Stephanie Lessing

Everyone knows it’s wrong to judge a book by its cover. I especially feel it’s wrong because I wrote a book that has the worst book cover of all times. It’s so bad, I actually discourage people from reading it.

“You wrote a book?” people ask. “Oh my God, can I read it?”

“I’d say yes, of course, unfortunately it’s out of print, and I don’t have any extra copies. Oh well.”

The truth is I hide my extra copies of that book in the far corner of my basement. To be fair, all of our books are in the basement at the moment because we don’t have bookshelves yet. The reason we don’t have bookshelves is because there are almost no walls in this house, and I’m afraid if I build the bookshelf downstairs there will be a flood and I will lose all of my books.

Okay, that was a lie. I’m not afraid of floods.

The truth is I decorated this house to look like a flower shop so the entire thing is white. When we finally build bookshelves, they will most likely be white. Naturally, I can only put white books on a white bookshelf in an all white house.

Most of the books in our current collection are either beige, green, red, brown, rust or teal. These are my least favorite colors and that is the real reason our books live in the basement.

However, since Covid took us all hostage, I’ve begun to rebuild my book collection. The way I collect books for this house is I go to the book store disguised in a mask and hoodie, and look for something I’d like to read. When I find something, I slip off  its book jacket (when no one’s looking, obviously) to see if the actual book itself is black or white, which are the only two acceptable book colors for this particular house. If the book is any other color, it goes back on the table, and I go home to read it on my kindle.

I’m guessing you want to kick yourself right about now for not properly researching and accidentally buying so many ugly books, but the good news is you never have to make that mistake again, because I’ve already done all of the work for you! And I’m happy to share the color of every single book I’ve bought since Covid, plus I’ll even throw in a very short review of each book, if, in fact, I’ve finished it. I’ll also list the ones I read on my kindle if I think it’s something you might want to read.

So,  here we go. Here are the books I (mostly) read and judged during Covid, according to color:

The Most Fun We Ever Had by Claire Lombardo: White Binding! Definitely going on the future bookshelf. Unfortunately, this book got lost under my bed at one point so I never finished it. It may have been because it was extremely long.

All Adults Here by Emma Straub: Red spine, yellow cover. Not gonna make it on the shelf. I should have read it on my kindle but I must have bought it by accident. The writing is so tight and so good I could smell calamine lotion. I don’t believe Emma Straub ever mentioned what Astrid Strick smelled like, but that’s how well she writes. You can smell her characters a mile away. You should read this book along with all of her other books just to see how good they smell. Also, this book has a very cool secret in it. I’m dying to tell you what it is, but I can’t.

 The Shape of my Head: Oh, hold on, that’s not the name of a book. That’s my next blog post.

Want by Lynn Steger Strong: Pretty Powder Blue with White Lettering. Might make an exception for this beautiful sky blue book, which I fully intend to read.

Summer Longing by Jamie Brenner: Powder Blue binding with pink front and back cover. Not the right shade of pink and I haven’t finished it either.

My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh: Read on my kindle and nearly passed out. If you read this book, all you’ll want to do is take pills, go to sleep, wake up when this is all over, and write like whatever her name is. This book is next level, out of this world, pure genius. I made anyone I know, who enjoys sleeping as much as I do, read it. I’m thinking of buying it and wrapping it in white paper.

Bunny by Mona Awad: I read this one on my kindle too, and I’d just like to say, it blew my mind. If you read it, you will know that was a pun. This is a beyond brilliant, slightly deranged, work of art about pretty girls who like to blow up men. It would be good to have this book in a library. Too bad.

American Dirt by Jeanine Cummins: Reading on my Kindle as we speak. So far it’s making me feel spoiled and fat and scared. And very American. In a spoiled fat scared way. I should take a peek at this one in person too. Maybe I can make an exception.

Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens: Again, I read this on my kindle long after everyone else read it, but I loved, loved, loved this book so much I might buy it and put it on the white book shelf, even if it’s green like a swamp.

Such a Fun Age by Kiley Read: Read on my kindle. Best book of Covid. As soon as I started reading it, I knew I found the one. And then I discovered that Reese found it too. Good is good. I might have to buy this book some day.

The Best of Me by David Sedaris: Bright Yellow, will not allow it on the shelf unless something crazy happens. And that would only be because he’s my favorite author, next to J.D. Salinger. Speaking of which, my copy of The Catcher in the Rye is Red. (May allow it on the shelf due to my inability to move on from adolescence).

Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver: Beautiful lime green binding and white book. What a gem this author is. But I honestly can’t remember what this book was about.

Just Like You, Nick Hornby: Pink binding  Red front and back cover. Willing to make an exception and perhaps lay it flat. That’s how pretty it is, and I believe it could work with white. One of my favorite writers. I love when a writer is so good you can’t hear the words. Just the story. I wish I was Just Like You, Nick Hornby.

Touched by the Son by Carly Simon: Black book bought for me by my very smart friend who is a character in one of my books. Will definitely go on the shelf because, above all, I love Cindy Sinclair. I was also pleasantly surprised to learn that Carly Simon has all the same insecurities that I myself enjoy, which made me feel like a famous singer.

What Remains by Carole Radzwill: Another book given to me by Cindy. It’s black and white so it will definitely make it up there on the shelf. If you lived in the 70’s, are a fan of the Kennedys, or like watching the Housewives of New York, you will love this book.

Writers and Lovers by Lily King: Black with red lettering. May or may not make it on the shelf because of the lettering, but highly, highly recommend this beautifully written book about the decision to live a creative life, which is always sad.

Friends and Strangers by J. Courtney Sullivan: Red all over. The whole thing, red. For some reason I didn’t finish this book even though I was enjoying it. It has something to do with a babysitter who befriends her boss and her boss’s father-in-law for a cause. I will finish this and get back to you.

Grown Ups by Marian Keyes: Black front and back cover! Winner! Also I love Marian Keyes and everything she writes. This book is about families and secrets and you will love it. Did I mention she once gave me a blurb? Definitely going on the shelf.

No one asked for This by Cazzie David: Depressing little brainiac with a knack for registering exquisite details like her father Larry David (my make-believe boyfriend). I truly love her. I read this on my Kindle. I highly recommend this if you’re in a bad mood or would like to be in a bad mood for fun.

Beach Read by Emily Henry: Read on kindle. It’s about cute competition between two cute writers.

The Hating Game by Sally Thorne: Read on Kindle. Also about cute competition but this one takes place in an office and there’s a lot of almost sex before there’s actual sex, which is probably why it became a movie.

Playing with Matches by Hannah Orenstein: Again, so cute!  About a matchmaker who plays with her matches. You’ll see. I might buy it even though I already read it on my kindle because my gut tells me it’s black or white and will Match my decor as well as the title of this book matches what’s under its covers.

Angel by Elizabeth Taylor: Not that Elizabeth Taylor, but every writer needs to read this book so you can feel like an imposter and want to drown yourself in a river. I regret to say I read this on my Kindle because I would very much  like to have this book in my house.

Here’s to Us by Elin Helderbrand: Jackpot! Pure White book, definitely going on the shelf, but I’m still reading it and having trouble remembering who’s who. At this point I’m rethinking my whole decorating philosophy. Maybe I’ll even dig my own book out of the pile of garbage in my basement.

Educated by Tara Westover: I only peaked at this on my Kindle, but I saw enough to know I already love this book. It’s clearly reminiscent of A Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls. So I’m guessing in the end, our heroine will have gotten the education she so deserves and go on to write an incredible novel. I’m only guessing though, and I know I’m the last one to read this one, too, but it seems I had a lot of  very uneducated decorating to do.

 

 

 

 

Every couple has their bed time rituals. Some insist on having some type of sex every single night. Others need to actively cuddle for a few minutes before wrapping themselves up in their little couple cocoon. A lot of couples end up falling asleep watching TV, first one drifts off, then the other. And then there are the couples who often end up sleeping on the floor. Those people are drunks.

I don’t understand cuddlers. How do they fall asleep with someone else’s skin in the way?  I understand how important love is, but I prefer breathing. That’s why my husband and I are what some might call not cuddly. We tend to keep to ourselves in preparation for a long night of sleep. Our pre-sleep routine is more about “the spreading of the pillows” then spooning. “The spreading of the pillows” ritual began when we fled our New York City apartment during Covid and had to incorporate all of our apartment bedding into our beach house bedding, which left us with eleven pillows on our bed. One might think that’s excessive, but I actually know and love all eleven of my pillows. They all serve a purpose, each according to their weight and density, in the construction of the retaining wall I like to build between us. The purpose of the wall is two-fold. It provides protection from the outside world and it ensures that all pillows are easily accessible in case I change my mind about my original pillow choice in the middle of the night. There are two pillows in particular, both named Flatsy, that I love like family.  Dan mostly throws his across the room out of frustration that we have so many. I then get out of bed, collect them, and add them to my pile.

Once I’ve spread the pillows, we kind of ease our way over to our own sides of the bed. Actually it’s more like we escape to our respective night tables and cling to them as though we’re both afraid of being eaten by the alligator on the other side. So far apart are we in our quest for uninterrupted sleep that if one of our children happen to call while we’re getting ready for bed, and they want to speak to both of us, we have to go looking for the other person as though we’re trapped in a forest.

“Hold on, I know he’s here,” I’ll say.

“Wait. Where are you two?” they’ll ask.

“In bed. Why?”

In the morning, whoever gets up first reaches for the other one’s hand like they need to be rescued from a pit of quick sand, grateful the other one is still there, and even more grateful neither of us had to suffocate for love.

A friend of mine suggested I see a dermatologist for my itchy back.

Why would I do that when I have a perfectly good husband and a drawer filled with forks, knives, and scissors?

As soon as we get into bed at night, I take off my top, hold out one of each, and say, “Pick one.”

Sure it’s dangerous to ask someone to scratch your back with tools, but it’s become our little routine. No different than our daily walks, our dinners in our pjs in front of the TV, and our favorite game, “Make believe I’m working.”

“What are you doing in there?” I sometimes call out to him while he’s toiling away in the spare bedroom we recently turned into a home office.

“I’m working,” he’ll say, and I’ll chuckle. The truth is neither of us are working. I’m writing and playing with flowers most of the time, neither of which qualifies as work. And he’s in there, without any doubt in my mind, planning a massive surprise party for me, for what year I’m not sure, but I know him well enough to know he’s had something up his sleeve for the past thirty years.

When he asks me what I’m doing, I always say the same thing, “Just working on something in my head.” And then he chuckles. He knows I’m playing. I know he’s planning. I scratch his back, he scratches mine.

I am about to turn…a number…It’s greater than thirty and less than seventy and for some reason it feels like a number that a man with a beard wearing a pair of overalls should be. Not a poor, innocent girl who was just standing there minding her own business. It’s so hard to believe this happened. I really don’t want a beard.

When I was a little girl, I always wanted to be thirty-six. I thought that sounded mature enough to get any job, to wear pencil skirts, to have a husband who wears suits, and to have two adorable children. A thirty-six-year-old woman runs in high heels, wears red lipstick and dances around town with a little perfume dabbed behind each ear.

When I finally turned thirty-six, I did have two adorable children and a husband who wore suits but I hadn’t quite lost the baby weight so a pencil skirt was entirely out of the question. Also, it seemed silly to run in heels after a four-year-old. The one time I wore red lipstick, my son took one look at me, burst into tears and said, “You look like a monster.”

Forty-six came and went too, and then… some other numbers. My daughter grew up and moved to LA, and my son moved to France. And yet I still haven’t grown into that vision I had of the woman in the pencil skirt. I grew into something else: A woman who is greater than thirty and less than seventy, who’s dancing around her room, because her two grown-up (and still very adorable) children came home for her birthday.

This is the oldest I’ve ever been.

I say that every year.

But, honestly, this time it’ll be true.

I like to think of myself as the type of person who would never hurt a fly, but, this morning there was one on my laptop.  First he flew back and forth over my keys, and then he landed on my water bottle.  He walked around for a while, checking things out, twirling his little mustache between his fingers, and then he flew up to my lampshade. He rubbed his little hands on the fabric, most likely he vomited on it,  and then he took another spin around the room. He was young, spry and carefree. A “catch me if you can” type trying out his new wings. After I swatted at him a few times, he figured out that I was no match for him and he planted himself on my computer screen and just stood there reading for the longest time. I tried to shoo him away again and again, but at a certain point, he didn’t even try to get away, knowing he could. He just stood there motioning that I should get off his back.

And then I killed him.

Why did I do it? I wondered.He wasn’t a criminal. He didn’t try to bite or kick me. If someone were to ask me why I killed him, I would have to say it was because he flew around. That’s it!  That was the cause of his death. Flying.

Afterwards I couldn’t get any work done. Hours went by. I made phone calls to distract myself, but I couldn’t get the fly out of my head. I wondered if he’d eaten anything that day. I thought about how thin he looked. Was he hoping to put on weight? Was he looking for something small to eat when I thought he was reading. Did he have a girlfriend?Who were his parents?  Did he have any friends at all to speak of?

Why did God even make flies? I Googled “what is the purpose of flies anyway?” and learned they not only help decompose rotting matter, they are great pollinators.

It is now 6:17 PM and I wasted the entire day thinking about the fact that I took an innocent life. A great pollinator no less. I wondered how I could make it up to the fly community. At the very least I could make him a proper burial and put a little rotting matter on my doorstep for his friends and relatives. I think I will do that. I’ll make him a little shiva. Just as soon as I get rid of this annoying spider.

Lately I’ve been experiencing flashbacks.

I am in nursery school.

I’m miserable and wearing a blue dress with smocking.

Everyone else is wearing pants.

I’m wondering if there’s a bathroom nearby.

I am filled to the brim with the hundreds of tiny cups of ice cold water I’ve just consumed.

It seems the water cooler is the only toy that interests me in the entire classroom.

There are kids everywhere.

I do not want to play with any of them.

I yell out, “Anyone want to play ‘water cooler?’” to fool my classmates into thinking I’m one of them.

 

Next, I see my Kindergarten class in exquisite detail.

There are clusters of ergonomically sized tables and chairs.

There are colorful construction paper cut-outs on the walls.

I can’t identify the reason for the cut-outs.

They are oddly-shaped, meaningless blobs.

I focus instead on a bottle of Welch’s grape juice.

There are more children I do not wish to play with.

A lot of them are running.

I tell the teacher I would like to pour everyone juice.

I mishandle the bottle.

It spills on most of the children.

 

I’m in day camp, looking inside my backpack.

The backpack contains two pairs of clean underwear tucked into a baggie.

 

Back at school, I see the leafy path that will lead us from the main school to the art room.

I see my art teacher’s purple clothing.

She has painted an egg on a black background.

The canvas on which she painted the egg is leaning against the wall.

I can’t stop staring at it.

I had no idea she was an artist.

I tell her that.

 

I am back in math class reliving my inability to understand how to read a ruler.

I have a stomach ache.

I see my velvet shoes darken before my eyes.

 

I hear my mother’s windshield wipers as I sit quietly in the backseat of our car.

We are on our way to yet another day of school.

I’m hoping the pitter patter of raindrops turns into a massive tornado, the entire town floods, and my school collapses.

We are late.

My mother has a nightgown under her coat.

I have a test.

I’m in third grade.

I need to go to the bathroom.

I find my chair and take out my pencil from my pencil case.

I can’t remember any of the names of the explorers.

I know one of them is Spanish.

I write down the name, Cortez, and cross my fingers.

I get distracted by a grasshopper and wish I was him.

I think how easy his life must be.

I want to jump out the window with him, and hop around in the grass.

I get chills thinking how easy it would be to escape.

 

I see myself on the bus home.

We have approached my stop.

I do not want to get up.

I seem to have a secret.

I’m certain there is a theme running through these memories.

I can’t quite put my finger on it.

 

I’m back in camp.

I don’t want to be there.

I hate all games.

I’m mortified when I get called on for duck-duck-goose.

And then I understand the pattern, the meaning, the narrative that’s been chasing me, haunting me, forcing me to come to terms with the core of who I once was and why I didn’t want to or couldn’t bring myself to play with the other children. The truth was I was too busy peeing in my pants.

 

 

 

 

 

I have one good bra left. It has one hook that’s holding on by a thread. The other hooks fell off at some point, never to be found.  I hand wash and hide the bra in the basement to dry so no one will ever see it up close. I wear this horrible looking bra every day despite my fear that the last hook will break and the bra will just fall off while I’m standing there talking to someone.

I’ve hidden the bra from my husband for as long as I can remember. But then, Goddammit, I slipped up. We had friends coming over, I was running late, and I accidentally left the bra unattended on the bed.

“What the hell is that?” my husband asked when I came back into the bedroom. I was caught completely off guard, and I’ve never been good at thinking fast under pressure.

“It’s a cake mold,” I said.

“Why is it on the bed?” he asked, poking it with a hanger to make sure it was dead.

“Okay, fine! It’s my bra.”

“That’s your bra?” he asked.

“Why are you so surprised? Haven’t you ever seen it through my clothes?” I asked, wanting to kick myself. I’d hid it for all those years and then this!

“It looks different in person. Why is it…like that?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Like it should be thrown away.”

“Because I can’t replace it. It’s been discontinued.”

“What a shame.”

And then it hit me, I don’t need a bra. I never needed one. I don’t go anywhere where going braless is considered a crime. It’s a free country. Why should I live in fear that an article of my clothing will suddenly plummet to the ground?

I took the bra and threw it in the garbage while my husband watched from the corner of his eye. I was finally going to live the life I always wanted. A life without fear and bondage.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m tired of living like this. I have a right to be free! And that thing is slowly killing me and my self-esteem. I’d rather die than be a slave to that one hook and eyed monster for one more day. It’s time to show the world who I really am. A person who is not afraid.”

Just then our friends pulled into our driveway.

“Looks like we have company,” he said.

“Tell them to wait outside!” I said, and fished my bra out of the garbage.

 

Lately everyone’s been telling me how great I look. It started right around early March.

I was just reading an article about how we’re all going to end up with PTSD after Covid, especially if we live in denial about what we’ve been through. So ridiculous. Unless you know someone who has it, or had it, my guess is we will all be dancing in the streets when this is over. Honestly? PTSD?  I have a roof over my head. I have food. I have clean water, a pillow I adore, and paper towels. How is that traumatic? I actually laughed out loud when I read that article and switched over to a video about six ways to make your eggs last longer.

Despite the chef/egg expert’s heroic efforts to make an egg last a year, one of the eggs didn’t make it. It turned into a kind of egg Jell-O, and I started crying. It wasn’t the kind of crying anyone could hear. It was the burning-nose kind of crying. The kind that sneaks up on you and makes you feel so sorry for yourself for not knowing you were about to cry, you wish you were crying louder so everyone else could have the chance to feel as sorry for you as you do.

That poor dead egg. It just rotted there on the cutting board.

I ran to the bathroom and watched myself cry. While I was looking in the mirror, I noticed one side of my hair was considerably longer than the other.. I wondered if I chewed it off in my sleep. I have been chewing on things a lot lately. I called my mother to tell her about the situation with my hair. As I was calling, I started thinking about how old she is.

True, she’s perfectly healthy now, but anything could happen. She could get… measles, again.

I made myself a cup of tea to calm myself down, but then I remembered I ran out of eye drops. I could easily go blind before I get up the courage to walk into Rite Aid. Measles probably started in that God forsaken place. What if I contract it and give to my mother? In Florida. I could almost see the measles oozing out of the drugstore door when I drove back and forth in front of it the other day. I wanted to go in, but I was having imaginary leg cramps that morning. Not to mention that I never made it to the frame store before this whole thing started. And who’s going to do all this laundry? Not me! I have a splinter.

I sat down with my tea wondering why I even bothered to make tea. It’s just water.

I was crying again when my husband walked into the room.

“Why are you crying?” he asked.

“Because all of the eggs are dying.”