Why My Third Husband Will Be A Dog (35 page)

Or death.

It’s a laugh riot to contemplate your own demise. Not that it takes a will for me to do it. As you know, my mother taught me that I can perish at any moment, especially if I stand near a toaster during a thunderstorm. But I never had to make so many decisions, all of which involve things that take place after I’m dead. You’d think that at some point, I’d get to stop worrying, but no. Evidently, death isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I bet my skin doesn’t even clear up.

But I look on the bright side. If I had died when I was a struggling writer, I’d have nothing to leave but three maxed-out credit cards and a very hungry dog.

Bottom line, now I have to decide who gets the do-re-mi when I’m gone, which is easy. I have only daughter Francesca, and she’s cashing in. I told her this morning, and already she’s looking at me funny.

I’m locking up the steak knives.

I’m telling you now, if something happens to me, we all know who did it. She’s smart enough to make it look like an accident, so don’t believe a word. She went to Harvard, remember?

But who inherits is only one of the decisions I have to make. A harder question is raised by the living will, as opposed to the dying will, I guess. You know what a living will is; it’s a piece of paper that says what you want to happen if you’re completely incapacitated, like me after a head injury or two Cosmopolitans. The main question is do I want the plug pulled? I say no.

“You’re kidding, right?” my lawyer asks, over the phone.

“No. In fact, I want that plug duct-taped into the socket, so it doesn’t get kicked out by accident on purpose. And while you’re at it, get me an extension cord, a surge protector, and a generator, right by my bed. Just in case. And padlock it. Did I mention that my kid went to Harvard?”

“You mean that you want your daughter to visit you for years and years, even though you’re in a coma?”

“Yes. Years and years and years, even though I’m in a coma. You never know. I’m a light sleeper.”

The lawyer doesn’t laugh. “But that’s such a burden on her.”

“Aw, poor wittle thing. Where was she when I was in labor? Oh, that’s right. Being born.”

The lawyer gives up and we move on to the hardest decision of all:

The Anatomical Gift.

I see that phrase in the will and immediately I’m thinking, George Clooney. I bet he has an Anatomical Gift. And if he gave it to me, I’d die and go to heaven.

But the lawyer explains that the Anatomical Gift refers to my anatomy, which I may decide to give away after I’m dead. Plus I have to specify any “organs or body parts.”

Now I have a question for all of you:

Who wants my cellulite?

This is grade-A quality cellulite, and you can’t beat the price. Send me an email, write me an essay, fifty words or less.

Anybody else want my nose?

It’s big. Really big. My mother says I get more oxygen than anybody else in the room.

At least I did, when I was breathing.

So let me know. Yours for the asking.

But the lawyer gets me back to business. The last question is, do I want to be an organ donor “for transplantation or for medical research?”

This gives me pause. “I don’t want anybody pointing and laughing at my cellulite, in case nobody writes a good enough essay.”

“Please answer.”

“Okay, yes.” Then I get a load of the final provision in the draft will: Treatment which prolongs my dying may be temporarily continued or modified so as to preserve and protect for transplant the useful portions of my body.

Okay to that, too, but if they want my kidneys, they can make it snappy.

And trust me, my ovaries rock.

Step lively.

Everybody asks me what daughter Francesca is doing now that she’s graduated from college. So I thought I’d let her tell you herself, because it’s something that your kids might be dealing with, too:

At some point in every young adult’s life, she has to make the most illogical decision of her life: to move out.

Moving out makes no sense. If we young people gave this any real thought, we would see that it’s a terrible idea. Take me, for instance. I’ve been living at home since I graduated from college this past spring, and I’m starting to feel that itch to move out. But the more I think about it, the more nonsensical it seems. In the rare moments when I have some objectivity, and I catch myself rolling an eye or huffing a melodramatic sigh, I have to ask myself, what do I have to complain about,
really?

It’s awfully quiet here in the burbs. But am I so easily dissatisfied that I’m knocking a place because it’s too idyllic? There has to be something else. Living with my mom can be annoying. But, let’s be fair, I can be annoying. Occasionally annoying each other is the hallmark of a healthy mother-daughter
relationship. Most of the time we get along pretty great, and don’t tell her, but I missed her when I was at school. A lot.

So what am I doing navigating back to
Craigslist.com
, refreshing my list of New York City apartments, “cozy” at five hundred square feet and “A STEAL” at an extortionate $2500 a month? I live in a house, for FREE, with my own bedroom and bathroom, and a washer-dryer—not down the street, but
down the hall
—and, oh boy, do we allow pets. Have I lost my mind? Is anyone with this kind of judgment even capable of taking care of herself in the real world? Why would I leave this?

It’s home.

And the psychology of the thing is topsy-turvy. For instance, you might have read the above paragraphs and thought to yourself, “Atta girl. She’s starting to appreciate what she’s got, now that’s maturity.” That’s the nutty part; as soon as I am mature enough to realize how good I have it at home, that means I am ready to move out. But then I start not wanting to! And if I start appreciating home too much, you’ll start to worry that I may never leave, so then I really have to get out of here, pronto!

I don’t blame you; I worry about me, too. For a twenty-two-year-old single gal, it’s scary how easily I can slip into home life. I complain to my friends about how dull it is, but secretly, I’m not bored at all. I have been far more bored by frat boys, flip cup, and other elements of “exciting” college life. In a way, I love this quiet life. I could live here forever.

Oh my God, what am I saying? I have to move out!

See what I mean?

Now, on the other hand, if I recognize that I am at risk of becoming a total mooch, and I should get out there and live on my own, well, then I have proven my maturity and I am free to
take my time finding a place. So basically, when I want to move out, I don’t have to. But when I don’t want to move out, that means I have to—and fast!

A most ingenious paradox.

But what does it all mean? How can I make sense out of my illogical, nonsensical, paradoxical desire to move out?

Believe it or not, a little birdie told me.

We lost one of our little chickens the other day. In fact, she is the very littlest of our flock, “Peep-Bo,” a small Brown Sussex, who only just got her adult feathers and who mostly sticks with her twin sister and avoids being picked up. Somehow, she escaped from the fence and decided to bolt for the forest. She disappeared into the thorny brush, her speckled brown feathers blending perfectly into the fallen leaves. My mom and I tried looking for her for four hours, until darkness fell, and we went home devastated and covered in mud and scratches. That night there was a thunderstorm, and all I could think about was how poor little Peep-Bo was outside, all alone, away from her sisters and her warm, dry house.

The next day, thankfully, Peep-Bo was spotted marching around the woods, and after a comical chase, my mom and I were able to catch her and bring her home.

So why did the chicken fly the coop?

Just to see if she could.

In the beginning, God created the Internet and shopping online. I was an early believer. Where shopping is involved, I get in on the ground floor, especially if I don’t have to move from my chair. Shopping online was like having somebody bring you brownies and stuff them in your mouth.