Best Friends, Occasional Enemies: The Lighter Side of Life as a Mother and Daughter (Reading Group Gold) by Lisa Scottoline, Francesca Serritella Page A
Authors: Lisa Scottoline, Francesca Serritella
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floor during the daytime. If I don’t, the dogs go up to my bedroom in search of my underwear, which they bring downstairs and display to the UPS man, who pretends not to see it, and for that I am grateful.
So far, three baby gates.
And no babies in sight.
Also, finding the right gate is a science. I go through baby gates like a new mother, experimenting with expandable or not, plastic or wood, and high or low. High or low is the trickiest of these choices. I start with the high gate, which claims to open like a door, but the handle never works. I segue to the gate with the lower height, which is called a step-over gate, but that’s a lie.
It’s a trip-over gate.
At least ten times a day, when I’m going upstairs or to the bathroom, I’m tripping over the trip-over gate. And if I’m not tripping, I’m lifting my knees high enough to qualify as a drum major. I spend my days marching around my own house.
And I’m tired.
You would think it’s trimming my thighs, but no such luck. At my age, knee replacements are likelier.
And three gates later, we’re not even at mealtime, when I put Peach and Little Tony into the nook in the kitchen, close them in with a gate, then separate them from each other with another gate.
You counting?
There are five baby gates on my first floor, set up around my house like hurdles. If I want something upstairs, I think very hard about whether I can do without it. Do I really need those warmer socks? Do I need them enough to step over two gates, then trip on a third? Do I really want to run an obstacle course in my own house? Of course not. But then again, to state the obvious, it’s not my house.
It’s theirs.
I’m just the lady who buys them gates.
Home Team
By Lisa
I just came back from a dog show, where I bought a planter, a quilt, a notepad, and a keychain, all bearing pictures of Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, like Little Tony and Peach. My new Cavalier booty will join my I ♥ MY GOLDEN RETRIEVER sweatshirt, a Welsh corgi button and needlepoint, and a CAT MOM T-shirt. Plus I own a cap with a picture of a pony that reads, THE BUCK STOPS HERE. And now I’m about to watch the Phillies and the Eagles games, wearing my Phillies sweatshirt and covered up by my Eagles blanket.
In other words, I’m a bumper sticker.
If I love it, I wear it.
And the question is, why?
By the way, my car wears no bumper sticker. It has better taste.
Why do I do this?
I’m obviously not the only one. I had to bid against a bunch of other middle-aged women for that Cavalier quilt. The fur and the estrogen were flying. It was a catfight, over dogs.
The women were already dressed in Cavalier shirts and sweaters. Odds are they had a ton of other Cavalier stuff at home, but they wanted more, and so did I.
Why?
What’s even weirder is that my new Cavalier stuff bears pictures of other people’s Cavaliers. They aren’t even my dogs, but I wasn’t leaving that show without a Cavalier mug, at least.
So what’s the deal? I understand why we wear the team gear to go to the baseball, hockey, or football game. We’re showing that we’re all part of the same red, orange, or green tribe. We belong to the community, whatever it is, whether it’s people who love Penn State or ferrets.
And for some reason, we feel the need to tell others the way we feel, about everything. It’s like this essay, summarized in three words.
Which might be an improvement.
And our loyalty apparel extends beyond teams and pets. I’ve even seen people at my car dealership, buying clothes with the car’s logo. Who is this for? To show the car some loyalty? And what’s next? Maybe a flag, with a picture of the car.
You’re in Volkswagen country.
And with the exception of the team apparel, it would be downright odd to wear some of the stuff I buy in public. Last year, I bought a T-shirt that says BOSS MARE , which I have yet to wear out of the house.
I’m single enough.
Evidently, we need to tell, seek out,
So far, three baby gates.
And no babies in sight.
Also, finding the right gate is a science. I go through baby gates like a new mother, experimenting with expandable or not, plastic or wood, and high or low. High or low is the trickiest of these choices. I start with the high gate, which claims to open like a door, but the handle never works. I segue to the gate with the lower height, which is called a step-over gate, but that’s a lie.
It’s a trip-over gate.
At least ten times a day, when I’m going upstairs or to the bathroom, I’m tripping over the trip-over gate. And if I’m not tripping, I’m lifting my knees high enough to qualify as a drum major. I spend my days marching around my own house.
And I’m tired.
You would think it’s trimming my thighs, but no such luck. At my age, knee replacements are likelier.
And three gates later, we’re not even at mealtime, when I put Peach and Little Tony into the nook in the kitchen, close them in with a gate, then separate them from each other with another gate.
You counting?
There are five baby gates on my first floor, set up around my house like hurdles. If I want something upstairs, I think very hard about whether I can do without it. Do I really need those warmer socks? Do I need them enough to step over two gates, then trip on a third? Do I really want to run an obstacle course in my own house? Of course not. But then again, to state the obvious, it’s not my house.
It’s theirs.
I’m just the lady who buys them gates.
Home Team
By Lisa
I just came back from a dog show, where I bought a planter, a quilt, a notepad, and a keychain, all bearing pictures of Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, like Little Tony and Peach. My new Cavalier booty will join my I ♥ MY GOLDEN RETRIEVER sweatshirt, a Welsh corgi button and needlepoint, and a CAT MOM T-shirt. Plus I own a cap with a picture of a pony that reads, THE BUCK STOPS HERE. And now I’m about to watch the Phillies and the Eagles games, wearing my Phillies sweatshirt and covered up by my Eagles blanket.
In other words, I’m a bumper sticker.
If I love it, I wear it.
And the question is, why?
By the way, my car wears no bumper sticker. It has better taste.
Why do I do this?
I’m obviously not the only one. I had to bid against a bunch of other middle-aged women for that Cavalier quilt. The fur and the estrogen were flying. It was a catfight, over dogs.
The women were already dressed in Cavalier shirts and sweaters. Odds are they had a ton of other Cavalier stuff at home, but they wanted more, and so did I.
Why?
What’s even weirder is that my new Cavalier stuff bears pictures of other people’s Cavaliers. They aren’t even my dogs, but I wasn’t leaving that show without a Cavalier mug, at least.
So what’s the deal? I understand why we wear the team gear to go to the baseball, hockey, or football game. We’re showing that we’re all part of the same red, orange, or green tribe. We belong to the community, whatever it is, whether it’s people who love Penn State or ferrets.
And for some reason, we feel the need to tell others the way we feel, about everything. It’s like this essay, summarized in three words.
Which might be an improvement.
And our loyalty apparel extends beyond teams and pets. I’ve even seen people at my car dealership, buying clothes with the car’s logo. Who is this for? To show the car some loyalty? And what’s next? Maybe a flag, with a picture of the car.
You’re in Volkswagen country.
And with the exception of the team apparel, it would be downright odd to wear some of the stuff I buy in public. Last year, I bought a T-shirt that says BOSS MARE , which I have yet to wear out of the house.
I’m single enough.
Evidently, we need to tell, seek out,
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