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

Reading knows no political party.

The morning of the Festival, Mrs. Bush invited the authors and their guests to the White House for a classy breakfast buffet, and we were permitted to eat anywhere we liked in the Red, Blue, and Green Rooms. My plus one was daughter Francesca, who made sure that I didn’t spill coffee on the red, blue, or green rugs. I’d hate to be remembered as The One Who Assassinated the Lincoln Rug, and that wouldn’t be a dry cleaning bill I’d like to pay. We’re not talking a stained sweater here. We’re talking a second mortgage.

So we ate our blueberry pancakes very carefully, perched on the edge of two lovely red wing chairs, and we even put an official White House napkin under our coffee cups so we didn’t make a ring on the inlaid mahogany tables. But even in the White House, my home-improvement wheels got turning. People imagine what they would do if they ever got to be President, and I’m no different. For me, renovation of the White House would be the national priority.

I wouldn’t hire a decorator. I’d do it myself. I’d be the Decorator-in-Chief.

We know that real estate ads are my porn, so it should come as no surprise that I have lots of great ideas about home décor, too. I’m addicted to HGTV. I memorize House & Garden. There’s no more extreme make over than the White House. The place has major curb appeal, and that world-leader vibe would make it the best client ever.

I smell Architectural Digest.

I’d start my make over in the Red, Blue, and Green Rooms, because they’re surprisingly small and laid out in a straight line. If I were President, I’d knock down the walls and make one big family room, with space enough for a nice, built-in entertainment center. And a 70-inch plasma TV and a wet bar. Plus a computer station with 21-inch monitors. What an improvement that would be! Even the First Family needs a family room.

Obviously, I’d have to repaint the new room, too. I’d love to paint it my favorite color, which is pink, even though it’s politically incorrect. It’s the first thing someone would ask if a woman like me became President: “What, is she gonna paint the White House pink?”

I’d answer, “Yes. It’s good to be Queen.”

I’d make a few changes in the furniture department, too. The wing chairs are lovely, as are the antique tables, but you have to go with the times. You can’t watch the playoffs from a wing chair. You can’t rest your Diet Coke on mahogany. If I were President, I’d get me a nice, big sectional sofa. Gray ultrasuede would be chic, and I’d order it custom, with cupholders built into the armrests. That’s my dream. In my Presidency, cupholders for all!

Cupholders know no political party.

And, when I looked out the bubbly glass windows of the White House, I noticed there was no attached garage. That would be a must. Also an in-ground pool, maybe next to the Rose Garden, with some tasteful fake rocks and a little waterfall, so I could listen to artificial burbling while I contemplated foreign policy or skimmed the Frontgate catalog.

In fact, I found myself wondering if the White House had a finished basement, which of course would be job one. It would make a perfect gym, and I’d fill it up with Nautilus weights and elliptical machines that I could ignore.

That’s how I’d make the White House a home.

By the way, before I left the White House that day, I did get to meet the First Lady. She shook my hand and was very nice. I thanked her for the Festival, but I didn’t tell her my suggestions for the house.

Or what I stole, which was the official paper napkin, embossed with the gold symbol of the President, encircled by the brown ring of my coffee cup.

You can hardly blame me for taking a memento.

Even without a Jacuzzi, it’s still the White House.

I was the Grand Marshal of the Columbus Day parade, and I liked it so much it scared me.

I walked down the street with people clapping on both sides. If I waved, they waved back. If I smiled, they smiled back. So what if they had no idea who I was? I still ate it up.

The best part was that I got to wear a sash that went sideways across my body, Miss-America style. This was a thrill for a girl who was always The Smart One. For once, I felt like The Pretty One. And let me tell you a secret: every Smart One wants to be The Pretty One.

But back to the point.

It turned out that I love a parade, especially when I’m in it. I didn’t think I had a big ego, but being a Grand Anything will swell your head. By the time I got home, I could barely fit it through the front door.

I was having Delusions of Grand Marshal.

By bedtime, long after the parade had ended, my ego was only getting bigger. I tried to stuff it back into my body, but I’m only five foot two and it had inflated to the size of a bouncy house. I was full of myself, literally. I almost kept my sash on, because it looked so great with my pajamas.

Then I tried to stop thinking about me, me, me for just one moment. I reflected on the other important points of the Columbus Day parade:

That it celebrated the cultural pride and accomplishments of Italian-Americans. Those thoughts helped a little. At least I recalled that there were other people in the world, other than me. But the most important person that day wasn’t any of those people, or me.

The Guest of Honor was Christopher Columbus, and my thoughts turned to him.

We learned in school that he sailed the ocean blue and discovered America, but we have learned since that he didn’t find exactly what he was looking for. And of course, as they say, mistakes were made. As a result, there are people, in other cities, who picket the Columbus Day parade.

If they had picketed mine, this Grand Marshal would have given them a swift kick. In heels.

Because Columbus wasn’t alone in his mistakes. The colonization of many countries, including this one, produced some of the worst injustices in human history. We all used to think that might made right, and it’s a lesson we haven’t learned completely, even today.

And what is undeniable about Columbus is that he set out into uncharted territory, against all odds, risking his life to follow a dream, believing profoundly in himself, and God. Columbus’s diary of his journeys, and he kept excellent notes, reveals that his crews were profoundly religious men, praying often. They were praying that Columbus was right.

They didn’t want to fall off the edge of the world.

I thought about Columbus then, and about our own uncharted territory, both the good and bad. A new baby; a new diagnosis. Love is uncharted territory. So is life. We truly do not know what will happen to us tomorrow. All of it is un-mapped to us, yet we sail on.

We will make mistakes.

We will be capable of great cruelty and great kindness.

We will meet those who love us and those who don’t. They might even picket our parade. Some call them haters. I call them book critics.

We might not find exactly what we were looking for.

And the odds are that we will find things that others have already found. Just this morning I discovered again how wonderful it feels to have the sun on my face. It’s not a new discovery, or one as big as a continent, but it’s still a thrill. And I get credit for making it. So do you.