Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog Read online

  I’d count that as graduation day, wouldn’t you?

  Life During Wartime

  History is littered with famous battles, but even the biggest pale in comparison with the battles in the Scottoline household when my mother is in for a visit. We make the Punic Wars look puny.

  Two of my favorites are the Battle of the Hearing Aid and the Battle of the Thirty-Year-Old Bra.

  The first shot in the Battle of the Hearing Aid is fired as soon as my mother gets off the plane. Daughter Francesca and I meet her at terminal B and ask, “How was your flight?”

  “Red,” my mother answers, giving us a big hug.

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Seven thirty,” she says, with a sweet smile. Francesca and I exchange glances, and we group-hug her to the car. She insists on sitting in the back seat, where she won’t be able to see our faces, losing all visual cues of what we’re saying, which guarantees that the conversation will be a string of non sequiturs until the shouting starts.

  “Ma, did you get anything to eat on the plane?” I ask, raising my voice.

  Total silence.

  “Ma, did they feed you on the plane?”

  More silence.

  “MA, ARE YOU HUNGRY? OR CAN YOU WAIT UNTIL WE GET HOME?”

  “What?”

  “MA! YOU WANT TO EAT OUT OR GO HOME?!”

  You see the problem. I’m exhausted from her visit and we haven’t even left the car. Already my emotions are swinging from guilt to resentment, the drama pendulum. Mother Mary is a funny, smart, and talkative lady, but if she can’t hear, she’ll eventually check out of the conversation, and in time I’ll get tired of repeating and shouting, so I’ll talk as if she isn’t there.

  By the way, she already has a hearing aid, which took the Boer War for her to get, but she needs a second one. I cannot understand why the second hearing aid has become such a Donnybrook. If you have the first one, what’s the big deal? You’re no longer a hearing aid virgin.

  Plus, I had asked her to get another hearing aid as my Christmas present, which gives me a powerful weapon for my battle plan. I ambush her at dinner, sneak-attacking. “Ma, I can’t believe you didn’t get the second hearing aid, for Christmas.”

  Her snowy head remains down, and she stabs a piece of salmon with her fork, which means either that she didn’t hear me or she’s formulating her counter-offensive. Don’t underestimate her just because she’s older. Experience molds great generals. Patton was no kid, and Mother Mary makes him look like Gandhi.

  “MOM, WHY DIDN’T YOU GET THE SECOND HEADING AID?”

  She looks up calmly and blinks her brown eyes, cloudy behind her bifocals. “Why are you shouting at me?”

  “I DON’T KNOW. MAYBE BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE A SECOND HEARING AID? JUST A GUESS.”

  “How can you start in with that while I’m eating? You’ll make me choke.” Whereupon she flushes red and begins a coughing fit that ends with her clutching her chest.

  Ka-boom! My barrage of guilt infliction is blown out of the water by a fake cardiac arrest.

  I never had a chance.

  The Battle of the Thirty-Year-Old Bra begins when she puts on the stretchy shirt we gave her for Christmas and declares that it doesn’t fit correctly. You don’t need to be on Project Runway to see the problem. The shirt doesn’t have darts at the waist, and her breasts are in Australia.

  “Ma, the shirt is fine. You need a new bra.”

  “What?”

  “HOW OLD IS YOUR BRA?”

  “Since when is that your business?”

  “YOUR BREASTS ARE TOO LOW!”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  She has a point. I’m not wearing a bra, but I hear they work miracles if you actually care. I’m braless unless I have a book signing. Then I haul out my underwire, which is heavy artillery for girls.

  Francesca says, gently, “If your bra is older than two years, the elastic has given out. Is it older than two years?”

  Are you kidding? I think, but keep my own counsel. I haven’t bought a bra in five years and I know Mother Mary hasn’t bought one in ten. I would guess that her bra is twenty years old or maybe even thirty. In fact, I’d bet money that her bra’s in menopause and a member of AARP.

  I could continue the story, but you get the idea. She admits that her bra is thirty years old, but she won’t get a new one, which doesn’t matter as much as a hearing aid, and though I pick my battles, in the end, I lose them all.

  It’s no coincidence that Mother Mary and Napoleon Bonaparte are about the same height.

  Crybaby

  For someone who has almost no estrogen, I sure do cry a lot. I don’t mean in a bad way, but in a good way. I find myself moved to tears a lot lately, and by lately, I mean the past thirty years.

  I used to cry whenever daughter Francesca was onstage, anywhere, doing anything. You should have seen me at her college graduation. I was positively deranged. The people sitting around me recoiled, and in the pictures from that day, I look drunk.

  This past holiday season, I cried almost all the way through the Charlie Brown Christmas special. The waterworks began as soon as those cartoon kids started singing. When their mouths formed those perfect little circles, I simply could not deal.

  I cry at all kinds of movies. I watched Fred Claus on TV and cried like a baby. Who cries at a Vince Vaughn movie? Worse, in a Gift-of-the-Magi moment this past Christmas, I gave Francesca a copy of Stephen Colbert’s holiday DVD, and she gave me one, too. When we watched it later, I cried at the end, when Stephen sings about believing in God.

  It’s a comedy videotape.

  I cried when I got my new puppy, too. The breeder, a lovely woman named Tina, put him in my arms, and I exploded with estrogen. Now I know why I have none left. It leaks out of my eyes whenever it gets the chance.

  The latest example of what a crybaby I am took place when I took Mother Mary to the airport to go back to Miami. I know you’re thinking that I was crying because she was leaving, but to be completely honest with you, I’m not sure that’s the case. She’d been visiting me for a long time, and even the most devoted daughter will tell you that it’s never a hundred percent bad to put your mother on a plane outta town.

  And most mothers would admit that, too.

  So imagine my surprise when I started to get teary before we’d even reached the airport. I was so misty I couldn’t even find a parking space. If you’re weeping in short-term parking, do you have a problem?

  Am I an estrogen junkie? A woman? Or merely Italian-American?

  I managed to keep it together when we checked her in at the ticket counter and I asked for a pass to walk her to the gate. I do this because she sometimes gets confused, and you know how she feels about wheelchairs.

  The same as she feels about second hearing aids.

  So we had a bite to eat and I walked her to the plane, but by the time I hit the jetway, the tears were flowing like cheap wine. Mother Mary ended up comforting me.

  “I’ll be alright, honey,” she said. “Hey, maybe I’ll meet somebody on the plane. You never know.”

  Which only made me cry harder. Besides the fact that she had to cheer me up, I’ve had the same pathetic fantasy myself, and it’s never true. The only men you meet on the plane are married, which is the second worst thing about airplane travel, after honey pretzels.

  Anyway, by the time we were at the door of the plane, I was such a basket case that the flight attendant rushed toward me with a cocktail napkin, for me to wipe my eyes. I swear to you, this is God’s truth. Her name was Susan, and she was on flight number 1651, USAir from Philly. Susan held me close while we discussed how much we loved our parents and she told me that she used to cry when she put her father on a plane, too.

  By the way, Mother Mary was fine.

  She found her way to her row by herself, and another flight attendant hoisted her roller bag into the overhead. She plopped herself into her seat, clutching her wrinkled plastic bag of crossword puzzle
books, her special red pens, and a magnifying glass for when she reads. I got her a better one for Christmas, a big round circle, and when she uses it, she looks like a superannuated Nancy Drew.

  I gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek, then sobbed my way off the plane and back through all the people in the airport, who averted their eyes. I’ve learned that’s what most people do when you make a complete fool of yourself in public.

  But there’s always a few of them who look back.

  They’re the ones who can’t watch Charlie Brown, either.

  Besties

  Many of us pet fanatics will admit that we learn life lessons from our dogs and cats, but few will go so far as to say that their role model is a puppy.

  I will.

  Let me tell you the story of Little Tony, my insanely plucky black-and-tan King Charles Cavalier puppy.

  If you think you’ve got problems, Little Tony’s started on his second day of life on the planet, when his mother accidentally chewed off his foreskin, along with his umbilical cord.

  Thanks, Mom.

  I’m told he didn’t even whimper in protest, and this I believe. Nothing gets this puppy down, even though he’s more anatomically incorrect than a Ken doll. And every time he pees, it looks like a sprinkler went off.

  All over his four legs.

  Now, I ask you, if every time you went to the bathroom, you had to change your pants, wouldn’t you whine? No? Now how about if you had to change your sweater, too, and then wash the floor? In short, what if, most of the time, you could pass for a rest stop on the turnpike?

  Not to mention that he’s missing most of what is some men’s favorite organ. And it was his own mother who emasculated him. It gives new meaning to the term castrating bitch.

  This would cause psychological problems of major proportions in mostly anybody, or at least entitle them to a guest shot on Dr. Phil.

  But Little Tony’s fine with it.

  This is a dog who could be sending Medea a greeting card on Mother’s Day, yet he never whines about Mom or anything else.

  In short, in all things, he’s relentlessly Cavalier.

  This may sound tautological, but he’s happy because he’s happy. It’s simply an act of will, on his part. It’s not a matter of not sweating the small stuff; it’s not sweating anything at all. Ever. Now and forever. He’s just a rolling ball of good will, positive energy, and fun.

  And as a result, miracles happen.

  I say this because, if you recall, my dog family includes Penny and Angie, mellow golden retrievers, which is redundant, and the control freak of the canine world, Ruby The Corgi. Ruby’s not a bad dog, she’s just territorial, and her territory is the Northern Hemisphere.

  If you live here, it’s only because she forbears.

  Maybe because she’s a herding dog, Ruby feels the need to order the comings and goings in everyone’s daily life, and that includes mechanical objects. She barks if cell phones ring without permission. Computer printers produce major affronts. Vacuum cleaners declare war.

  Because she has so much responsibility, it’s tough to be Ruby. She was on Prozac for a while, but that didn’t work. Maybe next we’ll try Pilates.

  The problem is, she’s the world police, so she can never rest. She watches everything. She’s alert to every sound. She keeps dogs, cats, and chickens in line. She’s the one who tried to bite my old golden retriever Lucy, and I got caught in the crossfire, sending me to the ER without a bra.

  But that’s another story.

  Bottom line, Ruby doesn’t play well with others. When daughter Francesca’s new puppy Pip entered her universe, Ruby morphed into the ultimate Mean Girl. So I knew that if I got a new puppy, I was in for dog management problems, if not the battle of the century.

  But what do you think happened?

  What results when endless good meets endless, well, Ruby?

  I warn you, my specialty is the surprise ending.

  Ruby loves Little Tony.

  Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles.

  From the first moment Little Tony set his tiny black paw in this house, Ruby adored him. They play together all day. They sleep together at night. They share Nylabones and tennis balls. They even share food.

  They are BFFs.

  I cannot explain this remarkable turn of events. It’s so sappy, it doesn’t even happen in greeting cards.

  All I can do is learn from it.

  Little Tony is my new guru.

  And I’m never complaining about Mother Mary, ever again.

  News Flash

  I woke up this morning with the best hot flash I ever had. This was such a good hot flash that if I smoked, I would’ve reached for a cigarette.

  If you get my drift.

  Oh. My. God.

  Blood seemed to rush all over my body, from everywhere at once, to everywhere at once, setting every inch of me tingling. My puppy Little Tony, who had been sleeping in the crook of my arm, looked up at me in amazement.

  I asked him, “Don’t you wish you were a middle-aged woman?”

  So let me say a word or two about hot flashes, because the fact is, I’m a big fan.

  To back up a minute, it’s amazing that I have yet to discuss hot flashes, because usually, they’re my second or third conversational subject, after hair products and carbohydrates.

  I know I’m not alone in this, at least among women. Cross the threshold of any ladies’ room, and all anybody is talking about is their hair, their kids, their weight, and their hot flashes.

  Don’t go cranky on me.

  I’m not being sexist or saying that women can’t discuss politics, the economy, or the stock market, but that isn’t the stuff we’re talking about in the ladies’ room. A ladies’ room is a girl headquarters, where everybody reapplies eyeliner that doesn’t need reapplying, squeezes back into pantyhose, and continues conversations into the stalls. Nobody cares enough about the stock market to take it into the stalls.

  Kids, yes.

  Hot flashes, definitely.

  Most women I know complain about “flashing,” as the doctors call it, and I used to, before I met Little Tony and began my really annoying crusade of positivity. So this is how I look at hot flashes now:

  They’re a godsend.

  Observe.

  I don’t know about you, but I was cold for approximately the first forty years of my life. In winter, I’d freeze my butt off, and in summer, I hated air-conditioning. I used to fight with everybody over the thermostat, and I never won. I was always the coldest person in the room, and so were all my women friends.

  No longer.

  Hot flashes are God’s way of compensating women for all the years they spent being cold.

  Now, we will be toasty no matter what the weather, and all we have to do is get old. It doesn’t even take any effort or cost anything. All we have to do is keep breathing, and all of us, our gender entire, will be wrapped up in a permanent burrito of thermal pleasure.

  It’s like we’ll all have our own Snuggie fleece blanket, as Seen On TV, only we don’t have to walk around looking like monks.

  And don’t forget the other advantage of flashing, namely the aforementioned tingling.

  Let’s talk turkey.

  There are times in life when we have to settle for second best. For example, we would love to have a hamburger, but we settle for the veggie burger. Or we would love to have a gorgeous Chanel purse, but we settle for the look-alike.

  So you know where this is going.

  Think of a hot flash that way, if you follow.

  If it makes you tingle all over, sets your blood pounding, raises your body temperature, and usually happens in bed, wouldn’t you settle for a hot flash?

  If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, why split hairs?

  Plus, you can be alone and get a hot flash. You don’t have to marry and divorce anyone. Or worse, share your closet space.

  I think it’s all part of God’s divine plan, sending us hot flashes at a
time in our lives when the real deal tends to be in shorter supply. Everybody’s sex life diminishes as they get older, and kids and carbohydrates don’t help.

  Neither does the stock market.

  So I say, look forward to your next hot flash. If you’re lucky, you can have five or six a night.

  There’s nothing wrong with multiples.

  Pay TV

  I read that most adults spend three to five hours a day watching TV, but I don’t believe it. Know why?

  The only shows on TV are Paid Programming.

  The other day I was trying to find something to watch, and everywhere I looked, it was all Paid Programming, one hour after the next.

  What gives? When did this start? And, more importantly, how can we kill it?

  I never noticed these Paid Programming shows before. I thought only the commercials were paid programming, but no. I tuned in to one to see what it was, and it was a guy selling special brushes. On another, a guy sold special floor cleaners. On a third, a guy sold special weight-loss herbs. I remained unsold. If they’re so special, why aren’t they on Unpaid Programming?

  Plus, the programming was so bad, they should pay us to watch it. Then they could call it Pay Us Programming.

  Not to mention the fact that we pay for all these extra cable channels to show us the Paid Programming. Uh, I think I just figured out why they call it that—because somebody paid the cable company to show it. In that case, since the cable company got paid by the advertiser and by us, they should change the name. To Sucker Programming.

  Who watches Paid Programming, anyway? It’s a mystery. Are there really people in the world who would sit down and watch an hour-long commercial? If there are, they should show themselves, and we should all gather around them and be their friend, in shifts.