My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space: The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman (20 page)

I’m back from test-driving three different cars at three different dealerships.

What have I learned?

That eenie meenie miney mo is an excellent way to buy a car.

There are three types of cars in contention: a small sedan, an SUV, and a sport coupe. Most people would narrow down their choices, but these are the three cars I like. Why compare apples to apples when you can compare apples to Snickers?

Any of these cars would meet my need, which is to run errands with at least two dogs. The cavaliers, Peach and Little Tony, always sleep on the passenger side of the front seat, and Penny the golden usually sits in the backseat. Angie stays at home, the Cinderella of dogs, and Ruby makes her clean the fireplace, like the evil stepmother.

Before I started car shopping, I thought that any largish car would do. All cars look the same, and they all get you there. But when I started driving them, I started driving myself crazy.

Now my head is filled with engine volumes, heated seats, drive trains, and special TV cameras for when you reverse. One car has a double visor, another has a retro dashboard clock. In the end, what really matters is that the car is safe and has great cupholders.

To me, a car is a cupholder with an engine.

I brought the brochures home and immersed myself in jargon and dimensions, but that was no fun at all.

Then it struck me. I realized that if I thought of these cars as men, this would be a more interesting decision.

Hmm.

I can do that.

What kind of man is a sedan, an SUV, or a sport coupe?

To begin, the sedan would be the marrying kind of cars. Reliable, dependable, and the sort of car you want to have kids with. A good provider on wheels, but not so boring that it wouldn’t notice if you changed your hair color or dropped a few pounds. An even-tempered, keep-it-real guy, but classy enough that you wouldn’t have to fib about how much you spent on those shoes.

To sum up, the sedan would be a great husband, which I hear exists and is not yet extinct in certain parts of the world.

I’m liking the sedan, the more I think about it.

I do.

The only problem with the sedan is that I have a sedan now, and the best color offered in the sedan is white, so this would be my fourth white sedan. This is like marrying the same white guy over and over, which is the one mistake I didn’t make.

I married two different white guys.

So I feel a little lame choosing the hubbymobile.

After all, I’m still single, and I’m not dead yet.

The second car is an SUV, which I visualize as the Brawny Paper Towel Guy of cars. Not necessarily a hot guy, but a rugged kind of guy, who exists only in romance novels or maybe in Canada.

A manly car.

A car that came with a tool belt.

A car that could build its own garage.

A car that could cut down trees, split wood, and build a fire. This car would smell like hard work and hard soap, and wear a checkered flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up on muscular forearms. And this car would leave a few buttons open at the neck, not on purpose but just because he was out doing manly things with no coat on, and the open collar would reveal that he had the perfect amount of chest hair.

For chest hair, I don’t need cupholders.

I can hold my own cup.

Ahem.

But on the other hand, there are times when I dress up. Not often, but sometimes. And when I’m wearing something nice, I don’t want to be seen on the arm of the Brawny Paper Towel Guy of cars.

If he’s wearing Timberlands, I can’t wear heels.

So he might not be the car guy for me.

The last car choice is the sport coupe, and if you need me to tell you what kind of man the sport coupe is, you’re new around here. Sleek, sexy, and fast, this is a superhot, powerful car with a Spanish accent, or maybe French, or Italian. Okay, let’s just make it a European accent that renders everything the car says incomprehensible, especially when it whispers in your ear, which is when you realize it doesn’t matter what the car said, only that it whispered into your ear.

Vroom vroom.

This car is the kind of man who would get you in trouble with the law.

You could get a speeding ticket standing still in this car, and you might even start stealing other cars if it would make this car happy.

You would perform for this car instead of the other way around.

In short, if I got the coupe, I could end up in jail.

Maybe I should rethink this decision.

And take a cold shower.

It can be a problem when your kid comes home to visit. You’re not used to living together, and even the littlest thing can cause a fuss.

For Daughter Francesca and me, it was dessert.

We’re finally on the same page, food-wise, which is a nice way of saying that we’re both trying to lose weight, so we’re eating healthy foods. She’s home this weekend, so for dinner I made politically correct pasta. By which I mean, I sautéed a few tomatoes in olive oil with whole cloves of garlic, and when the mixture got soft, I took it out of the pan and dumped it on top of whole-wheat spaghetti.

By the way, the best thing about this recipe, which I invented, is that it uses garlic without having to chop it up. I hate it when my fingers smell like garlic, and I don’t buy garlic already chopped, because that’s cheating. But this way, if you toss whole cloves in the pan, they get mushy, and you can mash them with a fork. Mashing is more fun than chopping, and doesn’t involve your fingers.

You pay nothing extra for these culinary tips.

Go with God.

And before I tell you about the fight, let me mention also that I’m working on portion control. I know that’s my main problem. This should have been a reasonable-calorie dinner, even though it’s pasta, but I always up the ante by getting a second and a third helping. You might ask, why do you make so much food in the first place, Lisa? The answer is simple.

I’m Italian.

Actually the truth is, I like to make extra of everything, like scrambled eggs, so I can give some to the dogs. Every morning, I make six eggs, knowing that I’ll eat two and give them the rest. They wait patiently during my breakfast, knowing that their eggs will come. It’s all very easy.

But I was doing the same thing with whole-wheat pasta, making extra for the dogs, until I realized I was using them as my portion-control beard.

I busted myself and stopped.

To stay on point, I made a delightful spaghetti meal, and Francesca made a side salad. We had a fun dinner, yapping away and trying not to eat more helpings of pasta, even though it was calling to us from the colander. When we finished our meal, I wanted dessert.

This, I can’t help.

I love to eat dessert right after dinner. And when I say right, I mean immediately. Timing is everything. It doesn’t have to be a lot of something, just a taste. It’s not my fault, and I figured out why this is so:

It’s because
dessert
sounds so much like
deserve.
Also, we say that people get their
just deserts
, which means they get what they deserve. So, ipso fatso, I feel as if I deserve dessert.

Right now.

But Francesca doesn’t like dessert right after dinner. She can wait, which I consider a four-letter word.

This is a long-standing battle we have, because I like us to eat together, and the conversation usually goes like this: I ask her, “Want some dessert?”

She answers, “No, thanks. We just ate.”

“But don’t you want something sweet? I’m having mine now.”

“No, I’m not hungry for dessert yet.”

I get cranky. “When do you think you’ll want dessert?”

“I don’t know. Later.”

“Sooner later or later later?”

Okay, so usually I don’t eat my dessert then, and we retire to the family room, where we watch TV and work, and I spend the rest of the night asking her, “Is it later yet?”

Just like she used to ask me, “Are we there yet?”

Payback, no?

So last night, I figured I’d solve this problem. All I wanted was a small helping of vanilla ice cream, with a banana. And because I wanted it right after dinner, I decided to have it then. If I had to eat alone, so be it. Plus, this way I’d have more time to burn off the calories, by reaching for the remote throughout the evening.

So I had my ice cream and banana.

Delicious.

But then what happened was that sometime around nine o’clock, Francesca sauntered into the kitchen and returned with a small plate of vanilla ice cream. She strolled over to the couch, sat down, and started eating.

I stared at her, along with the dogs.

It looked so delicious. I could almost taste it on my tongue. In fact, I could taste it on my tongue, because I had it two hours ago.

Two
whole
hours ago.

So you know where this is going.

I had to have a second dessert.

I told her it was her fault, and we had a fight.

In the end, I apologized, because she was right.

And I got what I deserved.

I was walking my little dog, Pip, late the other night, and a young man struck up a conversation that has really stuck in my head. The man happened to be very good-looking, so that could have been part of it, but I digress. He cooed over Pip, and I said proudly, “He’s my baby.”

The man looked up, flashed me a smile, and asked, “But why would you want that? Now that you have a baby, you can’t come get a drink with me.”

Cheesy come-on aside, the man has a point. It’s not easy being a mother in the city, even if it’s only mother to a dog.

I worry about Pip. I know this is not new to all the moms out there, but it’s new to me. And there’s a lot to worry about in the city. Just last month, a young woman was hit by a cab crossing the street, breaking
both
her legs, but what she was most worried about was her little Yorkie, who had gotten lost in the commotion!

Pip loves to chase pigeons, and I’m always worried he’s going to slip out of his lead and chase one into the street. So I bought him a harness that is tough enough for a paratrooper.

I still wish it had an air bag.

And I could never bear to tie him up outside a store, even for a minute. He’s just so cute, he would be too tempting to steal. And he’s so friendly, he’d probably trot gaily along with his kidnapper. He’d be the Patty Hearst of dogs.

And I’d be left in the agony of not knowing what became of him, or worse, I’d find him robbing a bank in a floppy hat.

It’s too horrible to imagine.

So rather than leave him outside, I put on my best Whadda-you-lookin-at? New Yorker face and march Pip right into the coffee shop and the local bodega. Once inside, his puppy charms do the trick, and no one asks me to leave.

Good dog.

But one time he lifted a leg on the stack of newspapers outside.

Bad dog.

I am a total helicopter mom at the dog park. Instead of sitting on a bench yakking into my phone like most of the dog parents, I trail ten feet behind Pip, keeping a watchful eye on the mastiff lounging—or lying in wait?—and the terrier chewing—a little
too
intensely—his dirty tennis ball.

I don’t want Pip falling in with the wrong crowd.

Luckily, Pip is far better socialized than I am. He politely makes the rounds, first of dog butts, then of human knees. With his ever-wagging tail and his big, bright eyes, he is so charming that people often put down their phones or BlackBerrys and actually pull him into their laps. And these are New Yorkers!

The dog should run for office. He’d get three terms, no problem.

But even when he’s safe at home, I often worry about leaving him alone too long. Instead of being a café nomad like I was at school, now I write only at home to be with him. And I regularly pass on outings with friends that could keep me out too long. Every potential date has to pass the high bar of being more fun than sitting on the couch, watching TV, and sharing a vanilla yogurt with Pip.

Don’t get around much, anymore.

Was it the right choice, getting a dog so soon after moving here?

I think about it, lying in bed. I see Pip has just completed his nighttime bed rotation, a series of sleeping positions and repositions that begin at the foot of my bed and end at my head. My pillow makes a little
pat
sound as he flops his chin on the edge of it, and he gives a tiny snort, the dog equivalent of a satisfied sigh. I stroke the soft fur on his head and watch his chocolate brown eyes grow dozy until his heavy, russet lashes close them for good.

Like I said to the man in the street that night, “He’s worth it.”