Stephanie Lessing

I wrote another book. I never meant to, and I apologize in advance to all the people I will force to read it, including both of my children, my husband, and anyone else who steps foot in here. In the meantime, I will continue avoiding the editing process by playing with flowers all through the spring and summer. That’s how this whole flower thing got started in the first place. Turns out avoidance can be a very powerful tool if you use it to do something you love. I’ll be launching Millstone Flowers Memorial Day weekend in the Hamptons. I’ll keep you posted about the website: millstoneflowers.com. It should be up and running soon. I just have to stop changing my mind about what it should and shouldn’t be. So far I’ve ruled out game show and dating advice column. Those never work out for me.

My son, Jesse, the poor soul who got stuck designing the website. thinks it should be a place where people can visit to see and buy flowers, but do I really want to have to sell stuff to people? What if someone asks for something ugly?  What if I fall asleep during business hours? What if I stub my toe? Any of these things could easily happen. But I guess that’s the chance I have to take to look at stuff like this all day instead of rewriting an entire book.

I woke up in the middle of the night thinking I might be a genius! I quickly shook awake my husband to tell him that I actually invented something in my sleep.

“This is it, honey!” I said.

“What is?” he asked.

“My invention. It’s gonna change lives. Especially the lives of flowers.”

“Ok, then,” he said.

“Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“I do and I don’t.”

Granted, it was a very odd hour for this kind of thing.

I proceeded to explain a device that would make it possible to transport liquids hands free. I had already come up with a few names for my invention.  “The Water Porter” was one.  The “H2-tOte” was another. There were others, but they weren’t as good.

“If this thing really takes off, let’s promise each other right now that we’ll never change.”

“Okay,” he yawned.

“I’ll have to go to the patent office first thing tomorrow,” I said. Mostly because of the handy strap I’d envisioned. If someone steals that part of the design, the whole concept will be ruined. The strap is the game changer.”

“You might not want to go first thing,” he said with one eye open.

“Why not?”

“I think what you invented is called a thermos.”

I guess I was relieved in a way. Just thinking about all that marketing and advertising I was gonna have to do. The competition would have been fierce, what with the invention of water bottles and the like, and I’d have to set up a whole other Instagram account. Imagine all the photos I’d have to take of liquids: Soup, tea, juice. . .soda. And all the prints and patterns I’d have to draw by hand for the outside of the bottle. I can’t even draw a really believable tree.

“I guess I’ll go back to sleep then,” I said.

“It was a good idea though,” he yawned extra loudly. And we both went back to our dreams.

Photo credit: http://jennaanderson.com and www.ruffledblog.com (Campfire Wedding Inspiration)

 

Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to work in a flower shop in the Hamptons? I was so stressed out I lost two teeth. Fortunately, they were in the back.   I love telling people how much I suffered in the whole month I worked there. I guess I didn’t realize working is work or how little I move while writing. I hadn’t anticipated the effects of using one’s muscles and I certainly had no idea what a dirty business I was falling in love with.  The flowers were sprayed with all kinds of pesticides, stuck in that green toxic foam and sometimes sprayed again to make them smell like flowers.  The whole thing was pretty scary, and yet it was one of the most beautiful looking shops I’ve ever been in. The flowers were perfect.  Funny thing about beauty. So much of it is sprayed on. But the more I research, the more I’m finding gorgeous organic farms that only grow and sell clean flowers. I think if you’re going to work with something it’s important that you’re not afraid to touch it.  The first thing on my to-do list is to plant an antique rose garden on our property. Those are the roses I love.The kind that look and smell like roses, and like they’re relaxing to the point that they’re practically falling out of the vase.  The kind that don’t stand straight up in the air because they were manufactured to look like floral soldiers. The kind that are proud to be hundreds of years old.  The kind that when you dream about them, they look like this.

The flower obsession is getting worse. I wake up thinking about flowers having fallen asleep thinking about flowers. I don’t know where this came from, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going away any time soon.  I love buying flowers, I love designing them and forcing people to look at what I made, even while they’re working.  The problem is I can’t stand  the idea of throwing them away when they no longer look young and perky. It goes against everything I believe in.  That’s why there are dead flowers all over my apartment in full vases of water. I’m hoping for some miracle that will bring them back to their former glory. In the meantime, I tell them the same thing I tell all the other aging beauties I know and love. Just drink. 

Once again, my New Year’s resolution is to stop talking. So far, and I believe this is the 50^th year I’ve tried this, I’ve been unsuccessful.  I can’t seem to stop blogging about how bloated I am, writing books about people who do terrible things, many of which never see the light of day, or giving people advice about how to remove or grow more hair. A lot of people feel they have the right amount of hair, and that’s fine. Honestly, who am I to tell them they don’t. In lieu of my unwanted advice, I’m going back to my 2017 resolution, which was to only give you flowers.  Flowers are the thing I love most in the world, aside from my family, and talking. When I can’t write, I buy flowers and take thousands of pictures of them. I dream of having a flower business one day and giving up writing for good. Flowers are better than me. They don’t tell people what to do, they certainly don’t suggest giving up dairy to strangers, and they don’t have crippling social anxiety. They don’t do anything, really, except make people feel better by not talking.  So, here we go. One more time.  Just flowers. From me to you.  For as long as I can stand it.

I’m gonna tell my “me too” story, even though it doesn’t even remotely compare to the pain and suffering that so many others have endured. No one touched me. No one got near me, and no one got in trouble, but all these years later, I still think about what could have happened…if I hadn’t been so incredibly lazy.

A few weeks after graduating college, I got an internship with an advertising agency in New Jersey. About a month into the job, I got invited by one of the partners to go to Philadelphia to attend a party hosted by a radio station. The party was at a fancy hotel and he booked us each a room. All of this sounded very glamorous to me until my only friend at the agency, one of the other interns, stopped talking to me. In retrospect, she probably knew more about our boss than I did.

At the party, my boss introduced me to a bunch of people, and then he asked me if I wanted to go smoke a joint with him. I really didn’t want to. He always had a few little crumbs lodged in his mustache and I didn’t want to accidentally come in contact with his leftovers. I politely declined, and he disappeared for several hours. At about midnight, he came up to me and said he was going back up to his room. He said something to his friend about a pair of coconuts that I didn’t quite catch, and I knew he’d had a lot to drink. There was something desperate about him, and he was sweating. I told him I was tired, too, and ready to turn in for the night. His friend got in the elevator with us. I remember thinking that was weird.

When we got to my floor, my boss and the other guy both got out and followed me to my room. As I was opening my door, my boss asked if they could come in.

“I’m kind of tired,” I said, “But thanks for inviting me. Fun party. And it was nice to meet you,” I said to the other guy.

“Are you sure we can’t come in?” his friend asked.

“I’m pretty exhausted. I’ll see you in the morning,” I said, and shut my door.

I got undressed, I put the TV on, and got under the covers.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on my door.

It was my boss.

“Can I come in for just a minute? I’m alone this time,” he said.

“I’m in bed already,” I called out to him.

“That’s okay. I only need to come in for a second. I think I might have dropped half a joint on the floor in your room,” he said.

“You didn’t come in here, remember?” I reminded him.

“I think I gave it to you then. Can I come in and at least take a look around?”

We both knew he hadn’t been in my room, and I knew he hadn’t given me anything, but I was dumb enough to think he was frantically searching everywhere for his joint. Had I been even the tiniest bit less lazy, I might have let him in, but I just didn’t feel like getting up and getting dressed again. That’s what saved me.

“I promise there’s no pot in here, or I would have smoked it,” I assured him.

“Can you just let me in?” he asked, not as nice.

“Sorry, I’m almost asleep,” I said.

“Don’t be stupid. Let me in,” he said, sounding like a completely different person, angry and mean, and almost panic-stricken.

I didn’t answer him. A few minutes later, he lightly knocked again, but I stayed quiet. I knew he was sitting down outside my door by that point. The knocks were getting lower. I felt a little guilty that I was being so rude, but not guilty enough to actually get out of bed.

We were scheduled to leave the next morning. He was my ride home. He didn’t talk to me the whole way, and he dropped me on the side of the highway somewhere near the office. I remember thinking this is kind of a dangerous place to drop someone off and then it occurred to me that he wanted me to feel like something you would find on the side of the road. I didn’t quite register the depths of the insult until much later when I told the story to my father and saw the look of horror on his face.

The next day, I told all the other partners and interns what happened. I told them how he insisted that he left something in my room. How he stood outside my door, quietly knocking, on and off, for what felt like hours, and how he left me on the side of the road. And then I quit.

The truth is I’d been planning to quit anyway. I’d worked there about a month by the time the invitation to the party rolled around, and felt that was more than enough time to work anywhere.

Fortunately, I didn’t need the job. It was an unpaid internship and their biggest client was Buick, which, at the time, was like saying Edsel. But, what would have happened if I needed that job to support my family? What if I needed that guy to like me? Or, what if I’d been polite enough to get off my ass and respect the fact that my drunk boss needed to look for his joint, whether he knew damn well it wasn’t in my room or not? Anything could have happened. I’m just grateful I was too stupid and lazy to answer the door.

 

 

My husband and I have been married for just shy of one hundred years. We’re so good at being married at this point I was considering writing a book about it, but who really has the time to read a whole book, or write one?  I’d rather just tell you our little secret and save you thousands of hours of couples’ therapy.

You might want to jot this down. You’re going to need to refer to it quite a bit if you want to make it to just-shy-of-one-hundred-years.

The secret to a happy marriage is: Never do anything that will hurt your spouses’ feelings.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

I know what you’re thinking: If I can’t hurt his feelings, how is he ever going to learn?

Sadly, people tend not to be able to learn anything. You should know that going in. The man/woman you married is the man/woman you will be married to for the next one hundred years. Now is the time to hightail it out of there, otherwise, you have to be nice the entire time.

Of course, there will be times when this seems impossible, and a lot of people ask me: What about when he’s driving?

This is an important question because we spend so much of our time in the car. What you need to do in this situation is not let on that you don’t like him anymore.

Unfortunately, even if you follow my advice perfectly, there will always be times when he/she will do something that will make you feel bad. If you’re both following the rule, it won’t be intentional, but it will happen anyway. He might accidentally grow a long pointy beard, which will frighten you, but you can’t say anything. Or, you might, out of nowhere, give yourself entirely new eyebrows. It happens.

You might also be wondering something like: What if he forgets my anniversary? A lot of women ask me this. Men don’t seem to care about this one, but I always say the same thing: Your relationship is not a history test. And who the hell ever really knows what day it is? For all anyone knows, today could be Tuesday or Saturday, or even Monday. Just let all that stupid crap go, including your birthday and everything else that matters to you. Try to put yourself in his shoes. Imagine what it’s like to have almost no memory at all. He’s probably lost somewhere at this very minute without a wallet, keys, or a recent home address. If you’re really hung up on celebrating a particularly special occasion, buy yourself a card, sign it, and put it in the mail.

 Isn’t this so much better than caring about anything? So, there’s your answer. There’s nothing you can’t get through if both of you follow that one simple rule. Just be nice to each other all the time, and tell me how it went. In a hundred years.

 

Just read the word JOMO for the first time on The Skimm.

TRANSLATION: JOY OF MISSING OUT.

It gives me joy just to say it.

“Jomo!”

JOMO is the reason I wake up in the morning, so I can go back to sleep. It’s the reason my friends make back-up plans whenever I agree to go somewhere.

It’s the reason I love my pillow. It’s the reason I’m milking my new shoulder injury to the point that I’m considering standing on a table and asking someone to push me off.

The reason I don’t like going anywhere isn’t because I don’t want to meet other people. It’s not because I don’t want to see the world and experience other cultures.

The truth is I just don’t feel like getting dressed. The bra, the buttoning of the pants, the tying of the shoes. The whole thing just ruins leaving the house.

The buttoning of the pants has always been the biggest problem. It started in seventh grade when all we did every weekend was go to make-out parties. My mother had warned me about those types of parties. She told me not to be like those girls, even though those girls were my only friends. So I went, but I refused to participate. It was humiliating. I felt like a voyeur. Fortunately there was pizza at those parties. Instead of making out, I stood in the corner and ate myself into oblivion.

I remember one party in particular I got a raging stomach ache and my best friend, a real make-out aficionado, told me to go in the other room and lie on my stomach to stop the pain and “flatten it out.”

To this day whenever I have to get dressed to go out to dinner, there’s some kind of memory trigger and I blow up like a balloon.

It’s the same scenario every time. My husband stands at the door saying,

“Just so you know we’re ten minutes late.”

A little while later I hear him yell,

“Now we’re 20 minutes late.”

A little while later he resorts to,

“Should I call and say we’re not coming?”

When I don’t answer, he comes in the bedroom. I’m always lying on my stomach with my face pressed into the bed. That’s the only position that works.

Eventually I have to admit that my pants won’t close.

“Do you want to stay home?” he’ll ask.

“Perhaps it’s for the best.”

“You sure you won’t feel bad afterwards?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Should we order a pizza and stay home?” he’ll ask.

And that, my friends, is JOMO.