Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog Part 18

"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 n.o.body 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.

Exit Strategies for Women and Chickens

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? 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 relations.h.i.+p. 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. relations.h.i.+p. 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, refres.h.i.+ng 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 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, p.r.o.nto!

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 G.o.d, 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! 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 Suss.e.x, 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 th.o.r.n.y 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.

Pa.s.sword

In the beginning, G.o.d 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.

In other words, impossible to resist.

Plus the economy was better then. It turns out that "shop until you drop" wasn't such a hot idea. Or maybe we just dropped. Or somebody dropped us. Either way, don't get me started.

To stay on point, early on, websites like Amazon and bn.com required a four-digit pa.s.sword. It was my first pa.s.sword, and what a thrill! Think of a secret word! It put me in mind of decoder rings, speakeasies, and people knocking on doors, saying "Sam sent me." In those days, I used the same go-to pa.s.sword for everything-specifically, my goal weight plus zero. It was easy to remember because n.o.body ever forgets their goal weight, and the chance of ever attaining it is zero. required a four-digit pa.s.sword. It was my first pa.s.sword, and what a thrill! Think of a secret word! It put me in mind of decoder rings, speakeasies, and people knocking on doors, saying "Sam sent me." In those days, I used the same go-to pa.s.sword for everything-specifically, my goal weight plus zero. It was easy to remember because n.o.body ever forgets their goal weight, and the chance of ever attaining it is zero.

Then everybody caught on to online shopping, so much so that the other day I went into a pet store and they had only two dog collars, both large and blue. I wanted red and small, so they told me go home and shop online at their website. So you know where this is going. The bad news is that someday the stores will be empty. The good news is that there'll be plenty of parking. where this is going. The bad news is that someday the stores will be empty. The good news is that there'll be plenty of parking.

But somewhere along the line, pa.s.swords stopped being fun. Complex rules entered the picture, like an IRS Code for pa.s.swords. Nowadays pa.s.swords have to be eight or ten digits, mix numbers and letters, use both upper and lowercase, no asterisks or other punctuation, can't repeat digits, and never on Sunday.

Now I hate pa.s.swords.

I have 3,929,874 pa.s.swords, not only for shopping but for banking, Gmail, satellite radio, and other stuff. I try to keep track of them but I can never remember to record the pa.s.sword, and if I keep forgetting it, I get locked out of the website and have to reset the pa.s.sword. Then I reset the pa.s.sword to something close to the original, which means that all of my pa.s.swords are scarily similar, like some inbred mountain family, so I'll never be able to keep them straight.

And then websites started requiring user names, because our regular names stopped being good enough and we became users and not people. I can never remember my user names, because sometimes the website requires lscottoline or lisascottoline or [email protected], and the other day I got so fed up, I made "pa.s.sword" my user name.

This amused me.

Then of course I couldn't get into a website because I misremembered either my user name or my pa.s.sword, and they don't tell you which one you got wrong, so you have to try different combinations to hit paydirt, which never happens before you are locked out of the site. And you can't get an email sent to you reminding you of your pa.s.sword unless you remember your user name. But if you're like me and you forgot your pa.s.sword, you're also the type to forget your user name, which is when you throw your laptop out the window.

But it gets better.

Yes, I'm talking about Security Questions. These are something my bank has come up with, wherein after I finally get my user name and pa.s.sword correct, they ask me questions, the answers to which I established too long ago to remember, around the time I lost my car keys. And if I get all the answers right, I'm still not in the clear, because the website shows me a picture of an oak tree and asks me to remember the caption I wrote for the picture, once upon a time.

Huh?

I can write a novel, but not a caption. All my captions stink. And so therefore they're impossible to remember.

I look at the oak tree picture and try the caption, "This is an oak tree."

Incorrect.

Then I try, "This is not an oak tree."

Surreal, but also incorrect.

I try "Oaky Dokey!" For fun.

Also incorrect, so I'm locked out of the bank. At which point, I leave the house to go to the store.

And park.

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. 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. 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. 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, 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. 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. 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.s 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.