Stephanie Lessing

If you’re looking for something to invent, something to write, or lyrics for a new song, you’ve come to the right place. I have an idea every hour or so. They have piled up over the years. It’s now time for me to start giving them away. They’re free, so just take one and make it happen. I would do them all myself but I’m busy.

Today’s idea is:
The iphone

I just got word that this one is taken. Therefore, I will post a second idea today.

Today’s second idea is:The towel pillow
The towel pillow is a pillow that has been slip-covered with towels. Admittedly the iphone was a better idea.

I had just finished reading “The First Bad Man” by Miranda July when my husband walked through the door.

The first thing he asked me is why I’d cut my hair like Geraldine Ferraro. Then he wanted to know why I was carrying a baby and why I had a black eye.

I couldn’t possibly explain to him what had gone on in the hours that he’d left me at home, alone, with that book.  How July’s profound and peculiar brand of loneliness felt like she’d stuck her hand into my stomach and waved it around in there in case I’d forgotten my own. Or how her pathetically hopeful, ethereal imagination forced me back to my 18 month old self, a time when I knew myself so well I walked around in a constant state of embarrassment for having shit my diaper for the 850^th time.

She not only forced me to go there she slapped me across the face the whole way there and back, with some ill-mannered, gargantuan girl’s foul smelling flip flop.  I had to cut my hair off, what else could I do? The perm was an afterthought.

As the day went on she forced me to look at a vagina really close up. The vagina had a baby in it. A screaming baby with a talking soul, whose name escapes me, but it sounds like something you might find at Ikea- something like Kubelko Bondy.

And there were snails everywhere. And brown shoes.

How could I explain the revolting but thankfully hurried sex she made me have with a very old man and something pink that I can’t remember? Oh right, his penis.   What explanation could I possibly come up with to explain why the whole house reeked of a sweaty sleeping bag doused in suntan lotion?

“She did this to me,” I said, on my knees.  “This is what she did to me, while you were at work. And the thing is she did it so well. She’s a writer. So much a writer . . .

‘That for a moment I wasn’t sure what I was.’”

Sometimes I like to fantasize that I accidentally got a job.

I rush around the morning of my first day in my 80’s power suit and heels, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and my briefcase in the other. I check my watch, kiss my husband goodbye, and rush off.  To Google.

When I get to my desk, I look out at the Empire State Building, the Chrysler building, parts of New Jersey, the Hudson River and then I hug myself for having such a big window.

Later I arrange some important papers on my desk and type a letter to Hillary Clinton about what not to wear and changing weather patterns.

I typically have lunch at a place called Claud’s, which I made up, followed by drinks on the rooftop of the Peninsula with some of my colleagues, secretaries and bodyguards. Sometimes I have to step away to take an important call from the President of the Ford Motor Corp.

Back at my office, I slip off my shoes and put on my sneakers. I jog on my treadmill while watching the stock reports on TV. Then I imagine myself having stocks.

Before long someone walks into my office while I’m dictating a letter or polishing my trophies and demands to know who I am and what I’m doing there.

At first I’m taken aback, but then I yell, “You’re fired!” and demand a raise. I storm out of the office to sit in my private ladies lounge on the third floor. I splash some cold water on my face in front of the mirror, and look myself straight in the eye.

“You go right back out there and show them what you’re made of!” I say, and take the rest of the day off.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Helloooo

Me: Hi, is this Sleepy’s?

Sleepy’s: It is indeed.

Me: I’d like to purchase a bed frame.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Yeah, we got ‘em in stock. You can have one for like seventy five dollars I think.

Me: Okay, great.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Actually.. hold on….yeah like 75. I just had to check something.

Me: Okay, I’ll stop by today.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Awesome

TWO HOURS LATER

I arrive at Sleepy’s. It’s 12 degrees outside and there’s a piece of paper taped to the glass front door, sideways, that says, “Back in ten minutes” with a cell phone number. I tilt my head and call the number.

Me: Hello? Hi, I’m in front of the Sleepy’s store. There’s a note that says, “back in ten,” but I’m wondering when you left the note.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Oh yeah. I left that note cause I went out for breakfast. I’ll be back in like ten minutes.

Me: Oh, I must have just missed you then.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: That’s okay. No problem.

Me: Wait? What?

TWENTY MINUTES LATER

A guy in a really dirty suit and thick glasses comes strolling over holding a gigantic Dunkin’ Donuts bag. I smile even though I think he shouldn’t have left the store to get a million doughnuts. The back of his suit has white glue all over it. My guess is his jacket lining was drooping a little in the back, and so he chose glue to remedy the situation.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Hey how’s it going? Thanks for waiting for me. Beautiful day, isn’t it?

Me: It’s pretty cold out, even with the 12 degrees.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: And the sun is shining!

As we stand outside the door in the bitter cold, I quietly watch him search all of his pockets, over and over again, for the door key to the Sleepy’s store he was hired to manage. I smile encouragingly. I’ve smoked enough pot in my life to know what can happen to keys. I touch my nose to see if it’s still there. The keys don’t appear to be in any of his pockets so he searches the doughnut bag. I try to sway from side to side a little to keep my blood moving.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Wow. I might have left them somewhere.

Me: You definitely did. You should check your car and all of your pockets again. And, in the meantime, I’ll do an errand or two, and come back a little later. One of my toes is so numb it’s numbing the toe next to it. I’d hate to lose any of them.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: You came all the way down here though. It won’t be much longer.

Me: I’m really cold. I don’t mind coming back.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: You’re right I should check my car. But don’t leave, okay? The reason I left the store unattended is that I waited for you all morning. I thought you meant that you were coming over right away when you called. I sat here starving to death. I waited as long as I could, and then I was just like, man I gotta eat something. Oh wow I didn’t realize I taped that sign on sideways. That’s messed up.

And then he finds his key in his right hand pocket and holds it up.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: So I’m gonna give you a discount for waiting, okay?

Me: No, seriously? Should you do that?

He points to the Sleepy’s Logo on his desk mug.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Of course I should. That’s me. The Sleepy’s Mattress Professional!

He laughs. So then I laugh.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: My brother is the number one salesman of 7,000 employees.

Me: That’s impressive. What number are you?

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Ha Ha Right. Yeah, well I only work here occasionally. I fill in for my brother if he really needs me.

I wonder if anyone besides him and his brother know that.

Me: What do you do on the other days?

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: I’m a musician.

Me: A h h h. What do you play?

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Everything, man.

Me: Seriously? Every single instrument? You play every instrument?

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Pretty much, yeah.

Me: Wow.

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: And I sing, produce, write, and I have a line of clothing coming out, too, which should be cool.

I realize my whole approach to living is off. Why shouldn’t a salesman be able to get a quick cup of coffee and a tasty doughnut during business hours to clear his head a little? Sleepy’s isn’t jail. It’s just a store for crying out loud.

Me: What’s your name? I’ll look you up!

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Be True.

Me: I’m sorry, what?

Sleepy’s Mattress Professional: Be True. That’s my name.

Me: Oh, it’s like a stage name.

Be true: No, that’s my name.

Me: So your first name is Be? And your last name is True? Just the letter B or B-e, or B-e-e, or B-e-a like Aunt Bea?

Be true: No, my first name is Be True. A very important person gave it to me and it stuck. It’s my name now, because that’s what I’m all about. I’m True in every way.

Now I’m fiddling with my phone trying to tape the conversation in case he doesn’t actually work at Sleepy’s, but of course my battery is always dead whenever I meet someone named Be True. I decide to trust him, but test his True-ness.

Me: Did you know they spray these mattresses with fire retardant, Be?

Be true: Yeah, they do. Except the Gemma beds. Come over here and take a look.

He walks me over to the Gemma Bed and reads the little tag, which says how safe and clean and chemical free it is.

Be true: I know everything about mattresses. That’s how I knew about the Gemma bed. I’m a mattress geek. And do you want to know why?

Me: I sort of do, yes.

Be true: Because everyone sleeps. Think about that.

We walk back to the computer which Be true tells me is from 1996 because the owner of Sleepys, who also owns Rockaway Bedding, 1-800 mattress (and a few other names I can’t remember) doesn’t want to spend the money for an upgraded computer.

Be True: It’s all about money, man. This whole business.

Me: As so often is the case, with businesses.

Be True: Yeah. So I’m gonna charge you 59.

Me: 59? Really? Are you sure?

Be True: Yes.

Be True starts pressing numbers into the rickety old computer. His fingers are slipping off of every key, I imagine he’s typing a series of cartoon curses $%^&&#$#%

A receipt comes out of an old-fashioned, boxy printer and he hands it to me. I check for spelling errors. There are none.

Me: Wow.

Be true goes to the back and comes back carrying the bed frame on his shoulder. He starts walking toward the front door with it, and nods for me to follow him.

Be true: I’ll carry it out for you.

When we get to my car, he slides the frame in, which fits in the car perfectly, and then asks me if I want to put the back seat down.

Me: Not really. The frame fit right in.

Be true: Yeah, it does actually. I see that. It’s perfect. It’s a perfect fit. Awesome.

Me: Okay, well, nice meeting you. Bye.

Be True: Hey listen. . .

Me: Yeah?

Be True: Enjoy this day. That’s what it’s all about.

Recently my sister-in-law emailed me a photo of me sitting next to my husband at a family gathering in her living room, about thirty years ago. What immediately struck me was that I had curly hair that day. At no time in my life do I ever remember having such hair. At first I thought after years of blow drying and flattening it, I convinced myself, and my hair, that I’m someone else. But, no, something had definitely gone awry.

I stared at the photo a little longer, trying to get a handle on what was beginning to look more and more like I was wearing a shower cap, when I suddenly remembered when that photo was taken. I was new to the family and no one was talking to me. It wasn’t their fault. They’re wonderful people. It’s just that not having anyone to talk to, even for a minute or two, has been a reoccurring fear of mine for most of my life and that photo documented one of the worst experiences of my life. As I recall my head was soaking wet from nerves.

Not only was nobody talking to me, but when I looked more closely at the photo I remembered that my husband, sensing how badly things were going, fell asleep. In the photo, I’m leaning forward looking at him like, Please don’t die. You’re my only friend here. From that point on I sat as stiff as a board unable to function.

I remember compensating for my fear by talking incessantly. I covered my parent’s divorce, my childhood eating disorder and the time I fell off my bike. I told them about our dog, Heidi, a miniature schnauzer, I described how I’d like to decorate my apartment, and gave everyone my mom’s chicken recipe. I was mostly talking to myself, but I persevered. At one point my husband picked his head up and I thought oh thank God, but then he proceeded to get up and walk into the other room so he could nap in peace.

On the way home he apologized every thirty seconds.

“I don’t know why I got so tired all of a sudden. I never meant to fall asleep. How’d it go?”

“Really well. Thanks for asking.”

“Great, so what happened to your hair? It looks shorter.”

“Humidity, I guess.”

I flipped my visor mirror down and admired my full-blown Afro from every angle before running a brush through my hair.

“I lied, by the way. It didn’t go well. I talked the entire time you were sleeping. Literally no breaks at all.”

“Yeah, I heard, but don’t worry. It’ll all be forgotten. It’s not like anybody got it on film.”

Your first day of Kindergarten can ruin you. I’m a writer because of mine. So you can imagine how badly I did that day.

My first mistake was I wore a party dress with a wide band of smocking across the chest and puffy sleeves. I knew it was all wrong as soon as I stepped inside the classroom, but there was nothing I could do. My only other wardrobe option was the extra set of clothes we were required to bring in a brown paper bag in case of an emergency, which meant in case we peed in our pants, and I knew I’d be needing those.

The only kid who was dressed worse than me was the boy in black patent leather dress shoes who asked every single blonde girl in the class if she would accept his hand in marriage. Also, I was fat.

My dress was so inappropriate I kept my coat on for the entire day. Please know that when you wear your coat indoors it looks like there’s something wrong with you. I went a step further and had my mom stay in the class with me. She had to sit in one of those little chairs looking like a giant and all the kids were staring at her. At snack time I literally spilled grape juice on my dress. Meaning I picked it up and deliberately spilled the juice on my dress in an attempt to ruin it so I could show that I knew better than to have worn it and perhaps leave early.

Had I known then what I know now my whole life would have been different. I can’t stress this enough. If you’re about to enter kindergarten, I urge you to read on.

The most important thing for you to know upfront is that almost everyone in your class will grow up to be a liar. This is not your fault, but you still have to find a way to play with them. Playing is really your only job. You can outsmart the little con artists if you don’t get emotionally involved. Think of them as toys.

*Also, do not show them your vagina (see below).

If you’re not the number one toy, that gives you plenty of time to focus on your block building, costume designing or fake food baking skills. Just hang back, be creative, and think long term: You don’t want to be the kid who peaked in Kindergarten.

If you’re playing with something and someone walks over and takes it, play with something else. Most of those toys are covered in E-coli anyway. Kids shit all over themselves regularly.

As a matter of fact, there’s an excellent chance you, too, will shit in your pants. If that happens don’t announce it. Just walk out the door and don’t look back.

If your teacher randomly breaks out in a sweat and accuses you of stealing her glasses, it’s not a reflection on you. It’s because her body is no longer producing estrogen. Tell her she looks like Jennifer Anniston. All women over forty secretly think they look like her. She will believe and reward you.

If a kid really doesn’t want to play with you he’s either afraid of you or grossed out. Check in and around your nose.

If you’re a girl and you want to play with another girl because she’s beautiful and wearing a sparkly pink headband, but she’s deeply involved with another girl who’s pretending a doll is their baby, while a third girl is quietly fashioning a starter home for her (with her own tool set that she brought from home) and the girl with the headband whom she’s planning to steal from the girl with the baby, statistically, one of you is a lesbian.

As far as pot smoking, it’s pretty much always a good idea to wait until you get to middle school. Now is just too soon.

If you call your teacher mommy by accident, I can’t help you. That’s how bad that is. You should kill yourself.

If your teacher shows favorites and you’re not it, remember this: There are women out there who prefer liars. These women make bad choices all throughout their lives. Still not your problem.

At one point you will dream that you went to Kindergarten naked. In my dream, I’m always riding a tricycle around the classroom with my whole ass showing. This dream will haunt you for life. It means you are deeply insecure and afraid of being known. The only way to stop having this dream is to become a writer and tell everyone what happened to you in Kindergarten.

*Suffice to say I responded to an invitation to meet with three little boys behind a tractor, all of whom promised to show me their penises if I showed them my vagina. Long story short I went first and they were liars.

The day I got my first Huffington Post blog published (about how I pee in my pants all the time now that I’m old) I peed in my pants. And then I called my kids and my husband, and emailed everyone I know. And then I quickly got in touch with the guy who does my website to make a few changes. “We better check all the links to Amazon. My book sales could easily go through the roof with the huff post exposure.”

After the blog went up, I spent the whole day sending and answering emails from fans. Fans like my kids, my college roommate, the lady who gave me my first set of highlights, who still has my email for some reason, my next door neighbor, the secretary from my kids’ middle school, my mom, my sister, and the woman who waxes my moustache.

“Wow!” I thought, wiping a tear from my eye.  “What a great day for my career!” I guess this is how it all starts. First the huffpost, then the emails, then I’ll probably want to set up an account exclusively for book sales royalties.  As of now it’s got just the $3.74, but that number is certainly about to change.

So I made some more calls, took a shower, checked my website a few times and decided to check my post.  Just to see if it had gone viral.

164 Likes.

I hit the button again to see if 164 was short for 164 million.

It’s not.

I decided that it’s better to build an audience slowly. You don’t want to overexpose yourself and then burn out.  The idea is to stay under the radar until you build a solid fan base to protect you from the haters.

I checked the post again.

166.

I remember my first book signing at Womrath’s in Tenafly, New Jersey. I parked a few streets down to leave spaces for my fans.  I was wondering if some of my old teachers might show. I imagined pointing them out in the crowd and telling them to give themselves a hand for knowing me.

I pictured my kids setting up a little lemonade stand for parched fans while they waited on line for a signed copy of, “She’s Got Issues.” And then I blotted my lipstick a little so I wouldn’t look too done.

When I arrived at the bookstore for the signing, the owner, Bob, had set up a bunch of chairs. I’d say about twenty chairs.  I was surprised to see that only three of them were occupied.

“Where is everybody?” I whispered to Bob.

“Oh, this is it. This is a typical turnout. Authors aren’t rock stars.”

“Right, right. So, who are those three people in the audience?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s my wife, Meryl, and her sister, Arlene. They both read and loved your book. That other woman is from the chair rental company. She has to stay until you’re done.”

The reading ended up being one of my best.  A few more people trickled in and they asked some amazing questions. We all started sharing our experiences about how women treat each other in the workplace. By the end we felt like a little family. That’s how it always is with readings. The people who come truly want to be there. They want to connect with one another through books and writers get to feel like they did something useful that day as opposed to what they usually do, which is sit in a room talking to themselves and writing it down.

If you touch even one person a day it’s a miraculous feeling, so miraculous in fact that I could go on and on about it all day. But I have to go check my likes.

I finally got around to reading the 7 Habits of Highly Effective People (circa 1989), and let me just say my hat is off to you, Stephen R. Covey, particularly in regard to the part about sharpening the old saw, but I’ll have you know there’s more than one way to skin a cat. I’d like to share my daily routine with you in case you want to incorporate some of my principles into your next book.

Here goes:

Wake Up.

Look at clock – this sometimes takes several hours.

Look down at my pajamas.

Decide to finish writing new book (Do not mention to anyone that you’ve only completed just the one chapter since 2011).

Scan help wanted ads for women over fifty with no skills or any real desire to do anything.

Put a coat and ski pants over pajamas.

Walk Dog.

Act like you didn’t see her go, but wave the doggie bag around in case there’s a cop.

Go home.

Think about arranging sweaters by color, neckline and fabric content.

Walk away from that project to take off nail polish.

Break for lunch.

Clear schedule for afternoon activities.

Think seriously about making a mammogram appointment.

Remember how unpleasant that is and quickly forget to make the call.

Briefly consider showering.

Browse all shelves of refrigerator for anything at all besides unopened eye drops.

Write something. Even if it’s just, “hi.”

Make a list of things that will help you become a better person. Include, “sharpening the old saw.”

Really start focusing now.  You only need 300 more pages before you can call what you have there a book.

Call Sister, and then mother, and then all friends.

Text both kids and then stare at phone waiting for a response.

Bring laptop in car for change of scenery and inspiration.

Just keep driving until you get an idea.

Pull over.

Start typing, excitedly, like you’re in a movie.

Then sit back and read what you wrote.

Realize you almost completely plagiarized, “Saving Mr. Banks.”

Drive home…thinking…thinking.

Drive to friend’s house by accident.

Talk about how hard it is to write, while looking through her clothes, drinking all of her wine and watching television.

Go home.

Change into a different pair of pajamas to fool husband.

Feel good about yourself. You earned it!

This morning I woke up and I wasn’t young anymore. At first I thought I was just bloated, but no. I didn’t wake up 100 years old or anything bizarre like that. It was more like I’d become fifty…ish. I’m really too young for this so you can imagine my surprise when I looked down at my hands and they were all swollen, knuckly and red. My initial reaction was this is kind of cool the way I just puffed up out of nowhere. It was almost like when I got my period for the first time.

After the novelty wore off and the realization sunk in that I’m never going to turn back into the young version of myself I started apologizing to people for my oldness.  “Sorry it’s taking me so long to find the Refresh button on this machine,” I’d say. Or, “Sorry I’m no longer willing to ski. I know we flew all the way out here and everything. It’s just that I don’t feel like bending over to put my skis on.”  I suddenly felt like apologizing for everything. “Sorry for coughing too loud.” “Sorry for burping.” “Sorry I’m sitting like this; my legs just seem to spread apart on their own now.  I think a hinge must have broke in my hip.”

And then boys started looking at me differently. Like something was funny.  I know my chest got unbelievably big at one point while I was just starting to turn old, but no one thinks her own chest is laugh out loud big. Oh, but it can be. And then the thing with the neck happened and the oversized, not-cute freckles. It was just a whole string of bad luck until I finally got so distracted by the physical changes I couldn’t even speak properly anymore. “Did you just make up a word?” my husband would ask me. “No whydge?” I’d reply.

And then I started peeing in my pants a little. Only when someone says something really funny, or when I sneeze, or, for no reason at all. I finally understand Kafka. One day you’re a girl and the next day you’re something else, something that pees inadvertently. What if you just woke up and were like, what’s that hump on my back? That’s exactly what this feels like.

I used to look at pictures of Marlo Thomas and think, I’ll never be old enough to wear those clothes. To dress like a lady. To wear calfskin gloves and tiny waist dresses and big sunglasses. And I never was. I past right by whatever age that was and now I’m too old to dress like that. Who would ever want to wear anything with a waist? That’s why old ladies wear housedresses without a bra.  I used to think it was my grandmother’s way of stopping us from visiting her so often, but now I know it was just a fashion choice, and she was willing to live with the consequences. She’d always leave her bra on, unhooked, and let it just sit there. I begged my sister, if I ever do that, poison me. But I dare you to spend one glorious day braless in a housedress and then tell me if you care if you ever see your relatives again.

But here’s the thing. I like being older. I like that I won’t have to try to look even remotely sexy ever again for the rest of my life. I can dress like a boy without it coming across as an ode to menswear. It just looks more normal than me hobbling around like a chimp in heels. I can eat bread; I can wear slippers outside because someone was nice enough to invent Uggs and let them go so far out of style that they’re in again for people whose feet hurt. I can stay up as late as I want. I can snore. I can even have a chin hair if I choose to, because that’s what old people do.  They have chin hairs and they don’t care!

Life is the longest running gag in history, and getting older is the funniest thing that will ever happen to you, so you might as well learn how to laugh in your own face. It’s only going to get puffier.