You may remember that I painted my shutters a yellow that turned out to be so bright I have to wear sunglasses, but mercifully, the color has faded over time, so now it’s merely radioactive.
So I tried to think about what color door would go with insanely yellow shutters, and some of the choices were a lovely forest green, a cobalt blue, or even a bright red, which looked too McDonald’s.
Do you want fries with that?
But then I started to think about it, and I realized a door color is probably the most important color in the house, because it’s the first thing you see every time you come home. It should make you feel welcome and happy. So I asked myself, Lisa, what’s your favorite color?
I chose a pink from a slew of different pinks and showed the paint chip to Daughter Francesca, who instantly said: “That’s Barbie pink.”
I realized she was exactly right.
And I made the connection between the Barbie Dream House and my real house, which I’m trying desperately to turn into my dream house before I die.
So I’m painting my door Barbie pink.
Why?
Because we girls can do anything.
SuperLisa
Lisa
I wasn’t born yesterday.
So I have no excuse.
But I am easily the most gullible person I know.
How do I know this?
For starters, I married Thing One and Thing Two.
But specifically today, I’m talking about believing a lot of dumb food claims, which has resulted in me buying a lot of dumb foods that fill my pantry. All I have to do is open the door and I see evidence of my own folly, staring me right in the face.
Let’s begin with teff.
What? you say.
You probably don’t know what teff is, and neither did I at first, which is the way it suckered me in. I have a weakness for the secret health food that I’ve never heard of before, with an impossibly weird name.
Like teff.
I first read about teff in an article in the newspaper, which had all the ingredients of the kind of food scam that gets me every time. Not only the incomprehensible name, but the mysterious place of origin, usually far away, if not downright exotic. In the case of teff, it is the traditional grain of Ethiopia.
Right there, I’m listening.
That’s exotic.
I don’t know anything about Ethiopia except that I once went to a restaurant in Philly where you ate with your hands, giving me the undoubtedly erroneous as well as racist impression that people eat with their hands in Ethiopia.
If true, God knows how they eat teff.
Because as a factual matter, at least according to the package, teff is the smallest grain in the world.
You’re interested, right?
It’s intriguing.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. As soon as I read the article, I went online and researched teff. I learned that it has a lot of iron, a superfood for women that was supposed to give you a lot of energy.
Energy is the key word for me, especially on deadline.
I know I’m not alone in this because people buy energy bars and energy drinks, but everybody knows those things aren’t necessarily healthy. I myself usually get my energy in the form of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with extra sugar—or chocolate, which comes with all the extra sugar you need.
In other words, that’s not healthy energy, either.
Plus I read that the iron in teff is especially important for women because we lose so much iron in our menstrual cycle. Of course, that doesn’t apply to menopausal women like me, who lost not only our iron but our menstrual cycle itself, but still.
Teff for all!
Some of you might be thinking that if I was on such a quest for healthy energy, I could start exercising, but let’s not get crazy.
This is America, where we eat in the quest to lose weight.
Anyway, so I went to three different grocery stores, but none of them had teff. In fact, when I asked the clerk in customer service, none of them knew what teff was, and one salesperson thought I was sneezing.
But the harder it was to find, the more I wanted it.
“Supply limited” is another sales pitch that always works with me.
Of course the supply is never limited.
But you never know.
I just can’t take that chance.
I’m gullible, see?
So I finally found a store that had a bag, which I opened eagerly the moment I hit the house. I’d never seen anything like teff, which is a tiny little red grain that looks like a pile of iron itself.
I could feel the energy surging through my body.
The recipes on the bag said that you could put teff in a porridge or pilaf, but I never make porridge or pilaf.
Because I’m not Ethiopian.
So I opted for boiling it for twenty minutes, until it turned into a red glop that looked like bloody mashed potatoes.
I took a forkful and it tasted vaguely nutty, then I ate the rest and waited to feel energetic.
But it didn’t happen.
I’m still my lazy old self.
Maybe if I had eaten it with my hands?
Hi, My Name Is
Francesca
“It’s a good networking opportunity.”
If there’s a more anxiety-inducing sentence than that, I don’t know it.
Networking is the worst. I like people and I’m outgoing, but I like connecting with people on a real level. I have a great, internal radar for genuine, down-to-earth people and I bond with them quickly.
I make friends. I don’t make “contacts.”
Only sociopaths enjoy interacting with others for the purpose of using them to their professional advantage.
I was invited to a best-selling author’s publishing anniversary party. The author being feted is one of the nicest in the business, and I wanted to go to celebrate him. But I knew, by virtue of it being an “industry” party, I wouldn’t be allowed to just eat the cake and enjoy myself.
I’d have to network.
And I’d be flying solo. My mother was also invited, but she wasn’t free. My agents hadn’t been invited, but they were very eager for me to go.
They even emailed me links to the professional bios and photos of several editors who would likely be at the party that I should try and make an impression on.
I felt like I was a spy receiving a dossier of my targets.
Only instead of charming the pants off these women, I was supposed to charm the book contracts out of them.
What’s the first thing a good spy needs? A good disguise.
I scheduled a haircut for right before the party, so that my normally kinky, curly hair would look smooth and professional.
Confidence, from the outside in.
As soon as I arrived, I was greeted by a big table of name tags, and relief washed over me. I love a good name tag.
A name like Francesca Serritella hits a lot of people’s ears like Fettucini-Spaghetti-ella the first time they hear it. Seeing it in writing helps.
I clipped that thing to my right boob with pride.
But once I got into the room, only about 15 percent of people were wearing theirs.
Yo, adults too cool for name tags at a professional event: get over yourself. We are all too old to be cool.
I’m only thirty, and did you hear me just use the word, “Yo?” I rest my case.
Plus, in the book world, people are best known for their words, not their image. I was terrified of embarrassing myself by failing to recognize some superfamous author.