Lisa Scottoline - Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog - The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman

But today I couldn’t do perfect; I couldn’t even do good. I lost my mojo, it was hot outside, and I knew a pony who was sweating his ass off. So I went to the barn, turned on the Rolling Stones, tied that little furball up in the aisle, and grabbed the electric clippers.

Start me up.

I shaved strips into Buddy’s thick, curly hair, and the Stones got me rocking. My mind wandered, and I became Mick Jagger. I sang. I played air guitar. I looked awesome in really tight pants.

Two hours later, my little Beast of Burden looked as if he’d been sheared by Keith Richards. Mental patients get better haircuts, and a close second are condemned prisoners. My clipping method wasn’t perfect. Buddy’s coat had been matted in places, but I cut it off rather than untangle it. Nor had I decided in advance which type of clip job to give him, and there are three types: full body clip (self-explanatory), trace clip (top-half only), and Scottoline clip (until pony looks schizophrenic).

And the worst part was that I had started the job wearing my prescription sunglasses instead of my regular glasses, but that had made it too dark to see what I was doing. So I took the sunglasses off, but then I couldn’t see the pony at all. Still I clipped him anyway. I got the job done, which is good enough for a rock star.

The other mindless task I love is mowing the lawn. I mow on an ancient diesel tractor and I pretend it’s a new John Deere riding mower. Or a Corvette, a Maserati, or a horse that’s taller, faster, and younger than Buddy. I’m in the ring at a horse show. In my mind.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

And I don’t do a perfect job on the lawn, either. I ride my tractor/Olympic steed around the backyard, plowing strips wherever I please, spewing chopped sticks and broken glass. I breathe in random scents of mint, onion grass, and diesel smoke. Bugs fly up my nose, and I wear orange earphones for maximum hotness.

I aim only to get the job done. I swerve to avoid frogs, which creates crop circles worthy of M. Night Shyamalan. I drive around rocks that have been there forever, and my backyard looks like it has hairy moles. So what? My Aunt Rachel had hairy moles, and she was my favorite.

And if a hose is on the ground, I drive around that, too. I never get off the tractor, move the hose, and mow underneath it. I leave my hose and grass to their own devices. Not everything on my property is my business.

And, as you may have guessed, I never decide in advance what type of mowing method to use. As you know, there are three types: up and down (self-explanatory), around and around (dizzying), or Scottoline (surprise me!)

But here is the point. What I do during these mindless tasks is dream. Some people call them chores, but to me, they’re dream jobs. This isn’t just marketing or reverse psychology; we all need time to dream. I take a break from the real job to do the dream job. And unlike the real job, the dream job doesn’t have it be perfect. It just has to get done in a dreamy way.

And after I clipped Buddy today, I went inside, sat down at my computer, and got back to work. Do you think my plot, characters, and dialogue magically appeared?

You must be dreaming.

I don’t know when this started, but I’ve become very suggestible lately. I first noticed it when I was watching TV and a commercial came on, for spaghetti and meatballs. Instantly I wanted a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. I couldn’t help myself. I craved spaghetti and meatballs, even though eating carbs is now against federal law and I’m supposed to be a vegetarian. Still, I spent a lot of time fantasizing about spaghetti and meatballs.

Then it got worse.

I was watching Sex and the City reruns, and I wanted a nice pink Cosmo, or three. During a Wendy’s commercial, I wanted a square hamburger. And every time Kentucky Fried Chicken came on TV, I’d be thinking, extra crispy is the best. Extra crispy always hits the spot. I’d just love me some extra crispy right about now.

But it went beyond food.

I’d watch tennis on TV, and I’d want to be a professional tennis player. I’d watch Top Chef, and I’d want to cook for Chef Tom Colicchio. Bottom line, I’m starting to want whatever I see on television, and lately I’m watching Miami Ink.

You can see where this is going.

Miami Ink is a reality show about people who go to this tattoo parlor in Miami and walk out covered with tattoos. There’s a little story behind each person’s tattoo, and many of the stories are sad. There are parents who get tattoos to memorialize children who died; there are teenagers who get tattoos to memorialize parents who died. Plenty of people get tattoos of their dogs and cats who died. All this dying and all this tattooing, I can’t take it. I cry like a baby through every episode.

But that’s beside the point. The point is that I went from being a person who was disgusted by tattoos to being a person who wants tattoos very badly.

I think about tattoos all the time now. I look at pictures in magazines and wonder, would that would make a nice tattoo? I squint at tattoos on other people, appraising them with a critical eye. I visits websites with tattoos when I’m supposed to be working. I think about tattoos so much that I have already selected three, though they are imaginary.

And because I have to decide where to put my three imaginary tattoos, I think about that, too. Should they go on my arms? Too flabby. Lower back? No tramp stamp for me. Ankle? Looks like dirt with heels. Neck? Can you say state prison?

There are a lot of choices to be made in the imaginary world in which I live.

I suspect, however, that I’m not the only person to pick out imaginary tattoos. Fess up. You know you want one. If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine:

I like Kewpie dolls, so for my first tattoo, I thought it would be nice to have a tiny little Kewpie doll on the inside of my wrist, where it will be discreet, even classy. (Okay, maybe not classy.)

For my second tattoo, I would like an old-fashioned Sacred Heart, but I don’t know where on my body to put a Sacred Heart tattoo. It’s too butch for my arm, and I could burn in hell if I put it anyplace else. You take your chances with the religious tattoos, and you don’t want to be thumbing your nose at you-know-who.

Thirdly, I think one of those colorful Japanese scenes would be nice, something with orange koi fish or calcium-white kabuki masks or an ornate kimono of threaded gold. I can’t decide about my last tattoo. I think about it a lot. It has replaced spaghetti and meatballs in my magical thinking, at least for the time being.

Unfortunately, I’ve passed my suggestibility on to daughter Francesca. We watch Miami Ink together, and though she doesn’t want a tattoo, she wants the tattoo artist-Ami, the star of the show. Come to think of it, I want Ami, too. And while we’re on the subject, I also want Chef Tom Colicchio from Top Chef. He’s more my age, and with his bald head and intense gaze, he’s my Telly Savalas.

It turns out that the power of suggestion extends to everything on TV.

Maybe I should get a tattoo of Chef Tom?