Have a Nice Guilt Trip

by Lisa Scottoline

  I follow the directions, which tell me to “introduce your dog to the toothpaste.”

  Dog, meet toothpaste. Toothpaste, meet dog. Everybody, meet woman with too much time on her hands.

  So I open the toothpaste, which is green, gummy, and smells like pine trees. The box says it’s peanut-butter flavor, but if I were a dog I would sue.

  Guaranteed this is going to taste like Pine-Sol.

  I sit on the rug with the glove and the toothpaste, and all four dogs edge away, then scoot out of the kitchen. I chase them around but they run under tables and chairs. I can’t catch any of them except Penny, who clamps her mouth shut with the jaw pressure of a pit bull.

  So I gave up.

  Moral of the story? Sometimes it’s okay to give up.

  Works for fingernails and diets.

  Mother Mary and The Fighting Scottolines

  By Lisa

  We begin when Mother Mary falls seriously ill and has to be rushed to the hospital.

  Don’t worry, this will get funny by the end.

  But in the middle, we learn that her legs are swelling, which is somehow connected to her heart. This I cannot explain, and even after a week with her in the hospital, I still don’t understand. I thought the leg bone was connected to the hip bone, not the heart, but that’s beside the point.

  Mother Mary enters the hospital in Miami while I’m on book tour, and Brother Frank tells me it’s serious, so of course, I cancel the end of the tour and fly down there with Daughter Francesca. I also asked my best friend and assistant, Laura, to come, which turned out to be essential because she served as referee.

  It turns out that The Flying Scottolines cope with a life-threatening situation by threatening each other’s lives.

  The bad news is that Mother Mary was critically ill, in that her heart wasn’t doing very well, functioning significantly under its capacity. The good news is that there are medications they put her on, blood thinners and the like, and to fast-forward so you all don’t get upset, by the end of the week, she’s stabilized and headed for cardiac rehab, with a good prognosis.

  But the ones who need rehab are Brother Frank and me.

  When the going gets critical, we get criticizing.

  My brother and I normally get along very well, and I usually defer to Frank’s judgment about what’s good for Mother Mary, especially because they live together. But something about seeing my little mommy lying in bed, like an oddly gray-haired child, brings out the Hospital Nazi in me.

  Or at least, I’m in no mood to compromise when her health is at stake.

  And he feels the same way.

  So we fight.

  Over everything.

  We spend all day at the hospital, and the scene is the same every day for almost a week: Francesca and Laura take care of Mother Mary while Frank and I fight.

  What do we fight about?

  Frank thinks she needs the top of her bed cranked up, but I think it’s better lower. Frank thinks she needs her grippy socks on, but I think she doesn’t. Frank thinks the window shades should be down, but I think they should be up. Frank wants the door open, but I want it closed. And don’t get me started on the volume levels of the TV.

  Obviously, we fight over the important things.

  We fight in front of her, but then we realize that it upsets her, so then we take it out in the hallway, where she knows we’re fighting but can’t hear exactly why. At no point do we stop fighting. In other words, if she isn’t having a heart attack, we’re going to give her one. Because we love her so much.

  Yes, we love her enough to kill her.

  Now that’s Italian.

  Or maybe it isn’t. Please tell me we’re not the only family who behaves the worst when they should behave the best.

  The only thing we agree on occurs on Day Five, when we both agree that Mother Mary needs to be on oxygen. Unfortunately, Mother Mary doesn’t think she needs oxygen to live.

  So Frank and I, in a rare moment of unanimity, ask the doctors if she needs to be on oxygen, and they administer a test, which shows that oxygen is in order.

  Peace reigns.

  For a moment.

  Because the decision about the oxygen starts Mother Mary fighting with Frank and me, thus triangulating our fists of fury.

  Not only that, Mother Mary segues into taking a consensus of hospital personnel on the subject. She asks the next nurse to walk into the room: “Do I really need this oxygen?”

  “Yes,” answers the nurse.

  A different nurse comes in, and Mother Mary asks her, “I think this oxygen is on too high. Will you check it, please?”

  A rare moment of solidarity by Mother Mary’s bedside

  The nurse does and tells her, “That’s the lowest it will go.”

  Then the orderly comes in for her lunch tray, and Mother Mary asks him, “How long do I have to be on oxygen?”

  And he answers, “As long as the doctor ordered.”

  “Grrr,” says Mother Mary.

  Francesca and Laura go over to calm her down, and Frank and I exchange glances.

  Mother Mary has only just begun to fight.

  And we should know.

  Mother Mary Misbehaves

  By Lisa

  Mother Mary is out of the hospital, and recovery lies ahead.

  For the hospital.

  Yes, Mother Mary is fine, and the hospital has almost recovered from her visit.

  As you can imagine, she wasn’t exactly the ideal patient. We’ve already discussed the fact that she didn’t like the oxygen, and it won’t come as news that she didn’t like the food, the lighting, or the Kleenex, which was too small.

  Evidently, she likes big Kleenex. The Flying Scottolines have supersized noses. A paper towel is a good start.

  Please understand that I’m not criticizing her in her criticism of the hospital. I think I’d be grumpy, too, if you told me something was wrong with my heart. And way back when, you wouldn’t want to have seen me in labor and delivery.

  It was a labor to deliver me.

  They monitored her blood pressure three times a day, but Francesca, Frank, Laura, and I monitored her grouchiness. We hoped her blood pressure went down, and her grouchiness went up. The unhappier she got, the happier we got. Mother Mary is at her healthiest when she’s giving everybody else high blood pressure.

  We knew she had turned a corner toward the end of the week, which was a big day. Her treatment was ending at the main hospital, but the question was whether she would be admitted to another hospital for cardiac rehab. One of the saints, also known as nurses, took us aside and said that she had to play better with others if she was going to graduate. So on the appointed day, we all sat her down in the principal’s office.

  Guess who was the principal.

  Me.

  “Ma,” I said, “today, there are going to be two doctors who are going to interview you. You have to be nice.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if they think you’re an uncooperative patient, they won’t let you into cardiac rehab.”

  “What do I care? I want to go home.”

  So you see what a bad principal I am.

  And unfortunately, Mother Mary has aged out of detention.

  Fast-forward to Dr. Number One, a handsome, black-haired thirty-year-old in a white lab coat, which I know Mother Mary secretly covets.

  All the doctors have their names embroidered on their lab coats, and her lab coat doesn’t say anything except Dollar Store.

  We all hold our breath as the young doctor sits down in front of Mother Mary to ask her a few questions. He begins, “First question. Where are you?”

  Mother Mary snorts. “Where do you think I am?”

  Watching, I say nothing. None of us is allowed to say anything. Nor are we allowed to coach or bribe her into submission, so we sit mute and still.

  Dr. Number One tries again. “Second question. Who is the President of the United States?”

  “What’s the diffe
rence?”

  I try not to watch. My mother is flunking cooperativeness, but the handsome doctor is smiling.

  “Third question. Do you understand why you—”

  “Wait.” Mother Mary interrupts, holding up a gnarled finger. “I like you. You’re cute. Did you meet my granddaughter?”

  So you see where this is going. Mother Mary actually passes the first evaluation, though Francesca is not engaged to the young doctor. In fact, we all thought he was gay and tried to hook him up with Brother Frank, but we struck out with equality.

  Later that day, Dr. Number Two enters the room, to administer Mother Mary’s final test. Unlike the first doctor, he doesn’t have the warmest bedside manner. On the contrary, he strides into the office, steely-haired and wire-rimmed. He sits down in front of Mother Mary, introduces himself, and is about to ask his first question when a neatly dressed woman appears in the doorway, from a room down the hall.

  “Doctor,” she says in an imperious way, “my husband has a question for you.”

  Dr. Number Two lifts an eyebrow. “I’ll be back when I’m finished with this patient.”

  The woman vanishes with an unhappy frown, and Dr. Number Two returns his attention to Mother Mary. He’s about to ask his first question, but she stops him.

  “Where the hell does that broad get off?”

  Doctor Number Two smiles.

  And Mother Mary is in.

  Third Month’s the Charm

  By Francesca

  I’m three months into a new relationship and living a charmed existence. Wherever we go, whatever we do, things just seem to work out for us. A free cab is turning around the corner, our discount tickets happen to be center orchestra, and the best table in the restaurant is just paying their bill.

  We have such good luck, I feel guilty, which proves I’m my mother’s daughter.

  “So how was last night?” my mom said into the phone one morning. I hadn’t told her I’d had a date, but she infers it whenever I miss her regular good-night phone call.

  She is a mystery writer, after all.

  At least she stopped presuming me dead.

  “It was perfect, we had the best night.”

  I recounted how we walked the High Line, a beautiful park built over an old elevated railroad track that runs along the west side of lower Manhattan. It features gorgeous wildflowers, modern-art installations, and yummy food stands. My boyfriend got held up and had to push back our meeting time, but in doing so, we found ourselves walking the urban boardwalk just as the tangerine sun was setting over the shimmering waters of the Hudson.

  “‘Tangerine sun?’” my mom said. “Geez, you are in love.”

  “Oh fine, it was orange. Anyway…”

  We walked to the very end of the High Line and descended in an area of the city neither of us knew very well. On a whim, I mentioned being in the mood for sushi, and as if by magic, we spotted a tiny, authentic Japanese pub.

  “Ooh, what did you have?” my mom asked.

  She always asks me this. First, she likes to know I’m well fed, and second, she wants to vicariously eat it. Some mothers try to live through their daughters’ youth or romance; I’m lucky my mom covets only my menus.

  “We had salty edamame, fresh yellowtail sushi—”

  “Yes…”

  “And chewy soba noodles—”

  “Yes…”

  “And grilled whole squid.”

  “Ew.”

  “No, it was amazing.”

  “Well, it sounds very New York-y. I’m happy things are going so well. How did you get home, did you take a cab?”

  She hates for me to take the subway at night. She even hates it in the past tense; that I survived to tell the tale is no comfort.

  This time she didn’t have to worry, even retroactively.

  It was such nice weather, we decided to walk. We were hand in hand, retelling the story of how we met to one another, as if we weren’t both there.

  “Barf, right?” I interrupted myself.

  “No, that’s cute. Go on.”

  And we got the idea to take the High Line back. Technically, it closes at 10 P.M., and it was 10:04, but we figured they’d need time to clear it off—just enough time for us to sneak on. So, feeling giddy with our minor trespass, we raced up the steps.

  Once up on the darkened pathway, I noticed some unusual fauna.

  “Look at this beetle,” I said, pointing to a black insect. “There are a couple of them over here.”

  “That’s not a beetle,” my boyfriend said. “That’s a roach.”

  Squinting in the darkness, we saw hundreds of them, dark spots darting all across the walkway. The High Line was overrun with roaches.

  Maybe this is why they close at ten.

  It was like something out of a horror movie, and we were totally the sucker couple doomed to die in the first five minutes.

  “Why are there so many?” I asked, leaping to avoid crunching the things.

  “Maybe they’re tourist roaches,” he said, gleefully mowing them down.

  We scampered to the nearest stairway down, doing our best tourist-roach impressions in various foreign accents.

  “That’s revolting,” my mom said into the phone.

  “No, it was funny! He’s a really good mimic.”

  The rest of the way, we stayed safe at sea level. We even found a cute park to cut through, which was lovely save for the giant rat that crossed our path.

  I wasn’t so grossed out by that, because initially I thought it was a small cat.

  We strolled the rest of the way along the river, with the Lite-Brite skyline of New Jersey twinkling from across the Hudson.

  “That’s better,” my mom said.

  “We did see two people shooting up. That was sad.”

  “What?”

  Actually, I didn’t see them, my boyfriend pointed them out once we were past.

  “He joked that he wanted to show me ‘Old New York,’ isn’t that clever?”

  My mom was unamused.

  “That aside, it was a perfect night.”

  “Geez.” She laughed.

  See what I mean?

  Charmed.

  The Scent of a Woman

  By Lisa

  My house smells like dogs, but I smell like gardenias.

  And wisteria, grapefruit, and tea roses.

  Also opium. At least that’s what it says on the bottle, and I’ll take his word for it, since he’s Yves St. Laurent.

  I’m an Opium addict.

  Today we’re talking about perfume, and I’ll explain why.

  We begin when I get together for a weekly trail ride with my pals Nan and Paula. We call it a trail ride, but it’s more like a trail sit. Nan is an expert horsewoman, but Paula and I are too scared to go faster than we can talk.

  Horseback riding is great exercise, when other people do it. When I do it, it’s excellent conversation.

  The three of us talk about our kids, our lives, and our diets, but somehow this time, the subject turns to perfume, and as it happens, I’m the only one who wears it every day. They’re both surprised, and come to think of it, so am I.

  Loyal readers will recall that I’m your favorite dirtbag.

  To be specific, I have confessed in these pages that I shower only every few days, wear the same black sweatpants throughout the winter, and have been known to sleep in my clothes.

  With dogs.

  Impressed yet?

  The only excuse is that I work at home. If I’m doing my job, I don’t meet anyone all day, except two thousand new words.

  So naturally I don’t wear makeup very often and if I go out to food-shop or run errands, I don’t bother with mascara or eyeliner.

  I was never a girly-girl, and now I’ve aged out of the category.

  But the one thing that I always do, even at home, is wear perfume.

  Every day.

  I’m not quirky, I’m fragrant.

  I think it started way back, because Mot
her Mary always wore perfume. She also smoked, so most of the time she smelled of Youth Dew and More 100s. I used to borrow her clothes in middle school, and I smelled generally older and wiser, or like a pack-a-day habit.

  But a habit was born, which was being aromatic.

  So I tried to sell Nan and Paula on wearing perfume. It makes you feel pretty even if you look like hell. It makes you feel elegant in a T-shirt. It makes you feel young when you’re, well, my age.

  Our sense of smell is one of only five senses, but it gets the least love.

  We worry about what we look like, but little about what we smell like, and we can’t even see what we look like. Fragrance can be for others, but it can also be just for us.

  Perfume is personal aromatherapy.

  So the next time my girlfriends and I went for a trail ride, I brought along three bottles of my favorite perfumes, like a taste test for women. I brought one that smells like roses, one that smells like spices, and one that smells vaguely powerful. We mixed and matched and had a great time, spraying ourselves before we got on the horses, right in the barn.

  The horses were not amused. They’re used to us spritzing fly spray, not perfume, which, oddly, worked almost as well at repelling flies.

  I’m hoping men don’t feel the same way.

  Anyway, the horses were repulsed. They kept looking back at us as we rode, and Buddy The Pony threw his head high and curled his upper lip. This is called pflamen, which is something horses do when they don’t like a smell.

  I didn’t take it personally.

  The only smell Buddy likes is Eau de Carrots.

  Anyway, that day, we decided that there was one perfume we liked the best.

  The powerful one.

  It smells like self-esteem in a bottle.

  And no, I don’t want to say the name of the perfume.

  Whatever makes you feel powerful is up to you.

  With Apologies to L’Oreal

  By Lisa

  I’m sweltering because I have low self-esteem.

  That’s what I figured out.

  Otherwise I can’t explain my own dumb behavior.

  This might be a new low, because usually I can explain my dumb behavior. Like if someone says, do you want to get married, I always say, Yes!

  Dumb, but I know why.

  Temporary insanity.

  This time, I don’t, and the stakes are much higher. We’re talking air-conditioning.