Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog Part 4

Like sugar, as G.o.d intended.

The only jellybeans I really wanted were the cherry ones that washed your teeth in a scary red juice, or the licorice ones that blackened your tongue like a chow's.

We also got dressed up on Easter morning, and there are plenty of pictures of me looking stiff in a crinoline dress and brother Frank in a little gray suit, a red bowtie, and short pants with knee socks, topped off with a round cap that had a chin strap. Much later, we would learn that Frank was gay, and I still maintain we should have been tipped off by that Easter get-up.

I can get nostalgic about every Easter memory but the spray-painted chick. Spray-painted chicks were a big thing in my old neighborhood. I still can't imagine what anybody was thinking, to do something so cruel as to take a live baby chick and dye it an "Easter" color. But my parents fell for this every year and they'd buy us a red, green, or purple chick. The novelty would wear off in an hour, not coincidentally with the sugar crash, and then n.o.body seemed to know what to do with the poor chick.

Our red chick and our green chick died in short order, but the purple chick, against all odds, didn't die after the first week. Or even the second. Of course, we had no idea how to raise him. We fed him Cheerios and meatb.a.l.l.s. We covered the floor of our bedroom with newspaper and kept him there. In time, he lost his purple feathers and grew to be a chubby brown chicken, whom we named Herman. He had a friendly personality, hanging out with us and walking through our legs like a house cat. He lived a full year, and when he died, we cried so hard that it made Easter the anniversary of his death, rather than the resurrection of anything else.

When I got older, we moved to a neighborhood that was predominantly Jewish. I got invited to bar and bat mitzvahs, and I learned that Jews celebrated Pa.s.sover. My best friend Rachel kept the traditional fast on the first day. I didn't understand Judaism much better than I understood Catholicism, but her family invited me to their seder, where I had a great time and got to ask a question, which I didn't understand either. predominantly Jewish. I got invited to bar and bat mitzvahs, and I learned that Jews celebrated Pa.s.sover. My best friend Rachel kept the traditional fast on the first day. I didn't understand Judaism much better than I understood Catholicism, but her family invited me to their seder, where I had a great time and got to ask a question, which I didn't understand either.

But what I did understand about Pa.s.sover was that Rachel's family was together around a full and lovely table-two wonderful parents, three fun-loving brothers, and my best friend in the world-all joking around with each other, laughing, and inviting me into their family. And to this day, I still am in their family, as they are in mine.

To me, that's what every holiday is all about.

That's even what every religion is about.

Love.

Empowerment

Nowadays, superpowers are everywhere. At the movies, Spider-Man has superpowers, and so do Iron Man, Sandman, Venom, and whatever the other bad guy is. On TV, all the people in Heroes Heroes have superpowers, and have superpowers, and Medium Medium is a soccer mom with superpowers. In books, Harry Potter is a boy with superpowers, and Tolkien's is a soccer mom with superpowers. In books, Harry Potter is a boy with superpowers, and Tolkien's The Children of Hurin The Children of Hurin has hobbits with superpowers, which may be redundant. has hobbits with superpowers, which may be redundant.

Something is happening in pop culture. I'm no detective, but I think it's that people want superpowers.

Not me, though. I don't want superpowers. I don't want to turn people into sand; I like them the way they are, at least the ones I didn't divorce.

And I don't want to spin webs out of my fingertips. I'd settle for ten really nice fingernails, all at the same time.

Come to think of it, instead of superpowers, I'd want normal powers. You may know that I'm picky about really important things, like Splenda and croutons. But I'm flexible on powers. I'd settle for everyday powers. Things that normal people can do, but I can't.

Right off the top of my head, I can make a wish list of ten normal powers that would change my life: 1. The power to match a lid to its travel mug. They say every pot has a lid, but every travel mug clearly does not. I have three hundred black plastic lids in my cabinet and none of them fit any of my travel mugs. I can't find the right lid, ever. And I never, ever will. This is not a metaphor for my social life.

2. The power to remember the directions that somebody tells me after I pull over to ask for them. Every time, as soon as I drive away, I forget. This phenomenon is impossible to explain, especially considering that I remember the words to every high school cheer. Push 'em back, shove 'em back, waaay back! See?

3. The power to eat anything I want and not gain weight. If I had this power, I'd fly around in my cape and protect us all from Kirstie Alley.

4. The power to stop my hair from frizzing. I know it's wrong to base your self-esteem on your hair, but let's get real. Good hair helps. I went on a vacation to Paris, and my hair looked terrific. France has no humidity. A good hair country!

5. The power to find my keys and cell phone at will. In fact, if my cell phone could call my car keys, that would work, too.

6. The power to walk in slingbacks without the strap falling down in back. This is an often-overlooked normal power. Anybody can walk in heels. Only experts can walk in slingbacks. I don't qualify. Yet.

7. The power to watch Grey's Anatomy Grey's Anatomy without being totally annoyed by Ellen Pompeo's lips. Lip actresses drive me nuts. I was barely over Calista Flockhart in without being totally annoyed by Ellen Pompeo's lips. Lip actresses drive me nuts. I was barely over Calista Flockhart in Ally McBeal, Ally McBeal, and now this. Renee Zellweger, watch out. I'm taking you down, girl. and now this. Renee Zellweger, watch out. I'm taking you down, girl.

8. The power to stay awake until the end of The Colbert Report The Colbert Report. This is no reflection on Stephen Colbert, who knows that I love him because I tell him every night, telepathically. (Okay, borderline creepy.) Yet I barely make it through The Word. I can't stay awake as late as I used to. Again, no reflection on my social life, real or imagined. (With you, Stephen, only you.) 9. The power to apply liquid eyeliner without it coming out like a sales chart. I feel sure that my life would change if I could put on liquid liner. Best friend Franca can do it and she looks great. Daughter Francesca can do it, too. Even Paris Hilton can do it. I've been trying and failing to accomplish this for the past twenty years. Now it's probably too late, because my eyelids have fallen like the final curtain.

10. Finally, there's an array of normal powers that I'm squeezing in here, while I'm making my wish list. I'd love the power to get the Christmas lights working on the first try, find my dry cleaning receipt when I need it, remember where I parked my car, return the DVD rental before the late charges reach $37, and locate a working pen while I'm on the phone-and a working flashlight when the power goes out.

Is it so much to ask?

I don't want to be Superwoman. Just Normalwoman!

Ka-POW!

Betty and Veronica

I realized the other day that I don't care about superpowers because I didn't read those comics as a kid. To me, Superman and Batman were for boys. Girls had Betty Cooper and Veronica Lodge, the blonde and brunette bombsh.e.l.ls of the Archie comics. I loved those comics and still remember their many valuable lessons.

What were they?

Here's Betty and Veronica's Lessons For Girls.

Before we begin, let me remind you that Betty and Veronica were best friends who went to Riverdale High School. They were both gorgeous, impossibly curvy, and permanently seventeen.

But their personalities were very different: Betty was poor, but nice and natural. She wore her canary-yellow hair in a bouncy ponytail and dressed like a tomboy. In fact, Betty has her own webpage these days, which reveals that she sews her own clothes. The website sums her up as "your average small town girl," and her blog (of course, she has a blog) contains salsa recipes.

In contrast, Veronica had money, and was mean and spoiled. The website says that she's "gorgeous, sophisticated, s.e.xy and very RICH." (The capitals are theirs; I save my capitals for better things.) Veronica is also "ambitious" and "confident." Veronica writes in her blog: "only three weeks of school left-must buy summer clothes!" better things.) Veronica is also "ambitious" and "confident." Veronica writes in her blog: "only three weeks of school left-must buy summer clothes!"

By the way, neither girl is described as smart. Anywhere.

What have we learned, so far?

Lesson One: Poor people are better than rich people. Blond people are better than brunette people. Black people don't exist.

Unlike Betty, who lives with her normal family, Veronica lives with her father, a family situation which is borderline creepy. Mr. Lodge is most often found sitting in a club chair, reading the newspaper and waiting for his daughter to ask him for things. She calls him Daddykins. He always says yes.

Lesson Two: Single parents produce messed-up kids.

Betty and Veronica form the distaff base of a love triangle that peaks in Archie Andrews. The storyline of every comic is the same-Betty and Veronica, theoretically best friends, scheme, plot, and deceive each other in order to win Archie.

Lesson Three: Even your best friend can, and should, be ditched for a guy.

Which girl do you think Archie chooses more often-sweet, uncomplicated Betty or neurotic but s.e.xy Veronica? You guessed it.

Lesson Four: Men dig crazy.

The website admits that: "Betty is extremely devoted to Archie, but sadly is most often playing second fiddle to her best friend Veronica for his affections. Through every crazy loving scheme to win Archie's love, Betty always remains completely unaffected, loyal and sweet." Of course she does. How Betty of her. her best friend Veronica for his affections. Through every crazy loving scheme to win Archie's love, Betty always remains completely unaffected, loyal and sweet." Of course she does. How Betty of her.

Lesson Five: Nice is a waste of time.

But here's something I never understood. Why do Betty and Veronica want Archie so much? He's not attractive. His hair is orange, parted in the middle, and he has cross-hatches for sideburns. His nose looks like a jellybean.

Lesson Six: Any boyfriend is better than no boyfriend at all.

Archie doesn't even have a good personality. He's not smart, and that's fine with him. The website doesn't apologize for the fact that he "brings home average grades from school." On the contrary, in all respects, Archie is a "typical small town boy."

Lesson Seven: Mediocrity rocks!

But Archie does have a "good, solid family background."

Lesson Eight: Learn to settle.

So, growing up, who did I want to be-Betty or Veronica? I'll tell the truth. I knew I was supposed to want to be Betty, but I secretly wanted to be Veronica.

Lesson Nine: It's okay to be superficial.

It didn't matter what Betty or Veronica wanted to be when they grew up. In the comics I remembered, they didn't want to be anything but with Archie. However, the website has more recently a.s.signed them career aspirations, because women have the vote now.

Lesson Ten: History can always be revised. If you remember it otherwise, you're wrong.

So, what are the career goals of these two? The site says, "Veronica would someday like to run Lodge Enterprises." Presumably that's her father's business, or a Mafia front. Knowing Veronica as I do, I wouldn't put it past her. Veronica could be an excellent crime lord if she'd stay out of Neiman Marcus.

Lesson Eleven: Nepotism is a fancy word for born winner.

Finally, what's Betty's career plan? "Betty's goal is to become a famous writer."

Lesson Twelve: Follow your dream, in case you're a Betty.

Ode to Parents of College-Age Kids

My baby bird, daughter Francesca, is home from college for the summer, and I thought it would be fun for you to hear from her. I hope the following will help my fellow parental units to see how our college-age kids (sorry, adults) see us. So, below is from Francesca: .

Now that I'm older, I imagined that living at home with my mother would be different. Not that it needed to change; we've always had the best relations.h.i.+p. I can honestly say that my mom is my best friend. But now that I'm twenty-one, I figured our dynamic would be more mature.

Not exactly.

My childhood nickname was Kiki, and my mom always had hundreds of nonsensical pet-names for me. The days of b.o.o.boo, Baby b.u.mpy, and Mocha JaMocha are over. Or so I thought.

We were in the shoe department, trying to be cool (we both inexplicably get dressed up to go to the mall) when my mom looked up from the sandals and said, "Hey, b.u.mpy! Look at these!" I resorted to the oh-so-teenage, "Mo-om." We totally blew our grown-up cover.

Back home, one change in our interaction wasn't due to my my age, it was due to hers. She'd read that she should drink red wine for her heart, so one night, she poured herself a gla.s.s and offered me one, too. age, it was due to hers. She'd read that she should drink red wine for her heart, so one night, she poured herself a gla.s.s and offered me one, too.

This alone was a big step. My mother doesn't drink, and when I was younger, she decried the perils of alcohol with Prohibition-era ferocity. So, as she poured me a gla.s.s of wine, I felt as if we had turned a corner in our new, mature relations.h.i.+p.

I made sure to not drink more than one gla.s.s, but I wasn't the one who had to be worried. After just a few sips, she started up: "Oh I feel it. I can feel it already. Can you feel it?" she asked, excitedly. And before my mom had even finished the gla.s.s, she was declaring, "I'm drunk!" like a triumphant frat boy. My mom's night of boozing (still only one gla.s.s) quickly turned sour. She complained the whole night: "Ugh, I have a headache from that wine. I'm sleepy from that wine. I can't sleep from that wine." She required more post-party care than my freshman-year roommate.

Jeez, Mom, grow up.

But then, I'm not exactly the sophisticate I thought I'd be when it comes to our mother-daughter time. I'm embarra.s.sed to admit that there are still moments when I'm embarra.s.sed to be out with Mom. This is crazy, because she's great, and I love spending time with her. But even as a grown (or nearly) woman, the shadow of an insecure thirteen-year-old follows me around. Like last week, I persuaded my mom to see a movie at ten-thirty, because secretly I knew the theater would be less crowded then, and it would be less likely that someone I knew would catch me on date-night with Mom. As it happened, I did run into an old friend from high school who was there on an actual date. Busted.

But it's not just at the movies. Last week she gave me a ride to my doctor's appointment. I had a wart on my toe removed and also got the HPV vaccine, Gardasil. As we were checking out, my mom was being her usual friendly self, updating the receptionist on my life. It used to bother teenage-me when she shared the details of my life, but now I see it's just love. And anyway, what could she really say? also got the HPV vaccine, Gardasil. As we were checking out, my mom was being her usual friendly self, updating the receptionist on my life. It used to bother teenage-me when she shared the details of my life, but now I see it's just love. And anyway, what could she really say?

"Today she got that Gardasil shot and got rid of those nasty warts!" Mom chirped. I cringed.

My mother has a way with words.

But truly, I'm lucky that I feel so close to my mom. We can talk about anything-even s.e.x. In fact, it was her idea for me to get the HPV vaccine.

We've come a long way. When my mom was moving me out of my freshman year dorm, I was mortified that she found condoms in my nightstand. If that happened this year, it wouldn't matter. I'm old enough to know what's in a woman's nightstand is her business.

That's why I'm never, ever, looking in hers.

I'm not old enough.

Right, kid, now go empty the dishwasher.

What Francesca doesn't realize is that she'll always be my baby, no matter what age. But I have to admit, she's grown into an incredible young woman who is everything I hoped she would be: smart, strong, funny, and loving. As you can see, she does tell the truth.

And now, she's grounded.