Why My Third Husband Will Be A Dog (31 page)

It might even be BREAKING NEWS..

I learned it at my birthday dinner, when daughter Francesca showed off her college education by making us the most superb margaritas ever, and three generations of Scottoline women got sloshed en famille. We played Frank Sinatra on the iPod while my mother told stories from her first job, in Woolworth’s toy department, when she was seventeen. She still remembered the toys she sold, and it turns out that Kewpie dolls and windup cars were big at Christmas, 1940.

And Francesca remembered that when she was six, she threw a stuffed animal at my mother, but was lucky enough to miss. And I watched them laugh in the candlelight, with Sinatra singing in the background, and I was thinking about how lucky I was to have them, and wondering if Margaritas Are Fun was my only lesson this year.

Because by the end of visit, I had learned a better lesson.

As Long As You Can Walk By Yourself, Do.

Francesca looked up from her magazine, open on the kitchen island. “Mom, it says here you’re supposed to change your razor every three uses. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“How often do you change your razor?”

I thought a minute. “Every three uses.”

She waited a minute.

“Okay, every month.”

Her eyes flared an incredulous blue. “That means you’re scraping a rusty blade along your skin.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So that’s gross.”

“It’s an armpit. It’s born gross. Why, how often do you change your razor?”

“I use it four times, then I throw it away.”

“Good. I raised you right.”

An hour later, I was driving Mother Mary to the airport to go back to Miami when she told me she was still angry about her colander that had broken, a month ago.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I drained the spaghetti and all of a sudden, the leg snapped
off. You believe that? I loved that colander. You remember that colander?”

I watched rain dot the windshield, thinking a minute. “If it’s a colander I remember, it must be kind of old.”

“Nah.” Mother waved me off with an arthritic hand. “It was about fifty.”

“The colander was
fifty
years old?” I looked over, astounded. “
I’m
fifty years old!”

“Wrong. You’re fifty-three.”

I let it go. “So the colander was fifty, and you’re angry that it broke?”

“Yeah.”

“Fifty years is a long time, Ma.”

“So what? I paid good money for it, and I had to throw it out.”

I tried to process it. “But how much could you have paid, back then? A dollar?”

“How do I know? You think I remember? Fifty years is a long time.”

My point exactly, but I let that go, too. You know the question I really wanted to ask. “Ma, how often do you change your razor?”

“What razor?”

“You know, the razor you shave with in the shower.”

She blinked behind her bifocals. “I don’t shave.”

I didn’t understand. “How can you not shave, like your armpits or your legs?”

“I don’t have hair anymore.”

I tried to hold the car steady. Luckily we were almost at the airport. “What happened your hair?”

“It went away.”

“What? It disappeared?”

“Yeah. It’s gone.”

I felt appalled. I had no idea. Was I going to lose all my leg hair, too? Nobody told me, which is why I’m telling you. I needed more information, for both of us. “When did it go?”

She shrugged.

“Was it recently?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.”

We both fell quiet a minute, and the only sound was the
thumpa thumpa
of the windshield wipers. I worried that I’d made her self-conscious.

“Well, was it before the colander broke or after?” I asked, and we both laughed.

We reached the airport, where I parked and walked her to the gate, having successfully convinced the ticket agent that she gets confused in airports and needed to be escorted. We stopped by the gift shop, where she got two puzzle books and a bottle of water. They sold only the large bottles, which she struggled to hold in her gnarled fingers. We made our way to the gate and took our seats, her with her bottle and books on her lap, waiting for the plane and watching the babies go by. We thought every one was cute, but none cuter than Francesca when she was little. This is a conversation I never tire of, and the only person I can have it with is my mother, who was the first one at the child’s bassinet twenty-odd years ago.

I gave her a nudge. “Ma, you know, Francesca throws her razor away every four uses.”

Mother frowned. “Why?”

“The magazine says you’re supposed to, now. After three times.”

“Throw away a perfectly good razor?”

“Yes. It gets dull.”

“What magazine says that?”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. A crazy magazine.”

I thought about that a minute. About being old enough that all your hair has fallen out and you can barely hold the water bottle and you need help just to find the plane because all the announcements are incomprehensible in both English and Spanish, and the airlines love to play musical gates. About the fact that she had lived through a Depression, a world war, and the death of each and every one of her eighteen brothers and sisters, which is not a misprint. She was the youngest of nineteen children, three of whom died of the flu during their childhood, right here in America. Leaving only her, the youngest.

And she is still here.

The sole survivor.

Strong and on her feet, with all of her marbles. She lives in a world that changed from colanders that never break to razors that get tossed after only a week. She expects things not to break because she has not, after all.

She alone remains.

Unbreakable.

There’s things I won’t spend money on and things I will. For example, I spend money on pretentious clothes for book tour, and that’s fine with me. I earn the money and I never judge people’s spending habits, especially my own.

I learned this lesson when I met a man who had spent several thousand dollars on toy trains. You couldn’t pay me to spend money on toy trains, but that’s me. I could see it made him happy, which makes absolute sense, because he’s not me. Turns out that money can buy happiness, if it runs on a miniature track past tiny fake shrubbery, and who am I to judge? Now, when I buy shoes, I think, at least I’m not blowing money on little model boxcars, for God’s sake.

That would be really stupid.

To return to topic, here’s what I don’t spend money on:

My skin.

I wash my face with a three-dollar jug of Cetaphil that I buy at Walgreen’s. If I’m feeling fancy, which I never am, I buy whatever drugstore moisturizer they’re marketing for old broads. You know the one. They call it age-defying or age-defining or some other euphemism, but we weren’t born yesterday, and we all know what it is—the menopausal moisturizer.

I’m thinking that the world divides into two groups: women who buy their skin-care products at CVS and those who buy them at the mall, which is where today’s adventure starts in earnest.

I’m with daughter Francesca, standing at one of the nicest makeup counters at the mall, which also has a skin care line. Oddly, for the past few years, I’ve been getting free samples of this skin care line sent to me in the mail. I have no idea who sends them to me, whether it’s the department store, the Skin Care Gods, or someone who has seen me on the street and been secretly revolted by my skin. But they’ve been sending me these products for a long time, and I’ve been giving them to Francesca. She’d told me that she liked them, and if I cared enough I would have found out why, but it’s probably the one conversation we didn’t have, until I found myself on the paying side of the glistening counter, listening to a gorgeous salesgirl with the most perfect skin ever describe how they put diamond dust in the face wash.