Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog Part 5

Family Fun

Mother Mary and Brother Frank are here to visit, spending a week at my house, and I learned a few things you might be able to use when your own family comes to visit. By the way, let's all stipulate at the outset that I love my family, even if it doesn't sound like I do, below. But I like to keep it real, so what follows is the light side of the dark side of family visits, if you follow.

That said, here are my Top Ten Tips to Family Fun: 1. You can't chloroform your mother. You can't chloroform your mother. What happened was that I wanted to take my mother to see the new movie about Edith Piaf. My mother loves Edith Piaf and is, in fact, the only person I ever met who knows who Edith Piaf is. When I heard that there was a movie about Edith Piaf, I thought it would be perfect for her. Only problem was, the movie theater was In Town, and my mother wouldn't go In Town to see a movie, even one about Edith Piaf. We fought about it, and I considered chloroforming her and taking her there, but my brother said I couldn't. So don't do it. If your brother's around. What happened was that I wanted to take my mother to see the new movie about Edith Piaf. My mother loves Edith Piaf and is, in fact, the only person I ever met who knows who Edith Piaf is. When I heard that there was a movie about Edith Piaf, I thought it would be perfect for her. Only problem was, the movie theater was In Town, and my mother wouldn't go In Town to see a movie, even one about Edith Piaf. We fought about it, and I considered chloroforming her and taking her there, but my brother said I couldn't. So don't do it. If your brother's around.

2. Watching eggs cook makes them cook faster. Watching eggs cook makes them cook faster. One morning, I was making fried eggs for breakfast, and my brother thought I should turn up the heat. I disagreed. We fought about it, after which he sat in stony silence and watched the eggs fry. You know what? They fried superfast. In fact, I think he fried them with his eyes. Grab your brother and try this at home. Fight first. One morning, I was making fried eggs for breakfast, and my brother thought I should turn up the heat. I disagreed. We fought about it, after which he sat in stony silence and watched the eggs fry. You know what? They fried superfast. In fact, I think he fried them with his eyes. Grab your brother and try this at home. Fight first.

3. Too many cooks spoil the tomato sauce. Too many cooks spoil the tomato sauce. My mother and I tried to make one dinner together in my nice big kitchen, which was when I learned that no kitchen is big enough for two women to make dinner in, especially if they are blood relatives. And especially if they are mother and daughter. Take it from me, fighting will follow. And if a granddaughter joins them, something will explode. All that will remain is a small pile of dried oregano. My mother and I tried to make one dinner together in my nice big kitchen, which was when I learned that no kitchen is big enough for two women to make dinner in, especially if they are blood relatives. And especially if they are mother and daughter. Take it from me, fighting will follow. And if a granddaughter joins them, something will explode. All that will remain is a small pile of dried oregano.

4. Getting four people into a car to drive to a restaurant takes as long as a full-scale expedition to Nepal, including sherpas. Getting four people into a car to drive to a restaurant takes as long as a full-scale expedition to Nepal, including sherpas. After our cooking fiasco, I thought reservations would be the answer, but I simply couldn't get four people to move to the car and get inside. I kept saying "are you ready yet" or "let's go" or "time to rock" or "everybody outta the pool." We were late for our reservation and had to wait for another table, which was when I learned that encouragement won't make your family go faster, but slower. This is like the frying eggs, only the opposite, if you follow. After our cooking fiasco, I thought reservations would be the answer, but I simply couldn't get four people to move to the car and get inside. I kept saying "are you ready yet" or "let's go" or "time to rock" or "everybody outta the pool." We were late for our reservation and had to wait for another table, which was when I learned that encouragement won't make your family go faster, but slower. This is like the frying eggs, only the opposite, if you follow.

5. Family math is different from normal math. Family math is different from normal math. There is a mathematical relations.h.i.+p between the number of people in the house and the number of times you run the dishwasher, but that relations.h.i.+p is There is a mathematical relations.h.i.+p between the number of people in the house and the number of times you run the dishwasher, but that relations.h.i.+p is exponential. By this I mean, if you have two (2) new people in the house, for a total of four (4) people, you would guess that you'd have to run the dishwasher an extra time a day. Maybe two (2) times, at the most. But if you guess that, you'd be wrong. I learned you'll have to run the dishwasher 362.5 times a day. (!) The .5 is what puts it over the top. exponential. By this I mean, if you have two (2) new people in the house, for a total of four (4) people, you would guess that you'd have to run the dishwasher an extra time a day. Maybe two (2) times, at the most. But if you guess that, you'd be wrong. I learned you'll have to run the dishwasher 362.5 times a day. (!) The .5 is what puts it over the top.

6. In a related tip, two extra people will produce 481 extra bags of garbage. In a related tip, two extra people will produce 481 extra bags of garbage. I saw this with my own eyes. And the number of people agreeing to take out the trash will always equal zero. (0). I saw this with my own eyes. And the number of people agreeing to take out the trash will always equal zero. (0).

7. Crossword puzzles are crack cocaine for mothers. Crossword puzzles are crack cocaine for mothers. Every morning of her visit, my mother does crossword and moves on to jumbles, cryptoquotes, and word searches. She doesn't look up until she's finished. I supply her with coffee, but all I see is the top of her little gray head. My brother tells me this means she is happy. So, when your family visits and your mother is acting up and you can't chloroform her, now you know what to do. Every morning of her visit, my mother does crossword and moves on to jumbles, cryptoquotes, and word searches. She doesn't look up until she's finished. I supply her with coffee, but all I see is the top of her little gray head. My brother tells me this means she is happy. So, when your family visits and your mother is acting up and you can't chloroform her, now you know what to do.

8. There is an inverse relations.h.i.+p between dieting and eating. There is an inverse relations.h.i.+p between dieting and eating. This is another one of those funky family math things. By this I mean, the more people in your house on a diet, the more often they will eat. So, in our case, we're all on a diet, yet we eat all day long. However, we talk about our diet incessantly. That's how you lose the weight. Keep talking. This is another one of those funky family math things. By this I mean, the more people in your house on a diet, the more often they will eat. So, in our case, we're all on a diet, yet we eat all day long. However, we talk about our diet incessantly. That's how you lose the weight. Keep talking.

9. Rain is your enemy. Rain is your enemy. You know what I mean. If it's sunny, everybody can go to neutral corners, i.e., go outside or walk the dogs. But if it rains, you're all inside together in the family room, fighting over what to watch on TV, having fought over which movie to You know what I mean. If it's sunny, everybody can go to neutral corners, i.e., go outside or walk the dogs. But if it rains, you're all inside together in the family room, fighting over what to watch on TV, having fought over which movie to rent and deciding to let the whole thing go. In the end, you will end up in front of a continuous loop of rent and deciding to let the whole thing go. In the end, you will end up in front of a continuous loop of Everybody Loves Raymond Everybody Loves Raymond, and you will welcome it, because at least it's not Matlock Matlock.

10. In between the family fighting, there will be brief periods of harmony and even love, however unexpected. In between the family fighting, there will be brief periods of harmony and even love, however unexpected. For example, my mother and daughter bonded over their shared dislike of Jennifer Anniston. This came as a major surprise, at least from my mother, because Jennifer Aniston is Telly Savalas's G.o.ddaughter and my mother loves Telly Savalas. For example, my mother and daughter bonded over their shared dislike of Jennifer Anniston. This came as a major surprise, at least from my mother, because Jennifer Aniston is Telly Savalas's G.o.ddaughter and my mother loves Telly Savalas.

Even so, she wouldn't go In Town for him.

Corgi, Interrupted

It's come to this: my dog is on Prozac. Yes, you read that right. Ruby, my Pembroke Welsh corgi, is on Prozac. Laugh away. Tell me I must be crazy to put a dog on meds. My only defense is that talk therapy didn't work.

Let me explain.

You may remember that I have four dogs: three golden retrievers and Ruby The Corgi. Anyone with even a pa.s.sing knowledge of dogs would know that between three goldens and a corgi, it would be the corgi who would end up on a controlled substance.

My pets are like that Sesame Street Sesame Street song, "One of These Things Is Not Like The Others." Here is what the goldens are like: fun, easy, friendly, happy, and loving, on a continuous loop. You could have three goldens in the room and not know it. They love to sleep. They love everything. Honestly, I kept adding goldens because I forgot they were there. You could be sitting in a roomful of goldens and think to yourself, You know, we need a dog. song, "One of These Things Is Not Like The Others." Here is what the goldens are like: fun, easy, friendly, happy, and loving, on a continuous loop. You could have three goldens in the room and not know it. They love to sleep. They love everything. Honestly, I kept adding goldens because I forgot they were there. You could be sitting in a roomful of goldens and think to yourself, You know, we need a dog.

The corgi is Not Like The Others. Here is what the corgi is like: sensitive, alert, watchful, picky, and feisty. If she's in the room, you know it. In fact, you're probably obeying her. Corgis are low to the ground, dwarf dogs bred to herd cattle, and Ruby has been known to herd the goldens, me, my daughter, and also, on occasion, the UPS guy. How Ruby knows what she was bred to do, way back in Wales three thousand years ago, is beyond me. I got her at Christmas, after daughter Francesca had gone off to college. Ruby was intended to replace Francesca, which is not working out exactly as planned. How many parents can say that their dog is on drugs, but their kid isn't? Ruby has been known to herd the goldens, me, my daughter, and also, on occasion, the UPS guy. How Ruby knows what she was bred to do, way back in Wales three thousand years ago, is beyond me. I got her at Christmas, after daughter Francesca had gone off to college. Ruby was intended to replace Francesca, which is not working out exactly as planned. How many parents can say that their dog is on drugs, but their kid isn't?

To get back to the story, Ruby used to be a wonderful and funny dog, but she recently morphed into The Terrifying Biting Attacking Dwarf. In the summer of the movie Transformers, Transformers, Ruby got transformed. She's like Ruby got transformed. She's like Saw Saw, with paws. For some reason, she began to start fights with the oldest golden, Lucy, whenever that sweet old dog ambled into the kitchen, took a nap, or committed an otherwise unpardonable offense.

I admit to you, I didn't handle this well. I'm the mother of only one child, so I have no idea what to do when my kids fight. I don't know how people with more than one child handle this problem. I thought back to what my mother used to say, when she had to break up a fight between brother Frank and me, so I tried screaming, "Separate, you two!" But it didn't work.

Also, "Stop or I'll turn this car around." But it didn't apply.

Then I remembered that when we were really bad, my mother would take off her shoe and throw it at us. But I'm beyond that. Also, I missed.

So Francesca and I took Ruby to the vet, who suggested that maybe the fighting was happening because Ruby realizes that Lucy is getting older and therefore losing her position as leader of the pack. Evidently, Ruby wants to be the new boss, and will bite and chew her way to the top. She's Donald Trump on four legs.

The sad part is that good old Lucy doesn't care who's leader of the pack. No golden does, at least none of mine. They say: You wanna lead the pack? Knock yourself out. I'm going back to sleep. You won't even know I'm here.

So we tried to manage the problem, with lots of no's, daily walks, and some calm a.s.sertiveness learned from TV's Cesar Milan, The Dog Whisperer. I used to watch his show for fun; now I watch it like homework. I read his book. I bought the special Illusion collar, which I can't figure out how to put on.

But in the end, I turned to drugs. Ruby is now on ten milligrams of Prozac, twice day.

Soon, she'll be in Ruhab.

Nature Girl

I'm a big fan of nature. I enjoy walking through the gra.s.s with my dogs, or riding little Buddy through the woods. Also I like to look through the window at a cloudless blue sky, pretty as a Microsoft screensaver. In other words, I like nature just fine, as long as it stays outside.

But lately at my house, nature has been overstepping her bounds.

It began at the first dip in the temperature, and to me, it's no coincidence that it happened at football season. For some reason, around this time of year, every time I open my front door, spiders try to run inside my house. I'm not kidding. It's as if the spiders have been huddling out front, and the sound of the doork.n.o.b is their hut-hut-hut signal. I open the door and, instantly, spiders charge over the threshold at me, in a flying spider wedge formation. I'm not talking only one or two spiders; I'm talking about six or seven spiders, and they're huge, like spider linebackers in a Super Bowl team of arachnids.

I have no defense.

I can't bring myself to kill them, because I couldn't take the guilt. I learned somewhere along the line that spiders are good for us and blah blah blah. Even if I were less of a goody-goody, it would be impossible to kill them all. It would be like playing whack-a-mole, and four or five of them would run through my legs, which they consider mere goal posts to scoring a spider touchdown. Sometimes they have to settle for a spider field goal, which is when they reach the floor vents and disappear inside. By October, my heating ducts will be full of webs, the perfect decoration for their big Halloween party. whack-a-mole, and four or five of them would run through my legs, which they consider mere goal posts to scoring a spider touchdown. Sometimes they have to settle for a spider field goal, which is when they reach the floor vents and disappear inside. By October, my heating ducts will be full of webs, the perfect decoration for their big Halloween party.

Back in the summer, or preseason, when only one or two spiders played for the team, I was able to defend my end of the field by turning a gla.s.s tumbler over them, then slipping a magazine underneath the tumbler and taking them back outside, where they belong. Another defense that worked was cursing and stamping my feet, because they seemed to react to hysteria and/or profanity. They would simply turn around, run outside, and regroup for the next play. But my tumbler defense won't work anymore; I don't have the coordination, or the gla.s.sware.

The current score is Spiders 52, Scottoline 0. They even improved their record from last season and while they claim they made some excellent trades, I smell steroids.

Either way, I know when I'm licked, and my only solution was to stop using my front door. Now I go out the back door all the time, which is completely inconvenient, not to mention embarra.s.sing. I save face only by telling myself that I have outsmarted the spiders, at least until they resort to battering rams of praying mantises.

But it gets worse.

The other day, I came home and in the kitchen was my adorable gray-and-white kitten, Vivi, resting like a baby Sphinx-in front of a long green snake, which lay motionless on the floor. I went into my hysteria-and-profanity routine, but, to my horror, it awakened both kitten and snake. The snake slithered at warp speed over the Karastan and through the kitchen chairs. Vivi took off after the snake, and I took off after Vivi.

There ensued chasing (Vivi) and wriggling (snake) and screaming (me). Somehow I scooped Vivi up and threw her into the bathroom, then I screamed some more while the snake undulated around the kitchen, its green head raised like a suburban cobra.

By the way, no other pets came to my aid. The other kitten scooted off, her black tail a question mark, and my three golden retrievers lolled sleepily on the kitchen floor, though I could tell they were rooting for me, inside. Ruby The Corgi pointed and laughed, which means that I'm cutting her Prozac.

I didn't know what to do. If I couldn't bring myself to kill a spider, there was no way I could bring myself to kill a snake. I wouldn't know how, anyway. Step on it? You can only ask so much of a clog.

I ran to the closet, grabbed a broom, and, screaming the entire time, swept the snake out of the house, through the front door.

The snake was only too glad to slither outside.

The spiders were only too glad to run inside.

Touchdown!

King Tut

Okay, so my brother has escaped back to Miami, and my mother is extending her visit with me and daughter Francesca. One afternoon we were all in front of the TV, comatose before the Everybody Loves Raymond Everybody Loves Raymond marathon, having finished the marathon, having finished the Law & Order Law & Order marathon. For the past two weeks, my mother wouldn't go anywhere else but the kitchen. Driven to distraction, I offhandedly suggested we go see the King Tut exhibit. marathon. For the past two weeks, my mother wouldn't go anywhere else but the kitchen. Driven to distraction, I offhandedly suggested we go see the King Tut exhibit.

"King Tut?" my mother asked, suddenly perking up. Her eyes widened behind her round gla.s.ses like an octogenarian Harry Potter. "Let's go!"

I blinked, astounded. "But, Ma, it's In Town."

"So what? I love King Tut!"

I didn't say what I was thinking, which was, More than Telly Savalas? More than Telly Savalas?

"Only thing is, he's not there," my mother said.

"That's because he's dead," I told her, then ordered the tickets online before she remembered she didn't like having fun.

The next day, we were at the King Tut exhibit-Mother Mary, daughter Francesca, and me-three generations of Scot-toline women, freshly showered and dressed up, giddy to be out of the house. My mother wore her best perfume, smelling great because she stopped smoking a few years ago, when she got throat cancer. She's in complete remission now, which doesn't surprise me. It'll take more than a deadly disease to kill Mother Mary. I'm betting on a meteor. because she stopped smoking a few years ago, when she got throat cancer. She's in complete remission now, which doesn't surprise me. It'll take more than a deadly disease to kill Mother Mary. I'm betting on a meteor.

I picked up our tickets, bought the audio tour, and slipped the headphones over my mother's hearing aid, then turned on her audiotape, which was narrated by Omar Sharif. She broke into a sly smile and said, "Omar Sharif can park his slippers next to mine anytime."

"Who's Omar Sharif?" Francesca asked.

"Doctor Zhivago," my mother answered.

"Nicky Arnstein," I added.

"Who?" Francesca asked again, and we let it go. I cannot explain Omar Sharif to a generation who has not swooned over him. For Omar Sharif, I would have learned to play bridge.

But back to the story.

We waited in a line that zigzagged for an hour, which was a lot of standing for Mother Mary, especially after she'd come three blocks from the parking garage. She'd walked only slowly, but she hadn't complained at all. Her vision is poor from glaucoma and macular degeneration, but she was gamely squinting at the museum map. We entered the exhibit, which began with a short movie about King Tut. In the dark, my mother said to me, "Watch your purse."

In the first room of the exhibit, we were a field trip of underachievers. We couldn't p.r.o.nounce Tutankhamen or figure out his genealogy, and we didn't know what canopic meant. I kept pressing the wrong numbers on my mother's gadget for the audio tour, so the tape would play the spiel about liver embalming when she was looking at the mask of Nefert.i.ti.

But we found our stride as the exhibit continued. The lights were low and dramatic; the rooms modeled after the King's own tomb. I held onto my mother's elbow as she wobbled along, and my daughter read aloud for her the plaques she couldn't read herself.

We saw lovely calcite jars, so luminous that they glowed. Delicate statues called shabti, shabti, glazed a vibrant blue. A gilded chest covered with carved hieroglyphs. The artifacts, all over three thousand years old, had been placed in King Tut's tomb to keep him company in the afterlife. In the Egyptian culture's reverence for the dead, I could see its reverence for the living. Looking at the amazing artifacts, holding onto my mother and my daughter, I realized that this moment might never come again. Cancer kills mothers every day, and death comes for all, boy kings and perfumed women. glazed a vibrant blue. A gilded chest covered with carved hieroglyphs. The artifacts, all over three thousand years old, had been placed in King Tut's tomb to keep him company in the afterlife. In the Egyptian culture's reverence for the dead, I could see its reverence for the living. Looking at the amazing artifacts, holding onto my mother and my daughter, I realized that this moment might never come again. Cancer kills mothers every day, and death comes for all, boy kings and perfumed women.

Then I tried to understand why it took a glimpse of the afterlife to make me appreciate this life.

It was an afterlife lesson.

We pa.s.sed into the last room of the exhibit, which was darker than all the others. I had expected to see the grand finale, King Tut's famous golden sarcophagus. But where it should have been, instead was a stand the approximate size and shape of a sarcophagus. On it was projected a ghostly photo of King Tut, which morphed from a picture of his mummified remains to a picture of his sarcophagus.

"What's this?" I asked, mystified. "Where's King Tut?"

Mother Mary said, "Told you. He's not here. I read it in the paper."

"That's what you meant?" what you meant?"

"Yes."

I felt terrible, for my mother. "Sorry about that."

But she waved me off. "Makes no difference."

Francesca looked over at me. "b.u.mmed, Mom?"

"No," I answered, without hesitation.

"Me, neither," she said, with a smile And we both took Mother Mary by the arm.

Dream Job

It's fun to do something dumb. Not something really dumb, like my second marriage. That was really really really dumb. dumb.

I mean, it's fun to perform a mindless task. I realized this today, when I clipped my pony. Yes, even though I'm a grown-up, I have a pony named Buddy. I bought him from a little girl who thought he was too old, too small, and too slow.

Bingo!

Buddy is a brown-and-white paint with a wavy black mane and eyes round as Ping-Pong b.a.l.l.s. He's barely taller than a golden retriever, and when I ride him, my heels practically drag on the ground. And he's s.h.a.ggier than a mastodon. He needs to be clipped twice a summer, which is where our adventure begins.

I was supposed to be working on a novel at the time, but I couldn't figure out the plot, the character, or the dialogue. That's about all there is to one of my books, except for the s.e.x scene, but we'll leave that for another day. I was in first draft, and even though I tell myself first draft doesn't have to be perfect, I feel as if it does. By the time my book goes out the door, it has to be as perfect as I can make it, which still isn't perfect. It's perfect, for me.

But today I couldn't do perfect; I couldn't even do good. I lost my mojo, it was hot outside, and I knew a pony who was sweating his a.s.s off. So I went to the barn, turned on the Rolling Stones, tied that little furball up in the aisle, and grabbed the electric clippers.

Start me up.

I shaved strips into Buddy's thick, curly hair, and the Stones got me rocking. My mind wandered, and I became Mick Jagger. I sang. I played air guitar. I looked awesome in really tight pants.

Two hours later, my little Beast of Burden looked as if he'd been sheared by Keith Richards. Mental patients get better haircuts, and a close second are condemned prisoners. My clipping method wasn't perfect. Buddy's coat had been matted in places, but I cut it off rather than untangle it. Nor had I decided in advance which type of clip job to give him, and there are three types: full body clip (self-explanatory), trace clip (top-half only), and Scottoline clip (until pony looks schizophrenic).

And the worst part was that I had started the job wearing my prescription sungla.s.ses instead of my regular gla.s.ses, but that had made it too dark to see what I was doing. So I took the sungla.s.ses off, but then I couldn't see the pony at all. Still I clipped him anyway. I got the job done, which is good enough for a rock star.

The other mindless task I love is mowing the lawn. I mow on an ancient diesel tractor and I pretend it's a new John Deere riding mower. Or a Corvette, a Maserati, or a horse that's taller, faster, and younger than Buddy. I'm in the ring at a horse show. In my mind.

A girl can dream, can't she?

And I don't do a perfect job on the lawn, either. I ride my tractor/Olympic steed around the backyard, plowing strips wherever I please, spewing chopped sticks and broken gla.s.s. I breathe in random scents of mint, onion gra.s.s, and diesel smoke. Bugs fly up my nose, and I wear orange earphones for maximum hotness. tractor/Olympic steed around the backyard, plowing strips wherever I please, spewing chopped sticks and broken gla.s.s. I breathe in random scents of mint, onion gra.s.s, and diesel smoke. Bugs fly up my nose, and I wear orange earphones for maximum hotness.