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

  Okay, the friend is me.

  I’m sensing that these three things—mileage counters, Things To Do, and reading percentages—are related.

  Am I taking a task-oriented approach to life?

  Or am I celebrating the small things?

  Or both?

  There’s a great quote by E. L. Doctorow, who says, “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

  I sense this quote is related, too, and that it applies not only to writing, but to everything, at least for me. Because writing a novel is like driving to Toronto or cleaning your house or starting War and Peace. Any large task is intimidating at the beginning, but it’s doable if it’s broken down, mile by mile, Thing by Thing, percentage point by percentage point. And when you finally finish that task, you can check the circle.

  Have a Diet Coke, for me.

  And my father.

  One Down

  Mother Mary never forgets anything. Take the Case of the Crossword-Puzzle Cookie Jar.

  Our story begins when I see an ad for a cookie jar in the newspaper. It’s a square white jar with a real crossword puzzle on each of the four sides, and it has a special pen that you use to fill in the blanks. Plus it comes with heart-shaped cookies that I don’t have to bake myself.

  Mother Mary loves crossword puzzles, though she doesn’t much care for cookies, regardless of shape. Bottom line, the crossword-puzzle cookie jar struck me as a great gift for Mother’s Day. At the time I saw the ad, it was a month in advance of the holiday, so I ordered it online, charged it to my credit card, and specified that it be sent to her. Then I ordered her flowers like I always do and figured I had Mother’s Day squared away.

  But when I called her for Mother Mary’s Day, she’d gotten the flowers but not the crossword-puzzle cookie jar. It never came. She was happy with her flowers and didn’t mind not getting the jar. She told me to make sure I wasn’t charged for it. I wasn’t worried. I assumed they hadn’t charged me, because something had clearly gone wrong. The next week, she called me.

  She said, “I saw an ad for that cookie jar, and that thing cost a hundred bucks.”

  “I know.”

  “That’s too much to spend on me.”

  “No, it’s not,” I say, because I’m such a sport. I’m the kind of daughter who promises her mother gifts that never arrive. And cookies that other people bake.

  “Did you check and see if they charged you?”

  “The statement didn’t come in yet, but I will.”

  “Make sure you do. Mark my words.”

  Then, every time I call to say hi, the first thing she asks is: “Did you make sure they didn’t charge you for that cockamamie cookie jar?”

  “Not yet. Don’t you want it? I can call and ask them to send you another one.”

  “No, I don’t want it. It costs too much. I just want to make sure they don’t charge you.”

  “They won’t.”

  “How do you know? Don’t be a patsy.”

  I smile. Patsy is a great word. More people should use it. “Okay, I’ll check.”

  I hang up, vowing to check my credit-card statement when it comes in. The next week, she calls me.

  “I slept terrible last night,” she says.

  “Why?”

  “This thing with that cookie jar. It’s keeping me up.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a scam.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “Lots of people like crossword puzzles, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And lots of people like cookies.”

  “Except you.”

  “Right. So. The company says they’ll send the cookie jars, but they don’t, and nobody checks to see if they got charged, and the next thing you know, they’re off on a cruise.”

  “Financed by cookie jars?”

  “You got it!”

  I hang up, this time vowing I will never order her anything from the newspaper, or anywhere else. Every gift I will buy and carry to her, or else she’ll have a heart attack for Mother’s Day.

  But last week the statement finally came in, and I checked it.

  You know what?

  They charged me.

  But I’m not telling.

  The Right To Choose

  Let’s talk about a decision that women have to make every morning:

  Big purse or little purse?

  I know it’s not life or death, but it makes you nuts if you choose the wrong one as consistently as I do.

  If you carry a big purse for the day, it’s guaranteed that you’ll end up never needing anything you’re lugging around like a pack animal. And if you carry a little purse for the day, you’ll invariably end up tucking things under your armpit or asking your husband to carry them.

  It’s Purse Lotto, and there are winners and losers, every day. I lose, almost always. I keep track, and if I choose the right purse four days out of seven, I’m Purse Diva. Most weeks, I choose correctly only one day.

  Purse Geek.

  Now I can already hear you menfolk, thinking that the problem can be solved by a medium-size purse. That seems sensible, but it doesn’t work.

  Not your fault, gentlemen. How would you know? Unless you carry a man purse, in which case, play along.

  In reality, a medium purse is the worst of both worlds. It’s not big enough to carry everything you need, and it’s not small enough to let you feel footloose and fancy-free. And besides, medium defeats the purpose of adding fun to your life by gambling with handbags.

  So I say, live dangerously. Choose big or little. Pick your poison. See if, by the end of the day, you’re a Purse Hero or a Purse Loser.

  Use me as your inspiration. You couldn’t do worse.

  Just the other day, I chose a big purse and ended up walking all over NYC with Daughter Francesca, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulder. I didn’t need the hardback book, full makeup case, or water bottle.

  Turns out they have water in New York, too.

  So the next day, I carried a cute little purse, but wrong again. I couldn’t zip it up after I bought a pack of gum, so I walked everywhere worried that my keys would fall out or I’d get pick-pocketed. And Francesca had to carry our umbrella, newspaper, and everything else in her nice big purse.

  It goes without saying that the day you choose the wrong purse, your daughter will choose the right one. Last week, Francesca was six for seven.

  Purse Diva.

  It was the same week I got so frustrated that I opted out of Purse Lotto altogether. Francesca and I went to a movie, and I carried only my wallet.

  Whoa. I threw caution to the summer wind. I went free and easy, like July itself.

  Francesca looked over. “Why no purse?”

  “Traveling light.”

  “You should carry a purse, Mom.”

  “Don’t need one.”

  We settled into our seats at the movie, and Francesca gestured at my wallet. “Where are you gonna put that?”

  I blinked. The seat to the right of me was taken, and my cupholder held a Diet Coke and Raisinets. I couldn’t admit defeat and ask her to put my wallet in her big purse, so I set the wallet under my chair, on the sticky floor. Yuck.

  “See?” I said, hiding my distaste. “No problem.”

  It worked out perfectly until we left the theater, got several blocks away, and I remembered that my wallet was still on the floor. We hurried back, and it was still there, probably because even felons couldn’t unstick it. Then we went out to dinner.

  “Now where are you gonna put the wallet?” Francesca asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “Right here.” I set it down on the empty chair next to me, no problem. I didn’t forget it either. But when we had gotten a few blocks from the restaurant, I realized that I’d been so worried about my wallet, I’d left my credit card on the table. We hurried back, for the second time that day.

  So now I l
ose at Wallet Lotto, too. “I shoulda brought a purse,” I said, going home, after all was recovered.

  “Next time.” Francesca patted me on the back. “Don’t feel bad.”

  “Which purse should I have brought, oh sage one?”

  “The small.”

  Purse Genius.

  Braless in the ER, The Sequel

  So the other night, right before bed, I was standing with my dogs in the backyard, and here’s what happened to me:

  A bug flew in my ear.

  You heard that right.

  But I didn’t.

  I heard nothing but a loud and freaky fluttering.

  Do you follow? I don’t mean that a bug landed on my ear and flew away, which would hardly be worth whining about. What I mean is that a bug flew into my ear and got stuck inside my head.

  Can I just say that I freaked out?

  I ran around the yard, yelling and shaking my head so hard that my new glasses flew off and broke.

  Great.

  I slapped my ear with my hand, but the bug just kept fluttering, giving me the creepiest case of swimmer’s ear ever. I figured it was a moth because it sounded like it had big wings, and it tickled, not in a good way. I shivered, I shuddered, I was grossed out. I couldn’t stand still. Nor could I deal with the fact that there was a moth inside my head.

  I tried to remember from Biology 101 if the moth could fly into my brain, but I was pretty sure that it had to stop at my ear drum, which was already starting to itch, hurt, and maybe even vibrate.

  Okay, that could have been my imagination.

  Because there was a moth inside my head!

  I didn’t know what to do. I considered sucking it out with the vacuum cleaner, but I don’t have the kind with the hose, only the kind you roll on the floor. I thought about pouring water into my ear but then I’d end up with a soggy moth. I tried to pull it out but it was already too far in, and I was worried I’d push it in even farther, maybe to my cerebellum or eyes.

  I didn’t do well in Biology 101.

  Then it seemed like the moth was going farther inside my noggin. Hitting myself in the temple wasn’t doing anything but giving me a headache. I tried to stay calm but every time the moth pounded its wings, it sounded like a helicopter.

  Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration.

  But still, it was scary, like that horror movie where the fly crawls up the girl’s nose. I tried to decide whether I’d rather have a fly up my nose or a moth in my ear, but I was too panicky to think. I ran back inside the house and danced around, yelping and trying to knock the moth out.

  The dogs watched with varying reactions. The goldens sat calmly, waiting to go upstairs to bed, but Little Tony and Ruby The Corgi started barking and running around, a canine version of me. Also I was dog-sitting Pip, Daughter Francesca’s spaniel, and though he remained quiet, his bored expression told me he wished he’d stayed at a hotel.

  So I drove at breakneck speed to the emergency room, and thank God there was almost no one on the road because the moth went into winged overdrive, and I yelped and squirmed the entire way. I explained everything to the nice reception ladies at the hospital, who told me that this happened all the time and were kind enough to understand my need to keep moving. It was the people in the waiting room who raised an eyebrow, thinking I was having seizures. And I didn’t take offense when one of the nurses asked if I had taken any street drugs.

  By the way, for those of you who recall my last trip to the emergency room, after my dog bit the hand that feeds her, I had yet another superhot male nurse. And yes, I was braless while middle-aged.

  Which would be the bad news.

  The good news is that while they took my blood pressure, the moth flew out of my ear. One nurse gasped, the other one laughed.

  At least the moth didn’t fly out my other ear.

  And you know what? I killed the moth.

  I felt instantly guilty, but he deserved it.

  Then I went home, once again, happily empty-headed.

  The next day the receptionist called to tell me I had left my driver’s license and insurance card at the hospital, and she asked me whether I’d write a story about the moth.

  Ya think?

  Five Dog Night

  We know that I live alone with five dogs, which sounds pathetic, but is actually fun.

  We also know that I sleep with at least four of these dogs. The two Cavaliers, Little Tony and Peach His Child Bride, then Penny and Ruby The Corgi with Restless Leg Syndrome.

  Angie, the older golden, sleeps in my bedroom on her denim dog bed that says GOOD GIRLS.

  All the bad girls are in my bed.

  Now this is going to sound weird, but I actually look forward to going to bed, partly because of these canine characters.

  Here’s a typical night: I usually work until bedtime in the family room, while the dogs doze, chew Nylabones, or watch TV. It’s not always as peaceful as it sounds. Ruby barks every time a doorbell rings in a commercial, and she hates the one where the people drive around squeezing a squeaky toy. Somebody needs to tell these advertisers not to make commercials that make dogs bark. I mute the commercial every time it comes on, and if I ever see whatever product they’re selling, I’ll burn it.

  Anyway, my favorite part of the day is when I turn off the laptop and TV, switch off the table lamps, and walk the dogs one last time. It takes a while for five dogs to go to the bathroom, and I use that time to look up at the sky and the stars. I’m not good at constellations, but I recognize the three little stars in a row as part of Orion. I know a belt when I see one. I’m good at stellar accessories.

  If they had constellations in the shape of shoes and handbags, I’d be an astronomer.

  In fact, it makes you wonder if there are enough women astronomers. I have a feeling that if there were, we’d see fewer dippers and bears in the sky and more eyelash curlers and mascara wands.

  I would never be outside on a freezing night if it weren’t for these doggies, and believe it or not, that’s fun, too. The air is pure and clean, and it’s easy to forget how cold it is if you’re bundled up. The sky in winter is the color of frozen blueberries, and last night was almost starless except for a full moon, so bright that when it shone through the bare tree limbs, it cast jagged moonshadows on the frozen ground, like lightning.

  I like to look up at the sky because my only other choice is looking down, at what the dogs are doing. And it doesn’t get more earthbound.

  When they’re finished, we go in, lock up, and trundle upstairs, where everybody falls into position. Penny and Ruby take opposite corners, anchoring the bed, and Peach and Little Tony take their places on my left and right, anchoring me.

  Peach cuddles like crazy, curling in the crook of my elbow or against my neck. They say Cavaliers are lap dogs, but that’s not true. They’re really neck dogs. Face dogs. Cheek dogs. They want to breathe the same air as you, at the exact same moment, like the stalkers of the dog world.

  And you know what?

  It’s kinda great.

  And Peach, especially, is so calm. She never yaps or growls, and is somehow the one who keeps her head when all the dogs around her are losing theirs.

  Which has been known to happen at night.

  Anybody who sleeps with dogs knows that they bark at squirrels, deer, and whatever else is out there. Or they start scratching and shake the bed. Or they shift positions and squirm around. Or they have doggie dreams that make them yelp. Or they decide to clean themselves, and the sound of their licking will wake you up, then gross you out.

  If you sleep with dogs, it won’t be the best night’s sleep.

  But somehow, it won’t matter.

  Bizarro Birthdays

  I just got off the phone with Mother Mary, who’s lost her mind. Or maybe it’s Scottoline birthday madness.

  Let me explain.

  She told me a story that happened to her that day, when she was going outside to do the laundry.

  Yes, you read tha
t right.

  She lives in Miami with brother Frank and she goes outside to do the laundry because they keep their washer and dryer in the backyard.

  This makes no sense to me, but she swears that it’s common in Florida to keep major appliances in the backyard, like shrubs with twenty-year warranties.

  Still, it’s hard for me to believe. I suspect that my mother and brother are redneck Italians.

  But never mind, that’s not the point of the story.

  So Mother Mary is going outside to put in a load of laundry and she sees one of her neighbors, a nice young woman, walking her two-year-old son by the hand. My mother stops to say hello, and the little boy looks up at her with big blue eyes and says:

  “I love you, Mary.”

  So of course my mother melts, because she loves kids, and she even gets choked up telling me on the phone. The whole story is sounding really sweet until she gets to the next part, which is when she asks the mother of the toddler when is his birthday, and the woman answers:

  November 23.

  Okay, means nothing to you, but that’s brother Frank’s birthday.

  And on the phone, my mother tells me: “I looked at that little boy, and I thought he was like Frank. Like he has your brother’s soul.”

  I thought I heard her wrong. “Pardon?”

  “When he said he loved me, I looked into his eyes and I could see his soul, and it was Frank’s soul.”

  “You mean they’re alike?”

  “No, I mean they’re the same.”

  I tried to deal. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. I’m telling you, he has the same exact blue eyes as Frank and he was born on the same day. He has Frank’s soul.”