My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space: The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman (4 page)

I know I’m supposed to become my mother, but I’m actually becoming my late father.

At least I thought of him recently, when I checked the mileage on my car. I’m at 94,272, and I’ve watched it inch up from 94,109 and before that, 93,820. I check my mileage more often than I check my weight, and that’s saying something. On a long trip, I watch my mileage like it’s a movie with Brad Pitt.

I can’t get enough.

Bottom line, I’m way too involved with my car mileage. The more miles I have, the happier I get. I dream about hitting 100,000 miles like some people dream about hitting the lottery.

Why?

It makes me feel as if I’ve accomplished something, though I haven’t. It’s my car that’s done all the work. I’m just along for the ride. Still, every time I hit a new 10,000-mile mark, I feel like celebrating.

Growing up, I remember The Flying Scottolines driving around in our ’64 Corvair Monza, and my father pointing to the mileage counter as the little white numbers turned slowly to something. He was so excited that we all clapped, but I didn’t understand why.

Now I’m excited, and I still don’t understand why.

I used to think it was because if I accumulated enough miles, I could justify getting a new car. But that’s not it. I love my car and want to be buried in it, with a Diet Coke in the cupholder.

At around 17,328,000,000 miles.

But I’m wondering if my mileage thing is related to my Things To Do list thing. I love having a Things To Do list, and over the years, I perfected a template for my Things To Do list. I write the list of Things To Do on the right, and on the left, next to each Thing, I draw a big circle. I get to check the circle only after each Thing is Done.

Oh boy, I love checking those circles.

I make a big check, like a schoolteacher at the top of your homework. Then I stand before my list and survey with satisfaction all the checked circles.

And oddly, I admit that I’ve added to the list a Thing I’ve Already Done, just so I can check the circle.

I know, right?

It’s kind of kooky.

So I told this to a friend of mine, and she told me she does things this kooky, and she also added another kooky thing. She has an electronic reader, and at the bottom of each page, it tells you what percentage of the book you’ve read. As you read the book, the percentage increases, and she has found herself watching the percentage increase as she reads. She’s gotten used to the fact that she read 57% of a book, as opposed to 45 chapters, and she’s even figured out how many pages it takes to increase the percentage a point. The other night, she couldn’t go to sleep because she had read 96% of the book and she had to get to 100%.

Okay, the friend is me.

I’m sensing that these three things—mileage counters, Things To Do, and reading percentages—are related.

Am I taking a task-oriented approach to life?

Or am I celebrating the small things?

Or both?

There’s a great quote by E. L. Doctorow, who says, “Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

I sense this quote is related, too, and that it applies not only to writing, but to everything, at least for me. Because writing a novel is like driving to Toronto or cleaning your house or starting
War and Peace.
Any large task is intimidating at the beginning, but it’s doable if it’s broken down, mile by mile, Thing by Thing, percentage point by percentage point. And when you finally finish that task, you can check the circle.

Have a Diet Coke, for me.

And my father.

Mother Mary never forgets anything. Take the Case of the Crossword-Puzzle Cookie Jar.

Our story begins when I see an ad for a cookie jar in the newspaper. It’s a square white jar with a real crossword puzzle on each of the four sides, and it has a special pen that you use to fill in the blanks. Plus it comes with heart-shaped cookies that I don’t have to bake myself.

Mother Mary loves crossword puzzles, though she doesn’t much care for cookies, regardless of shape. Bottom line, the crossword-puzzle cookie jar struck me as a great gift for Mother’s Day. At the time I saw the ad, it was a month in advance of the holiday, so I ordered it online, charged it to my credit card, and specified that it be sent to her. Then I ordered her flowers like I always do and figured I had Mother’s Day squared away.

But when I called her for Mother Mary’s Day, she’d gotten the flowers but not the crossword-puzzle cookie jar. It never came. She was happy with her flowers and didn’t mind not getting the jar. She told me to make sure I wasn’t charged for it. I wasn’t worried. I assumed they hadn’t charged me, because something had clearly gone wrong. The next week, she called me.

She said, “I saw an ad for that cookie jar, and that thing cost a hundred bucks.”

“I know.”

“That’s too much to spend on me.”

“No, it’s not,” I say, because I’m such a sport. I’m the kind of daughter who promises her mother gifts that never arrive. And cookies that other people bake.

“Did you check and see if they charged you?”

“The statement didn’t come in yet, but I will.”

“Make sure you do. Mark my words.”

Then, every time I call to say hi, the first thing she asks is: “Did you make sure they didn’t charge you for that cockamamie cookie jar?”

“Not yet. Don’t you want it? I can call and ask them to send you another one.”

“No, I don’t want it. It costs too much. I just want to make sure they don’t charge you.”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know? Don’t be a patsy.”

I smile.
Patsy
is a great word. More people should use it. “Okay, I’ll check.”

I hang up, vowing to check my credit-card statement when it comes in. The next week, she calls me.

“I slept terrible last night,” she says.

“Why?”

“This thing with that cookie jar. It’s keeping me up.”

“Why?”

“It’s a scam.”

I blink. “What?”

“Lots of people like crossword puzzles, right?”

“Right.”

“And lots of people like cookies.”

“Except you.”

“Right. So. The company says they’ll send the cookie jars, but they don’t, and nobody checks to see if they got charged, and the next thing you know, they’re off on a cruise.”

“Financed by cookie jars?”

“You got it!”

I hang up, this time vowing I will never order her anything from the newspaper, or anywhere else. Every gift I will buy and carry to her, or else she’ll have a heart attack for Mother’s Day.

But last week the statement finally came in, and I checked it.

You know what?

They charged me.

But I’m not telling.

Let’s talk about a decision that women have to make every morning:

Big purse or little purse?

I know it’s not life or death, but it makes you nuts if you choose the wrong one as consistently as I do.

If you carry a big purse for the day, it’s guaranteed that you’ll end up never needing anything you’re lugging around like a pack animal. And if you carry a little purse for the day, you’ll invariably end up tucking things under your armpit or asking your husband to carry them.

It’s Purse Lotto, and there are winners and losers, every day. I lose, almost always. I keep track, and if I choose the right purse four days out of seven, I’m Purse Diva. Most weeks, I choose correctly only one day.

Purse Geek.

Now I can already hear you menfolk, thinking that the problem can be solved by a medium-size purse. That seems sensible, but it doesn’t work.

Not your fault, gentlemen. How would you know? Unless you carry a man purse, in which case, play along.

In reality, a medium purse is the worst of both worlds. It’s not big enough to carry everything you need, and it’s not small enough to let you feel footloose and fancy-free. And besides, medium defeats the purpose of adding fun to your life by gambling with handbags.

So I say, live dangerously. Choose big or little. Pick your poison. See if, by the end of the day, you’re a Purse Hero or a Purse Loser.

Use me as your inspiration. You couldn’t do worse.

Just the other day, I chose a big purse and ended up walking all over NYC with Daughter Francesca, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulder. I didn’t need the hardback book, full makeup case, or water bottle.

Turns out they have water in New York, too.

So the next day, I carried a cute little purse, but wrong again. I couldn’t zip it up after I bought a pack of gum, so I walked everywhere worried that my keys would fall out or I’d get pick-pocketed. And Francesca had to carry our umbrella, newspaper, and everything else in her nice big purse.

It goes without saying that the day you choose the wrong purse, your daughter will choose the right one. Last week, Francesca was six for seven.

Purse Diva.

It was the same week I got so frustrated that I opted out of Purse Lotto altogether. Francesca and I went to a movie, and I carried only my wallet.

Whoa. I threw caution to the summer wind. I went free and easy, like July itself.

Francesca looked over. “Why no purse?”

“Traveling light.”

“You should carry a purse, Mom.”

“Don’t need one.”

We settled into our seats at the movie, and Francesca gestured at my wallet. “Where are you gonna put that?”

I blinked. The seat to the right of me was taken, and my cupholder held a Diet Coke and Raisinets. I couldn’t admit defeat and ask her to put my wallet in her big purse, so I set the wallet under my chair, on the sticky floor. Yuck.

“See?” I said, hiding my distaste. “No problem.”

It worked out perfectly until we left the theater, got several blocks away, and I remembered that my wallet was still on the floor. We hurried back, and it was still there, probably because even felons couldn’t unstick it. Then we went out to dinner.

“Now where are you gonna put the wallet?” Francesca asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Right here.” I set it down on the empty chair next to me, no problem. I didn’t forget it either. But when we had gotten a few blocks from the restaurant, I realized that I’d been so worried about my wallet, I’d left my credit card on the table. We hurried back, for the second time that day.

So now I lose at Wallet Lotto, too. “I shoulda brought a purse,” I said, going home, after all was recovered.

“Next time.” Francesca patted me on the back. “Don’t feel bad.”

“Which purse should I have brought, oh sage one?”

“The small.”

Purse Genius.