Best Friends, Occasional Enemies: The Lighter Side of Life as a Mother and Daughter (Reading Group Gold) (13 page)

That is drug abuse.

I thought the twilight years were a time for family, sage advice-giving, hobbies, relaxation—not sex.

That’s what your twenties are for!

Just kidding.

Only men in their twenties have sex.

The real question is, what kind of a twenty-five-year-old woman wants to date an eighty-five-year-old man?

One that can’t get ahold of her birth control pills.

My Daughter Moved Out, So Why Am I Still Lactating?

By Lisa

Everybody knows that pets can be like kids, but around the Scottoline house, things are getting a little extreme.

It all started when the weather turned cold, and I began to worry that Peach didn’t have much fur, so I found myself putting a little maroon dog sweater on her, to keep her warm. Not that she was going out for a walk. I mean, for her to wear around the house.

Okay, so far.

I did this for one day, then two, then three, which was when it occurred to me that she might not like wearing the same thing for three days in a row, so I changed her and dressed her in a navy blue sweater.

Uh oh.

Also, it’s a turtleneck, and when her head popped though the collar, first her cute little muzzle and then her curly reddish ears, it reminded me of when Daughter Francesca was little. And I stopped myself, because I realized something. I’m becoming one of those people who dress up their dogs.

And you know what?

I like it.

Still, it’s strange that my dog is wearing a wool sweater and I have on a polyester fleece. What does it mean when your dog dresses better than you?

That she’ll get a date sooner.

I never judged people who dress up their dogs. On the contrary, here’s my general rule in life: If it makes you happy and it’s low-carb, go for it.

After all, people who dress up their dogs are just having fun, and so are the dogs, so what’s the harm?

Still, let’s be real. I didn’t criticize those people, but neither did I think I was one of them. I thought I loved my dogs as dogs, but the truth is my dogs have become my children.

At least I’m not lactating.

Yet.

In my own defense, let me say that this is all their fault. Why? Because they started it.

Most of the day, I work on my laptop at the kitchen island while they sleep away on their dog beds, at my feet. But as soon as the cell phone rings, Ruby The Crazy Corgi sounds the alarm, and Peach and Tony start running back and forth with Penny, barking and snapping at each other’s tails. And likewise, every time I pick up the phone to call someone, the dogs start the noisiest game of chase ever.

Every mother will recognize this behavior.

When Daughter Francesca was little, she would start singing loudly when I got on the phone, and moms I know say their kids always acted up when they were on the phone.

And we got the message.

Hang up and love me.

I think the dogs are doing the same thing. And I’d stop treating them like kids, if they’d stop acting like them.

Funny, I’ve said before that motherhood has no expiration date, because I know that you never stop being a mother, even when your kids have grown up and moved out. But I didn’t think that motherhood was transferable, in that if I couldn’t mother my child, I’d start mothering small spaniels.

But I was wrong. It’s Mothers Gone Wild, starring me.

I can’t be the only one who makes motherly allowances for my furry kids, can I? For example, they get the best chair, while I get the ottoman. And I make sure I walk them every day, instead of doing an errand I need to get done. And the other day, I overcooked a chicken breast and gave them the best part.

I didn’t eat the burned part, though. I threw it away.

I’m a mother, not a martyr.

I Refuse To Dress Up For The Mall

By Lisa

This holiday I did a lot of my shopping online. It’s easy, it’s efficient, and it doesn’t involve taking a shower. You need to dress up to go out shopping, and at the mall, it’s practically prom.

So I stayed home and clicked to get gifts for Daughter Francesca, but this turned out to be a bad idea. Shopping online is like life. Few things are as advertised, and there’s always an unwelcome surprise.

For example, let’s start with something simple, like a book. I buy tons of books, plenty in bookstores, online, and electronically, too. I figure it’s karmic; if I want people to buy my books, I have to buy other people’s books, and we all need to read more, as literacy is essential for democracy. The more literate we are, the better leaders we elect.

Well, in theory.

But as Dr. Phil says, How’s that working for ya?

Anyway, I’d heard that Mark Twain had just published his autobiography, so I bought it online. Yes, Mark Twain came out with his autobiography, even though he’s dead. What an author!

I myself am planning to write my autobiography ten years after I’m dead, at which point I’ll be starting a new thriller series, several romance novels, a graphic novel, and yet another hilariously funny book of essays.

I plan to be very productive, in death. It’s only now that I’m too lazy to dress up for the mall.

But apparently Mark Twain wrote his autobiography and asked that it not be published until a hundred years after his death, which if you ask me, is taking a big chance. How did he know we’d care? At this point, how many English majors are left? I’d thought we were extinct.

But anyway, I bought it online for Francesca, sight unseen. I figured, how bad can it be? It’s Mark Twain. So it came in the mail, and its quality isn’t the problem.

It’s the quantity.

When I opened the huge box, I learned that the book is almost two thousand pages.

Why does it matter?

Well, the paradox is that though I shopped online, I don’t want Francesca to know I shopped online. It sounds like I didn’t care enough about her to take a shower.

Busted.

Even though I’m sure she’d still want the book, I can’t give it to her with a straight face, now that I know it’s as thick as cinderblock. And I don’t want her to feel as if she has to read the whole thing. I’m an English major, and I can tell you I’m not sure I’ll read the whole thing.

Although I did read Keith Richards’s autobiography, which weighed in at 700 pages. These people have a lot of life.

But I digress. My other online shopping surprise was a custom T-shirt I bought for her, because I found this site where you could upload a photo and put it on a T-shirt.

Great idea, huh?

Also, in theory.

She loves her dog Pip, so I got his picture and went on the site, where it said you could place the photo in the middle of the shirt or on the pocket. But there was no pocket, which was confusing, and it looked odd in the middle, so I played it safe and put it over the mythical pocket.

And then the shirt came in the mail.

I held it up.

The picture was way too small to even see the dog, and he’s placed on the left nipple. And, it’s nipple-sized.

Uh oh.

How could I give this to my beloved daughter? Would she wear her dog on her nipple? And do I really want to draw mens’ eyes to that general vicinity?

So I decided to package the T-shirt as a nightshirt for her to wear to bed, and wrap it with the Mark Twain autobiography, to put her to sleep.

Or to knock out any man who looks at her Pip.

(Or her Pipple.)

Mother Mary and The Christmas Standoff

By Lisa

When we last heard about Mother Mary, I was worried she wasn’t using her oxygen, as the doctor ordered, and her nose was turning blue.

Well, we were on our way to a blue Christmas.

Because we stopped speaking to each other.

Here’s what happened.

One day, I just noticed that since our conversation about the oxygen, Mother Mary hadn’t called me. She usually calls every three days or so, just to say hi, but it had been about six days, and no word.

So I called her, wondering, but she didn’t pick up. Still, I didn’t suspect anything. It isn’t unusual for her not to answer, because she naps at odd times during the day. In fact, she takes lots of naps. Because she doesn’t have enough oxygen.

Because she doesn’t listen to her doctor.

Grrr.

Anyway, a few more days went by, and one day, I realized she hadn’t returned my call.

Hmmm.

You may think I’m slow on the uptake, and you would be right, but in my own defense, there’s a reason it didn’t dawn on me that I was getting The Silent Treatment. I never had before, as Mother Mary much prefers The Yelling Treatment. Or The Nagging Treatment. Or The World-Class Guilt Treatment.

But not talking? It’s against our religion. We’re women, so we never shut up.

Anyway, to stay on point, I didn’t figure it out on my own. Brother Frank’s birthday came up, so I gave him a call and he told me: “You’re in big trouble. Mom’s not talking to you.”

“Really?” I couldn’t believe it, and frankly, it got me angry. “She’s mad because I told her to follow her doctor’s orders?’

“Yes. She said you were fresh.”

Hmph. I wasn’t fresh, I was right. So I did the only logical thing. I folded my arms, figuratively speaking. “If she’s not speaking to me, I’m not speaking to her either.”

“Hooboy,” my brother said.

Happy Birthday, Frank.

And so we were at a standoff. If she was boycotting me, I’d boycott her right back. Days went by. I thought about her a lot, worried about her more, and checked my phone for messages.

Mother Mary was standing her ground.

And then I realized, if I was facing Mother Mary in a standoff, I was going to lose. Because I’d seen her anger segue into a grudge, which is a different thing altogether. You’ve heard that matter can be a gas, a liquid, or a solid, but there’s a fourth state.

A grudge, as held by Mother Mary.

Her grudges are more solid than any concrete. Her grudges could build fallout shelters. Granite wishes it could be a Mother Mary grudge.

I can be stubborn, but I’m still the daughter. In other words, the apple doesn’t fall from the tree, but the tree is still the tree, if you follow.

And an apple is no match for a tree.

Especially the Mother Mary Tree.

When the holidays came upon us, and I felt my grudge beginning to wobble. I was still mad, but I was more worried than mad, and if something happened to her while I was boycotting her, this apple would become applesauce.

The holidays are the time we’re most grateful for our family, however angry they make us. Or however silly they are for not listening to their doctors.

Families need each other.

Like oxygen.

So I called. She picked up, and I said, “Merry Christmas, Ma.”

And she said, “About damn time!”

“I’m sorry I was fresh.”

“I made another doctor’s appointment. And if he says I have to use my oxygen, I will.”

Which is her way of saying I’m sorry.

So everything is going to be all right.

Busy Signal

By Lisa

Here’s what we don’t have anymore that we need, especially during the holiday season: A busy signal.

Do you remember the busy signal? It may still exist, for all I know, but I haven’t heard one in ages. It was a horrible beeping noise that you got if you called somebody on the phone, but they were already on the phone talking to somebody else.

This was before voicemail. And before computers. Spanx hadn’t yet been invented, and telephones were two empty cans on a cotton string.

Let’s slow down and analyze the purpose of the busy signal.

Here’s the idea behind it, which is now itself extinct: If you were doing something, you couldn’t be doing something else at the same time.

Silly. Quaint. An antique idea. Of course, nowadays we know you can do plenty of things at once. Like driving, drinking coffee, texting, eating a take-out salad, and changing the radio station.

But back then, if you got a busy signal and you wanted to talk to someone, you would have to do something else that no one does nowadays:

You had to wait.

Wait.

And wait. Then try again, and wait some more.

I like opera, so let me remind you of a scene in Puccini’s
Madama Butterfly.
It’s the story of a woman who’s waiting for her lover to come home, but he got married to someone else, unbeknownst to her. So she’s sitting there, kneeling with their child, both with hands in their laps, waiting for him. The entire opera stops while we, the audience, wait with her, in real time. You actually feel her waiting, and if you want to feel waiting these days, you’ll have to buy a ticket to
Madama Butterfly.
Because nowadays, that’s the only place that anybody waits.

Nobody waits anymore, for anything. Waiting was rendered obsolete by multitasking. We do five things at once so nobody has to wait, and now we hate to wait. We’re trained to hate to wait. We can’t wait. We don’t have time. And especially not during the holidays. There’s no time.

Peace on Earth, but I gotta go.

I’m that way, now. I buy a gift and can’t wait for the salesgirl to go find a box, which is another thing that doesn’t exist anymore. You could spend a fortune on a cashmere sweater, and it’s guaranteed they’ll still ask you if you want a box.

Here’s what I want to say: “No way! Why would I need a box, for a Christmas gift? Nah, I’ll just take that cashmere sweater and shove it…”

Sorry.

So instead, I answer, “Yes, thanks, I need a box.”

The salesgirl will say nothing, but merely blink.

And I will say, “You see, child, a box is a cardboard thing with a top and bottom. We used to have them in the old days, before menopause.”

She will nod to humor me, then say she has to go find a box “in the back.”

But I have no time to wait, so I’ll take the lovely sweater in a paper bag and grumble. And my gift sweater will turn out as wrinkly as I am, teaching me a lesson.

We’re all of us doing too many things at once, especially during the holiday season. So I say, take it slower. Wait for the box. And if they don’t have one, go to gift wrap. Guaranteed, in gift wrap, you’ll learn to wait.