Stephanie Lessing

Lately I’ve been trying to create that air of mystery associated with women of a certain age. I’ve actually been trying for years but I can’t quite get it so I’ve decided the only way is to stop telling people embarrassing stuff about myself. No more blogging is number one on my list of New Year’s resolutions. Number two is stop telling people what I just ate and number three is stop reenacting my dreams in excruciating detail, particularly when they involve celebrities. But last night I dreamt I punched Jerry Seinfeld in the chest and I’m not about to keep that to myself.

Let me reenact it for you.

It’s late at night in some hotel lounge and I’m standing near the bar with a friend laughing hysterically while waiting for Jerry Seinfeld to come over to buy us each a drink. Since he doesn’t come over right away– because he doesn’t know us– I come up with a clever idea to get his attention—I’ll race around the room and accidentally crash right into him! I’ll apologize and he’ll say, “Oh, no, don’t be silly, it was my fault. Let’s have a drink together and forget about it.”

My friend likes my idea so I start running. As I’m going around in circles, trying to time it just right, suddenly there he is. But as soon as I come face-to-face with him, much to my surprise, I punch him. Not like a hard punch across the face or anything, it’s more like a playful, best-friendsy, punch on the chest.

It gets worse.

He yells out, “Do not touch me.”

You’d think that would bother me, but it doesn’t. I think it’s funny, and I look back at my friend to see if she thinks it’s funny too, and now we both can’t stop laughing because I hit someone.

At this point in the dream, I sort of realize I’m not acting right, but I’m in too deep to be embarrassed.So then, while I’m still laughing to the point that I’m making such ugly faces, it looks like I’m crying, I wait until I know Jerry Seinfeld is in the Jacuzzi so I can sneak up on him. While he’s in there quietly talking to his friends, I go and get a little handful of crushed cereal and sneakily put it in the water behind him. And then my friend and I nearly pass out laughing over it back at the bar.

I know.

The thing is in real life if I did run into Jerry Seinfeld in a hotel, I’m more the type to turn my head and pretend I didn’t see him. That’s what I did when I found myself sitting next to Ashton Kutcher at Kim’s summer camp. Kim was there the same year as Rumor, so Demi and Ashton were visiting and they got into the same van that Dan and I were sitting in. When I first realized it was them, I pinched Dan’s thigh and then I looked right at Ashton, put my nose in the air and turned my head. No reason. I just wanted him to think I didn’t like him. And the funny thing is I love him. So much so that I would put a poster of him on my wall right now.

That’s why the dream confused me at first, but I soon realized that my subconscious is simply making up for the fact that I’m trying to be more reserved during my wakeful hours. It makes perfect sense. Eventually it will all balance out and I will emerge into a woman of serious intrigue with little need to reveal things about herself simply because she can’t keep a secret. Until then I will simply have to ignore my impulses.

Okay, fine. One more. . .I once wrote a letter to David Sedaris.

I have much more to say when I'm limited to 140 characters.  At least for now. So meet me on twitter xo.

A few weeks ago, I was at the beach, soaking up the sun, loving life when a spider bit me on the leg. I didn’t see it bite me, but I knew.  It swelled up and looked like a blistery burn.  I’m a big believer that  the sun and ocean heals all so I tried to angle my leg so the sun would fire its rays directly into the wound.  A few days later it looked sort of like a little bubble so I laid in the pool with my leg up in the air. I soon realized my sun therapy wasn’t working, so I poked the little bubble with a pin. I don’t recommend this.

You can't see Lyle, can you?  Well, rest assured it's not because he was made into a handbag.  Hold on though, I'm working on it.

So far it's overwhelmingly number three and we're pretty much at the finish line, but I'm still interested in those of you who liked number two, because I have a little surprise.  

I mean, who would go out and buy an ugly book just because someone recommended it?

Which brings me to "She's Got Issues," which is soon to be back in print, with a whole new look, thanks to the Author's Guild, Alex Davis (book cover designer xo) and Kevin Robinson (photographer xo) and a very cute model xoxox. But here's the thing, Alex gave me a bunch of covers to choose from and I want all of them.  Turns out you can only have one, which is so unfair.

But that's why I'm leaving it up to you. I really can't choose. Below are the three finalists. The cover that gets the most votes will be the one!  And the first 50 people to respond will get a free autographed copy just for voting.

How's that for a reason to kick up your heels?

(click on a cover to see a larger version)

Cover 1	Cover 2	Cover 3

I have this little vein on my thigh and all I can do is
stare at it and try to imagine where it came from.  All those years my family thought I was
upstairs in my office writing, I was actually just sitting in my chair thinking
about my vein. 

So I finally decided to go to a doctor.

“Yes, hello?  This is
Stephanie Lessing and I’d like to make an appointment to have a little vein
removed.”

“Where is the vein located?”

“On my right thigh. It’s very tiny.  Like an inch long but it takes up most of my
day.”

“Okay, and is there anything else you’d like the doctor to
take care of?”

I hesitated. 

Well, I could use a
face lift. . .and a whole new set of breasts that stand still might be fun.

“Just a couple of freckles,” I said, hating myself for not
asking for things that would actually make a difference in my life.

“Absolutely, we do freckles all the time!”

So I made the appointment and got there a half hour early.
Unfortunately I’d forgotten my wallet so I asked the receptionist if I could
call my husband with my insurance and credit card information, or if she’d
rather I go home and get some form of payment and identification.

She looked me up and down. I could tell she was thinking I
looked like everyone else who walked in there and that I probably wasn’t going
to try to steal the freckle removal procedure.

I waited about ten minutes and then a young, pretty girl
called me into the office.

I knew she wasn’t the doctor but she was sort of touching
all the machines in the office like she was planning to use them on me. She
asked me a bunch of questions about my skin. 
Does it burn? Am I allergic to anything? 
Do I have regular full body checks ? 

“No, no and yes,” I lied.

“Wait, are you going to remove my vein?” I asked her,
wondering why she cared so much about me.

“No, I’m just the laser technician. I’m going to remove your
freckle.”

“OH!  Right! My
freckle.  But what about my vein?”

“The doctor will see you after I’m done.  So which freckle did you want to remove?”

For those of you who don’t know me, I have at least ten,
maybe twenty, billion freckles on my body.

“This one!” I said, pointing to a particularly dark one on
my shoulder.  “And this one!” I said
pointing to an old favorite on my knee. 
“Oh and this one on my cheek.  Or
you could do the one next to it.  I guess
any of them would be fine.  You pick.”

“Well, there must have been one in particular that bothered
you when you made the appointment.”

“Actually I just pulled the world freckle out of a hat.  You can take them all off for all I
care.  I don’t need any of them.”

“Well, how about if I laser your whole face and then
you  can just point to the ones you don’t
like on  your body and I’ll laser them
right off.”

“Seriously, my whole face?”

“I do it all the time. It will even out your complexion.”

“I guess that would be good. 
An even complexion.”

“I’m just going to put this gel on your face and we can get
started.”

“Is it going to hurt?”
“A little.  Like a pinch.  And a very bright light.”

“Okay, I guess that’s fine.”

After she did my entire face, I couldn’t help noticing that
it was on fire.  I asked for a little ice
pack or something and she handed me one, but I could tell she thought I was
overreacting.

“The stinging only lasts a few minutes on the face, so….”

I handed her back the ice pack and said I was fine, but the
truth was I was afraid my face was actually missing.

“Can I have a mirror?” I asked.

“Sure!  You see all
those darker areas?”

“Yes.”

“Well that’s what happens when you get a great result.  Your freckles turn dark and then they fall
off.”

“Like in my hand or my lap or what?”

“No, they slough off.”

“So I don’t have to worry about them suddenly dropping to
the floor or anything?”

“Nope, they sort of just flake away.”

The hotness was starting to subside and I was beginning to
love the idea that I could live a freckle free life.

“Well in that case, let’s do my legs, shoulders, chest and
arms.”

“Okay,” she said, as though I suggested we split a soda.

And then she started with my legs.

For some reason, the legs hurt way more than the face.

And then I stood up and she did my shoulders. And then I lay
down and she did my chest.  The heat was
flaring up everywhere but it was so confusing, I couldn’t tell what part of my
body hurt more.   

“I think we need to stop,” I finally said.

“Are you sure?  You
only signed up for six sessions. The more we do today, the less we have to do
next time.”

“Six sessions?  I’ll
be cremated after six sessions. When did I sign up for six sessions?”

“It’s a package price. Does your face still hurt?”

“Surprisingly, no.”

“Well, then, trust me, the rest of the pain will subside
too.  The doctor will see you now.”

I was switching feet the whole time I was talking to him and
telling him I didn’t feel very well and that I thought perhaps we’d overdone
the laser just a tad and that I might be better off coming back another day to
look at my vein because I need to lie down somewhere immediately.

“No, you’re fine.  Let
me see your vein.”

 I hopped on one foot while trying to fan all the different
parts of my body with one of his brochures, and said, “It’s this one.”

 Suddenly nothing could have been more ridiculous than the
sight of my tiny vein while my entire body was slowly being taken over by
gigantic purple welts—except the sound of his voice saying,

 “Oh, I don’t treat these types of vein.  When you see the receptionist, ask her for Dr.
Lee’s number. He’ll see you. But there’s a three month wait.”

 “Okay, great!” I said, trying to run away. But then I remembered
I didn’t have any money and the pain was by now excruciating.

 I hobbled over to the receptionist and told her to please
call my husband to get my insurance information. 

 “What’s his phone number?” she yelled to me as I ran to the
door.

“Call information,” I said. “His name is Dan. I can’t talk
anymore. I have to go.”

 I was barely out of the office before I burst into tears in the elevator. I got
in the car and did the tricky bra removal under the shirt trick, turned the a/c
on full blast and called Dan.

 “You have to help me. 
I’m severely burned and I can’t drive.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s a long story but you have to help me.  I lasered my whole body and now I’m freezing
and burning up and I think I might die.”

 “Hold on.  I’m getting
another call.”

 “Don’t  answer it!
It’s just the receptionist of the doctor who tried to kill me.”

 “Just pull over somewhere and I'll meet you there. I'll call you right back .”

 In the meantime he took the call from the receptionist and
spoke to the doctor who explained that I was probably  just panicking, but that the pain will be
gone in a few hours.  He gave him a
prescription for me for Zanax and Pergoset.

 Dan went directly to the drugstore and met me in town with
the medication and a bottle of water.  As
soon as I put the pill in my mouth I felt better.  Either that or seeing my husband made me feel
better.  But it was definitely one of the
two.  I pulled my shirt to the side to
see my shoulder.  My skin was completely
raw with brown stripes everywhere.

“I feel better, “ I said.

“Why did you do this to yourself?” he asked me, trying not to look at my shoulder.

 “I’m not sure.  One
thing led to another and I suddenly could no longer live with my freckles for
another second.”

 “But I love your freckles. It's one of the things I love the most about you.”

 “Seriously? You migh have mentioned that earlier.”

 “I thought you knew.”

 “Nope. Besides I really went in there to have my vein removed.”

 “Promise me you’ll never do anything like this ever again.”

 “Are you kidding?  I
would never!!  This was hell.”

 That night I’m lying in bed and I spot a freckle I’ve never
seen before.  Somehow she missed it.  I can’t imagine how she didn’t see it.  It’s right next to the one she did on my
knee.  I slip out of bed and find a red
magic marker and circle it.

 After all she owes me five more treatments.

So I’m
standing on line at the Whole Foods prepared foods counter asking for one faux
chicken breast when the man standing next to me asks me, “Have you had those
before?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“How are
they?” he asks.

“Good,” I answer.  I would have said more but I already don’t
like him. 
“I guess you’re the only one in your family who likes them,” he says, “Seeing
as how you’re only buying one.”

 “My husband is out of town and my son is
eating out with his friends tonight,” I answer. 
I want to punch myself for giving him so much information, but I knew
he would have squeezed it out of me sooner or later anyway. I always end up
telling everyone everything.

He smiles as
though he thinks I’m lying, which makes me even madder at myself because now I
know I’m going to continue talking.

But I don’t
start spewing right away.

I wait until
I’m sure he’s following me all around the store.

Just as I’m
taking some Organic Homestyle Tortillas out of the freezer case, he asks me, “You
think those are really organic?”
“I do, yes,” I say.  “I don’t think they
can write organic unless it’s actually organic.”
“Organic what though?  They’re tortillas.”
“I guess the flour is organic,” I say.  “I’m
the only one in my family who really cares about that sort of thing.  There are four people in my family.  Altogether. 
I also have a daughter. She’s in college. And we have a dog.  Yellow Lab.  
She’s on a raw diet. “

Dammit.

A few
minutes later, he’s at the checkout line with me and I’m very tempted to switch
lines, even though it’s almost my turn. 
The more questions he asks me, the more I think he thinks I made up my
whole family and the more I defend myself, the more I hate him.  I keep looking all around me as though I find
everything in the store fascinating. 
Every FEED bag, every magazine, everything and anything but him.  It’s almost like I’m seeing for the first
time, that’s how much my head is moving.

“Jesus this
place is expensive,” he says, looking at a container of nuts that I’m
holding. 

I want to
tell him that it’s wrong to talk to strangers and that no one likes it, but
instead, I sneeze, pee in my pants, and then drop everything I’m holding.

I can’t even
bend down to pick anything up because I’m wearing thin, cotton, drawstring
shorts that show everything.  And I’ve
peed quite a bit.

I don’t know
what to do so I sort of turn my back to the checkout counter and slide down to
pick everything up, but of course he bends down with me and there we are, face
to face, him delighted that we’re forced to continue our relationship and me
mortified that this horribly annoying person, whom I detest, will judge me for
having just peed in my pants out of the blue.

“I can pick up everything myself,” I say.

“It’s no
problem,” he says. 

“No seriously,”
I say, a little firmer. 

He puts his
hands up and backs away as I fling everything back on the counter facing
sideways. I manage to check out without turning around and try to tuck my hips
under as I glide toward the door at an astonishing pace.

As soon as I
reach the door it starts pouring, and once again I thank Helen Todd for forcing
me to believe in Jesus Christ.  Clearly,
he’s watching over me.  If I can get
myself outside, without anyone seeing what I’ve done, I can just stand out
there for a few seconds until I’m totally soaked and the whole thing will just
blend in.  I walk in front of my cart
pulling it behind me and rush out into the rain, which, of course, stops almost
immediately.  So I sit down on a soaking
wet bench and say, out loud to no one, “Oh, God, I sat on this wet bench!”

As I’m running
to my car, I pee a tiny bit more (one day you’ll understand) and then take a
beach towel from the trunk of my car and sit down on it.  As I’m pulling out of my spot, the man I hate
walks by. He doesn’t acknowledge me or anything.  He just walks on looking straight ahead.  At first I don’t think he sees me, but then I
realize he definitely looked right in my window.  He’s just acting like he doesn’t see me.

And then,
just like that, I don’t hate him anymore. 
I like him.  I think it’s because he
knows what I did, but he’s purposely ignoring me so I won’t feel ashamed. He’s
a good, good man and I never should have treated him the way I did.  After all, the only thing he was looking for
was some pleasant food shopping conversation, a food buddy, if you will. And I
treated him like a bum.  And then, when I
was down on my luck, he had the decency to walk by my car without laughing, or
pointing, or calling me a baby, or anything.

I never
realized how different the world is once you’ve peed in your shorts.  It’s a very humbling experience. Of course I wouldn't want to do it everyday, but perhaps every time I leave the house I should
imagine that my whole entire ass is showing or something. I think I’d come
across as a much friendlier person. 

I wasn't going to write anything until my make-believe trip around the world was offically over (I'm thinking sometime in September) but I'm in the midst of reading, "How It Ended," by Jay McInerney.

I'm on page 216 knowing I only have 115 pages left. I've already read the note on the author and the note on the type -five or six times -to stop myself from finishing the book.

I'm so afraid for it to end, I've been dragging it around the house like an old doll. I keep imagining the moment when there's nothing but that one blank page left for me to stare at.  And then I quickly run my fingers over the remaining fat 115.  Thank heaven.  And while I hover there, three quarters of the way through this masterpiece, I am a genius who sees the world from the inside out.  I'm a virtual master of the human condition. A lucid, calculating, hardened orchestrator. I'm able to manipulate my tiny characters, dress them and undress them, exposing their spoiled egos, until there's nothing at all left to the imagination. I can even rearrange them on the page, making them appear and reappear at a moment's notice until my audience is so pliable I can almost taste their longing to be released from my skillful grip. And yet I can also smell the fear that I'll abandon them, sending them back to the deafening, blinding abyss that is their real life. 

And then I remember that I didn't actually write the book, I'm only reading it.

Oh well.

See you in September.