Why My Third Husband Will Be A Dog

Why My Third Husband
Will Be a Dog

Also by Lisa Scottoline

Look Again

Lady Killer

Daddy’s Girl

Dirty Blonde

Devil’s Corner

Killer Smile

Dead Ringer

Courting Trouble

The Vendetta Defense

Moment of Truth

Mistaken Identity

Rough Justice

Legal Tender

Running from the Law

Final Appeal

Everywhere That Mary Went

ST. MARTIN’S   PRESS
   
   
NEW   YORK

WHY MY THIRD HUSBAND WILL BE A DOG
. Copyright © 2009 by Lisa Scottoline. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (TK)

ISBN: 978-0-312-58748-2

First Edition: December 2009

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

For extraordinary ordinary women everywhere

I love Eleanor Roosevelt’s quote about women being like tea bags. I have it written on a Post-it stuck to my computer and I keep one in my jewelry box, too. The quote is the reason I started writing books, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Here’s the story of me: I’m an English major who became a lawyer, though I always wanted to write a novel. After my first divorce, I found myself single with a young baby (don’t try this at home). I wanted to stay home to raise my baby, but I had no dough. My back was against the wall, so I decided to finally try to write that novel. I figured you can’t get any broker than broke.

Turns out you can.

I wrote for the next five years, living on credit cards, nursing my baby by day and reading rejection letters by night. Yet it was a deliriously happy time of my life.

Women are tea bags, remember?

My favorite rejection letter was from a New York agent who said, “We don’t have time to take any more clients and if we did, we wouldn’t take you.”

Thanks.

No, really.

He helped me brew my tea.

I started writing fiction because I wanted to see in books the
kind of women I saw in real life. I grew up with a strong, funny, and feisty mom; Mother Mary, whom you will meet herein. She taught me the dangers of swimming too soon after you eat, and also that toasters are out to electrocute you. She ran our family, The Flying Scottolines, alternating kisses and hugs with swats from a wooden spoon. Her tomato sauce was the glue that held us together, and her kitchen table was more powerful than a conference table in any Fortune 500 company.

But when I read popular novels, I didn’t see any women like my mother, my girlfriends, or even myself. The women were all minor characters—wives, girlfriends, and/or hookers—and their characterization was as thin as a thong.

In short, women never got to star in books, and it got me wondering. How are we supposed to star in our own lives, if we never see that anywhere around us? How can our daughters realize their fullest potential, if they’re still pouring coffee in fiction?

So I started to write stories starring ordinary women, who are extraordinary in so many ways. I’m talking about teachers, lawyers, journalists, at-home moms, judges, dentists, and nurses.

In short, tea bags.

My characters get themselves into hot water and out again, stronger and better for it. Just like life. Sixteen years and sixteen books later, the books are bestsellers, thanks to you.

(Big hug.)

My trademark heroine is everything I want to be, or how I feel on a good hair day. Interviewers always ask me if I’ll write a novel with a male as the main character, (a question no male author is ever asked), and here is what I answer:

“No.”

“Why?” they ask.

“Because I have ovaries. And I write what I know.”

It was so good to be writing books about extraordinary ordinary women, I thought it would be even better if I wrote about them for the newspaper, too, so I started a weekly column called “Chick Wit” for
The Philadelphia Inquirer.
Now I’ve rewritten those columns, added some new ones, and turned them into this little book.

In the next pages, you’ll read about the amazing adventures of our everyday lives—like wrestling with Spanx, juggling hockey and soccer practices, and trying to keep our roots touched up. I also offer plenty of useful advice, like how to survive Valentine’s Day, why you should embrace visible panty lines, and that you should throw away your iron, immediately. The stories that follow are in no particular order, and together they’re a mix tape for moms and girls.

In short, tea bags.

As for the cast of characters, you’ll meet my real-life family, starting with Mother Mary, she of the traveling back scratcher. And Brother Frank, who’s gay and lives in Miami with Mother Mary, in a small house that smells of ravioli and really strong aftershave. There’s daughter Francesca, now a budding author who writes herein to give her generation’s take on things. And finally beloved father Frank, who has passed on, except for his soul, which guides me in life and also on 1-95.

There’s also best friend Franca and assistant Laura, who are so alike that they’re almost the same extraordinary woman, but in different bodies. Every girl needs girlfriends, and they are my besties. If I killed somebody, they would show up with shovels and Hefty bags. A girlfriend is just another word for accessory after the fact.

And you’ll also meet the disobedient pets that fill my life, and unfortunately, my bed. As of this writing, I have four dogs on rotation—two golden retrievers, a corgi, and a newest
addition, Little Tony The Anatomically Incorrect Puppy. I also support two cats, a flock of chickens, and an ancient 4-H pony, Buddy. Whoever says you can’t buy love has never had a pet.

Finally, appearing in these pages are my two ex-husbands, Thing One and Thing Two. They are minor characters.

Bottom line, I’m a woman on my own. I’m betting you can relate, even if you’re married or sharing your bed with something other than a golden retriever. In the end, we are all of us on our own.

And that’s good news.

Because we’re strong enough to star in our own lives.

And we tea bags make a helluva cup of tea.

I hope you enjoy this book. I think it’s funny, emotional, and true. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, and you’ll swear off pantyhose.

Welcome to my world.

And yours, too.

Tea bags, unite!

Let’s start a revolution.

A woman is like a tea bag. You never know
how strong she is until she’s in hot water.

—Eleanor Roosevelt

Why My Third Husband
Will Be a Dog