My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space

  My Nest Isn’t Empty,

  It Just Has More Closet Space

  The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Women

  Lisa Scottoline

  and

  Francesca Scottoline Serritella

  ST.MARTIN'S PRESS NEW YORK

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For Mother Mary

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  A Woman At The Wheel

  Mrs. Elvis

  Hairy

  Baby Blues

  Reading Is Fundamental

  Begrudging

  How To Talk To Moms

  Miles To Go

  One Down

  The Right To Choose

  Braless in the ER, The Sequel

  Five Dog Night

  Bizzaro Birthdays

  Focused

  Breezy

  Be Home By Ten, Mom

  Prince Charles

  How I Spent My Summer Staycation

  Foxy

  Deadline Fever

  Booked

  WordPerfect

  Quirky

  Nutty

  Junk in the Trunk

  Killer Apps

  A Paid Political Announcement

  Angie The Kitchen Aid

  Book Party

  Big Pimpin’ on Thanksgivin’

  Some Enchanted Evening

  Big

  Family Photo

  Mother Mary Becomes A Rock Star

  Unexpected

  UnResolutions for the New Year

  Happy New Year

  Love and Meatballs

  Big Love

  The First Lesson of the New Year

  Droopy Drawers

  GNO

  Designing Woman

  Take Your Medicine

  Adults Only

  Cat and Mouse

  Batman and Robin

  Crash

  The Joy of Cookbooks

  Peachness

  I Don’t

  Deadhead

  Vroom

  Put It in Park

  Just Desserts

  New York Hot Dog

  Fictional Blonde

  Lost and Found

  Name Game

  The Lady Business

  A Day At The Opera

  Amoeba

  The Sixth Sense

  Risqué Business

  A Good Girl Is Hard To Find

  Story Time

  Hairy, The Sequel

  Library Slut

  A Picture Saved

  The Nest Isn’t Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space

  Also by Lisa Scottoline

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  A Woman At The Wheel

  It all begins with Nancy Drew.

  And it might end there, too.

  I grew up with a girl crush on Nancy Drew, and it came back to me recently, when I was organizing my books at home. I found a few of the Nancy Drew books I had as a child, among them the blue-thatched copy of The Mystery at the Ski Jump. It’s even older than I am, copyrighted in 1952.

  My copyright is 1955.

  As a girl, I not only read the Nancy Drew books, I memorized them. I identified with her, although we had nothing in common. She was rich, I wasn’t. She was slim, I wasn’t. She had a distant father and no mother. I was close to my father, and I had Mother Mary.

  Who’s enough mother for both of us.

  Nevertheless I loved her and I still do, even in my fifties. Could there be two times in a woman’s life during which she feels like Nancy Drew—pre-puberty and post-menopause?

  Possible.

  But why, for me?

  For starters, Nancy’s blond, and I’m blond in my mind.

  She has a dog, and I have five dogs.

  She drives a convertible roadster, and I drive an SUV.

  Well, they’re both cars.

  Plus we both have a boyfriend. Hers is Ned Nickerson, and mine is George Clooney.

  Finally, we’re both on our own, which enables us to have all manner of adventures. And kidding aside, that’s at the heart of Nancy Drew. That she’s free, and in charge of her own fate.

  No one is telling her what to do. No mom, dad, or hubby. No one can. She doesn’t ask permission. She hops into that convertible and drives.

  Fast.

  Nancy Drew was an ordinary girl, who was extraordinary in so many ways, and because of her, I started to write novels in which ordinary women were the heroes, because we’re all extraordinary in so many ways. I’m talking teachers, lawyers, journalists, at-home moms, secretaries, painters, accountants, and nurses.

  In other words, you and me.

  The novels became bestsellers, thanks to you, and the trademark Scottoline heroine is Nancy Drew with a mortgage, or how I feel on a good hair day.

  It seemed only natural to segue from writing about fictional extraordinary women to writing about the real extraordinary women in my life, though it’s a new experience for me, in some ways. In a novel, I have 100,000 words to tell a story. In one of these vignettes, I have 700.

  I can barely say hello in 700 words.

  I’m Italian.

  Also, in a novel, I’m writing fiction, and here, it’s real life. The characters in this book are my family and friends.

  Even though they’re still total characters.

  Inside you’ll meet Daughter Francesca, who writes on her own in these pages, spilling all our family secrets, like when she tells me what to wear on a blind date.

  Hint: Show the wares.

  And you’ll read about Mother Mary, the feistiest octogenarian on the planet, who lives with Brother Frank in Miami. And my late father, Frank. Sadly, he has passed, but he’s here, too.

  That’s how it is when we lose our parents, or anyone we love. They’re passed, but always present.

  As for my pals, I’m closer than ever to best friend Franca, and as you will read, I spend Christmas Day with her and Meryl Streep. And you’ll meet assistant Laura, who sets me straight on having 700 people to my house for a book club party.

  You’ll even get to know my array of two cats and five dogs, including a new puppy that makes me wonder if I’m becoming an animal hoarder.

  Answer: Possibly.

  By the way, I’m divorced twice, from Thing One and Thing Two, and they hardly appear at all in this book.

  Why?

  They’re farther and farther away in my rear-view mirror. They’re so small, they hardly matter anymore.

  This happens when we drive, and it tells you I’m moving ahead.

  Finally.

  There was a previous book about all of these people, but you don’t have to read it to enjoy this one. You’ll catch on soon enough. I bet because they remind you of the people in your own family.

  And your life.

  And yourself.

  Because I think that women are basically the same, under the hood.

  That’s why Nancy Drew lives on.

  Her life is still all of our lives, as ordinary extraordinary women. Even if we have hubbies and kids and moms and dads, at bottom, we’re on our own. Each of us lives her own life, at the end of the day. Each of us has her own adventures, and each of us solves her own mysteries, of all sorts.

  Parenthood is only one of the adventures in our lives.
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  Childbirth is another.

  Love remains one of our greatest mysteries.

  Marriage, a mystery I have yet to solve.

  Nancy may find The Hidden Staircase, but we find The Hidden Calories. We may not solve The Case of the Missing Clock, but we’ve all solved The Case of the Missing Sock.

  We drive along in our girl convertibles, and we never know where the road will lead us. At every fork, we choose our way, right or left, north or south, not only for us, but for the people we love, in the backseat. We steer a way through this life, for us and our families.

  We have a better sense of direction than we think.

  Our strength, our wit, and our hearts are more powerful than anybody could ever have imagined.

  And even greater than we ever believed.

  We are, all of us, women at the wheel.

  Hit the gas.

  Mrs. Elvis

  I was just asked out on a date.

  By Elvis.

  For real, kind of. Or, rather, by an Elvis impersonator.

  He may have left the building, but he still has a laptop.

  He had evidently read somewhere that I’m a huge Elvis fan, which is true, and as he is in the Elvis business, he figured I’d be attracted, so he emailed me and asked me out.

  Uh, no.

  But, thank you. Thank you very much.

  Not that I wasn’t tempted, but he didn’t give me all the facts, and I wasn’t about to ask. Though he did supply a head shot and he looked so handsome—dark hair, long muttonchops, shiny sunglasses—well, you know what he looks like.

  I never dated anybody on a stamp.

  But he didn’t specify which Elvis he was. If he was young Elvis The Pelvis, we could talk. I would make an exception from my no-younger-men rule and become a cougar. Though I’m guessing that this impersonator is pushing 60.

  It’s an interesting legal question, in a way. If the impersonator is 60, but the Elvis is 22, does that make me a cougar?

  Or just a kooky and fun kinda gal?

  If he was black-leather Comeback Elvis, I’m still listening. Elvis in black leather on his comeback is my idea of a harmonic convergence. The only way to improve that combination is if he was carrying a big piece of chocolate layer cake.

  Don’t be cruel.

  But if it was Karate-Chop Elvis, I’m less sure. Though come to think of it, maybe I could be talked into it. Elvis is Elvis, even chubby. And I like peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Maybe I shouldn’t have said no so quickly.

  I’m all shook up.

  Still, the very notion of the email opened up new vistas for me, love-wise. By which I mean, if I could start dating impersonators, which one would I date? All of a sudden, I wasn’t limited to romance with live men, or even real men.

  Wow! It boggles the mind. My odds of finding new love just skyrocketed.

  Maybe I was being too picky before, limiting my dating pool to the living. True, the dead can be a little dull, but God knows I’ve been there before.

  The only problem is, if I try to remember long-dead pop stars, I can’t think of a single one who does it for me.

  I love to listen to Frank Sinatra, but I’m not sure he’s my type. Also Mother Mary would never forgive me. She knows they belong together. She longs to be Mrs. Ol’ Blue Eyes.

  I can’t remember any other long-dead pop stars, and the only other singer who really does it for me is Bob Dylan, but he’s not dead yet. Though I bet there are tons of people already impersonating him.

  Hmm.

  Gentlemen, send me an email.

  Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.

  Hell, come to think of it, I can do a decent Dylan impersonation, so maybe I should start dating myself.

  Except I already am.

  I wouldn’t mind dating an impersonator of historical figures, however. I always had the hots for George Washington.

  Chicks dig power.

  I could be First Lady, even though I’d be First Dead Lady. I could overlook his wooden teeth, and we could share a blow dryer.

  Plus, I had a thing for Robin Hood. I love all that derring-do, with the arrows shooting and the horseback riding, and the helping the poor.

  And the codpiece.

  What a guy! I would date Robin Hood in a second. I got so excited, I called Daughter Francesca to tell her that her new stepfather would be wearing green tights.

  She laughed. “Mom, Robin Hood wasn’t real.”

  “Yes, he was. I saw the movie. In fact, two movies. One with Kevin Costner, and one with Errol Flynn.”

  “Who?”

  “He was real.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  I considered this. It was possible she was right. She often is, and she sounded it. “But I bet people impersonate him, anyway.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So I could date the Robin Hood impersonator. What difference does it make if the person they impersonate is real?”

  “You mean like a fake of a fake?”

  “Exactly. I could do worse.”

  “It’s a point,” Francesca said, hanging up.

  Hairy

  I just found my first gray hair.

  On my chin.

  I’m trying not to freak.

  You should know that I didn’t panic the first time I found a gray hair on my head. I coped with it like a mature adult.

  I dyed it and went into denial.

  But the day you find a gray hair on your chin, your world changes. It’s enough to send you back to bed for a few hours. Now I not only have a beard, it’s gray.

  Maybe I need Just for Men.

  Only I’m a woman.

  Or at least I used to be.

  Now I’m a man with a gray beard. Maybe I need Just for Old Men.

  By way of background, it’s not the first time I’ve noticed that I’m growing a beard. It came in about the same time as reading glasses.

  Now there’s a nice visual. Take a second with that one. Let your imagination run wild.

  Those days, I would see a stray chin hair now and then, or at least that was the way I thought of it. Until it filled in nicely and needed trimming.

  Suddenly I’m Amish.

  Or a billy goat. Or the bearded lady in the circus. And though it’s good to change careers, I had other ideas. So I started plucking like crazy.

  Which was about the time I started noticing a fine peach fuzz, sprouting all over my cheeks. It wasn’t easy to see because it was blond, and God only knows how that happened.

  By the time you start growing facial hair, you lose your religion.

  Still I was grateful for small favors, and tried to ignore it. But then I started to see more and more peach fuzz, like sideburns, and soon I was sporting full-length girl muttonchops.

  As much as I love Elvis, I never wanted to be him.

  So then I started plucking like it was going out of style, yanking out these little blond hairs that would look great on a baby chick.

  But not on a full-grown chick.

  I kept up with it, and at one point, I found myself in a plastic surgeon’s office. This was a year ago, when Ruby The Crazy Corgi accidentally bit off the top of my finger and they had to do a skin graft. If you want to know the full story, you have to read Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog, and it’s worth it for the bralessness alone.

  But anyway, while I was at the plastic surgeon’s, I saw a sign for exfoliating facials, chemical peels, and facial waxing, which made me feel a little better, as I must not be the only woman turning into a man against his/her will.

  So I went to the desk to ask the young woman about it, and it turned out she was an esthetician, which is evidently not someone who appreciates art.

  “See my muttonchops?” I asked, pointing. “Can you do anything about that?”

  “Not really. It happens as you get older.”

  Thanks, child. “Can’t you wax it off?”

  “No.”

  “But the sign says facial waxing.”

&nb
sp; “Some women get their mustaches waxed.”

  I blinked. “So why can’t you wax my beard and sideburns?”

  The esthetician blinked back. “I don’t know. But we don’t.”

  “Don’t other women ask for it?”

  “Never,” she answered without hesitation, which confirmed that I was the only one.

  “You got any other ideas?”

  “I suppose we could bleach it for you, if you wanted.”

  “But it’s already blond.”

  “It could be lighter.”

  “Like Santa Claus or Sigmund Freud?”

  “Who?” she asked, but I let it go.

  I went home and started plucking like crazy, then yanking and tearing out at the root. But in time, I stopped freaking out and got used to my hairy new self.

  I think of my beard as a sweater for the face.

  When I have to go out, I pluck my cheeks. No big deal.

  And now that it’s turning gray, I suppose I’ll deal with that, too.

  Like a mature adult.

  I’ll go into denial.

  Baby Blues

  Daughter Francesca has moved to New York, and it’s a matter of public record that I’m officially fine.