My Nest Isn't Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space: The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman by Lisa Scottoline, Francesca Serritella

covered the grass with hay, and a little over half the crowd showed up. I was able to greet every one of my guests, and give out more than a few hugs.
    Yay!
    We all had a great time, not just despite the storm, but because of it, and the hardy few that made it to the party proved they were the type of women that I admire and write about—strong, resilient, and fun.
    Like Eleanor Roosevelt said, “A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.”
    Well, these women were tea bags, to the max.
    And what happened to me?
    I’m praying for George Clooney.

Big Pimpin’ on Thanksgivin’
    This Thanksgiving, I’m pimping out my family.
    My first book of adventures was published two days before Thanksgiving. I did a short tour for the book and thought it would be a great idea to get Mother Mary to come along to a few signings, because she gets more fan mail than I do.
    By the way, the order of email love goes: Mother Mary, Daughter Francesca, Little Tony, and me.
    I’m good with that.
    In fact, I agree.
    Mother Mary said she’d shill for me in return for her free Thanksgiving dinner. She also agreed to stay at my house through December, though I won’t make her sell books on Christmas. She’s eighty-six, and you can lash your mother only so much.
    On Christmas, I’ll give her the day off.
    So she can cook.
    Santa might not approve, though if he reads me, he knows that I’m the Nice one and she’s straight-up Naughty.
    But arrangements need to be made to fly her up from Miami, namely a single reservation, which for some reason necessitates five phone calls, with much discussion about the best day to travel. I want her to come up on November 20th.
    “Why so early?” she asks. “I’m busy.”
    “Doing what?”
    “None of your business”
    I beg to differ. Actually it is my business. It is exactly my business. “Okay, when can you come up?”
    “Earliest is the 22nd.”
    “How about the 20th?”
    “The 22nd.”
    “How about the 21st? We can relax a little before the book tour.”
    “The 22nd is fine.”
    I give up. My mother could negotiate peace in Iraq, Afghanistan, and the Middle East, all at once. She’d make them surrender. She’d take their guns and stop making their women wear burkas. Which reminds me that Mother Mary has been known to don a lab coat, impersonating Dr. Bunsen Honeydew, so I ask, “Ma, what are you going to wear to the signings?”
    “Why do you want to know?”
    “What about your lab coat? You’re leaving that at home, right?”
    “Of course. I don’t wear that in public.”
    “Okay.” Just checking. Then I reconsider. “On second thought, maybe you should bring the lab coat. You could wear it to the signings. That would be cute. If they read me, they know you’re an amateur doctor.”
    Silence.
    I remain undaunted. My imagination takes over. The notion of dressing my mother up for a signing strikes me as marketing genius, so I try to convince her: “Ma, we could get you a toy stethoscope. A fake prescription pad. You could prescribe meatballs. You could be your own health insurance company, called Independence Blue Cross-To-Bear.”
    Suddenly I realize that she’s not quiet, but the call got dropped. For a minute, I wonder if she hung up on purpose, but that’s not her style. Now the fun begins, because if I’m on the phone with anyone other than my mother and a call gets dropped, somebody calls somebody else back, no big deal.
    But not Mother Mary.
    Usually, it takes her ten minutes to realize that the call was dropped, during which I try to call her back five times, each time getting her voicemail. Then, an hour later, when we finally reconnect, our discussion will always go like this, as it does this time:
    “So, Ma, I was saying that—”
    “What happened?” she asks.
    “The call got dropped.”
    “I didn’t hear you anymore.”
    “I know. It disconnected.”
    “Did you hang up?”
    “No, it’s just dropped. Calls gets