

Why eat your eggs and then a doughnut, when you can stick them together and shove them in your mouth?