My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space: The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman (12 page)

The holidays are coming, and I have an annual tradition of buying the house a Christmas present. For example, last year I bought the house a puppy.

I never got a thank-you note.

I keep thinking about getting the house another puppy, but this year I got it something it wanted more, which was delivered this morning.

Here’s what happened.

I have a 32-inch TV in an entertainment center that’s across the room from the couch, and as the years go by, the TV’s been getting smaller and smaller, and harder and harder to see.

I’m not getting older.

My TV is shrinking.

Maybe someone left it out in the rain, like the cake in that song, or maybe someone put it in the dryer, I don’t know. But I’d been thinking that this Christmas, I’d buy the house a big TV.

I’d been holding off because I didn’t want the hassle, and I knew it would be expensive, because whenever I look at the little ones, they seem fairly costly. In the past, I’d gotten free little TVs, using the reward points from a credit card on which I charge the other things the house wants, like handbags and shoes.

In other words, I’d been stalling on the big TV, and all the big TVs in the reward catalog cost a billion more points than I had, so I bit the bullet. I drove to the store, drawn to the TV department, eyes agog. It was dark, lit on all four sides by screens, like a TV cave. All of the TVs, from floor to ceiling, were tuned to the same football game, which was humongous.

I stared astounded as a football flew by, big as an airbus. Line-men tall as Godzilla crashed into other helmeted monsters, like worlds colliding. Gigantic cheerleaders jumped and yelled, their mouths big as swimming pools, and their breasts, well, you get the idea.

Wow.

Jeez.

There was enough plastic in those babies to keep all of us fresh for days.

In other words, everything on the big TVs was BIG.

Plus the colors were as vivid and pretty as flowers. The yellow in the team uniforms was bright marigold, the orange like Gerber daisies. I spotted blood on a jersey, red as a geranium. It was the most floral violence ever.

I fell in love.

Or rather, my house did.

It knew that it had made the right decision to stop being such a cheapskate and come to the big TV store. Its good judgment was confirmed when it looked around and noticed that none of the TVs was as tiny as the one at home, its ex-TV.

Then the question became which type of big TV to get, among the dizzying array of plasma TVs, LCD TVs, LED-LCD TVs, rear projection TVs, and tube TVs, whatever that is. I had no idea what I had at home, or what to choose, but a salesgirl told me that if your room has lots of windows, go with LCD, which probably stands for large colossal something.

So then the only question was, how large and colossal?

I had gone into the store thinking that a 42-inch TV would be big enough, because I wanted to keep it classy and tasteful. But all of a sudden, the 42-inch looked so puny, next to the 48-inch.

And the price wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Plus classy and tasteful is overrated, so I settled on the 48-inch.

Until I caught sight of the 52-inch.

Which was bigger.

And on sale.

In fact, the 52-inch cost less than the 48-inch, which I didn’t understand, because the 52-inch offered four extra inches of multicolored bigness.

So the 52-inch started to make sense to me.

Er, the house.

And the 52-inch was so gorgeous and easy to see, like Large Print TV. I was sure it wouldn’t shrink for a long, long time. So I bought it, and they delivered it this morning.

With a crane.

It’s so huge it doesn’t fit in the entertainment center. In fact, it barely fit in the front door.

It stands in its immense box in the family room, blocking the view of the Christmas tree, towering over the couch and chairs, like a monolith at Stonehenge. The cats and dogs sniff it in fear, and I don’t know whether to worship it or return it.

But I have a feeling I’ll just open it and watch it.

Forever.

Big love, from me and mine, to you and yours.

It’s a wonder that any family survives its family photo. The Flying Scottolines almost didn’t.

The blame begins and ends with me, and you’ll see why.

The whole thing was my idea in the first place. Mother Mary and Daughter Francesca were both at my house, visiting for the Christmas holidays. At the same time, I had to do a photo shoot for my website, so I was wearing my new red-striped sweater and having a photographer over. Plus I had gotten my hair blow-dried professionally.

Professional hair, new clothes, and a camera is a harmonic convergence for girls.

But first I needed cooperation from Mother Mary.

What were the odds?

I turned to her, explained the situation, and asked her if she wanted to take a family photo.

“Why would I?” she asked, looking up from her crossword. She was wearing her lab coat, which is her idea of lounge-wear.

“For fun. How often are we all together like this? If we wear something red, we could send out a Christmas card with a picture of us on it.”

“Who needs that?”

“We do,” I said, firmly. When I put on my firm voice, she knows I mean business. Also she was at my mercy, because I would withhold food and water. “And you can’t wear your lab coat.”

She lifted a gray eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not red, you’re not a doctor, and it makes you look crazy.”

She didn’t laugh, and I marched her upstairs, changed her three times, and got her dressed with only a minor fistfight. Francesca was her usual cooperative self, so she showered and changed into a red sweater in no time, then even made me up, because she’s a born makeup artist. When I apply my eyeliner, it looks like an EKG.

Francesca turned to Mother Mary, mascara wand in hand. “Want me to make you up, too?”

“Why do I need makeup?”

“So you look good for the photo.”

“I look fine.”

“You do, but with the flash, you need a little makeup.”

“Hmph,” my mother said, submitting only because it was Francesca who asked. If it had been me, she would have stabbed me with the eyepencil.

So we all got pretty in our red sweaters and sat down on the couch in a straight line, like superannuated triplets. The dogs gathered at our feet in a way they don’t in real life, as they are camera hounds.

Sorry.

So the photographer snaps a few pictures and shows them to us, and we all notice that light is reflecting off my mother’s glasses, so you can’t see her eyes.

I say, “Ma, you have to take your glasses off.”

“How am I supposed to see?”

“It’s easy.” I pluck the glasses from behind her ears, fold them up, and set them aside. “Just look at the lens of the camera.”

“What if I can’t find it?”

The photographer answers helpfully, “I’ll wave my hand, and you can look at that.”

“Thanks,” I say, but Mother Mary remains doubtful, as she sinks back onto the couch.

The photographer starts snapping away again, then shows us the pictures, and this time, we all notice that Mother Mary is not smiling.

“Ma,” I say to her, “why aren’t you smiling?”

“Why should I?”

“Ma, you have to smile.”

Francesca puts a gentle hand on my mother’s shoulder. “You look so nice when you smile. Just smile, okay?”

“Hmph,” my mother says again, then we all take our seats, a few photos are snapped, and the photographer shows them to us. Again, we all notice that my mother isn’t smiling enough. Francesca and I are beaming, and my mother looks a little gassy.

“Ma, you have to smile more.”

“I can’t smile any more.”

“Yes, you can. Show your teeth.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Say cheese.”

Mother Mary means it when she says “cheese.”

My mother rolls her eyes. “What am I, a baby?”

Evidently,
I think but don’t say, and we all sit back down.

An exhausting two hours later, we look at the photos, which have turned out terribly. Francesca and I are smiling, but my mother appears to be snarling. The camera seems to have caught her with the
ch
part of cheese, instead of the
eese
. Her teeth are showing like a wolf with dentures.

But that’s not the real problem. With all the focus on Mother Mary, we have failed to notice that I’m having a wardrobe disaster. The stripes running across my chest aren’t straight, like they were when the sweater was on the hanger. Instead, the lines run up my chest and down again, sagging at the ends, like a frown.

Bottom line, I’m a middle-aged woman, and my sweater has busted me.

Again, sorry.

Christmas card photos are so much fun.

We really do love each other. Really.

“Oh no,” I wail, and Francesca puts an arm around me. “It’s not you, it’s the bra.” My mother comes over, puts her glasses back on, and checks the pictures. And smiles, ear-to-ear.