Read Online My Three Husbands by Swan Adamson - Free Book Online Page A

she was forever trying out. None of them ever did any good that I could see. They perked her up for awhile, like a new boyfriend, and then she’d get tired of them and her spirits would droop and the whole cycle would begin again.
    â€œIt was my initiation,” she said. “The first time has to be the hardest. You have to choose the group you fear most.”
    â€œLet me get this straight. You choose the group you fear most and then make yourself into a fool in front of them? And that’s supposed to help you?”
    â€œIt helps you to externalize your fear,” she said.
    â€œYou looked like a fucking idiot!” I shouted. “And you made me, your daughter, look like an idiot. And the dads, what do you think they felt like?”
    â€œWhitman thanked me,” she shot back. “He said I was brilliant.”
    â€œHe was being nice.”
    â€œWell, it all worked out in the end, didn’t it? I’m the one who got those Jesus freaks to back off so the dads could get inside.”
    I stomped outside so I could light up. “So what do you do,” I sneered, “go to a clown college or something?”
    â€œNot yet. First you do a course on video.” She waved a cassette at me from the other side of the door. It was the first in a series of ten videos that she was supposed to buy, along with “approved” clown merchandise, as she moved up the ladder toward clown mastery.
    â€œIt’s a pyramid scheme!” I shrieked. I knew because I’d been suckered into quite a few of them myself, before bankruptcy. “Oh Mom, how could you be so stupid?”
    â€œI know that’s what it looks like,” she said, “but it’s not. Really, honey. This is something I’ve felt all my life. It’s about releasing the little girl within. It’s about turning grief into joy.”
    I didn’t want to hear about her grief so I kept my yap shut.
    â€œI don’t like to talk about it,” she said in a confiding tone, “because I don’t want you to worry, but my nutritionist says I am seriously depressed.”
    â€œThat’s because you’re horny, Mom.”
    â€œNo it’s not, honey. I talked to Corinna my psychic about it. It’s all because of past-life experiences. Evidently I was a child laborer in Victorian England. I never got to play and have fun.”
    â€œThat may be, Mom, but you’re also a forty-five-year-old woman living today. You need to go out and have some fun. Now, before your hormones go on permanent disability.”
    â€œAnd who, pray tell, am I supposed to go out with?” she asked.
    â€œMen. Guys.”
    â€œAnd where, pray tell, am I supposed to meet these guys?”
    â€œI don’t know. Be creative.”
    She sighed. “Sweetheart, I’m not young and bee-you-ti-ful like you. As Dorothy Parker said, ‘Men don’t make passes at women with fat asses.’ ”
    â€œThen maybe you should try a woman again.”
    â€œMaybe I should.” She gave her clown horn a couple of forlorn honks.
    â€œJust promise me— promise me—that you won’t turn up at my wedding in that clown suit. Promise. Because if you do, I won’t let you in. I mean it.”
    â€œBut I thought you wanted to have the ceremony here.” She sounded nervous, as if she was afraid I was going to rob her of an opportunity to serve me.
    â€œWhitman said I could have it at their house.”
    Her voice rose a notch. “He never told me that. Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been planning all the pretty decorations.”
    â€œWe don’t want any decorations,” I informed her.
    â€œNo decorations?” She couldn’t believe her ears.
    You have to understand: My mom uses any excuse to decorate. She loves balloons, party favors, cute little hats, funny cards, and most of all, presents. She just can’t resist giving things to me, although sometimes she does