They require neither shelf, rack, nor cabinet.
They’re sitting alone together on the kitchen island, like survivors of a suburban shipwreck.
Where they’ll stay until the next Williams Sonoma catalogue comes in the mail.
Legends of the Fall
Lisa
My friends used to tell me, when you fall, you fall hard.
They were talking about love.
But they’re not anymore.
I still fall hard, but this week it wasn’t about love.
It was one of those little things that turns out to be a bigger thing, at least for me. I find life lessons in everything because I miss Oprah.
To give you some background, this is what is happening in my life right now: The end of September is the deadline for my next book, construction on the new garden room, and my Eleventh Annual Book Club Party, for which one thousand two hundred book-club members will be coming through my house.
Honestly, I’m not complaining. I like when things are hopping, but the problem is, so was I, literally.
I was trying to hop over one of those indoor dog gates, and at the time, I was carrying a jar full of dog biscuits.
Can we pause to reflect on what a great dog mom I am?
Not only do I have stupid gates all over my house, but my errand was making sure that the dogs not be without their biscuits for one whole minute.
Somebody must’ve put the dog cookie jar in the dining room, so I had to fetch it.
I’m the only one in my house who fetches.
The dogs sit on the couch and wait for room service.
Anyway, I was bringing back the dog cookie jar and hopping over the dog gate when I tripped and went flying.
For a brief moment I felt like Superwoman, but I landed like Wile E. Coyote.
I fell flat on the hardwood floor and miraculously, the cookie jar did not break, but the dog biscuits came tumbling out. The dogs rushed immediately to my side, concerned about my health and welfare.
Okay, what really happened was that the dogs rushed immediately to my side and began eating all the biscuits.
I got up, dusted myself off, and let them lick the floor clean because who needs to sweep anything when you have five dogs.
They keep house better than I do.
But by the end of that night, my back was killing me.
Coincidentally, at the time I was reading Amy Schumer’s book, The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo. And I became The Girl with the Lower Back Ache.
I could barely walk, I couldn’t bend, and I couldn’t open the refrigerator door, so you know this was a catastrophe.
A catastrophe caused by dogs.
Ironic.
I went immediately to my computer and started Googling bad medical information, which is like having a doctor who makes house calls, but is alcoholic.
I spend more time on WebMD than most people spend on online porn.
In fact, WebMD is my online porn.
Who doesn’t want to date a doctor?
Anyway, I gathered all the bad medical information to arrive at my own misdiagnosis, which was either that I had muscle strain or kidney cancer.
I took the road less terrifying.
Unfortunately, the treatment for muscle strain was to ice the area immediately.
Too late.
The treatment after the ice was heat.
Now, right there, I need somebody to explain to me what it is with this hot-and-cold business. How can icing be the treatment in the first hour and heating be the treatment for the second? Maybe if we didn’t spend time icing it, we wouldn’t have to heat it.
In any event, since I had missed the icing window, I went directly to heating, which was more fun. I was living with ThermaCare in the daytime and a heating pad at night and trying to finish my novel, clean my construction site, and get ready for the book-club party by my deadline, by which point I was pretty sure I would be dead.
And all along, I kept thinking about falling. I started to become afraid to fall. I couldn’t afford another fall. I didn’t have time for a strained muscle or a broken bone. I used to worry about Mother Mary falling, and even though I’m not that old, I felt that old after because I was obsessing about falling. I started to wonder if I fell because I was rushing around trying to do too many things at once.
Then I remembered that we had been working on balance in my yoga class, yet I still have the worst balance, and it struck me that maybe that was my problem.
I don’t have good balance.
I’m doing too much at once, and I need to get some balance in my life.
Literally.
Remember what I told you about the life lessons?
Ta-da!
So I resolve to get more balance in my life.
After my deadline.
Political Partisan Seeks Same
Francesca
I’ve become obsessed with this election.
I won’t tell you whom I’m supporting—just assume I agree with you so you can get through reading this.
I stay up late reading every new article and poll, my Twitter timeline reads like the watercooler at every major newspaper and not-so-major online rag, I listen to five different political podcasts on rotation, and I watch more cable news than your grandma.
There’s only one area of my life left to get the political filter:
I want a partisan boyfriend.
If any guy wants to date me before November 8, we need to agree about this election.
I’m not advocating for this, I’m merely confessing to it. To those in an interparty relationship, I tip my hat to you. You have your priorities straight.
Well, one of you does.
In general, I don’t think ill of the opponent’s supporters. Everyone has different needs, perspectives, and opinions, and I respect their views.
I’m just not taking my clothes off for that view.
So until November 9, I’m friend-zoning the other team.
I need a break from the constant contentiousness, and it’s so much easier if we’re on the same page.
Plus, what’s more attractive than a man who already admits you’re right?
We can exchange eye rolls over the slanted coverage and share a laugh over all the same memes.
Forget Netflix, I want to CNN and chill.
We’ll watch the debates cuddled under a cozy blanket, and he’ll hold me during the scary parts. Then, when it’s over, the mood will be set—either by the thrill of victory or the frisson of the impending apocalypse.
And my partisan boyfriend won’t criticize that hyperbole, because he’ll be right there with me.
True love is being heavily biased in your partner’s favor.
I’m not the only one who feels this way. Many dating apps have offered photo filters and stickers to let you announce your fierce partisanship—but in a fun way!
My friends who don’t want to turn their selfies into campaign propaganda instead mention their affiliation in their bios.
I also have friends who subsequently took it out of their bios because they received too many hateful, trolling messages from fans of the other candidate.
Women on dating apps expect to be harassed with lewd sexual come-ons, but partisan insults?