My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space Page 7

  I also appreciate a good laugh, and I laugh every time one of those ads comes on. And wouldn’t you rather see a good, old-fashioned smear of a political ad than yet another commercial for Cialis? Evidently, the stock market isn’t the only thing going down.

  It doesn’t matter which candidate you support, or party you belong to. Negative ads are always the same. My favorite negative ads are about candidates running for the state offices, whatever they are. I never heard of any of these guys, but now I know they’re liars, thieves, wastrels, killers, and closet watchers of Project Runway.

  I don’t know them, but already I hate them and am afraid of them. A scarier lot you never saw, and if they get elected, they’ll bankrupt the entire world.

  Oops, too late.

  Sometimes I like to imagine what the negative ads for other politicians would have been. Consider, for example, the original change candidates, the Founding Fathers.

  You say you want a revolution?

  Take George Washington. The negative ads would tell you he had wooden teeth. Would you really vote for a man who doesn’t floss? Plus I heard he got that tall by taking steroids. The battle of Valley Forge wasn’t bravery, it was ’roid rage.

  And how about an ad for Thomas Jefferson? Dude had a pony-tail, wore ruffled shirts, and spent way too much time in Paris. You know what I’m saying. Don’t ask, don’t tell that there were Manolos in his armoire.

  Ben Franklin. So he invented the printing press in his basement. You know what else he was making down there? Bombs, meth, and counterfeit copies of Sex and the City II.

  So you see how much fun you can have, making negative ads for heroes. Some people would call that libelous and disrespectful, but they can’t take a joke.

  Plus you have to look for the silver lining in the negative ads, and by that I mean that they create jobs for so many people.

  First, the scary voice-over people. You know who I mean. The whispery female voice threatening that the Democrat will spend us into oblivion, and the deep, rich bass of the man who warns that the Republican will send us to war, armed only with duct tape. You don’t hear those scary ads except at election time, and those voice-over people need work.

  The rest of the year, it’s the perky types who get the voice-over jobs, like the housewife voices happy about floor wax or the hubby voices happy about car wax. If it weren’t for negative ads, you would get the idea that the only difference between women and men is what they wax.

  Plus, what about bad photographers? Negative ads give them the only work they get. They’re the ones who take the terrible photos of the candidate, or catch their ugliest moments. And think of the horror music people. The other day, I heard the most terrifying music ever coming from the TV, but it wasn’t an ad for the sequel to Saw or even a rerun of Jaws. It was a candidate for state senate. Nothing like a scary drumbeat to make you think of nuclear war, serial murder, or politics.

  Scary voice-over people, bad photographers, and horror music composers would be out of a job but for negative ads.

  So there you have it.

  Democracy creates jobs, and negative ads are proof.

  Angie The Kitchen Aid

  This is a world in which the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but I’m wondering if we should change that.

  Tell you what happened.

  It was a typical afternoon chez Scottoline, and I was working in my kitchen office, which is a euphemism for the computer nearest the refrigerator.

  My favorite place to work, for obvious reasons.

  Anyway, the kitchen was quiet except for the thrumming of the dishwasher, which was running for the second time that day, because I was trying to get the glasses clean. If you recall, I’ve been having dishwasher drama, and it turns out that all the rinsing agents in the world have failed me. It was making me crazy, a mystery I couldn’t solve. My glasses were cloudy enough to be a weather report.

  To stay on point, I was working happily, surrounded by the dogs. Little Tony sat in my lap, because he always begs to come up. Ruby The Crazy Corgi was at my feet, since she usually curls up there. Penny, my younger golden retriever, was sitting beside me, pawing to be petted, which is her habit. Only Angie, my older golden, was on her own, lying near the dishwasher, probably because it was warm. Angie is soft, fluffy, and plump, with fur the toasty hue of vanilla wafers, and all she was doing was watching me, resting her head on her paws, her brown eyes dark as bittersweet chocolate in a mask gray with age. She didn’t paw, scratch, or whine. She asked for nothing.

  I caught her eye, and she flopped her tail once, letting it thwap on the hardwood floor, because all it takes to make Angie happy is to look in her direction. And because she never asks for anything, she doesn’t get very much. She’s twelve years old and she comes on our daily walks when she’s up for it, but she doesn’t get the attention the pushy ones do.

  Angie isn’t a squeaky wheel.

  But that day, seeing her by herself, I finally focused on her and realized that I had been neglecting her. Just because she didn’t ask for attention didn’t mean she didn’t deserve it, or need it. She’s a great old dog, even more precious because she won’t be around forever.

  So I lifted Little Tony from my lap, stepped over Ruby, ignored Penny, and went over to Angie. I sat down on the floor beside her, gave her a big kiss, and scratched behind her ear while she drifted off into a noisy slumber.

  And of course I began to relax, too, in a deep, centered way, and I realized that that was the gift you get from a dog like Angie. Because she’s at peace with herself, she makes you at peace with yourself. It made me understand that I’m rarely spending time doing something as simple as petting a sleeping dog, and that I’m too often running in all directions, responding to the ring of cell phones, the beep of incoming email, and the latest text in my BlackBerry.

  Angie made me take a break.

  I enjoyed the moment, letting my gaze wander over the things I see every day in the kitchen, like the baby photographs of Daughter Francesca, the bamboo plant on the windowsill, and a crumpled tube of toothpaste, near the sink. I brush my teeth three times a day, like a good girl, and about two months ago, I started keeping a toothbrush and toothpaste downstairs, because I got too lazy to keep running upstairs.

  Then, in a blink, it struck me.

  I’d been brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink, and that residual toothpaste must have been going down the drain, which flowed to the same pipe that feeds water to the dishwasher.

  Angie The Kitchen Aid.

  In other words, there’s nothing wrong with my KitchenAid, there’s something wrong with me. If I stop brushing my teeth in the kitchen sink, the clouds should clear from my glassware.

  Mystery solved.

  And all because I finally took the time to think, thanks to a sweet old golden retriever.

  Angie.

  Book Party

  I’m grateful to my readers, so every year I have a contest for book clubs who read my latest book, as a thank-you to them. They enter the contest by sending me a picture with their members holding up my book. The winner is chosen at random, and the prize is dinner with me.

  I’m more fun than you think, okay?

  The consolation prize is even better. Everybody who enters the contest gets to come to a big party at my house. I’ve been doing this for four years now, and we have a great time, eating, drinking, and yapping away.

  It’s mostly women, except for a few enlightened men. Chocolate flows like wine. Well, if chocolate could flow, it would.

  What really flows is estrogen.

  We start out talking about books and end up talking about our husbands, dogs, children, hair, and carbohydrates.

  Fun for girls!

  By way of background, the first year I gave the book club party, there were 100 people. My assistant Laura and I ordered some pastries, served it ourselves on paper plates, and made coffee in two electric urns that blew every fuse in my house.

  It was what they call a soft op
ening. Perhaps because you have to be soft in the head to open that way.

  The second year, 200 people came, and I hired a caterer and rented a tent. The book club party turned professional, and we got our act together.

  The third year, 300 people came, and I kept the same caterer and rented a larger tent. All good.

  The fourth year, which is this year, guess how many people entered the contest and said they were coming to the book club party?

  Given the pattern, you would think 400, right?

  Me, too.

  But the answer was 700.

  OMG.

  This is a good problem to have, because it means that more book clubs are reading my books, but at first I didn’t know what to do. I called Laura in a panic. I wailed, “What do we do?”

  “We remain calm.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  I wanted to believe her. Laura is always right, and she knows when to panic. The answer is never. She’s the mother of two little boys and she never, ever panics. But I’m me.

  “No, we won’t be fine.” I was freaking. “We can’t change the date and split the party up over two days, can we?”

  “This late?”

  “Then I’m praying for rain.”

  “God forbid, “Laura said, but I didn’t listen.

  I prayed very, very hard.

  Harder than I’d prayed for a pony when I was little.

  I didn’t think I could fit 700 people in and around my house, and even if I could, I wouldn’t get to meet and hang with my guests the way I like, which is the whole point of the event. In fact, I always greet every guest as they arrive, and Laura and I figured that if I spent only a minute with each person, at 700 people, it would take—

  Well, you can do the math.

  I can’t. It gives me the heebee-jeebies.

  So I prayed for rain, and we ordered a tent that would house a circus, doubled the food order, and nixed the hot drinks, even though it was October and chilly.

  I’m an author, not a restaurant.

  I watched the weather reports. They were talking rain, and my spirits lifted. I hate to say it, but I hoped it would keep a few people away. But two days before the party, the forecast was for a nor’easter, which would keep more than a few people away. And then there were reports of a second nor’easter, which would hit at the same time.

  In other words, the perfect storm was going to hit my book club party.

  Be careful what you wish, right?

  I called Laura in a bigger panic. “I’m so sorry I prayed for rain. They’re talking gale-force winds. Twenty-degree temperatures. Tons of rain.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “Will the tent blow away? How will we get the food truck through the mud? Where will we park the cars?

  “It will all work out okay.”

  Well, what do you think happened?

  Did the two nor’easters come as predicted?

  Was it a disaster?

  Yes, and no.

  Laura was right, yet again.

  Two nor’easters did strike, converging right over my tent, which withstood the high winds and torrential rain. The food truck got through the mud, we covered the grass with hay, and a little over half the crowd showed up. I was able to greet every one of my guests, and give out more than a few hugs.

  Yay!

  We all had a great time, not just despite the storm, but because of it, and the hardy few that made it to the party proved they were the type of women that I admire and write about—strong, resilient, and fun.

  Like Eleanor Roosevelt said, “A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.”

  Well, these women were tea bags, to the max.

  And what happened to me?

  I’m praying for George Clooney.

  Big Pimpin’ on Thanksgivin’

  This Thanksgiving, I’m pimping out my family.

  My first book of adventures was published two days before Thanksgiving. I did a short tour for the book and thought it would be a great idea to get Mother Mary to come along to a few signings, because she gets more fan mail than I do.

  By the way, the order of email love goes: Mother Mary, Daughter Francesca, Little Tony, and me.

  I’m good with that.

  In fact, I agree.

  Mother Mary said she’d shill for me in return for her free Thanksgiving dinner. She also agreed to stay at my house through December, though I won’t make her sell books on Christmas. She’s eighty-six, and you can lash your mother only so much.

  On Christmas, I’ll give her the day off.

  So she can cook.

  Santa might not approve, though if he reads me, he knows that I’m the Nice one and she’s straight-up Naughty.

  But arrangements need to be made to fly her up from Miami, namely a single reservation, which for some reason necessitates five phone calls, with much discussion about the best day to travel. I want her to come up on November 20th.

  “Why so early?” she asks. “I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “None of your business”

  I beg to differ. Actually it is my business. It is exactly my business. “Okay, when can you come up?”

  “Earliest is the 22nd.”

  “How about the 20th?”

  “The 22nd.”

  “How about the 21st? We can relax a little before the book tour.”

  “The 22nd is fine.”

  I give up. My mother could negotiate peace in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Middle East, all at once. She’d make them surrender. She’d take their guns and stop making their women wear burkas. Which reminds me that Mother Mary has been known to don a lab coat, impersonating Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, so I ask, “Ma, what are you going to wear to the signings?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “What about your lab coat? You’re leaving that at home, right?”

  “Of course. I don’t wear that in public.”

  “Okay.” Just checking. Then I reconsider. “On second thought, maybe you should bring the lab coat. You could wear it to the signings. That would be cute. If they read me, they know you’re an amateur doctor.”

  Silence.

  I remain undaunted. My imagination takes over. The notion of dressing my mother up for a signing strikes me as marketing genius, so I try to convince her: “Ma, we could get you a toy stethoscope. A fake prescription pad. You could prescribe meatballs. You could be your own health insurance company, called Independence Blue Cross-To-Bear.”

  Suddenly I realize that she’s not quiet, but the call got dropped. For a minute, I wonder if she hung up on purpose, but that’s not her style. Now the fun begins, because if I’m on the phone with anyone other than my mother and a call gets dropped, somebody calls somebody else back, no big deal.

  But not Mother Mary.

  Usually, it takes her ten minutes to realize that the call was dropped, during which I try to call her back five times, each time getting her voicemail. Then, an hour later, when we finally reconnect, our discussion will always go like this, as it does this time:

  “So, Ma, I was saying that—”

  “What happened?” she asks.

  “The call got dropped.”

  “I didn’t hear you anymore.”

  “I know. It disconnected.”

  “Did you hang up?”

  “No, it’s just dropped. Calls gets dropped.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Mind you, she’s not confused. She’s angry. A dropped call is either a personal affront or a government wiretap.

  “We shoulda kept the Jitterbug. You said this new phone would work, but it doesn’t.”

  “It does, but calls get dropped. Just because the call gets dropped doesn’t mean the phone doesn’t work.” As soon as I finish saying it, it sounds ridiculous. A phone costs plenty, so maybe it’s reasonable to expect it to work, but never mind, I have to get the Than
ksgiving conversation back on track.

  But to fast-forward, I don’t. We never recover from the mystery of the dropped call.

  So you know where this is going.

  Mother Mary will come visit, we’ll go to a few book signings, and we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving.

  And you know what I’m thankful for.

  Another holiday with my family. Especially Dr.

  Bunsen Honeydew.

  Some Enchanted Evening

  By Francesca Scottoline Serritella

  My grandmother, whom you know as Mother Mary, just turned eighty-six years old, and so I gave her a call. I sang Happy Birthday, we discussed the usual topics, and then she asked me one of the questions she always asks: “Kitten, are you having fun?” And for once, I had a real story for her.

  I answered, “I had the best night of my life.”

  Last weekend, my cousin invited me to a charity ball. I expected it to be a formal, bordering on stuffy, occasion, one that intimidated me. But I had a red dress in my closet, and sometimes that is reason enough.

  The night turned out to live up to every possible promise a red dress can make. The event was held in a beautiful, old New York building. There, I met a British man who was so handsome, so debonair, I could hardly speak when he started talking to me, much less move when he asked me to dance.

  He led me to the dance floor, where we remained for the next two hours. He spun me around like a pro, and on the last beat of every song, he’d toss me into the most daring, thrilling dips, the sort of trust-me-or-die, hair-grazes-the-floor dips that make other people stop and look.

  A group of us, including Prince Charming, ended the night at an authentic piano bar—a tiny place where a gifted pianist played song after song and the waitress and bartender took turns singing long after last call.

  Finally, it was time for me to bid my reluctant farewells. I stepped outside and saw that my golden coach was once again a yellow taxi, and the evening rain had released smells of the city not found in fairy tales.