Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim

by Lisa Scottoline

“I’d love to learn how to make eggplant parm,” I said. “Can you teach me?”

  Minutes later, we were heating up oil.

  My grandmother explained the first steps, but she’s such a pro, her teaching style tends to be doing it all herself with narration. And although my mother was the one who wanted the eggplant parm in the first place, she had a lot of … suggestions. Things like:

  “Not too much salt!” and “Don’t overcook them, Ma, you like them cooked to death.”

  I could tell the only thing getting overheated was Mother Mary.

  Which leads me to Rule Number 2: Be calm-assertive, but let her think she’s in charge.

  “Here,” I said, gently slipping the utensils from my grandmother’s hands. “Let me try it myself or I’ll never learn. You relax, then judge when I’m finished, okay?”

  “Okay, kitten,” she said, and shuffled over to preside at the kitchen island.

  And so commenced a fairly peaceful cooking session with all three generations in the same kitchen.

  I had just lifted the last slice of golden brown breaded eggplant from the fryer, when I asked for Mother Mary’s approval. “How do they look?”

  But my grandmother didn’t look up.

  “Ma,” my mom said loudly, catching her attention. “Please, put in your hearing aids.”

  “Why.” My grandmother is the only person who can say this word without a question mark.

  “Because I want you to hear what we’re saying.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to listen.”

  “I’m serious. I’m tired of yelling.”

  “You yell anyway!”

  Rule Number 3: Do not attempt to outwit the grandmother. This is impossible.

  “They make no difference,” added Mother Mary.

  “They make a difference to us, to your family. Put them in right now, please.”

  Rule Number 4: Don’t bark orders; listen and respond.

  “Mom, wait,” I said. “What if she means ‘they make no difference’ as in, they don’t work? Maybe there’s something wrong with them.” I turned to my grandmother, and asked, “Can I try them?”

  My grandmother looked surprised.

  My mom looked disgusted. “You’re going to put them in your ears?” my mom asked. “That’s so gross.”

  This coming from the woman who “accidentally” uses my toothbrush every time she comes to visit.

  Francesca (aka Cookie) and Mother Mary

  But I was excited to try them. Would they give me superhuman hearing? I imagined I’d be able to use my newfound Spidey-sense to hear all sorts of things—a mouse in the house next door, or the dog tearing up the toilet paper in the bathroom.

  Although the latter is a pretty safe bet, whether I hear it or not.

  But when I put in the hearing aids, my heart sank. Not only did they feel weird and ticklish, they were clearly broken. The left one played irritating static, and the right one was completely dead, a very expensive plastic earplug. Meanwhile, my mom and I must have made Mother Mary put these hearing aids in ten times over her visit already, and all the while they were duds.

  So we come to the final and most important rule, which is that grandmother whispering isn’t about manipulation, it’s about empathy. Sure, there are times when Mother Mary is sassy for sass’s sake, but more often, she knows what she’s talking about, and we’d do well to listen. You can’t use tricks with a grandmother, you’ve got to use heart.

  And when all else fails, throw the middle generation under the bus.

  Feet Don’t Fail Me Now

  By Lisa

  Getting sick teaches many lessons.

  And before I begin, let me say I know that having foot surgery isn’t even being that sick, and certainly not as sick as many people. But it’s what I’m working with now, and it taught me several lessons, which I’m about to inflict on you.

  By the way, I also know that many of these lessons are not exactly news. But I did learn them for myself, and frankly, I think they bear repeating, especially if you’ve gotten used to living on your own, like me, or if you’re just accustomed to being an adult, where you take care of yourself, your family, and the tristate area in general.

  Or because you’re a woman.

  As the intake nurse said to me, “Your job is to lie still and let us take care of you. In other words, be a man.”

  Sorry, guys.

  It may be a bad rap, but there it is.

  And speaking for myself, I know that I hate to ask anybody for anything, much less help doing the basic things, like walking, dressing myself, or throwing up.

  Generally I like to throw up on my own. But you haven’t lived until you have a friend grab a wastebasket just in time.

  We begin when I enter the hospital and relinquish all the things I carry around, that I’ve come to think of as part of me: my clothes, purse, wallet, watch, and cell phone. On the plus side, I am given socks that are nicer than the ones I walked in with, because they match.

  I wait to be processed, stripped down to what I really am: a human being with one extremely funky foot.

  It’s an odd sensation, being naked down to your genus.

  Remember, I’m a bumper sticker of a woman. I wear my Phillies T-shirt to watch the game. At home.

  Of course, our identity isn’t any of our trappings, no matter how nice your watch, or how trendy your smartphone.

  But you have to be smart to know that.

  And then I meet a flock of nurses, each one asking me a set of questions pleasantly and carefully, as if they haven’t asked them ten thousand times before, and answering all my dumb questions with equal patience.

  Lisa preps for bunion surgery. Sexy outfit!

  Lisa with besties Franca and Laura

  Let’s hear it for nurses. I met a slew—Karen, Brigitte, Carol, and Mary Eileen, each one was nicer than the next.

  I have never met a mean nurse. I have never even met an impatient nurse. Every nurse I meet, I want them to cuddle me, and one did. Nurses are funny, smart, kind, and impossibly hardworking and unsung.

  Let’s sing for nurses.

  That was my first lesson.

  And the other thing is that each nurse checked my ID bracelet for my birth date, and remarked that I looked younger than I am.

  So nurses are really really great.

  What did I learn?

  That I look younger than I am.

  Just kidding.

  I learned that nurses aren’t paid enough, because nobody could pay them enough to cuddle a middle-aged woman whose foot has its own on/off knob.

  And the other thing I learned is how lucky I am in my girlfriends. They all know I hate to ask for help, so they all volunteered when I didn’t ask, and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. My girlfriend Laura moved in for the weekend, bringing Raisinets. My girlfriend Franca sent chocolate cake. My girlfriend Paula sent chocolate and pears.

  You see the common thread.

  Don’t make me spell it out.

  My girlfriend Nan stops by to make me dinner, and Mother Mary and Francesca call constantly to check on me, both begging to come and stay.

  I say no. I’m fine now, and I don’t need my daughter to take care of me just yet.

  She’ll have plenty of time to see me with a walker.

  And Mother Mary’s time for taking care of me is over.

  She had the job for, like, fifty-seven years.

  Slip Sliding Away

  By Lisa

  I used to make fun of plastic slipcovers, and now I wish I had them.

  Please tell me you’re old enough to know what plastic slipcovers are.

  FYI, in the old days, people used plastic to preserve their furniture. Nowadays, people use plastic to preserve their faces.

  No judgment here. Because I never thought I’d want plastic slipcovers, and now I do. The day could come when I want a plastic face.

  You’ll be the first to know. We’ll both look surprised.

  The Flying Scottol
ines weren’t classy enough for plastic slipcovers. You don’t need a plastic slipcover for a TV tray.

  Now I’m grown-up, and I just got a new couch and chairs in a lovely floral fabric, but they’re already blanketed with dog and cat hair. You would think I’d upholstered with fur.

  I know this is my own fault. I could just forbid the dogs from getting on the furniture, but it’s too late. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks, and I can’t be taught to keep the dogs off the furniture.

  Of course, at the same time, I can’t say I don’t regret this decision. I’ve made mistakes in my life and have more than a few regrets, and sometimes I think that it was a mistake to let the dogs on the furniture.

  I regret letting the dogs on the furniture every time I find dog hair on the back of my sweatpants, or on the side of my face when I nap on the couch. Even so, it’s totally fun to snuggle on the couch with dogs. Peach is the Champion Cuddle Monster of all time, but she leaves behind white fur that has magnetic properties, attaching itself to all cushions in the tristate area.

  And we’re not even talking cat hair. Mimi and Vivi leave cat hair on the tops of the furniture, but cat hair can’t be stopped, because cats can’t be stopped.

  Cat hair is not only magnetic, but weaves its way into the fibers of most clothing, in a process known only to cats and Satan.

  If you have a cat, you have cat hair, and if you had plastic slipcovers, they’d be covered with cat hair, too.

  So what I did in the family room was to buy three cheap coverlets and throw them over the new furniture, but then I spent all day looking at cheap coverlets and not my beautiful floral fabric. Hmm. But the quilts did the trick, because they got all dirty and hairy, so I couldn’t take them off.

  Still, what to do? This would be a suburban conundrum.

  Then I thought of a third solution, which is my current one. I ordered three floral quilts online, which weren’t that expensive, and now I look at them and pretend they’re as nice as my new couch.

  This isn’t the best solution, either.

  I had envisioned removing the quilts when I sat down or when people came over, but neither of these things happened. Whenever I sat down, I just moved the quilt over, so most of the time, I watch TV next to a pile of furry quilts, like a mound of hairy laundry.

  And when people come over, I don’t even bother moving the quilts, because it’s too much trouble, unless the people were staying longer than half an hour or were someone I needed to impress.

  Which would be nobody.

  Most of the time, to avoid the hassle, I rushed people out, steering clear of the quilt-covered family room.

  But now the quilts are covered with fur.

  All of this sent me to the computer, there to find appliances known as the pet vac. Because marketing has convinced us that dog hair is different from other hairy schmutz and demands a different appliance. So long ago, I acquired an upright pet vac, but my upright pet vac can’t be used on the furniture, so now I need something else.

  Peach stretches out on Lisa’s comfy chair.

  Like what? A downright pet vac?

  No, a hand pet vac.

  For pet hands?

  No, to use when I clean my flowery quilts. I looked online, and the bestselling pet vac is made by Dirt Devil.

  Doubtless, in league with Satan.

  In Which Spunky Teaches Me About Mother Mary

  By Lisa

  If you’re worried about Spunky, you needn’t be.

  I got this.

  And since I’m in a post-op life-lessons mood, I learned another one, this time from Spunky.

  You may recall that Spunky is the orange tabby who belonged to my late friend Harry, who had rescued him as a kitten some fourteen years ago and lived alone with him all this time. I will remind you that Harry called himself Harry The Hermit, so you can guess that Spunky isn’t exactly on Facebook.

  Until the cat came to my house, about a month ago, he had never seen another cat, much less a dog or Ruby The Crazy Corgi, which is another creature entirely.

  For this reason I had some trepidation about bringing Spunky home, but I loved Harry, and Harry loved Spunky, so it was natural to complete the circle of love. Also, I offer the best home any pet could have, because it’s their world and I just pay for it.

  Spunky’s vet advised me to start Spunky out in his own room, but the thing about my house is that none of the rooms is closed off, especially to animals.

  Like I said. Their world.

  The only rooms with doors are the bedrooms, and Spunky couldn’t be in mine, because all the dogs sleep with me, which left Daughter Francesca’s bedroom.

  Rather, Spunky’s new bedroom.

  My nest isn’t empty, it contains a geriatric cat.

  For the first day or two, he sat on the floor in a corner of his new bedroom, and he didn’t respond to any attention, nor did he eat, drink, or poop. I was about to call the vet, but then poop appeared in his litter box and I rejoiced.

  Yes, I have that much fun.

  By the end of week one, Spunky was eating and drinking in his bedroom, but he never moved from under the desk, on top of the heater. I set up a little bed for him there, which he didn’t use, and spent a little Spunky Time with him every day.

  After the bunion surgery, it’s easy to get down on the floor. The floor is my favorite place, because if I’m already there, I’m not falling there. I have yet to get the hang of the walker, which is as it should be. I don’t plan on using one until never.

  Though Spunky permitted himself to be petted, he neither purred nor recoiled. He was okay with my being there, but I didn’t matter.

  I felt the same way in my marriages.

  But I’m not divorcing Spunky, though it would be cheaper.

  Also on week one, I opened his door and put a gate in front of it, so he could come and go if he wished, or have a playdate with one of my other cats. But there was no sign of his coming out, nor of the other cats going in. I might have missed a secret nocturnal meeting, but I didn’t install a cat cam. The day I spy on my pets, I need to get a life.

  Or a midlife.

  By the end of week two, there was no change in Spunky. Still every day I went in for Spunky Time and talked to him. I told him to join the family and have some fun, and finally, two days ago, he leaned into my hand to be petted.

  Yay!

  Later on, I have a conversation with Mother Mary. Of course, it’s not about Spunky, because I still haven’t told her about Harry’s death. I’m still waiting for the right moment. In 2015.

  “What are you up to?” I ask her, when she picks up.

  “Laundry.”

  “Aw, why don’t you go outside, to get some sun?”

  “Nah.”

  “How about some shopping? Did you buy your new sheets?”

  “Not yet. Maybe later.”

  I try to assess her tone. Is she depressed? Tired? Sick, negative? None of the above or all of the above? “Ma, you okay?”

  “Sure, I’m fine,” she says, chuckling. “How’re you?”

  And that’s when it hits me.

  She’s Spunky.

  She doesn’t have to be doing anything—running errands, going places, making new friends. She’s content, and at peace, just by being.

  At her age, she’s earned the right to be settled, and still.

  And so has Spunky.

  I went upstairs to tell him my revelation. I told Spunky he was home, where he could just relax, and that he had already joined the family, simply by being our elder statesman, who sits on the heater.

  He looked up at me with round golden eyes, and he lifted his chin to be scratched.

  No, he didn’t purr.

  He didn’t have to.

  Subtext

  By Lisa

  I’m loving texting, and I’ll tell you why.

  I need more stress in my life. I like my blood pounding in my veins, pressing against my arterial walls, transforming me into a walking pressure c
ooker.

  Thank you, texting.

  Let me take you back in time, friends.

  I remember when there were things called letters, and in law school, I recall specifically waiting for a letter from a guy I had a crush on. We were dating, but he went away for the summer, and he never wrote. I actually checked the mail, every day. But no letters.

  Face it, letters sucked.

  But then, when I became a lawyer, the fax machine came along. To send a fax, we had to go down to the windowless bowels of the firm to a ring of hell called the Word Processing Department, which contained a highly underappreciated and undoubtedly underpaid group of women. None of the lawyers knew the names of the word processors, but I did because, like the firm’s messengers, they were mostly Italian.

  Yes, I did get my paycheck before everyone else. I had friends in low places.

  Grazie.

  Faxes used to be called facsimiles, and they came hot out of the machine, like you were baking at the office. We used to fax our lunch orders, which is the kind of thing that lawyers think is badass, and also I was dating somebody who used to send me poetry by fax. It didn’t last until the advent of email, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Computers came along, then the Internet, then email, which is now antique.

  Back in the day, people would brag about how much email they got. Cool people got the most. By that time I had become an author, albeit a struggling one, and I heard from authors who got like fifty readers’ emails a day.

  I got no email except for spam, and back then, I even liked spam. This was before Viagra, which overstayed its welcome. By about three inches.

  But soon we came to understand that email was just another task, and one that people expected you to perform right away, as in within a few hours or the same day.

  We thought that fast.

  How quaint.

  Because then we got cell phones, iPhones, and BlackBerrys, and now we text like crazy and expect a reply in three, two, one …

  NOW.

  Texting is generational, but not always in ways you’d expect. For example, every time I’m with Daughter Francesca and she gets a text, I look over and ask her, “Aren’t you going to get that?”

  She’ll shrug. “Whenever.”

  I blink. I can’t ignore a text, like in the old days when I couldn’t ignore a ringing phone.