Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog Read online

  But we hold out hope that those friends of hers will ask us over.

  Charity begins at home theater.

  Meow

  So I have two kittens, Mimi and Vivi. They’re eight months old and although they look a lot alike, their personalities couldn’t be more different.

  This is A Tale of Two Kitties.

  Mimi is an adorable black-and-white kitten who looks like Figaro from Disney’s Pinocchio, with white paws like cartoon gloves and a matching stripe down the center of her face. She has golden eyes set close together, and her nose is jet black. She loves to be petted, eats whatever is put in front of her, and wakes me up by dancing on my face.

  She also has a repertoire of great noises, including a gratifying purr and a questioning chirp that sounds like, Mrrrp? And when she chirps, she curls her black tail into a question mark. Genius.

  If Mimi catches a mouse, she brings it to me alive, so that I can scoop the poor thing into a tumbler and set it free. Obviously, she doesn’t have the heart to kill anything.

  In fact, Mimi is so affectionate that the other day, my daughter came hurrying into the kitchen to say that she had been petting the kitten, who had actually drooled with happiness. I didn’t believe it, so Francesca returned Mimi to her lap and scratched the kitten’s head. In a few minutes, Mimi drifted into a feline fugue state and started dripping.

  It was cuter than it sounds.

  Our other kitten, Vivi, is also adorable. She looks remarkably like Mimi, but is gray where Mimi is black. An upside-down V on Vivi’s forehead reminds me of a demented Harry Potter, and her eyes are the green of martini olives. She has a perfect slate nose and delicate ears.

  But beauty is only fur deep.

  If Mimi is Gallant, Vivi is Ted Bundy.

  Last week, Vivi killed three mice, two moles, and a large dove. She also killed three more snakes in addition to the one she exterminated when she was only two months old. And yesterday she came home with fresh blood on her fur.

  I think she buried the body.

  Unlike sunny Mimi, Vivi has a dark side. It’s like a Patty Duke episode, but one of the Patty Dukes is homicidal.

  They say that serial killers start with killing animals. So what do animal serial killers start with? It’s a good question.

  Vivi knows the answer.

  When she’s not killing things, Vivi spends her day ignoring me. Whenever I try to pet her, she runs away. She hates to be picked up. She never purrs. Not only doesn’t she love me, she doesn’t like me. In fact, she doesn’t even recognize me. Every time I come home, she cocks her head as if to say, Have we met?

  But that’s not my point.

  My point is, why did one kitten turn out so good, and the other not-so-good? I am the mother of an only child, so I have no experience with raising two of anything. I treated the kittens exactly the same, yet they turned out completely different.

  Where did I go wrong?

  I can’t figure it out. I love both kittens equally. I haven’t shown any favoritism. Yet Mimi adores me, and Vivi wishes me dead.

  And you, too.

  Bribes don’t work. I offer them Flaked Chicken & Tuna Feast, plus all manner of fish-shaped oily treats, to the same result. Mimi gobbles them up, but Vivi turns away. I even bought them both the same toy bird on a string, which Mimi happily batted, cute as an illustration in a children’s book. But Vivi only watched from the sidelines. If the bird was dead, the fun was over.

  I even got them catnip, which Mimi rolled around in, purring. Vivi merely left the room. She has outgrown gateway drugs. As we speak, she’s probably out dealing.

  Things got worse when Vivi came home with a cut on her ear, from a brawl outside with God-knows-what. A hawk, or maybe a dragon. So I took her to the vet, and he told me I had to give her an antibiotic with a medicine dropper.

  Are you kidding, doc?

  Vivi won’t let me hold her, much less stick something in her mouth. So I put on a down coat and leather gloves to dose her, and still she raged like Charlize Theron in Monster.

  One way or the other, the fact that Vivi turned out so bad will get blamed on me. People always blame the mother, and it’s not fair. Look at Mrs. Spears, Britney’s mother. Sure, she raised Britney, but her other daughter turned out . . . oh, wait. Okay, never mind. Maybe Mrs. Spears gave them too much wet food?

  Nevertheless, I have to admit that I still love Vivi. I keep hoping I can turn her around. Gain her trust. Win her love. Maybe I’ve been too much of a friend, and not enough of a parent.

  It might take a new bribe. I haven’t tried the Gourmet Gold Filet Mignon Flavor with Real Seafood & Shrimp. That’s even better than the food at my last wedding.

  No matter, I’ll never give up on Vivi.

  Even a bad girl needs love.

  Mysteries of Life, Part Uno

  There’s a lot of talk lately about the big mysteries of life. By that phrase, people seem to mean how the Earth began or other questions that only public television can answer.

  Honestly, I’m more interested in the small mysteries of life. The mysteries that stump us day-to-day. The mysteries we need to figure out to make our lives better.

  Like magazine renewals.

  I’m a big fan of magazines. Actually I’m a big fan of reading anything, including cereal boxes, which is why I knew the word “riboflavin” at an early age. But when I grew up, I loved magazines like Seventeen. The day they publish a magazine called Fifty-Two, I’m in.

  I subscribe to a bunch of magazines; People, Us Weekly, Time, The New Yorker, House & Garden, Vogue, Publishers Weekly, and Cosmopolitan. Cosmo is for my daughter. I’m no longer qualified to teach her about sex, since I forget.

  To stay on point, I love all these magazines, and because I love them so much, I try to avoid the dreaded Interruption in Service. In my broke days, I had one of those with the electric company, and it was no fun at all. I prefer to keep my magazines up and running, with their current flowing smoothly.

  But the mystery is that I can never figure out when to renew, mainly because the magazines send me so many renewal forms, almost as soon as my subscription has begun. Time magazine sends renewal forms even before you get your first issue of Time, or maybe whenever you use the word time, or even if you wonder what time it is. You read their magazine, but they read your mind.

  There’s simply no other explanation for their speed. If I ever have a heart attack, give my nitro to Time magazine.

  And the subscription rates are a mystery, too. All the forms offer special rates. Some have a special rate if you subscribe for two or more years, others if you want to buy a gift subscription, and still others if you like the color blue. I get the distinct impression that special rates aren’t all that special in magazineland.

  As Gilbert & Sullivan say, If everybody’s somebody, then nobody’s anybody.

  And then there are the offers for a professional rate, which I’m offered all the time. The magazines seem to think that I’m a professional, and as flattered as I am, I have to wonder. How do they know what I do and whether I’m professional at it? Plus, what type of professional do you have to be to get a professional rate for Cosmo?

  Don’t answer.

  For a while, I thought I was onto their game, and so I ignored the snowglobe of renewal offers. I figured I would renew when I sensed my subscription was about to expire. Wait them out. Play renewal chicken.

  But I lost.

  I got so used to ignoring renewal forms, I must’ve ignored the wrong 300 of them, because now I have an Interruption in Service in both People and Time magazines. I don’t know about you, but I need People magazine. I pounce on it the moment it comes in and gobble it right up. I also need Time magazine, so I can put it on my coffee table and impress people.

  Ironically, People doesn’t impress people.

  So I renewed People and Time, and determined not to ignore any more renewal forms. I figured they must know better than I do when my subscription expires. So I responded to the
various offers for special professionals like me, but I still messed up. Now I get two copies of Us Weekly every week, which is four times as much Lindsay Lohan as I can take. (Although I do love Us Weekly’s feature, They’re Just Like Us, which shows celebrities on their continuous vacations, proving conclusively that They’re Not Like Us At All.)

  On top of my double dose of Us Weekly, somehow I started getting Rolling Stone, to which I never subscribed. I have no idea how this happened. I like Rolling Stone, though I have no business getting it. I stopped rolling a long time ago. Nowadays, I’m happy just to sit and stay. I’m more a rock than a stone, these days.

  But it’s a mystery why Rolling Stone started coming to me. I’m guessing that my magazines know a renewal rookie when they see one and they passed the word.

  It’s a mystery of life, to me. I’m a mystery writer, and even I’m stumped.

  Maybe I need to be a mystery of life writer.

  Time Travels

  Mother Mary has gone back to Miami, and I miss her snowy white hair, her homemade meatballs, and her lab coat. And there’s one other thing I miss.

  Her back scratcher.

  Yes, you read it right. She has a back scratcher, which she brought to my house with her. Of course, like any smart-alecky daughter, I gave her a lot of grief when I saw it, as she was unpacking.

  “Who travels with a back scratcher?” I asked.

  “Who doesn’t?” she answered, because, as you may remember, Mother Mary always answers a question with a question.

  So I let it go. Mother has had a back scratcher for as long as I can remember. I’m not sure if this is an age thing or a Mary Scottoline thing. I don’t know anyone else who owns a back scratcher, much less who won’t leave home without one. The back scratcher she had when I was little was of pink plastic, with a tiny hand at the end. It looked like a baby arm.

  Borderline creepy.

  Her new back scratcher was even odder. A foot long, made from a weird piece of teak or other endangered wood, and at the end where the baby hand would be was a bend shaped like an L, with long fingers carved half-heartedly into the bottom. Misused, it could put out an eye.

  “They let you take this through security?” I asked her.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” she answered. She slid the back scratcher from my hand, crossed to the dresser, and put it with the neatly folded shirts in her dresser drawer. Mother always uses the dresser drawers, no matter how short her visit, and even in a hotel. When she met me in Boston, she stayed in the hotel one night, and still she unpacked her neatly folded clothes and placed them carefully in the dresser. I didn’t ask her why, because I knew she would answer:

  “What’s the difference to you?”

  The other thing of note about Mother Mary is her suitcase. She always travels with a red canvas duffel, which she got free as part of a promotion for Marlboro cigarettes. She used it for almost ten years, until one of the pleather handles fell off and the Marlboro red took on a carcinogenic hue.

  I hate the Marlboro duffel, and on her last trip, I finally persuaded her to let me replace it. This is a nice way of saying that we fought about it all the way to the airport, so that I had exhausted her by the time we reached the Brookstone in Terminal B, where I saw my opening and didn’t hesitate. I bought her a new black bag with wheels, then sat down on the floor of the store and transferred all of her clothes, including the back scratcher, into the new bag. Still she wouldn’t let me throw the Marlboro bag away, but insisted that we pack it inside the Brookstone bag.

  Maybe she became addicted to the Marlboro bag.

  It got me thinking about suitcases, in general. I remember perfectly our family suitcase, which we used growing up. I’m going out on a limb here, but I’d bet money that you can remember the suitcase your family had when you were little.

  Our family suitcase was a rigid rectangle covered with royal blue vinyl, and it had white plastic piping. Inside it were all manner of fake silk pouches with generous elastic gathering. It was so heavy only my father could carry it. And we all four used it, so either we didn’t have much stuff or it was the size of Vermont.

  The suitcase fascinated me, and I always imagined that someday it would be plastered with stickers in the shape of pennants, each with the name of an exotic city. Paris. Rome. Istanbul.

  We went only to Atlantic City, but still.

  Now nobody will grow up fascinated with their family suitcase, because everybody will remember the exact same one. A soft black box on wheels, like the one I bought at Brookstone. No decals. No tangy whiff of faraway places.

  And barely enough room for a back scratcher.

  Since my mother left, my back itches all the time. I got in the habit of using hers while it was here, and since she took it away, I’ve substituted a carving fork, a wooden spoon, and a bread knife. I ended up with a hole in my shirt and an itchy back.

  Now I need to go out a buy a new back scratcher.

  Preferably one with a mommy attached.

  Emergency Hair

  I don’t know if you’re like this, but here’s something weird that I do.

  Let’s say I’m going along, not paying attention to something. Like my hair, for example. Then all of a sudden, I realize I need a haircut. Suddenly I feel as if have to get a haircut that very day, though I have ignored it for two years. I can’t explain it, but a sense of urgency sweeps over me, and it means either that I need a haircut or I must escape a burning airplane, hurtling earthward.

  There’s no distinction in my tiny little brain.

  So I call around frantically to get a hair appointment somewhere, which is always a bad idea, because it’s guaranteed that I’ll notice I need an emergency haircut on a Monday, when salons are closed. Don’t get me started on this Monday-closing tradition, which is so entrenched that it will never change. We’ll get universal health care before we get salons open on Monday, and that’s backwards. Ask any woman if she’d rather have a haircut or a mammogram, and you’ll see what I mean.

  Anyway, if I can’t get a hair appointment, I usually stop short of taking a scissors to my own hair. I’m already single enough.

  Well, to stay on point, I just did the same weird thing with my house.

  I have lived here for ten years, but last month, I started looking at the white stucco on my house. It needed repainting, but I hadn’t repainted because I never liked the stucco in the first place. I always knew that it hid lovely tan and brown stones, because I have them on an inside wall. So last month when I saw the stucco, wheels started turning in my head. I thought, if that stucco were gone, my house could look like something out of Wyeth.

  I mean Andrew, not the drug company.

  Then all of a sudden, I knew the stucco had to come off. That day. If the cost were even close to reasonable, that stucco was history. If not, I’d dig it out myself with a shrimp fork.

  So I went inside and started calling around like a crazy person. I managed to raise a stonemason, who came over, gave me an estimate that didn’t require a second mortgage, and told me he would take the stucco off.

  “Can you do it right now?” I asked.

  “Are you serious?” he answered, because he didn’t know me yet. About my emergency hair and all, and how I get.

  So I explained, and the stonemason started the next day, which was a compromise for me. I wrote him a fat check, but it turned out to be the best money I’ve ever spent, if you don’t count my second divorce.

  The masons started jackhammering, and beautiful stonework started to show, authentic and old, which is just the look I love, as I am authentic and old myself. Every day brought new progress. The stones were tan, brown, and gold; of all shapes and sizes. I took daily cell phone photos and sent them to my friends, who stopped opening them after day three.

  But then I noticed something. Next to the lovely stonework was aluminum siding. And I was pretty sure that Wyeth never painted aluminum sliding.

  Let me explain.

  When I bought my hou
se, I did notice that its clapboard was unusually nice and white, but I didn’t realize it was aluminum siding. I never knew that aluminum siding could look exactly like clapboard, even embossed with fake–wood grain. I didn’t learn I had aluminum siding until the home inspection, but by then I was already in love with my house.

  I overlook everything when I’m in love. A red flag could hit me in the nose, and I’d see only clear blue sky.

  Anyway, I pried up a panel of the aluminum siding to see what was underneath. Real wooden clapboard, in need of paint, but crying for sunlight. So you know what happened next. The aluminum siding had to come off. My stonemason said he knew a contractor who could do the job and he’d get me the number.

  “Right now?” I asked, but by then he knew me.

  So now I have three new workmen at the house, stripping aluminum siding. The clapboard underneath is moldy and grimy, and of course, there are rotten soffits and crumbling fascia, which need to be replaced. I didn’t know what a soffit or a fascia was until yesterday. Now I must have new soffits and fascia. Immediately.

  And you know what’s coming next.

  Painters.

  I can’t wait.

  Temptation

  These are hard times for people like me, who are easily tempted. I try to stay on my diet, but with all the food commercials, I find myself in a TV smorgasbord of chocolate cakes, Quarter Pounders, and vanilla ice cream. And the only way I can avoid temptation is not to buy forbidden food because if a chocolate cake finds its way into my house, I cannot resist it. I will eat my way through it. Which brings me to the point: