The reporters interviewed my mother, and under her picture on the TV screen, the banner read EARTHQUAKE MARY EARTHQUAKE MARY. They asked her how she felt an earthquake that took place so far away. She answered that she "knows about these things."

The MIAMI HERALD MIAMI HERALD published the story, as reported by Martin Merzer and Aldo Nahed. My favorite part reads, "It was a pretty nice weekend in Florida. Except, you know, for the 6.0 magnitude earthquake ... In South Florida, the event pa.s.sed virtually unnoticed, though Mary Scottoline, 82 ..." published the story, as reported by Martin Merzer and Aldo Nahed. My favorite part reads, "It was a pretty nice weekend in Florida. Except, you know, for the 6.0 magnitude earthquake ... In South Florida, the event pa.s.sed virtually unnoticed, though Mary Scottoline, 82 ..."

If you don't believe me, go and find the story online. Google "Mary Scottoline." Or "I-Told-You-I'm-Not-Crazy Scottoline," "n.o.body-Ever-Listens-To Me-Scottoline," or "You-And-Your Brother-Think-You-Know-Everything-with-that-c.o.c.kamamie-Computer Scottoline."

It wasn't the first time that Mother Mary had something in common with a natural disaster. Once I made her fly north to me to avoid a hurricane, and she wasn't happy about it. When she got off the plane, a TV reporter stuck a microphone in her face and asked if she was afraid of the hurricane. She answered: "I'm not afraid of a hurricane. I am am a hurricane." a hurricane."

So you see what we're dealing with. A force of nature. A four-foot-eleven bundle of heart, bile, and moxie.

And superpowers.

I've known for a long time that Mother Mary has superpowers. She used to cast off the evil eye when somebody gave me a "whammy," by chanting a secret spell over a bowl of water and olive oil. She dipped her fingers in the water, made the sign of the cross on my forehead, and whispered mysterious words that sounded like os...o...b..cco os...o...b..cco. This spell was handed down to her by another Italian Mother/Witch on Christmas Eve, which is the only time it can be told. She won't tell me the spell because I'm a lawyer.

But I digress.

Your mother may not smear olive oil on your face, but she has superpowers, too. Spider-Man has nothing on mothers.

We don't think of mothers as having superpowers, but they do. Mothers can tell what we're doing when their backs are turned to us. They know we have a fever without a thermometer. They can be at three places at once, a soccer game, a violin lesson, and the high school play, even if it's Annie. Annie. They can tell we're sad by the way we say, "I'm fine." They can tell we're sad by the way we say, "I'm fine."

And, magically, they can change us into them, without us even knowing how or when. Mother Mary used to make me call her when I got home and let the phone ring three times, as a signal. (This, in a time when long distance calls cost money.) I thought it was silly, but she said, "When you're a mother, you'll understand."

And finally, I do.

Topless

You know how they tell you to wear clean underwear in case you're in an accident? Well, this story is almost like that.

Until Sunday night, my weekend was terrific. I went to New York for an opera marathon; Friday night was Madama b.u.t.terfly Madama b.u.t.terfly, Sat.u.r.day matinee Le Nozze di Figaro, Le Nozze di Figaro, and Sat.u.r.day night, and Sat.u.r.day night, Lucia di Lammermoor. Lucia di Lammermoor. Bottom line, for most of my waking hours, people were singing to me. Bottom line, for most of my waking hours, people were singing to me.

And if that's not great enough, chocolate was involved.

Opera candy isn't as good as movie candy, in that there are no Raisinets, but at least they have vaguely European chocolate bars that taste pretentious. I made do with the dark chocolate for the nighttime shows and switched to milk chocolate for the matinee, but in any event, as you can tell from the opera and the chocolate, I tend to overdo things. Which is why I have four dogs, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

So I came home and on Sunday night was having a wonderful time poring over my Playbills when a fight broke out between my old golden retriever Lucy and Ruby The Corgi. I leaped into action to break it up, stuck my index finger into the canines of some canine, and got bitten. Not to be a diva about it, but this was no little baby puncture wound. When I looked down at my finger, it no longer had a top. it, but this was no little baby puncture wound. When I looked down at my finger, it no longer had a top.

And there was blood. Not as much as Lucia di Lammermoor, but enough to send Madame b.u.t.terfly running for her car keys and flying to the hospital. I hustled into the emergency room with one hand held high, which was when I remembered something: I was braless.

Kind reader, my adventures can get personal from time to time. It's never been quite this personal, but I think it's important to deal with this subject, to be sure you girls out there learn from my mistake.

Here's my lesson: you have to wear your bra all the time, even in the house when you're relaxing by yourself after a busy weekend eating chocolate to music. Because you never know if something untoward is going to happen and you're going to find yourself in a hospital emergency room in no bra.

At the same time that you're middle-aged.

The first clue that I had forgotten my underwear was the running part. Yes, that's it, running into the emergency room with my hand up in the air. The second clue was the look on the face of the hot male nurse when he came into the room to examine my finger. Because, of course, on the night that your dog bites your finger, the nurse will be male and hot. (Lately, I'm thinking that men divide into two groups: Married or Learner's Permit. The nurse was the latter, which is more entertaining, if equally off limits.) Anyway, I could tell from his look that I'd crossed the line.

You know which line I mean. The Point of No Return, Bralessness-wise.

When I was younger, going braless was fun and s.e.xy. I wasn't above resorting to bralessness, as needed. It was one of my female bag of tricks. The other was whining. Men love that. my female bag of tricks. The other was whining. Men love that.

The point is that bralessness used to work. But that was then, and this is now.

Now, I wouldn't be caught in public without a bra. Now, I buy costly bras that not only lift and separate, but also hoist, b.u.t.tress, cantilever, and generally defy gravity and other natural laws. Isaac Newton had nothing on my underwear.

Einstein's Theory is no match for Victoria's Secret.

In my younger days, I scorned padded bras. Now I demand them. Although now they're called "formed," which costs twenty dollars more than padded, but we both know what we're talking about: Extra credit.

A little help.

False advertising.

Except that here I was sitting in front of a hot male nurse, and I was wearing c.r.a.ppy jeans and a sweater that wasn't slouchy enough. Truth to tell, no sweater is slouchy enough for my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, unimproved. The nurse gallantly averted his eyes, or maybe he was just nauseated. To his credit, he tried to stop the blood flowing from my finger and made small talk to distract me from the horror of the situation and also the fact that my finger was b.l.o.o.d.y.

He asked me, "Why do you have four dogs?"

"That's just how I roll. And don't get me started on opera and chocolate." Silence followed, so I asked, "What do you think happened to the top of my finger? I didn't see it on the floor."

"Your dog probably ate it. They're carnivores, you know."

Yuck. I couldn't speak for a moment. That my dog bit my finger is one thing. That my dog ate my finger is quite another. Not only was I grossed out, I wondered how I would be able to write. I type with two index fingers, and only one was open for business. Then I considered the bright side. If I missed my deadline, I wouldn't have to say to my editor, My dog ate my homework. I had a much better excuse: My dog ate write. I type with two index fingers, and only one was open for business. Then I considered the bright side. If I missed my deadline, I wouldn't have to say to my editor, My dog ate my homework. I had a much better excuse: My dog ate me me.

But the nurse was shaking his head. "Looks like you need a skin graft. Tomorrow, you'll have to see a hand surgeon."

"Thanks," I said, but this is what I thought: Now that that calls for an underwire. calls for an underwire.

Getting Religion

I understand that there's a religion that allows polygamy, so that a man can have as many wives as he pleases. To be fair, I'm not sure this is exactly the religion, but it's the religion on the TV show, so it may only be an HBO-sanctioned religion.

But that's not my point.

My point is, where is the religion that allows a woman to have as many husbands as she pleases?

I could get very religious about a religion like that, but there isn't one. It's like The Stepford Wives The Stepford Wives, where the wives are robots who do everything to please their husbands. What I want to know is, where are the Stepford Husbands?

You know why it's set up this way. The book that started the religion was written by a man, and the book that started the Stepford Wives was written by a man.

Well, I write books, too. Can I start a religion?

In my religion, wives could have as many husbands as they wanted. So far, I've had as many ex-husbands as I wanted, but that's not the same thing.

You can see how my new religion would open up a world of possibilities. For example, in my life, neither Thing One nor Thing Two was very handy around the house. So my first new husband would have to be handy. I'll call him Fix-it Hubby. I really like a guy who can fix the doorbell. Or that rubber thing inside the toilet tank that's supposed to flop up and down. Things have gotten so bad around my house that, last week, a friend of mine sent her husband over to fix that rubber thing. husband would have to be handy. I'll call him Fix-it Hubby. I really like a guy who can fix the doorbell. Or that rubber thing inside the toilet tank that's supposed to flop up and down. Things have gotten so bad around my house that, last week, a friend of mine sent her husband over to fix that rubber thing.

That was when I turned to religion to solve my problems.

My second new husband would have to be s.e.xy, and if you need me to tell you what he's for, you're new around here. I'll call him s.e.xy Hubby. Every woman has her own idea about what const.i.tutes s.e.xy, but mine involves chest hair.

My third new husband would do ch.o.r.es, like take out the trash and unload the groceries. Ch.o.r.es are all I'd ever ask of this very lucky man. I hate to do ch.o.r.es, and who doesn't? I'll call him Ch.o.r.e Hubby. And my fourth new husband would have to be a great cook. It would be fun to have a husband who cooks, especially if he looks like Chef Tom Colicchio on Top Chef. Top Chef.

I'll call him Tom Colicchio.

How great is this religion, so far?

I think women would love this religion, and so would men. The advantages for women are obvious, but there are plenty of advantages for men, too. After all, it means that your husbands could avoid the more tiresome of your marital duties. For example, you could be s.e.xy Hubby and leave fixing the toilet to Toilet Hubby.

Or vice versa, if it's playoff season. You only have to fix a toilet once and it stays fixed, if you follow.

My new religion is also good for men, because, frankly, I know a lot of women who are a Handful. Actually, I've figured out that I'm a Handful. So of course, any woman worth having is a Handful. But in my religion, all the hubbies could band together to keep the Handful happy, and that creates certain efficiencies and economies of scale, which is the kind of thing men love. efficiencies and economies of scale, which is the kind of thing men love.

Because it leaves more time for the playoffs.

The other great thing about my new religion is that there would never be divorce. If you got sick of Toilet Hubby, you wouldn't have to divorce him, you could just marry Car Inspection Hubby. It's really annoying to have to get the car inspected all the time, and you can never find your registration card. In fact, you could marry Registration Hubby, too. And Proof-of-Insurance Hubby.

Why not?

Then you wouldn't ever have to leave the bedroom.

If you follow.

Finally, the best thing about my religion would be who got worshipped. In the religion where you have tons of wives, they all worship the husband. And if you have lots of robot wives, they worship the husbands, too.

So you see where this is going.

Wanna join?

Have It My Way

I used to think of myself as low-maintenance. I used to believe I was easy to please. But now I know better.

Starbucks taught me the truth.

My order at Starbucks is a vente iced green-tea latte, breve, no melon syrup, light ice. I love my drink. It's a treat I give myself a few times a week. I give myself all manner of food rewards, because I'm an emotional eater. Can you think of a better reason to eat?

But back to Starbucks. I was standing in line behind a tall sugar-free cinnamon dolce latte with nonfat milk no-whip, who was standing behind a grande iced non-fat no-whip mocha. When it came to my turn, I gave my order and watched my hard-working barista like a disapproving mother, to make sure he didn't add the melon syrup.

One time, my barista made a mistake and added the melon syrup. I took a sip and then threw the entire drink away. I won't drink it with the melon syrup. And I couldn't bring myself to ask the barista to redo it, because I couldn't admit to him or myself that I'd become a woman who refuses to drink something that isn't exactly the way she wants it.

But I have.

I always order salads with the dressing on the side and no croutons. I always use Splenda and not Equal. I like Half-and-Half or light cream in my coffee, but not milk. I like strawberry preserves, but don't come near with me with strawberry jelly.

How did I get like this?

I was standing in Whole Foods the other day, mesmerized by the yogurt. I used to be fine with normal vanilla yogurt, then I switched to strawberry. But here I was, dazzled in the dairy aisle, astounded by white yogurt containers gleaming like pearls on a strand. There was normal yogurt from cows, but there was also goat's milk yogurt, buffalo milk yogurt, nonfat yogurt, low-fat yogurt, and yogurt in a bottle, so you could drink it. There was yogurt with normal bacteria and yogurt with special bacteria.

Uh-oh. I had no idea how to choose bacteria. Generally, bacteria is the kind of thing I like to avoid.

In short, I could have it the way I wanted, but I wasn't sure how I wanted it. Then I started to wonder about when all these choices began, and when we started to customize germs.

Maybe it goes back to Burger King's "Have it Your Way" campaign. Before then, back when we didn't know better, we ate hamburgers with whatever they put on them. The Burger King campaign was a response to McDonald's "Have it Our Way" approach, which meant that every burger came with a pickle, ketchup, and chopped onion bits.

In those days, if you didn't like the pickle, you were forced to take matters into your own hands. You had to handle the situation all by yourself. You had to take the pickle off.

Likewise, if you didn't like ketchup, you had to cope. You either had to eat your hamburger with the ketchup and try to live another day, or you had to find yourself a plastic knife and sc.r.a.pe that ketchup right off.

We were like MacGyver then, full of ingenuity.

But those days are over. We started having it our way and we never stopped. And somewhere along the line, there sprung up 300 million choices for every product, and I became the pickiest person on the planet.

That's it. It must be Burger King's fault. Because it can't be mine.

But here's the hard question: Have all these choices made us happier? Am I really, truly, happier for all of those choices?

Absolutely.

I love it. I love having everything exactly the way I want it. I work hard to earn the money to buy myself my food rewards. I'm like a puppy giving myself Milk Bones-which come in cheese, liver, and regular flavor.

And I even love the dairy aisle, dazzling me with choice. When I clap eyes on all those yogurts, my heart swells with pride. I'm lucky to live in a country armed with powerful marketing weapons, all of which are aimed at little old me. They've succeeded in convincing me that there really is a difference between these products, and that the difference is critical.

And so I choose.

In fact, I'm going to start sampling soon, and in a week or so, I'll have selected my absolute favorite bacteria.

I hope it comes in hazelnut.

Movie Time

Recently, I went to the movies and saw one of the worst movies ever. But I had a great time, for one reason: Movie candy.

I used to think that I loved the movies, but I realized what I love is movie candy.

What's so great about movie candy is that I allow myself to have it at all. I'm in carb rehab, so I'd never eat popcorn at home. Nor would I ever eat candy, normally. But at a movie, I'm allowed to get popcorn and candy, both. In fact, I'm ent.i.tled. A movie theater is Switzerland of the diet world.