Have a Nice Guilt Trip (25 page)

I hung up the phone and bawled. Had I not pursued Pip’s care as aggressively as I would have because I was trying to protect my boyfriend’s feelings? Had I denied my own gut instinct? And was my dog about to pay for it?

The thought alone ripped me in two.

I called my mom again.

“Are you by yourself?” she asked. “Why don’t you have him go with you?”

But I didn’t want my boyfriend to come. I wanted to be alone so that in case I got bad news, I could have whatever reaction I needed to, even if it was hysterical.

The way I saw it, he couldn’t make it any better, so why make him feel worse?

I needed to deal with it by myself.

But once at the vet’s office, all that pent-up emotion was busting out at the seams. I teared up telling the vet tech simple things like Pip’s age, weight, and whether he was neutered or not. I cried when I told the vet what happened. I cried as they took Pip in the back to be X-rayed.

At first I felt freedom in being alone. But after the initial relief of letting some emotion out and sitting in the waiting area, I just felt … lonely.

There was another woman in the waiting room, calling attention to herself by raising her voice at the vet, who was clearly trying to keep the conversation in lower tones. I caught the drift that they were waiting on blood-test results, but the vet was not optimistic as to her older dog’s prognosis. The woman was not taking it well. She was being rude, in a way, but I could see she was panicked. I saw other people in the waiting room turn away out of embarrassment.

The vet left and the woman took a seat not far from mine. She began crying noisily.

By herself.

There was a box of tissues on the side table next to me and I brought them over to her. I asked if she was all right.

Her words rushed out like a dam had broken. Her toy poodle was fourteen years old. She knew the dog had a heart condition, but her regular vet was unavailable for the holiday, and now this new vet thought she should put the poodle down. She’s been living out of hotels because her apartment has black mold, and this little dog goes everywhere with her. It sleeps on her head. She said she couldn’t sleep without it. The dog was her sole companion.

And it sounded to me like she was going to have to say good-bye.

“I’ve never killed one of my dogs before,” she said, blowing her nose.

I knew I couldn’t make her situation any better, but I talked to her anyway. I got her a cup of water from the cooler to help calm her down. I assured her that the vets were only trying to help and offer their expert opinion, but that ultimately she had to make the decision she felt comfortable with. I told her about the times I had to put a pet down, and how it can be loving and peaceful.

I identified with her, and how important her pet was to her. But then I realized, she didn’t have anyone else there to comfort her, while I was alone by choice.

They called my name at the desk, and I went back to the examining room. The vet was tacking up the X-ray results on the light board, but they hadn’t brought Pip up. I braced for the worst.

“Well, we took four different angles on him—he’s a very sweet boy, very cooperative—and I don’t see any bone.”

I was stunned. But he explained to me that any bone particles would show up white, and there were none. I asked him to double-check that it was the right dog, but it was true. No bone. Either it was a false alarm or the power of prayer works.

Then a tech walked in with my Pip, his tail wagging like crazy. I scooped him up and kissed him, thanking everyone in sight.

On my way out, I hugged the woman waiting on her poodle and wished her the best. She seemed steadier.

With the crisis averted, I saw my own behavior in greater clarity. Both of our guilt—his for making an honest mistake, mine at the prospect of communicating my fear and making him feel worse—completely got in the way of us leaning on each other. If I had asked my boyfriend to come with me, he would have. Even if he couldn’t fix it, he might have made me feel better. And we could have gone through it together.

I learned that protecting someone by keeping him away from me doesn’t shelter either of us. I learned that feeling other people’s feelings for them doesn’t bring us closer, it only separates me from myself and my needs. I always thought being codependent meant being too emotionally glued to someone; I didn’t realize the way I was doing it was setting me adrift.

I called my boyfriend and told him the good news. We were both relieved and elated.

“So when can you come over?”

Mrs. Uncle Sam

By Lisa

I found the perfect man for Mother Mary:

Uncle Sam.

Why not?

They’d be great for each other. Uncle Sam may be over two hundred years old, but he’s got plenty of life left in him. After all, we found out that he sicced the IRS on Tea Party groups and spied on a hundred AP reporters.

In other words, he’s an active senior.

A
very
active senior.

Or maybe a hyperactive senior.

But still, he’s just the type of man that Mother Mary needs. He’s tall, handsome, and he spends money like there’s no tomorrow.

By the way, did I mention there’s no tomorrow?

I smell New Daddy.

And because I know a good man is hard to find, I’m not going to be too picky about him. In fact, I did some research on the Tea Party business, and while it bothers me, it would be worse if he went after the Coffee Party.

Or the Chocolate Cake Party.

Then the party would be over.

Also I read about what he did to the Tea Party people. When they applied for tax-exempt status, he sent them lots of red tape.

Miles and miles of red tape.

Obviously, Uncle Sam keeps a lot of red tape on hand and maybe he just got carried away.

He does that all the time.

Like when he goes shopping, he doesn’t worry about price. I heard he paid five hundred bucks for a screwdriver once. Obviously, he likes screwdrivers and he gets carried away easy.

He has no governor, for a government.

Anyway, back to the red tape. Maybe Uncle Sam mistook it for red ribbon. Maybe he thought he was wrapping gifts for the Tea Party.

Lots and lots of gifts.

He must really like tea.

You have to consider that Uncle Sam apologized for sending the red tape to the Tea Party, and that counts in his favor. Mother Mary needs a man who will say he’s sorry.

Because he will be.

If he brings flowers, Mother Mary will become Mrs. Uncle Sam.

I also looked into that business with the reporters. It turns out that Uncle Sam secretly got the records for twenty different phone lines that belonged to Associated Press, which included the cell, office, and home phones of about a hundred reporters.

See what I mean?

He’s crazy active.

Just because he’s older, he’s not sitting around on his duff. He’s busy getting phone records.

Hundreds and hundreds of phone records.

You have to put what he did in context, and I read that Uncle Sam got the records to find a leak. So Uncle Sam is handy, and who doesn’t like that in a man?

Plus, you know how hard it is to find a leak?

I have a leak in my kitchen celling, and it’s really a problem. I’ve called plumber after plumber but none of them can find the leak, much less stop it. One had a small videocamera that came on a long hose and he stuck that in the pipe, but even he couldn’t find the leak.

At least Uncle Sam didn’t use the camera hose on the reporters.

Ouch.

The plumbers charged me a fortune to find the leak, but Uncle Sam didn’t charge the AP reporters anything at all. He got their phone records for free.

What a guy!

So are you with me, should we put those two crazy kids together?

Maybe Uncle Sam will take her name.

Mr. Mother Mary.

Mother Mary Twerks It Out

By Lisa

This weekend I had 1,000 people over. And Mother Mary.

Guess which put me over the top.

Just kidding.

We begin with some background. For eight years now, I’ve been giving a book club party at my house, for book club members who read my Spring hardcover.

Yes, you read that right.

If your book club reads my April book, and you email or send me a picture of everyone holding the book up, then you’re invited to the book club party at my house. Daughter Francesca speaks, Amazing Assistants Laura and Nan speak, and I speak, and you get the idea. We have you all over, feed you, and yak at you for an afternoon.

I believe I am the only author on the planet who does this.

Because I’m just crazy enough.

Security risk?

I pray not. Also I have an excellent security system.

Five yapping dogs.

Really, any evildoer will get the biggest headache of his life.

*   *   *

When we started the book club party, we had it for one day and we hosted almost a hundred people. We served homemade chocolate chip cookies, which were underdone, and plugged in coffee urns that blew every fuse in the house.

But a good time was had by all.

Happily, the book club party has grown to 1,000 people over two days, and we keep it to 500 a day, because that keeps us in brownies.

Brownies are the life of every girl party.

And now there’s a wait list, which makes me just as happy as a bestsellers list.

Thank you, dear readers!

This year, the book party was special because it fell so close to Mother Mary’s 90th birthday, which was a huge milestone.

For me.

I have lived with her all my life, which feels like 90 years.

Again, just kidding.

Mother Mary loves coming up for the book club party, because it’s her chance to tell everyone that I’m a pain in the ass.

So this time I thought celebrating her birthday would be an added bonus for everyone, especially Mother Mary, who would have 1,000 new friends to sing Happy Birthday to her. But no, she said, when I asked her.

“Ma, you don’t want to have the book club people sing Happy Birthday to you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I said no.”

“But it will be so much fun. These people have read about you and they would love to celebrate you, and so would I. I’ll get you a nice cake.”

“No.”

“Ma, it’s a very big deal, turning ninety. Not everyone gets that chance.”

“No.”

“What if I have somebody jump out of the cake?”

Mother Mary lifts an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Telly Savalas.”

“He’s dead.”

“My point exactly!”

“I. Said. No.” Mother Mary scowled, which is her default expression. As she gets older, she has come more into herself, which is Yosemite Sam on blood thinners.

But you know where this is going, because possession is nine-tenths of the law. I was hoping that once I had her in my clutches, I would get my own way, because the only way I can ever get my way with my mother is if she’s captured and caged. Then I figured I would wheel her out in front of the cake, on a dolly like Hannibal Lecter.

Happy Birthday, Mommy!

And when I picked her and Brother Frank up at the airport, my optimism soared because she was so cooperative. Case in point, she arrived as usual in her white lab coat, but she agreed not to wear it to the party because it had a tomato stain from the Bloody Mary she had on the plane.

Surely, you have these problems in your own family. I bet your aged parents spill drinks on their Halloween costumes, too.

Anyway, to fast-forward, she came to the book club party with Brother Frank, climbed up on the little stage, and said hello to the crowd.

Then she refused to give up the microphone.

She told jokes, showed off her back scratcher, and twerked, AARP-style.

And she didn’t even curse at me when we brought out the birthday cake.

Francesca dolls up Mother Mary for her birthday celebration.

Every single person sang Happy Birthday to her, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. I know that some of the people were thinking of her, and some were thinking of their own mothers, whom they weren’t so lucky to have around anymore.

Ninety Years of Mother Mary.

To me, it’s still not enough.

My Grandmother Is Not the Same

By Francesca

My grandmother is not the same.

It’s not something I allow myself to say often, and I wouldn’t want her to know I thought so, but it’s true. She’s going to be ninety years old in two weeks, so I guess I should’ve expected changes.

But we never expect our loved ones to change. They are the rocks, the solid foundation upon which we build our lives. For my entire life, I have defined my grandmother by the way she is feisty, willful, contrary, and irrepressible.

In other words, not all that open to change. She’s not exactly known for her wiggle room.

But the last several years have been hard on my grandmother; she battled and won a fight against throat cancer, and she’s suffered a heart attack and strokes. Whenever someone asks me how she’s doing, I say something like, “Great! She’s still her old self! No keeping her down!” or, “You know how she is. Cancer shouldn’t mess with
her!”