Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog: The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman

by Lisa Scottoline

  Coo Coo Ca Choo

  Let us now discuss cougars. Not the “large, tawny cat” defined by dictionary.com, but women over forty who date younger men. In other words, not the feline, but the female.

  You used to be able to find cougars in the mountains, but now cougars are online in their bra and undies, at www.datea cougar.com, which invites younger men to log on to meet “Older Beautiful Women” in the “cougar community.”

  I’m trying to figure out how I feel about cougars.

  I get it, in principle. Older men have been dating younger women since the dawn of time, and usually I think turnabout is fair play. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, though I keep forgetting which is the girl. Maybe it’s time for men to see what it feels like when the stiletto is on the other foot.

  Although please note that when an older woman dates a younger man, she’s called a predator. When an older man dates a younger woman, he’s called a success.

  But still, what is going on here? Do these men want mothers? Can anyone really want a second mother? You could die from guilt of that magnitude.

  And do these women really feel younger when they’re the one with all the wrinkles? I like my men even wrinklier than me. If I could date a prune, I would.

  But let’s look to history for guidance.

  Probably the first recorded cougar was Mrs. Robinson, the wealthy housewife who preyed on Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. She had great eyeliner, but boozed it up, seduced her daughter’s boyfriend, and wore leopard, the hallmark of cougardom. Ironically, cougar is not the fur of choice for cougars. Don’t ask me why. I’m new around here.

  Other old-school cougars were equally drunk, or worse, overly made-up. Think Mrs. Dubcek in 3rd Rock From the Sun, if you can follow my literary references. She was the landlord on the show, who smoked, drank, and flirted, the cougar trifecta.

  Then Demi Moore came along, not only dating Ashton Kutcher but marrying him, and it was a turning point in cougar history. Demi brought respectability to cougars everywhere. She could have had any man she wanted, but she chose a man-child.

  Demi taught us that you don’t have to be drunk to realize that Ashton Kutcher is drop-dead gorgeous. And maybe smart and a nice guy, too, but who cares. He’s superhot, and if he needs a little help with his French homework, so much the better.

  Nowadays, cougars abound. Hollywood types like Halle Berry, Kristin Chenoweth, and Drew Barrymore all date younger men. Every day I meet normal women who date younger men, and none of them dies from exertion.

  Hmm.

  I confess I almost have some experience in this area.

  A near-miss.

  Once upon a time, I met a very nice young man. He was twenty-something to my forty-something, and even more gorgeous than Ashton Kutcher, and I wasn’t drunk at the time. When he asked me out, I thought I’d heard him wrong. After all, I was doddering to his toddling.

  Usually I have better self-esteem, but all I could think was, why do you want to go out with me, child? I’m old enough to be your mother. And if I were, I’m pretty sure I would have nursed you.

  Heh heh.

  In any event, this happened before cougar nation, so I didn’t take him seriously. I forget what I said, but I think it was something cringeworthy like, “You must be joking.”

  Ouch.

  In those days, it didn’t seem like it would be okay to go out with a man half my age. I thought people would laugh at me, or him. Plus I couldn’t see myself with someone who didn’t know Steely Dan. And my days of pushing a stroller were over, though he would have looked so cute in OshKosh B’Gosh overalls.

  But now, times have changed, and I have to ask myself, do I regret saying no?

  You bet your ass I do.

  I mean, perhaps.

  Maybe cougars are a good thing, after all. I’m suspicious of men who go out with much younger women, because I think they need to be adored. So what’s the matter if women need to be adored, too? I mean, so what if he doesn’t know Steely Dan?

  So I’ve been wrong. Go for it, ladies. I don’t judge you.

  Find the right guy, and teach him a thing or two.

  Thankful

  Thanksgiving is just around the corner, which means that we’re all crazy busy, me included. I’m busy thinking about when to pick up daughter Francesca from the train and how to smuggle her puppy onto Amtrak, then I’m deciding whether to make a turkey or tofu shaped like a turkey, and finally I have to go hunting for fresh cranberries, so I don’t have to serve canned sauce with its telltale dents. And with the rest of the holidays approaching, like everybody else, I’m busy worrying about the economy. Every day the news reports more layoffs and downturns, and that worries me more than canned cranberries. Banks and car companies get bailouts because they’re big, but none of us do, because we’re little.

  It seems backwards.

  Anyway my head was full of these thoughts the other afternoon, as I was hurrying in a downpour through the streets of New York City, there to take my author photo. I know that sounds glamorous, and it would be if I were ten pounds lighter and ten years younger, but take it from me, the best fiction in my books is the author photo.

  But that’s not my point.

  My point is that I was running down the street in a city I don’t know, with no umbrella in the pouring rain, thinking about Thanksgiving and the economy and so preoccupied that I couldn’t find the photographer’s studio, which was at number 98. I ran back and forth between numbers 96 and 100 and then between 94 and 102, but I couldn’t find 98 and I was drenched and late. Throngs of people hurried past me on the street, their umbrellas slanted against the rain, and just when I was about to freak, a voice behind me said:

  “You look lost. Can I help you?”

  I turned around, and standing there was an older man holding an umbrella and wearing a suit and tie. His hooded eyes looked genuinely concerned, so I answered: “I can’t find number 98.”

  “Take my umbrella, and I’ll look.”

  And before I could object, he put his umbrella in my hand, hustled off down the sidewalk, and disappeared into the crowd. He came back five minutes later, pointing. “It’s three doors down, out of order, after the loading dock.”

  “Really?”

  “Come, I’ll show you,” he said, guiding me to a glass building that read number 98, where I gave him back his umbrella.

  “Thanks so much.”

  “No problem, take care,” he said with a quick smile, and in the next second he joined the throng of umbrellas hurrying down the street.

  Leaving me in the middle of the sidewalk, suddenly not minding the rain and feeling a warm rush of gratitude. For the first time in a long time, I stopped worrying about Thanksgiving and started feeling thankful.

  And not thankful for the usual things, like good health and a lovely child. Not even thankful to the usual people, like my family and friends. Those people, I thank all the time. But this time, I felt thankful for a complete and total stranger, who went out of his way to help me.

  In fact, I realized, I had gotten bailed out, after all.

  And it wasn’t money that bailed me out, it was better than money. It was time, concern, and human kindness.

  It reminded me of other people who have gone out of their way to bail me out, and I suddenly felt thankful for them, too. Because while it’s easy to look around and wonder why I’m not getting something that someone else gets, that encounter reminded me to be thankful for the many bailouts that come my way. I can recount them now, but I won’t. They’ll be part of my silent prayer of thanks over the turkey and/or tofu served with canned and/or fresh cranberry sauce, sitting with my lovely daughter across a dining room table, and sleeping underneath, several overweight dogs and one very tired puppy.

  But you should know, right now, that among the people who bail me out are the people who read me.

  You.

  So thank you, very much.

  And Happy Thanksgiving.

 
; Me, I Want a Hula Hoop

  Daughter Francesca and I have been humming holiday music non-stop, which got us wondering why it’s so appealing. I thought I’d let her answer that hard question, since I take only the easy ones, so she weighs in below:

  Growing up, we always played the same three Christmas CDs: Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, and Charlie Brown. And I bought that Mariah Carey one, so I could listen to “All I Want for Christmas Is You” on repeat every year through most of the nineties. But now that I’m freshly on my own (and more interested in gifts under twenty bucks), everywhere I turn there is another recording artist promoting a new album of yuletide tunes.

  No wonder performers love cranking out these holiday CDs; they get a free pass. Even obscure, outdated, or talent-challenged artists can put out a seasonal album, and we’ll go easy on them. It’s Christmas, after all.

  But some stars really test our generosity. For instance, someone named Lady Gaga teamed up with someone named Space Cowboy to record “Christmas Tree.” I don’t know who either of these people is, but somehow I thought their title would be a little more creative.

  Or take George Michael. He was arrested for crack cocaine possession in a public bathroom-not to be confused with his 1998 arrest for lewd conduct in a public bathroom-but that didn’t stop him from recording a new holiday track, “December Song (I Dreamed of Xmas).” I’m all for second (or third, or fourth) chances, but I think it’s safe to assume that George is on Santa’s naughty list. He might have asked for community service, but he’s getting a lump of coal.

  The all-time lows of Christmas music have to be those Jingle Dogs and Cats albums, where dogs bark and cats meow to the tune of holiday classics. Have you longed to hear “Angels We Have Heard On High” in a head-splitting caterwaul? Me neither.

  It’s a shame there aren’t as many Hanukkah albums, but on the upside, at least they don’t have cats singing, “Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel.”

  To me, Josh Groban is the newborn king of the modern holiday CD. His Noël was last year’s biggest-selling album of any genre. That floppy-haired cutie with the powerhouse pipes gets me-and 3.7 million other people-every time.

  So why do we buy these holiday albums? We often say holiday music puts us in the “holiday spirit,” but what do we mean?

  I read somewhere that music directly accesses the emotional part of the brain, and I believe it. Music is a language that our hearts and souls can speak. The holidays are a time when we want to get into an emotional and spiritual frame of mind, and these songs unlock something inside us. That Sinatra album is the same music that played when I was little, unwrapping presents in our apartment. The Charlie Brown CD my mom will put on this year is the same that was playing the year that our old dog Lucy, then just a puppy, knocked over the Christmas tree. The songs Josh Groban sings are the same that I sang when my high school chamber choir went caroling in the halls.

  I love that music, because I love those memories.

  These songs remind us of family, childhood, a time when it was safe to be vulnerable and safe to believe. After a year of steeling ourselves against life’s hardships, now is a time when we can let down our guard. Music softens us, so that we can come into the warmth of family and un-bundle, so to speak. Because at some point, when everyone is gathered around the table, talking over each other and laughing, and the voices get louder, some voices you hear every day and some not often enough-well then, anything else is just background music.

  Playing Chicken

  I’m a fan of the hum-a-few-bars-and-I’ll-play-it school. I mean, I like to throw myself into new things and I figure I’ll learn along the way. It’s worked so far, for everything in my life except romance and chicken farming.

  Today, we discuss the latter.

  You may remember the chickens I got, fourteen in all, a complete array of Gilbert & Sullivan hens and a Women’s Chorus of Plymouth Barred Rocks. I’ve watched them grow from chick to full-grown, so now they’re all chubby and feathery and friendly. They let me pick them up and turn them over on their backs, which is hypnosis for chickens, and they become calm, cradled in my arms and looking up at me, blinking their round amber eyes. I call this game Baby Chicken, which I’m sure has nothing to do with me being an empty nester.

  I installed a baby monitor in the chicken coop, which may sound a little strange, but why stop now? I’d never heard of a baby monitor in a chicken coop, but it turned out to be a fun idea. I keep it on all day long at the house, so I can work listening to the pleasant cooing, clucking, and occasional squabbling you would expect from a house that holds more than two females of anything, especially if they have beaks, nails, and major attitude.

  It’s a hen party, 24-7.

  So far, so good until one of my other bright ideas, which is to let the chickens out every day so they can run around free. I started doing this in the summer, and they loved it, either foraging in the grass for delicious bugs or digging to China, for all I know.

  It’s a chicken thing.

  I knew that they weren’t safe from foxes or raccoons, so I stood guard and watched them bask in the sun, roll in the dirt, or cluster together to form some kind of chicken molecule. Don’t ask me why they do this, either. I’m new here.

  Then I noticed that they like to migrate together into the barn, and I let them because I figured they’d be safe from predators on the ground and from the sky, because they were under a roof. In time, I became a little more lax about standing guard, and they were outside all day, loving their very free-range life.

  So you know where this is going.

  Disaster struck.

  I was in the backyard with daughter Francesca, the chickens were in the barn, and all of sudden, a hawk dive-bombed out of nowhere after them. Francesca and I started running, the hawk flew away, but we got there too late. A member of the Women’s Chorus was dead on the floor and the other chickens were terrified, squawking and calling, scattering all directions.

  We managed to get all of them back into the coop, except for one that was hiding under the straw, flattened in fear, and two others we discovered with the help of Ruby The No-Longer-Medicated Corgi. She found the chickens standing completely still under a bush, pretending to be lawn ornaments.

  So I consulted my chicken books and ended up buying an electrified fence, which took all morning to install, but then I couldn’t bring myself to shock my babies or turn my backyard into a Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then I realized what I really needed was overhead netting, so I got one online and spent all day trying to stretch it on top of the electrified fence, which turned out to be too flimsy to support even itself, and the whole thing collapsed into an expensive mess. So now I’m trying to figure out how to build some sort of outside cage that will keep them safe from hawks, raccoons, and my other mistakes.

  Come to think about it, it’s not so different from raising kids. All parents start out as rookies, and we learn as we go, making mistakes as we let our children explore. There will be trials and errors both, but parents learn from their mistakes, too, and if we’re lucky, we’ll all survive the hawks we meet along the way.

  And even chicken parenting has its perfect moments.

  Daughter Francesca and I took Mother Mary into the coop the other day, and were happily surprised to find that one of the Araucana chickens had laid her first egg-small, perfect, and blue as clear sky.

  I’d count that as graduation day, wouldn’t you?

  Life During Wartime

  History is littered with famous battles, but even the biggest pale in comparison with the battles in the Scottoline household when my mother is in for a visit. We make the Punic Wars look puny.

  Two of my favorites are the Battle of the Hearing Aid and the Battle of the Thirty-Year-Old Bra.

  The first shot in the Battle of the Hearing Aid is fired as soon as my mother gets off the plane. Daughter Francesca and I meet her at terminal B and ask, “How was your flight?”

  “Red,” my mother answers, giving us a big hug
.

  “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Seven thirty,” she says, with a sweet smile. Francesca and I exchange glances, and we group-hug her to the car. She insists on sitting in the back seat, where she won’t be able to see our faces, losing all visual cues of what we’re saying, which guarantees that the conversation will be a string of non sequiturs until the shouting starts.

  “Ma, did you get anything to eat on the plane?” I ask, raising my voice.

  Total silence.

  “Ma, did they feed you on the plane?”

  More silence.

  “MA, ARE YOU HUNGRY? OR CAN YOU WAIT UNTIL WE GET HOME?”

  “What?”

  “MA! YOU WANT TO EAT OUT OR GO HOME?!”

  You see the problem. I’m exhausted from her visit and we haven’t even left the car. Already my emotions are swinging from guilt to resentment, the drama pendulum. Mother Mary is a funny, smart, and talkative lady, but if she can’t hear, she’ll eventually check out of the conversation, and in time I’ll get tired of repeating and shouting, so I’ll talk as if she isn’t there.

  By the way, she already has a hearing aid, which took the Boer War for her to get, but she needs a second one. I cannot understand why the second hearing aid has become such a Donnybrook. If you have the first one, what’s the big deal? You’re no longer a hearing aid virgin.

  Plus, I had asked her to get another hearing aid as my Christmas present, which gives me a powerful weapon for my battle plan. I ambush her at dinner, sneak-attacking. “Ma, I can’t believe you didn’t get the second hearing aid, for Christmas.”

  Her snowy head remains down, and she stabs a piece of salmon with her fork, which means either that she didn’t hear me or she’s formulating her counter-offensive. Don’t underestimate her just because she’s older. Experience molds great generals. Patton was no kid, and Mother Mary makes him look like Gandhi.