Is it only bad because I’m not trying on purpose?
Men put their love lives on hold for professional ambition all the time.
Is it because I’m a woman?
I genuinely wonder if men get this sort of reaction for being too busy to date. To a certain degree, I’m sure all benevolent-auntie types pressure young single people of both sexes to settle down.
They’re equal-opportunity single-shamers.
But there’s a degree of alarm when we talk to women about finding a partner that is totally unwarranted.
All single women are not miserable, or even in danger of being miserable.
Big dreams are not the exclusive province of men. Women too have great curiosity, and passion, and ambition that demand to be explored.
Go into any law school, medical school, or art school, and see the notably not-sad young women there. They’re busy training themselves for the life of their dreams.
Think it’s only the young women with time to spare? Stop by a small business, a research lab, the kitchen in a fine restaurant, and see women of all ages engrossed with work that means something to them.
Look in my window on a Saturday night and see me at my desk, lit by the glow of the computer screen.
I’m not in my bathrobe, weeping into a pint of ice cream, wishing a boy would call.
I’m thinking. Considering the emotions of a character I created, puzzling out a plot point in a world of my own making, perfecting the rhythm of the words in a sentence.
I’m not getting paid for it. I’m there because I want to be.
And there’s nothing radical about it.
I’m just a person working hard on something I care deeply about.
That’s love.
Suburban Story
Lisa
I used to live in the city, but I’ve become completely suburban You know how I know?
I’m obsessed with my driveway.
And I blame it all on Downton Abbey.
Which is not exactly suburban, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
We begin back in my days when I lived in Center City, Philadelphia, and of course I didn’t have a parking space. I’d drive around the block for hours trying to find a place to park, and when Francesca was a baby, I got ticketed for pulling up in front of my own house to unload groceries, even though I lived on a side street and traffic was nonexistent.
I remember the incident to this day, mainly because when I came out of the house with Baby Francesca and found the ticket on my windshield, I cursed for a long time, which was her introduction to her mother’s incredible way with words.
Later, she actually repeated one of the words, unprintable here.
Unfortunately, she’s a fast learner.
Anyway, that’s when my life became all about the parking.
I eventually moved out to the suburbs, where I had my very own driveway, which was a remarkable thing. It was small, but I had only one car and the driveway’s size made it cheap to reseal. Then I moved down to the farther suburbs and my driveway got bigger, and it was cracking, pitting, and fading, which meant it was time to reseal.
So I got an estimate and almost fell over.
But not in the driveway, because it would’ve been too expensive.
My head would’ve made a dent that would’ve cost several thousand dollars to repair.
Now listen, I don’t mind paying for home improvements, which is now my hobby. As we speak, my retirement fund is being invested in a garden room with copper light fixtures, cedar shakes, and a pretty turquoise couch.
But those are fun things to spend money on.
A driveway is not.
A driveway is like a black river running by your house, like a nightmare water view.
The more I started looking at my driveway, the more I started hating on my driveway.
I start to wonder if I could do anything to improve it, and then I thought back to Downton Abbey, which was where I get all my decorating ideas.
In my mind, that is.
I loved the TV show, but in truth, I don’t remember a thing about the plot, all I recall is every inch of that incredible house, Downton Abbey.
I imagined myself living there with about three hundred dogs and an incontinent corgi.
In other words, DooDoo Abbey.
And one of the things I remembered most about Downton Abbey was the fabulous driveway.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to think it was of perfect little yellow round stones the exact color of 14 karat gold.
Like golden pebbles.
And they made a wonderfully pretentious crunching sound when one of the shiny cars drove over the driveway or one of the shiny horses clip-clopped past.
WANT.
And last summer, when Francesca and I were driving around on book tour, we ended up in beach towns, and I started to notice that the driveways were of really pretty stones, pebbles, or seashells, all of which was more appealing than my Black Asphalt River.
So when I came home, while I was running errands I started looking at people’s driveways and even visited one I liked a lot, of flat red stones.
I stalked driveways.
That’s pretty suburban.
I even started taking pictures of the nicer driveways and would look through them in bed at night, like pornography for middle-aged women.
Who also happen to be Downton Abbey fans.
There may be some overlap here.
I started calling driveway people, none of whom had heard of Downton Abbey because they lacked estrogen.
But one of them knew what I was talking about, and he talked me out of the golden pebbles because apparently they roll too much and have to be raked every day, which is perfect if you have a staff of servants but otherwise not.
Instead, he suggested that we do something called chip and tar.
Which I kept confusing with fish and chips, because it’s always about the carbohydrates.
The bottom line is that they come to your house, spray goopy tar all over your driveway, then throw a bunch of tan stones on top of that.
I was sold.
And that’s what we did.
It was even cheaper than another asphalt river.
And it looks fabulous.
Granted, Downton Abbey it ain’t.
But I actually look forward to driving out of my house so I can hear the satisfying crunch under my tires, knowing that I am running over my retirement fund.
That’s a great thing about home improvements.
You can actually see what you’re mortgaging your future for.
And if you’re lucky, you can hear it too.
I Like Big Brains and I Cannot Lie
Lisa
I have excellent news, ladies.
And it’s excellent news for men too, depending on how they feel about big butts on women.
But, men, whatever your opinion, I’m advising you to keep it to yourself. Don’t go spouting off to your wife or significant other while you’re reading. You will start a conversation that can go sideways pretty quick.
Or more appropriately, south.
Bottom line, no pun, I came across an article reporting that women with big butts are less likely to develop disease and are even smarter than women with average or smaller butts.
Finally, some good news!