Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim (3 page)

And so do you.

Apple makes fraud cool.

iFraud.

It’s been doing this for so long that everybody accepts it as normal, and I’m not going to whine about it, herein. If you can’t beat em, join ’em, right?

So I don’t know why I have to wait until my sentence is in final draft to sell it. I don’t know why I can’t make it work for me, like this:

Today Mother Mary

In my opinion, it

Unlike Spanx, granny panties have been known to

My feet are so crusty they

Maybe I can sell my sentences the way they are above, even if they’re unfinished and missing features.

Like verbs.

I could also sell them in draft form, so that they have all their features, but they’re not really good enough, like this:

My feet are crusty enough to be pies.

Now if I worked on that a little more, I could come up with:

My feet are crusty enough to make pies jealous.

Now, that’s pretty good. I like it better. I might even say it’s final.

But only for now.

Until I think of a better sentence.

At least it has a verb, if not a camera.

Let’s call that sentence Scottoline 3.0. We can agree that Scottoline 3.0 is the latest and greatest, and I could stick that sentence in a book and sell it, with a lot of other 3.0 sentences. But who’s to say a Scottoline 2.0 sentence can’t be sold as well, or even a Scottoline 1.0 sentence?

Especially if I put it in a white case.

This way I get people to pay for my rough drafts, and since I do about ten drafts a book, I can make Money 1.0, Money 2.0, and all the way to Money 10.0.

Ten times the amount of money.

I could be iFilthyRich.

If people think I’m being greedy, I’ll explain to them that, no, on the contrary, it’s just that I’ve never really finished anything, on account of my being an Innovator in a Relentless Quest For Perfection.

iScottoline.

By the way, Apple wasn’t the first company to come up with this genius marketing idea. Back before computers even existed, car companies in Detroit would change their models every year, making the earlier version look dated, in what was called planned obsolescence. Reporters and consumer advocates railed against it, and everybody thought it was evil.

Those days are over.

That idea became obsolete.

Evil didn’t.

Evil just dressed better.

Back in those days, in 1960, an author named Vance Packard wrote a book called
The Waste Makers,
which took American business to task for spending millions in advertising to convince people to buy expensive products and throw them away prematurely, when they’d become unfashionable. He thought this practice made American society wasteful, debt-ridden, and generally discontent, as we grew unhappy with what we had, because it wasn’t the hot new thing.

I don’t know what he’s talking about.

That has no resonance today.

At all.

And so I’ll keep my old iPad, though I’ll be cranky about it, you bet.

The happy ending is that Francesca has been so busy since Christmas, she hadn’t opened her iPad, so now we’re going to take it back to the store and trade it in for an iPad 2.0.

Gotcha, Apple.

iPayback.

Cushy

By Lisa

This couch potato is getting a new couch, and it’s harder than you think. I’ve chosen the wrong couch before, in my life. In fact, my couch mistakes rival my marital mistakes, though my couches have lasted longer than my marriages.

I’m not only unlucky in love, I’m unlucky in lounge.

We begin back in the Dark Ages.

In other words, my marriage to Thing Two.

When one of us had the great idea that not everything in the family room needed to match, so we acquired a red plaid couch, a floral chair, and a green-patterned chair-and-a-half. For those not in the know, a chair-and-a-half is just what it sounds like, big enough to accommodate dogs, laptops, and a double-wide tush.

That would be Ruby The Crazy Corgi’s.

Anyway, the bottom line was that none of the furniture looked like it belonged together. Thing Two thought it was sophisticated, and he might have been right about that. Only problem was, I’m not sophisticated. I thought the furniture was too smart by half, especially the chair-and-a-half.

If you follow.

I thought things should have something in common if they were going to live together.

The same is true of furniture.

As soon as I was on my own again, I vowed to remarry wisely, that is, to get myself a couch and two chairs that matched. Yes, it’s true, I’m “matchy-matchy.”

I like to keep it simple. To me, that’s how you know how things belong together. They look alike. So I reupholstered the furniture in a lovely gold honeycomb fabric, and I saved money by not buying new furniture. This was good financial planning, as it enabled me to afford the divorce, which was worth every penny.

But then the dogs took their toll, and the couch and chairs started to pop threads and look shabby. I liked the fabric so much that I had the couch and chairs reupholstered again, in the exact same fabric. You would think I’d move on and find a new fabric, but I wasn’t ready to love again.

I yearned to commit to my couch.

But that was five years ago, and more dogs took their toll, and I decided it was time to get a whole new couch and chairs.

Of course, you may be wondering why I keep letting the dogs on the couch, and the reason is simple. If I didn’t let the dogs up, how else would the ticks get on the couch?

So you see.

Which brings me to this morning, when I found myself in the furniture store, trying to decide between a bewildering array of fabrics: damask, tapestry, Jacobean print, plaid, patterned, bagatelle, and chintz. I also found my old honeycomb fabric in case I wanted to use it yet again, which is like ex sex.

I spent two hours there and still didn’t know which fabric to pick, so I brought home a stack of swatches and arrayed them on the couch and chairs.

My method of choosing?

See which one Peach sat on. She’s my Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and she has the best taste.

She chose a yellow-and-pink chintz, but her compadre, Little Tony, liked the gold linen covered with birds that looked vaguely annoyed.

Angry Birds.

I didn’t know which to choose.

And if you’re wondering about price, they’re both the same, which is costly. Oddly, chintz is not chintzy.

By the way, I didn’t bring home a swatch of print fabric covered with Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. If I had, there would be Cavalier King Charles Spaniels sitting on Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, and I’d be certifiable.

Also, Ruby would be so pissed.

So my choice was between Angry Birds and Not-So-Chintzy Chintz.

The Angry Birds was lovely and classy, but I was partial to the chintz, despite the saleswoman’s warning that chintz wears badly because it has so few “rubbings.”

“What’s a rubbing?” I asked.

“Rubbings are how many times your body can rub against the fabric before it wears out.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Who’s rubbing their bodies on their couch?”

She blinked. “I don’t know. I’m just saying.”

I bit my tongue.

I’m going with the chintz.

If I want to rub my couch threadbare, it’s my business.

Field Guide to the American Male

By Francesca

As a young nerd growing up, I used to love to read field guides. I owned field guides to insects, snakes, wildflowers, Hawaiian tropical fish, and North American songbirds. I had a collection of breed encyclopedias as well, including several on dogs, horses, and cats—wild
and
domestic. I loved the books’ floppy faux-leather covers and the rows of glossy photographs, but what I really loved were the names.

Imagination is overrated—give me Latin classification any day!

It’s a miracle I had any friends.

In high school biology, I remember learning about taxonomy, the science of classifying organisms, and how my teacher stressed the importance of proper nomenclature. Taxonomists estimate we’ve cataloged around 2 million species of animals so far, but that there remain between 3 and 100 million more species yet to be discovered.

Similarly, there are 8 million people in New York City, roughly half of them men. And I’ve only discovered about … well, that’s private. The point is, well-organized classification is the first step to understanding. So I carry my very own field guide in my pocket every day:

My cell phone contacts list.

My contacts list has its own system of nomenclature. When I meet a guy in the field, so to speak, I don’t always learn his last name. That’s not as sketchy as it sounds, if you think about it. It would be weird if we all introduced ourselves with our full name. It worked for James Bond, but so did wearing a tuxedo every day.

I feel awkward asking a man I just met for his last name. It screams, “I’m going to Google you later.”

I prefer to be discreet with my stalking.

Researchers in the field frequently work with limited information, but still, everything must be recorded. So I’ve developed a method of classification for these instances. I’m scanning my phone right now for an example … aha!

Aaron McManus.

Looks like an average name, right? But to my studied eye, I know that that entry is “Aaron,” a guy I met at McManus, a local pub.

The formula is: First Name, Location of Discovery.

Entries like this are sprinkled throughout my contacts, forming a little scavenger hunt through my usual haunts.

There’s Tony Pomme Frites, which sounds like a French mobster, but in fact, Pomme Frites is a restaurant that sells only fries and is open until 3:30
A.M.
on weekends. I recall he complimented my shoes, we talked during the endless line, and I never saw him again.

Fries are bad for you anyway.

I also see the recently added, John Grassroots. Grassroots is a bar in the East Village. We met on a Friday, he called me on Monday, and I’m excited to see him this Thursday!

Mr. Grassroots has potential. If we have a nice time on Thursday, and I see him again, then he can earn a proper classification. But if it doesn’t pan out, he’ll languish in my contacts list, sandwiched between layers of G last names, frozen in time with the cute smile and the Ray Bans tucked on his shirt collar.

A Contact Fossil.

My system is mainly designed to help me remember people when I pick up the phone, but sometimes it reminds me when
not
to pick up. A few examples:

Lucky Never. This guy works for my building-management company, but that didn’t stop him from hitting on me outside my apartment. After I’d introduced myself, he actually winked and said, “You can call me, ‘Lucky.’” I smiled, but what I wanted to say was, “You can call me never.” Hence, his entry.

Roy Old Rusty Knot. Sadly, the name of the bar is only Rusty Knot. I feel a little bit bad about that one, but really, he was my father’s age.

Creeper Noah. Ah, this is a special naming case. Normally, the first name is the most important information, but when it comes to creeps, the warning factor takes precedence. Also in my phone:

Creeper Josh.

Creepy Exterminator.

Unfortunately, my section C is packed.

Thank you, New York.

Boxers or Briefs

By Lisa

I feel sorry for these men who are taking cell phone pictures of their privates and emailing them to women.

Say cheesy.

Some of these guys are taking the photos in their underwear, and some go commando, showing their sheaths unsheathed.

Yikes.

It started with a quarterback and spread to a politician, and now I’m kicking myself. If I had said something earlier, all of this foolishness could have been prevented. Faces could have been saved.

Not to mention, well, you know what else.

Somebody has to speak up, and it might as well be me.

The problem isn’t that men are taking these pictures, or even that they’re sending them to women they want to seduce. The problem is that these guys aren’t going to get from Point A to Point B this way.

They need to keep their points to themselves.

(Sorry.)

Why? Gentlemen, take it from me, and I’m speaking for my entire gender:

No woman thinks this is your best feature.

Keep it in your pants.

We’re not seduced by photos of your junk.

Call 1-800-GOT-JUNK.

They’re called privates for a reason.

If we loved the way they look, they’d be called shoes.

Ladies, am I right or am I right? I know I’m going out on a limb. You can say you don’t agree, especially if your husband or boyfriend asks, or is watching you read this. I get that. You love the guy. But get real. This is just between us, and we’re talking turkey.

In fact, even a turkey is better-looking, and have you ever
seen
a turkey?

I know.

I’m betting my ovaries that we’re all on the same page. These photos don’t drive us wild. We’ve all been to the zoo, and nobody’s turned on in the monkey house.

Except the monkeys.

I read in a scientific study that women aren’t as visual as men when it comes to sexual arousal, but I don’t think that’s true. Maybe the women in the study weren’t shown the right visual. Or maybe the scientists didn’t show the visual to the right women.

Like me.

A cell phone photo of occupied tightie-whities doesn’t do it for me, but I’d sit up and pay attention if a man sent me a photo of his abs, his shoulders, or his chocolate cake.

Break me off a piece of that.

And I admit, I enjoy the Bowflex commercials.

Oh yes.

The last Bowflex commercial I saw said that the machine uses “resistance technology.” It sure does. And I can’t resist.

When those arms curl, so do my toes.

Bowflex is the one commercial I don’t fast-forward through. But I don’t replay them. That would be pervy.