Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog Part 6

I aim only to get the job done. I swerve to avoid frogs, which creates crop circles worthy of M. Night Shyamalan. I drive around rocks that have been there forever, and my backyard looks like it has hairy moles. So what? My Aunt Rachel had hairy moles, and she was my favorite.

And if a hose is on the ground, I drive around that, too. I never get off the tractor, move the hose, and mow underneath it. I leave my hose and gra.s.s to their own devices. Not everything on my property is my business.

And, as you may have guessed, I never decide in advance what type of mowing method to use. As you know, there are three types: up and down (self-explanatory), around and around (dizzying), or Scottoline (surprise me!) But here is the point. What I do during these mindless tasks is dream. Some people call them ch.o.r.es, but to me, they're dream jobs. This isn't just marketing or reverse psychology; we all need time to dream. I take a break from the real job to do the dream job. And unlike the real job, the dream job doesn't have it be perfect. It just has to get done in a dreamy way.

And after I clipped Buddy today, I went inside, sat down at my computer, and got back to work. Do you think my plot, characters, and dialogue magically appeared?

You must be dreaming.

Suggestion Box

I don't know when this started, but I've become very suggestible lately. I first noticed it when I was watching TV and a commercial came on, for spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s. Instantly I wanted a plate of spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s. I couldn't help myself. I craved spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s, even though eating carbs is now against federal law and I'm supposed to be a vegetarian. Still, I spent a lot of time fantasizing about spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s.

Then it got worse.

I was watching s.e.x and the City s.e.x and the City reruns, and I wanted a nice pink Cosmo, or three. During a Wendy's commercial, I wanted a square hamburger. And every time Kentucky Fried Chicken came on TV, I'd be thinking, extra crispy is the best. Extra crispy always. .h.i.ts the spot. I'd just love me some extra crispy right about now. reruns, and I wanted a nice pink Cosmo, or three. During a Wendy's commercial, I wanted a square hamburger. And every time Kentucky Fried Chicken came on TV, I'd be thinking, extra crispy is the best. Extra crispy always. .h.i.ts the spot. I'd just love me some extra crispy right about now.

But it went beyond food.

I'd watch tennis on TV, and I'd want to be a professional tennis player. I'd watch Top Chef, Top Chef, and I'd want to cook for Chef Tom Colicchio. Bottom line, I'm starting to want whatever I see on television, and lately I'm watching and I'd want to cook for Chef Tom Colicchio. Bottom line, I'm starting to want whatever I see on television, and lately I'm watching Miami Ink Miami Ink.

You can see where this is going.

Miami Ink is a reality show about people who go to this tattoo is a reality show about people who go to this tattoo parlor in Miami and walk out covered with tattoos. There's a little story behind each person's tattoo, and many of the stories are sad. There are parents who get tattoos to memorialize children who died; there are teenagers who get tattoos to memorialize parents who died. Plenty of people get tattoos of their dogs and cats who died. All this dying and all this tattooing, I can't take it. I cry like a baby through every episode. parlor in Miami and walk out covered with tattoos. There's a little story behind each person's tattoo, and many of the stories are sad. There are parents who get tattoos to memorialize children who died; there are teenagers who get tattoos to memorialize parents who died. Plenty of people get tattoos of their dogs and cats who died. All this dying and all this tattooing, I can't take it. I cry like a baby through every episode.

But that's beside the point. The point is that I went from being a person who was disgusted by tattoos to being a person who wants tattoos very badly.

I think about tattoos all the time now. I look at pictures in magazines and wonder, would that would make a nice tattoo? I squint at tattoos on other people, appraising them with a critical eye. I visits websites with tattoos when I'm supposed to be working. I think about tattoos so much that I have already selected three, though they are imaginary.

And because I have to decide where to put my three imaginary tattoos, I think about that, too. Should they go on my arms? Too flabby. Lower back? No tramp stamp for me. Ankle? Looks like dirt with heels. Neck? Can you say state prison?

There are a lot of choices to be made in the imaginary world in which I live.

I suspect, however, that I'm not the only person to pick out imaginary tattoos. Fess up. You know you want one. If you tell me yours, I'll tell you mine: I like Kewpie dolls, so for my first tattoo, I thought it would be nice to have a tiny little Kewpie doll on the inside of my wrist, where it will be discreet, even cla.s.sy. (Okay, maybe not cla.s.sy.) For my second tattoo, I would like an old-fashioned Sacred Heart, but I don't know where on my body to put a Sacred Heart tattoo. It's too butch for my arm, and I could burn in h.e.l.l if I put it anyplace else. You take your chances with the religious tattoos, and you don't want to be thumbing your nose at you-know-who. if I put it anyplace else. You take your chances with the religious tattoos, and you don't want to be thumbing your nose at you-know-who.

Thirdly, I think one of those colorful j.a.panese scenes would be nice, something with orange koi fish or calcium-white kabuki masks or an ornate kimono of threaded gold. I can't decide about my last tattoo. I think about it a lot. It has replaced spaghetti and meatb.a.l.l.s in my magical thinking, at least for the time being.

Unfortunately, I've pa.s.sed my suggestibility on to daughter Francesca. We watch Miami Ink Miami Ink together, and though she doesn't want a tattoo, she wants the tattoo artist-Ami, the star of the show. Come to think of it, I want Ami, too. And while we're on the subject, I also want Chef Tom Colicchio from together, and though she doesn't want a tattoo, she wants the tattoo artist-Ami, the star of the show. Come to think of it, I want Ami, too. And while we're on the subject, I also want Chef Tom Colicchio from Top Chef Top Chef. He's more my age, and with his bald head and intense gaze, he's my Telly Savalas.

It turns out that the power of suggestion extends to everything on TV.

Maybe I should get a tattoo of Chef Tom?

September Song

Summer's over, and I'm trying to be mature about it. I'm ignoring the depression I always feel at the end of summer and the dread at the onset of autumn. For a cheery girl, I get a little gloomy around now.

Why?

Because even though I'm allegedly grown-up, I still have the mentality of a middle-schooler: September to May sucks, and summer rocks! No more pencils, no more books! Summer is for getting crazy, and fall is for facing the music.

I don't go to school anymore, but I remain on the back-to-school mental clock. It's like I have to gear up for AP Bio, but I don't take AP Bio. I never did take AP Bio. They didn't even have AP Bio when went to high school. They had pop quizzes, and that was scary enough. "Pencils down" will forever be a.s.sociated with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Nor is it as if I go back to work in September, after my summer vacation. I don't always take a vacation, and didn't this year. Like a lot of us, I work seven days a week, year round. I'm not complaining, mind you, I love my job. But it raises the question, why should I be sad that summer's over, when it's not as if it were such a big break?

The same goes for Sunday nights.

I always feel a little b.u.mmed out on Sunday nights. Sunday night is the Labor Day of the week, if you follow. It's as if the weekend = summer, and Monday = fall. This makes no sense, again, because I work on Sunday, the same as I do on Monday.

So why do I dread Monday, on Sunday night? Why do I dread fall, at the end of summer? Why do I feel this way? My days don't change one iota.

Daughter Francesca thinks she knows the answer, and she weighs in, below: .

Well, Mom, that's not exactly true, your days from summer to fall do change in one respect: me. Sure, you haven't been in school in a long time, but for almost two decades, I have. For the last sixteen years, just being my mother has put you on some version of the summer vacation schedule. Although I realize that, for you, it may not have always been such a vacation-driving me to day camp when I was little, watching me attempt the perfect dive for the 100th time in a day, later on, teaching me how to make the drive down to Ocean City by myself, or, most recently, giving in to my insistence that summer is the perfect time to get two kittens. For better or for worse, my summertime glee and back-to-school dread has probably rubbed off on you over the years. But that's about to change. For both of us. time in a day, later on, teaching me how to make the drive down to Ocean City by myself, or, most recently, giving in to my insistence that summer is the perfect time to get two kittens. For better or for worse, my summertime glee and back-to-school dread has probably rubbed off on you over the years. But that's about to change. For both of us.

In a sense, this is my last real summer. The last summer of my childhood, the last summer as a student. As I prepare to be a senior in college, I am preparing for my last academic fall. By next summer, I will be a (gulp) grown-up, or, I guess I'm supposed to say, adult. Summer vacation will shrink to two weeks, and the rest will just be going to work in hot weather. I'm excited to enter the adult world, but to be honest, I'm scared, too. I will have a new sort of weight in the pit of my stomach when I hear my last "pencils down." I'm out of time. I will have a new sort of weight in the pit of my stomach when I hear my last "pencils down." I'm out of time.

The chemistry test may be over, but the new test is just beginning. Is my adult life the "fall" of my summertime childhood? Now that I think about it, I don't even like the word "fall." It sounds perilous. And I'm afraid of heights.

But then again, maybe summer isn't gone for good. Of course I know the season isn't going to disappear, but I mean, summer as-I-know-it won't go away forever, either. Like you said, Mom, you still get that thrill when the spring days get longer and warmer, regardless of work schedule. It's as if the weather and the people can finally exhale into the balmy summer breeze. Summer will always be the time of short sleeves, lunch outside, and guilt-free ice cream. Last time I checked, sunshine has no age limit.

And, you know, fall isn't so bad. Fall isn't only about back-to-school. Fall is warm colors and warm houses, Thanksgiving and football, crunchy leaves and crisp air. "Fall" doesn't have to be a scary word. People fall in love. Things fall into place.

And, Mom, if what you wrote proves anything, it's that if I really miss my summer vacation, I'll always be able to relive it when I have kids of my own.

Oh wait. Now I've scared myself again.

Road Map

I write this the day after I took daughter Francesca back to college, and I miss her. I know I'm not the only sad parent. My good friend sent her son to kindergarten last week and she's still crying.

September is a time of beginnings and endings, which are not coincidentally the same thing; the beginning of middle school for your kid will finalize the ending of elementary school. Any movement your child makes toward something will be a movement away from you. And though we've all heard that dumb roots-and-wings speech, it still hurts.

You're happy for your kid, but sad for yourself.

And none of your sad feelings are supposed to show. You don't want to burden your child, especially when she's doing exactly what she's supposed to, which is growing up. So you keep the sadness inside. Your heart says, Ouch, but your face says, Yay! It's the terrible wrench of parenting, which specializes in the bittersweet.

Oddly, I don't think we allow ourselves to acknowledge this sadness, even among us parents. I know a mother who says she feels silly because she misses her kid, away at college. We're all pretending we're too-cool-for-school, about school.

Instead, let's clarify things right now: It's okay to miss your kid. A lot.

In fact, it's essential to miss your kid a lot. If you miss your kid a lot, it's proof that you love them. That you're involved with them. That in the short time they spent in your care, you got to know them well. After all, you miss a lot of things that aren't as important, right? For example, I miss carbs.

Missing your kid is proof that you're a good parent, despite the fact that the current vogue is to put down good parents. I've seen us called the "helicopter parents," always hovering over our children, and I've read articles putting down children who remain connected to their parents by cell phone and email, calling those kids the "tethered generation."

Boy, does that burn me up.

It's good to be a helicopter parent. It's better to be a helicopter parent than to be Britney Spears. Likewise, it's good for kids to stay connected to their parents. It's better to be a tethered kid than Lindsay Lohan.

This is why I love Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. They have a pa.s.sel of kids and they've been married fifteen minutes. Wait, they're not married, but never mind. All I know is that in every photo I see of them, they're with their kids, doing kid things. Not only do they spend time with their kids, they wear wear their kids. They're holding at least two children at all times; one is always strapped on their front in a Snugli and the other is draped around a shoulder like a noisy handbag. their kids. They're holding at least two children at all times; one is always strapped on their front in a Snugli and the other is draped around a shoulder like a noisy handbag.

Brad and Angelina look like good parents to me. I don't sweat that they're not married. I don't think you need a marriage to raise a kid. Families come in all shapes and sizes. I became a single parent when my daughter was an infant, and I remember when someone at school told her she was an "only child." She came home and asked me, "Does that mean you're an 'only mom?' " came home and asked me, "Does that mean you're an 'only mom?' "

Answer: Yes.

I don't think it takes a village to raise a child. On the contrary, I think it takes one person who loves the child and places that child's needs and interests above his own, for a good, long time. Like decades. And if you've done that for a child, it stands to reason that you're going to miss them when they go, even if you gave them the roots and wings required by Hallmark cards.

So what do you do about this sadness you feel?

Here's how I think about it, and it helps: Recognize that your child is just traveling through. You don't own your child. You're just her caretaker for a very long time, because you willed her into existence. Even so, her existence is separate from yours. It's easy to forget this, especially if you're a good parent, because you can get so close to your child that your interests are often perfectly aligned. You remember times when you had to fight for your child, whether it was to get her a doctor's appointment in a busy flu season or to score her the last Furby, back when every kid wanted a Furby.

But don't be fooled.

You and your child are different people, and your child is traveling through your life, just as you're traveling through hers. All of us are traveling through this life, and though our paths overlap for a time, like routes on a highway map, eventually we all separate, one from the other.

And I'm not talking about college here.

Think about traveling through, and you'll be able to let your kid go. It's just like she took the business route and you took the local. You might end up in the same place again, and it doesn't mean she won't come back, G.o.d knows.

And you can always hold the cats hostage.

American Excess

I think the world divides into two groups: people who take advantage of membership rewards programs, and people like me.

A long time ago, I applied for an American Express card, but I was rejected. I had charged my way to becoming a writer, and my credit history ranged from Slow Pay to You Must Be Joking. The measure of creditworthiness is the FICO score, with 800 or so the best, like the old SAT scores. I couldn't get into any college on my FICO score. My FICO score was my weight.

Eventually I paid back every penny of my debts, but my FICO score haunted me. I couldn't get a credit card from Target and my books were bestsellers in Target. I don't think this happened to James Patterson.

Then, one day, American Express relented-with a qualification. They told me they would give me a "starter" American Express card. The baby Amex had a thousand-dollar credit limit and training wheels. It even looked younger; it wasn't cashgreen, it was transparent, as if it couldn't be trusted with a color. It was a credit card, pre-p.u.b.erty.

Still I took the card and became Financial Barbie. I never missed a payment and I sent in the whole balance every time, then I reapplied for the Big Girl American Express card. And was rejected again. But on the phone, they happened to mention that they could give me the American Express card for small business, if I were a small business. They asked, "Are you a small business?" was rejected again. But on the phone, they happened to mention that they could give me the American Express card for small business, if I were a small business. They asked, "Are you a small business?"

I answered, "Why, yes, the smallest."

On the phone, I deemed myself Lisa Scottoline, Inc., which is a new way to incorporate yourself that I invented, and they gave me a small-business credit card, which came with a higher credit limit and its own color-a respectable, corporate, gray. Since then, however, I still keep getting rejected for the real-deal American Express card.

Whatever. I've struck out three times now and I have to pretend it doesn't matter. And that's not the point, anyway.

The point is that unbeknownst to me, my small-business American Express card has, all these years, been racking up Membership Rewards.

Wow! Membership Rewards! I had no idea what that was, but it sounds great. It sounds like an exclusive club that I'm a member of, automatically. And rewards are always good. I get a reward and I didn't even find anything? h.e.l.l, I didn't even know anything was lost!

I learned about the Membership Rewards the other day, when I actually read my endless pile of junk mail. I saw a slick catalog full of mixers, Bose radios, rolling luggage, golf clubs, and "timepieces," which is what we members call watches. Instead of prices, the catalog had points. I flipped to the front and saw that I had a "point balance," which was 52,140.

Yay!

So everything in the catalog was free, or at least the stuff under 52,140 points. I was so excited that I called up my friend, but she had already spent her points on his-and-her mountain bikes, a portable DVD player, and a toaster from England. She'd even gone to Europe on her frequent flier miles, but I will never figure out how to cash in those babies and I have approximately three billion, which is twelve zillion times my SAT score and fifteen zillion times my FICO. even gone to Europe on her frequent flier miles, but I will never figure out how to cash in those babies and I have approximately three billion, which is twelve zillion times my SAT score and fifteen zillion times my FICO.

But I digress. I made a cup of coffee and sat down with the Membership Rewards catalog.

Two hours later, I had dog-eared ten pages, circled fifteen items, and downed another cup of coffee. My stomach had twisted into a knot, my heart was pounding, and I was in a tizzy of indecision. I couldn't pick between the Sony digital camera, the new iPod, or the Dyson "animal vacuum," which I loved for the name.

And if I didn't want those items, the catalog offered trips, meals, and gift cards. Worse, I was even "pre-approved" for double my point balance, which admitted me to the truly pimp point cla.s.s. If I wanted the awesome 37-inch plasma TV, Amex would send it to me and charge the difference-on my credit card.

Hmmm.

Bottom line, all this free stuff paralyzed me. If I had been spending dollars, I could have made the decision, but the fact that it was points had me flummoxed. I didn't want to blow my chance to get something free by getting the wrong free thing. I set the catalog aside for another day.

A point saved is a point earned.

One Room, Two Room, Red Room, Blue Room

I just got back from the White House. I stole nothing of value. More accurately, the thing I stole didn't cost anything.

Let me explain.

The National Book Festival is an annual book fair sponsored by the Library of Congress and started by First Lady Laura Bush, to promote literacy. It's held on the National Mall, where a series of tents had stages for seventy authors, representing all types of books. Approximately 150,000 people attended the Festival, a record crowd.

Reading knows no political party.

The morning of the Festival, Mrs. Bush invited the authors and their guests to the White House for a cla.s.sy breakfast buffet, and we were permitted to eat anywhere we liked in the Red, Blue, and Green Rooms. My plus one was daughter Francesca, who made sure that I didn't spill coffee on the red, blue, or green rugs. I'd hate to be remembered as The One Who a.s.sa.s.sinated the Lincoln Rug, and that wouldn't be a dry cleaning bill I'd like to pay. We're not talking a stained sweater here. We're talking a second mortgage.

So we ate our blueberry pancakes very carefully, perched on the edge of two lovely red wing chairs, and we even put an official White House napkin under our coffee cups so we didn't make a ring on the inlaid mahogany tables. But even in the White House, my home-improvement wheels got turning. People imagine what they would do if they ever got to be President, and I'm no different. For me, renovation of the White House would be the national priority. official White House napkin under our coffee cups so we didn't make a ring on the inlaid mahogany tables. But even in the White House, my home-improvement wheels got turning. People imagine what they would do if they ever got to be President, and I'm no different. For me, renovation of the White House would be the national priority.

I wouldn't hire a decorator. I'd do it myself. I'd be the Decorator-in-Chief.

We know that real estate ads are my p.o.r.n, so it should come as no surprise that I have lots of great ideas about home decor, too. I'm addicted to HGTV. I memorize House & Garden House & Garden. There's no more extreme make over than the White House. The place has major curb appeal, and that world-leader vibe would make it the best client ever.