Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog

by Lisa Scottoline

  It hurts so good.

  In no time, I’m sliding the paint chips out in a circle, the tangerines overlapping the marigolds, the cobalts eclipsing the limes, the pinks complementing the purples, all the colors fanning out from the center, making a 360° fountain of acrylic excitement.

  I had no idea what color I wanted to paint the house, but all of a sudden, the books opened up a spectrograph of chromatic possibilities. The paint chips whirled together like spin art on the boardwalk, and all the colors of the rainbow were mine. I flashed on a childhood filled with Crayola crayons, from the starter eight to the big-girl double-layers of sixty-four. I thought of old-fashioned tins of watercolor paints, with rectangular wells for dirty water. I could paint the house any color I wanted, and the thought made me giddy.

  There was nobody around to exercise good judgment. No saner head to prevail.

  Yippee!

  I should point out that there is precedent for my temporary color insanity. After my second divorce, I painted my kitchen the color of vitamin C, merely because nobody could stop me.

  So I gazed at the paint chips and imagined golden shutters against the tan fieldstone of the house. Creamy ivory clapboard in the sunshine. Colonial molding painted classy forest green. Fascia the gentle hue of daffodils. I spent hours looking at the colors in all different kinds of light and made lists of the letters and numbers on each paint chip, a cryptic code that added to its tantalizing mystery. For example, Corinthian White was OC-111. I looked in vain for the meaning of OC, but the book kept its secrets.

  I even found myself carried away by the names of the colors, some of which were delicious. I imagined shutters of Sharp Cheddar (2017-20). I considered doing the trim in Pale Celery (OC-114) and Carrot Stick (2016-30), low-carb colors. I could finish my molding in Peach Sorbet (2015-40), which was like eating windowsills for dessert.

  Some color names struck an emotional chord, as in True Blue (2066-50), and others were adorable, like Tricycle Red (2000-20). Growing up, I had a red tricycle and a red wagon. I looked for a color named Red Wagon, but there was none. I made a mental note to email Benjamin Moore.

  Still other names made me think of vacations—Caribbean Coast (2065-60), South Beach (2043-50), and Blue Wave (2065-50). But Asbury Sand (2156-40) didn’t look any different from Serengeti Sand (2164-40), and it’s probably easier to get a hotel in Jersey.

  I was bothered by the names that made no sense. What’s a Jeweled Peach (2013-30)? Or Smoke Embers (AC-28)? There’s no such thing as smoke embers. Smoke comes from embers. Anyway, it was a Boring Gray. And between us, Adobe Dust (2175-40) looks suspiciously like the dirt under my bed, which I call Philadelphia Filth.

  Still other color names were a little precious. Roasted Sesame Seed (2160-40) isn’t a color, it’s a recipe. Mantis Green (2033-60) is just plain creepy. Dollar Bill Green (2050-30) is for pimps only.

  Some color names confused me. Nantucket Gray (HC-111) is green. Gypsy Love (2085-30) is maroon, which has nothing to do with either Gypsies or Love. Soft Cranberry (2094-40), which should be maroon, is beige. And Milkyway (OC-110) is white like milk, not brown like the candy or black like the galaxy.

  Kelp Forest Green (2043-30) is distinctly unhelpful. Shore House Green (2047-50) begs the question. Cherokee Brick (2082-30) is historically inaccurate. Distant Gray (2124-70) is emotionally unavailable. Amber Waves (2159-40) panders in an election year. There was no Purple Mountains Majesty.

  Other names reveal that whoever thought them up was drunk. There is no other explanation for Perky Peach (2012-50), Springy Peach (2011-60), or Limesickle (2145-50). Maybe they were drinking Moonshine (2140-60).

  By the end, I was supersaturated with color, hues, and tints, dizzy from my myriad paint fantasies. But at least I found the perfect color for the house.

  White.

  The Accidental Driver

  Insurance is fun. I don’t mean health insurance, because health insurance is never fun. But for some reason, car insurance is a laugh riot.

  Here’s what I mean.

  Amazingly enough, I have never been in an accident, if you don’t count my two marriages.

  For all this time, I’ve been paying lots of dough in car insurance, in the hope that someday I’ll get creamed and it will pay off. But so far, no good.

  I made my first claim ten years ago, when this happened: I used to have a gate at the end of my driveway, and when I left, I’d get out of the car, open the gate, and drive through, then close it behind me. One day, I stopped the car, got out, and opened the gate, but before I could get back in, a gust of wind came from nowhere and blew the gate into my car, denting it while I stood by and used profanity.

  I put in a claim, to finally get my money’s worth from my car insurance, but they said that I wasn’t covered for hitting my gate.

  I disagreed. “I didn’t hit my gate. My gate hit me.”

  Silence, from the other end of the phone.

  “I have a point, you know.”

  And I won, which means that, after my deductible, they paid me $38, and I had only $1,328,373,730.92 left to get my money’s worth. Perhaps if you have a swinging gate, I could park nearby.

  That’s why I was delighted last month when I was driving on the highway and suddenly heard a loud pock, and five miles later, noticed a crack in my windshield. Five miles after that, the crack extended several jagged inches, and five after that, it looked like a sales chart in a bad year.

  Yay!

  I was so happy I could make another claim. Mind you, my second in thirty years. So I called the insurance company. “Remember me? This time, a rock hit me, and I need a new windshield. Am I covered?”

  “Yes, of course.” She proceeded to tell me that I could get a new windshield from one of three places, which sounded like Clem’s Windshields, Windshields R’ Us, and Just Windshields.

  I didn’t like that. “But I want the same windshield. Can’t I just take it back to the dealer?”

  “No, you have to use our approved vendors.”

  “What is this, an HMO for cars? If so, I want Personal Choice.”

  “Okay, but that’ll cost you more.”

  “Isn’t $1,328,373,730.92 enough?”

  Silence, from the other end of the phone.

  Life insurance is even more fun. I pay lots of dough every month, but I never seem to die. Then last month, the agent called to tell me that my life insurance policy was about to “convert.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but the bottom line was that the insurance I’ve had all this time is about to end, because now I’m old enough to need it.

  Thanks.

  I gather my demise wasn’t in the original deal, which was that I would pay lots of dough every month for no earthly reason, even though I was healthy as a horse and in no danger of harm from anything except gates and rocks.

  They call that term insurance, but I think they should call it joke insurance. They sold it to me because they knew I wouldn’t need it. They were only joking.

  So now I have to buy new life insurance, which will cost me triple what the old insurance cost, because I have sprung various and sundry leaks. They call this whole life insurance because it will cost me my whole life. Unless I die tomorrow, in which case the joke is on them.

  Cross your fingers.

  Honestly, it’s worth it to me. Strike me dead. Bring it, now. I want my epitaph to read, SHOW ME THE MONEY.

  So I began investigating new life insurance policies, which is when the agent told me that I needed disability insurance, too. When I asked why, she answered, “Because you make your living using your brain.”

  “Thank you,” I replied. Evidently, she doesn’t read me. “So what’s your point?”

  “If you incurred brain damage, you couldn’t work, and that’s why you need disability insurance.”

  I disagreed. I didn’t think anything could damage my brain more than thinking about insurance does. “I could work if I hurt my arm.”

  “True.”

&n
bsp; “I could work if I hurt my leg.”

  “Also true,” she said. “But what if you were in a car accident?”

  “I’ve never had a car accident. Gates and rocks are gunning for me, but that’s not the same thing.”

  “Then you’re very lucky.”

  I disagreed. “I bought car insurance and life insurance and now you want me to buy disability insurance. I paid thousands of dollars for decades, for no conceivable reason. You call that lucky? Should I buy flood insurance, even though I live on a hill? Or planet insurance, for when Mars attacks? Or third marriage insurance, in case I lose my mind again?”

  Silence, from the other end of the phone.

  Mix ‘N Match

  These are confusing times to be alive, biologically speaking. All manner of shenanigans are going on at DNA level, so many I can’t keep up with all them all. I rely on People magazine to keep me abreast of the latest science news, and I was amazed by its article on the pregnant man.

  You may have heard about him, a transgendered male who is six months pregnant. I couldn’t figure out from the story which equipment he was born with, and by the middle of the story, I didn’t care. The headline read, HE’S HAVING A BABY, and that was enough for me. A man can get pregnant?

  This is one great idea, if you ask me.

  I mean, why not?

  My pregnancy involved a fifty-pound weight gain, water retention, chubby ankles, and a weird rash on my belly that itched like crazy. Pregnant, I was no Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair. I wasn’t even Christina Aguilera on the cover of Marie Claire. Or Britney Spears on the cover of Bazaar. Pregnant, I should have been on the cover of This Old House.

  If men want to get pregnant, I say, be my guest. So what if the photos look funny, with a mustache and a pregnant belly? It wouldn’t be the first time. I come from a proud line of mustachioed women.

  Don’t split hairs.

  In fact, I’m encouraging all you men out there to get pregnant, right away. Give your marriage a boost. Do your wife a favor. You’ve probably got a pretty long Honey-Do list sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for you. I bet that, in most households, HAVE BABY FOR ME would shoot right up to numero uno. You wouldn’t have to take out the trash or mow the lawn for the rest of your life.

  And think of the guilt you could inflict! Men getting pregnant makes much more sense, especially when it comes to delivery. Men are man enough to give birth, by definition. In fact, men probably wouldn’t bat an eye. I bet if you put them in front of a TV during playoff season, they wouldn’t even notice they were in labor. Women could get them ice chips for their beer and run downfield with the receiving blanket, and men could pop the babies out like footballs.

  Score!

  And pregnant men aren’t the only biological advance, of late. Another is cows that give skim milk. I read online that scientists in the UK were able to do this recently, and isn’t that another great idea? Nobody needs an obsolete cow that produces fattening milk. That’s like buying Cow 1.0 when Cow 4.0 is already on the market.

  Plus, it turns out that butter from the latest and greatest cows has the advantage of being spreadable straight from the refrigerator.

  Now we’re talking. I hate it when you have to wait for the butter to soften. We all do. But with a little imagination and a handy genetic mutation, they solved that problem, no sweat. I hope those scientists in the UK get back on the stick and whip us up a cow that produces Diet Coke. After all, how many grownups are drinking milk by the glass? I down a couple of Diet Cokes a day, and a cow that could squirt soda would suit me much better, as long as it was decaf.

  Or why not think outside of the box? How about a cow that produces gin and tonic? I could drink from one of those cows all day. But we couldn’t let the pregnant men near one.

  Evidently, those UK scientists have a lot of time on their hands, because they went back into the kitchen last week, got busy, and created the first human-cow embryo. I’m not kidding. I read it online. It might even be on Wikipedia by now. If it isn’t, you can put it there, citing this as authority.

  I have a question about the human-cow embryo. Why did they pick that combination? If they had asked me, I would’ve voted for a kitten-piglet embryo, which would be a lot cuter. Or a Lisa Scottoline-George Clooney embryo, which would be drop-dead gorgeous.

  Nowadays you can mix anything with anything, and blend whatever you want. It’s like Cold Stone Creamery, with eggs and sperms.

  So let’s get crazy. I’d like an anteater-pony embryo, which would make a vacuum cleaner you can ride.

  Or a dog-cat embryo, which would make a cat that adores you. Or a dog that hates your guts.

  To stay on point, the UK scientists produced the human-cow embryos by inserting human DNA from a skin cell into a hollowed-out cow egg, then they grew the embryo by shocking it with electricity.

  I saw that once in a Frankenstein movie. Maybe that’s where they got the idea.

  But did they forget the ending?

  Things To Do

  I just finished my next book, which means that I finally have time to tackle my list of Things To Do. It takes me a year to write a book, so I had 293,773 Things to Do. I started doing them on Saturday, but I got only one Thing done.

  It’s not my fault.

  To explain, I let my Things To Do pile up because when I’m in the final draft of a book, I do nothing else. I let everything go, including my roots. You don’t want to see me with final-draft roots. It looks like my hair got caught in a forest fire, leaving behind burnt trunks and a very single woman.

  We begin our story when my driver’s license expired. It expired last July, because, like I told you, I let everything go. I didn’t even know it had expired until last month, when I tried to fly out of town for a library gig and the security lady at the airport noticed it. I talked fast and got the real-deal search, and they let me fly. Then I had another flight the week after, for another library gig, so to avoid the expired license problem, I grabbed my passport.

  But my passport had expired.

  Like I told you, I let everything go.

  So I’m at the airport and I’m showing the security lady my expired license and expired passport, and after much fast-talking by me, head-shaking by her, and a no-joke background check, they let me fly.

  So you get it. When I finished my book, I sent away to renew my driver’s license, but I needed to get my photo taken to renew my passport, which brings me to my first Thing To Do, on Saturday morning.

  I went to get my picture taken at my local post office, but was surprised to find that it closed at 11:30 A.M. I knew there was another post office nearby, so I drove over and arrived at noon. To my surprise, it had just closed, too. A woman walking by told me that another post office was open later, so I headed over, but traffic was busy with people doing their Things To Do, and I didn’t get there until 1:00 P.M., and you guessed it.

  They were closing.

  Surprise!

  I ran inside before they could lock me out, and they said that I should come back on Monday—but only from 9:30 A.M. to 11:30 A.M., which is when they take the passport photos.

  I didn’t ask when they lick the stamps or weigh the mail. I suspect that happens between 10:12 A.M. and 12:01 P.M., depending on your zip code, weight, and zodiac sign.

  By the way, the other two post offices nearby closed at 3:00 P.M. and 4:00 P.M., respectively. So, to review, we’re talking about five post offices with five different closing times.

  Huh? And more importantly, wha?

  Don’t get me started on why the post office closes at all on Saturday, which is the only day that the gainfully employed can go. And never mind that they assign store hours in a way that guarantees you’ll have zero chance of remembering which end is up. We won’t get into it because, in fairness, it’s not only the post office that thwarts our Things To Do.

  It’s everybody, conspiring against us. We have more and more Things To Do, and all the stores are finding new and cr
eative ways not to help us Do our Things. In fact, the worst culprits are the stores that make us Do their Things.

  Observe.

  It started harmlessly enough, back in the eighties. If you went to a salad bar, you had to make your own salad. And at the gas station, you had to pump your own gas.

  Then it went crazy.

  Nowadays, at the food store, you not only bag your own groceries and take them to the car, but you also check yourself out. You can even bring your own bags.

  They still supply the food, so they can call it a food store, and not a Bring-Your-Own-Food Store & Do-Our-Jobs-For-Us Emporium.

  You can go to a car wash, where you can wash your car yourself. Or the hairdresser, where you can dry your own hair. Or the train station, where you can buy your ticket yourself. Or the airport, where you can get your own boarding pass.

  They still fly the plane.

  For now.

  To send a package, you can print out your own air bills. And at the fast food restaurants, they give you a paper cup and tell you to get your own soda.

  You have my point?

  There is no way we have a chance of getting done with all our Things To Do. Not if we can only do one Thing on a Saturday, and that’s between 9:23 A.M. and 10:18 A.M., if the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter’s aligned with Mars.

  And you’re a Libra.

  We have way too many Things To Do, especially if you add their Things to our Things.

  It’s easier to write a book.

  Lucy

  Sad news, and this time it’s no joke.

  My old dog Lucy, who was happily recovering from tetanus, just passed away. This time her heart failed, and she died the day my story about her amazing recovery appeared in the newspaper. I got home from the vet hospital, without her, in time to pick up the Sunday paper.