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Roseanna Plow is perfectly content with her nice, simple life on Long Island, despite the fact that she's being driven slowly insane by her meddling mother, who resembles Donna Reed on drugs. Rosie is very happy with her handsome husband and a fulfilling career as job counselor for the developmentally challenged. It might not be glamorous work, but Rosie is proud of the fact that she cares more about people than Prada. What more could a woman want in life? Except maybe being able to wear a sexy thong that doesn't make her behind look like a rump roast in butcher string...
But when Rosie's incredible husband turns out to be an incredible putz--sleeping with her best friend Inga--her life goes from Seventh Heaven to Jerry Springer in the blink of an eye and the tip of a wine glass. Alone and deceived, but with her sense of humor still intact, Rosie turns to her wonderfully wacky mother to help her bounce back. Of course, Ma's recipe for mental recovery leaves much to be desired. And after Rosie discovers a painful family secret, hidden behind years of lies, she must set out to find herself and what really matters in life.
Along the way, Rosie is surprised to find help from Mickey Hamilton, a.k.a. Ham, who is kind, generous, and has a great butt to match. If only Rosie can overlook the fact that he's nicknamed after the meat section at the local supermarket he manages. Milton, one of Rosie's endearing mentally challenged clients--and Ham's employee--also becomes a source of comfort along the way, always ready to defend "Miss Plow's" honor and warm her heart, even as it's breaking. And can a twenty-five-year-old punk office assistant with hair like candy corn really become Rosie's new best friend? As she moves along the twisted road to self-discovery, Rosie finds happiness, acceptance, and even love - though none of it in the places she'd expected.
With laugh-out-loud scenes seamlessly interspersed among gut-wrenching moments of heartache, Starting Out Sideways is a unique and utterly delightful novel that will make you laugh, cry, and remember what's truly important in life.
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MARY E. MITCHELL is a writer of fiction, non-fiction and an essayist. She has published her work in The New York Times, The Boston Globe, The Boston Herald, First for Women, and Family Circle. She is a recipient of the New England PEN Discovery award. She lives with her husband in West Newton, Massachusetts.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Starting Out Sideways
1who's a putz?my name is Roseanna Plow, and I came down the birth canal sideways. All my life, this is the way my mother has introduced me to strangers. She's never described my birth with malice, only with wonder. It is the wonder of my mother's life that when I left her womb, some thirty-two years ago, I made the decision to enter this world broadside, oblivious of the discomfort this might cause her, my benevolent baker, my main sponsor. My mother would hug me hard to her curvy side as she explained my arrival once more for new ears."She came down the canal sideways," she'd tell the surprised listener, and I'd feel the pokey bone of her hip against my cheek and imagine myself arriving on Long Island on some sort of gondola, no one at the helm, the boat floating sideways, smashing into everything else in the narrow channel. Always there was a beat of silence when my mother finished describing the event, as if she were waiting for the school nurse, the newneighbor, my first grade teacher to offer some reason why I might have chosen to do this.Sideways down the canal. It is an apt metaphor for the many collisions I've had in my life--the constant clashing of horns with my mother, my now-deteriorating marriage to my husband, Teddy, which my mother had anticipated ("Marry someone respectable," she had said, when she showed me the navy blue pantsuit she planned to wear at my wedding, "and I'll consider wearing a dress to the church."), the way I'd upset my father during college by shortening my name from Pulkowski to Plow. Last week, my husband sat me down at our kitchen table and told me in a calm voice that he was in love with another woman. Not just any woman, he explained, but my best friend, Inga. Then, as if in compliance with my mother's prediction of his worthlessness, he packed a bag and walked out.My mother is coming across town for dinner tonight, my first guest since Teddy's departure. She is coming alone, leaving my father at home with his pot roast and his beer. She is planning, I suppose, one of those woman-to-woman talks I've gotten used to now. On the stove in my small apartment's kitchen, I'm simmering a nice spaghetti sauce. It's my mother-in-law's recipe, of which my mother will undoubtedly disapprove.Just the same, I'm glad for her company. It's been eight days and three hours since Teddy packed the small Champion gym bag--tenderly tucking his iPod in last--and left our apartment. In that time I've imagined him in the arms of my best friend, Inga. I've imagined them in her bed, in her bedroom, which I've seen a thousand times. The patchwork quilt made by her grandmother. The white wicker shade on the bedside lamp. Theprim smell of lavender emanating from her drawers and closet. There is a little wooden plaque, which hangs between her closet doors. I gave it to Inga on her thirtieth birthday. THE FIN FRIEND MEANS FOREVER, it says. Now at night, when my wine bottle is almost empty, when the last chocolate chip cookie is eaten, when I've cried as much as my body allows, the plaque seems funny to me. Inga, my F'in-friend."I never liked that lantern jaw," my mother grumbled on the phone, when she'd gotten the gist of how it was that Teddy had left me. I could feel her fidgeting on the other end, one hand buried deep in the pocket of her pleated brown slacks, the other squeezing the receiver. "That broad needs a good shot in the head," she said. So rough my mother can be, like a moll in the Rat Pack. I wondered what my father was thinking as she said this.After I'd shaved all those letters off my last name, my father stopped talking to me for a while. My mother never had the same problem."Plow," she sniffed the day I first breathed my new name into the dormitory phone. "Why not Steamroller instead of Plow, for the way you've run over your father's heart?""Ma," I pleaded, but a cold silence whistled back at me through the wire. I could read her thoughts. Sideways, she was thinking. Everything half-assed and sideways.She has a mouth like a sailor, my mother. She's tough, despite her slender body and pixieish face. She's Donna Reed on drugs, Shirley Partridge with an attitude. She was forty-two when I was born. She's seventy-four now and she still smokes. While my friends were having their nice seventies and eighties childhoods, I grew up in a fifties nightmare, with tuna casserolesand Jell-O molds where suspended things floated, with a mother who believed that Kraft Miracle Whip could be used in anything. Back in the fifties, according to my Aunt Sophie, my mother used to open doors for men. Heavy glass bank doors, reception hall doors, the doors to the train station. She would swing them open violently with one thin arm, staring down boxy men in their thick-lapelled suits and ordering them through with a little half smile. "Go 'head through," she'd tell the men, and they went. They felt her eyes on their backs as they walked ahead of her. We all do.My mother stopped sending me care packages after I changed my name to Plow. No more home-baked cookies and Tetley tea bags. No more crackers with orange cheese that squirted like shaving cream from a can. She was outraged when the college sent home word of Roseanna Plow's making dean's list. My 3.8 grade point average meant nothing to her. She saw only the missing vowels and consonants. The next time I went home, I found my dean's list certificate tacked up over my father's workbench. Someone had put little carets between the letters of my truncated name, adding the u and the k and the ski.I knew it was my mother. I was eighteen at the time and a little chubby and I stood in the garage and saw how I hadn't worked out for her, how she'd wanted me to be everything she wasn't--better educated and yet submissive. It was a puzzling paradox, considering how I'd been raised by this strong, proud woman, a woman men didn't fuck with, even back in the fifties.My mother calls my father Pulkowski, as in: "Pulkowski, crack me open a beer," and "Come over here and light my cigarette, Pulkowski," and "Pulkowski! Put the kid to bed and watchthe ball game with me." Never an ounce of Cinderella in her, ever. How I wish I'd been a bit more like her this past terrible year of my marriage, where Teddy's back has been a cold marble wall dividing our bed in two.Even when my parents dressed up for a party, my mother smothering us in her cloud of Evening in Paris, wearing her wide, full-skirted bowling dance dress and her string of pearls and her red lipstick, even then, she'd wink at my father in his good suit and say, "Nice threads, Pulkowski. Now help me with this goddamn zipper." How I wish I could have ordered Teddy around with the same confidence! Hold me in your arms, Stracuzza! Kiss me, goddamn you!The way my mother talks to my father dazzles me still and makes me jealous. The way he responds is the main reason I changed my name from Pulkowski to Plow. When I left home and heard my name aloud in other people's mouths, I felt like my father being pushed around by Helen Pulkowski. I'd hear someone say "Pulkowski" and there was my mother, cigarette dangling between her thin red lips, eyes twinkling seductively at her man. No article in Cosmo has ever, remotely, suggested my mother's techniques for seducing a man.At ten to seven, as I'm seasoning my sauce, I listen for the sounds of my mother's arrival. First the click of my unlocked door opening, then the soft flopping of her jacket over the back of the couch. She's arrived early, as she tends to do when she deems an event formal. She sighs, clears her throat, and finally calls her greeting."Good evening, Madame Butterfly.""I'm in the kitchen," I call from my steamy little corner, butmy mother's footsteps recede instead of moving closer. She's heading for my bedroom. She'll peek through there, open a few closets, maybe go through the medicine chest, searching for confirmation of Teddy's departure.Soon enough she's standing beside me with her thin wrists crossed, a cigarette caught between the fingers of one hand. She's wearing a crisply ironed oxford shirt and blue polyester slacks. She's studying me, looking for signs of damage."Hi, Ma," I say, looking up from the sauce. She nods once, like a store clerk. I feel her heated thoughts. That bastard better not have damaged her little girl. She'll give him such a lump. I swirl my spoon around and around in the sauce, my wrist moving like I'm rowing a boat."What's the matter? You nervous?" she says. "Give me the spoon, before you scrape a hole in the bottom of the pot."She slips her cigarette into one side of her mouth before she pulls the wooden spoon away from me."Move," she says, knocking me lightly with her hip from my spot in front of the stove. Her Salem Light dangles over our dinner."Ma, your ashes ... ," I warn."Yeah, yeah, my ashes." She stares into the sauce. "Let me just tell you something, Miss Ashes. There's no shame in your husband leaving if he was a nudnik to begin with.""Ma!" I say, grabbing the spoon back from her. We can only talk if we're stirring. "You never gave him a chance," I tell the sauce.My mother snorts a little, stretches her open hands in front of her. "Teddy's a putz," she explains calmly. "And now he's left you. Case closed."I squeeze the spoon so tight my knuckles crack. Something about my Yiddish-speaking Catholic mother decreeing my husband a putz reminds me of another time. When I was a kid, she used to load me into the Plymouth station wagon and drag me off to Bascome Brothers Photographic Studio for an annual portrait. Mr. Bascome would seat me on a little mound of beige carpeting and then pull down screens behind me that looked like window shades with pictures on them. One moment, I was posed beneath the boughs of a cherry blossom tree. Then--a tug again--and there was a Christmas tree over my shoulder, a fireplace to my left. One last pull and I was floating in azure blue clouds, as if I'd died and Mr. Bascome was photographing me now up in heaven. I'd feel goose bumps each time his hairy wrist reached above my head and changed my world. This is what my mother did with her short, snitty proclamations, spelling out my life in her singular opinions."Ma," I say, still stirring wildly, sauce spilling over the sides of the pan, sizzling onto the range. "You don't understand anything.""I understand this," she says, grabbing the spoon and pointing it at some imaginary chart that hangs above us. "Even Oprah doesn't bother wasting an hour on 'My husband left me for my best friend' anymore. It's that predictable! It's that uninteresting! It's so"--my mother is pointing the spoon at me now--"beneath you, Rosie! You went to college! You were on the dean's list!" The sauce plops on my white tile floor like perfect drops of blood. "Your problems should be more educated than some putz leaving you for a bottle blonde.""Ma! Put the spoon down!" I shriek, wrestling the spoonfrom her, using hold techniques I've learned in my work for keeping the autistic safe. I take a deep breath, try to restore calm in the room. "Everything isn't about TV!" I cry. "I'm sorry my problems aren't trendier, but did it ever occur to you that this separation might just be temporary?""Please!" my mother snorts, and a cloud of smoke, or maybe steam, exits her mouth."Ma!" I yell, waving the dripping sauce spoon like a baton. "The point is you don't know enough! You can't call Teddy a putz if you don't know enough! He's my husband. It's my marriage. I decide who the putzes are. I decide."I drop the spoon, reach above the stove into the cupboard, and start pulling out dishes. My mother is uncharacteristically silent beside me. I'm pulling out the salad bowl when I feel her fingers gently pinching the exposed flesh at my waist. "Hmm," she muses, "most women lose weight when their husbands leave.""Ma!" I whirl around, slamming the bowl down too hard on the countertop."Hey," she says. "Hey, hey, hey." She pats me gently on my cheek. "It's only a few pounds." She runs her fingers through a thick tangle of my long hair."You're a beautiful girl, my Rosie," she croons. "Look at you, with your father's gorgeous chestnut hair." She flicks her cigarette into the sink. I take a step back from her, give her my chilliest look."I can't believe you are evaluating my life on an Oprah scale.""It's not on the Jerry Springer scale, that's for sure, since you've never hauled off and walloped the putz. Which I have wanted to do about a hundred times ...""Enough!" I announce, running cold water over her cigarette butt. "We're eating dinner now."Something about my proclamation silences her. "May I set the salad bowls?" my mother asks sweetly.We eat my mother-in-law's spaghetti sauce in silence. After dinner, when my mother finally leaves for her 10.29-mile drive back to Commack, down the Veterans Highway, then a little ways west on Jericho Turnpike, I sit at the table and stare at the salt shaker. My mother is right, of course. Teddy is a putz. But he is the putz I married, four and half years ago. And marriage is a sacred thing. Even my mother believes this. I head for the refrigerator and uncork a half-full bottle of Pinot Noir. Is it really so wrong to try to work things out with my own husband? I pour myself a nightcap, then pull out the Chips Ahoy! from the cupboard. Helen Pulkowski, of all people, should appreciate the sanctity of marriage.I'm scrubbing sauce off the range when I discover the wine bottle is empty. I double bolt the door and settle myself on the couch. I plump up the cushions before moving into the corner, shoes off, feet tucked beneath me like a sunbathing cat. I hum a little--the way I do when I'm sort of loaded. I lift the phone receiver: white, lightweight, shaped like a bar of soap. I inhale deeply, exhale, and punch in the number. Eleven merry tones. The phone rings once, twice, and when I hear someone picking up, I almost slam down the receiver. But then I don't. Why should I? Who would wish to hurt me? My best friend? My husband? Of course not. A second later, a female voice is speaking."Hello?"It's Inga. I recognize her slightly whiny voice, the Olive Oyltones that used to make Teddy and me laugh. Oh! Popeye! we'd whisper, behind Inga's back, then zip our lips again when she turned around. I hear myself giggling."Hi. This is Roseanna," I say, trying to control myself.There is not a sound from the other end."Roseanna Plow," I say.Now Inga gives a little sigh."Formerly Pulkowski," I go on. "Now Mrs. Stracuzza," I hiss. "Are there any other Stracuzzas around I might actually speak to?" I laugh merrily, like all of this is just good fun. I do this for Inga, my last little gift to her."Roseanna," she says, "it's ten o'clock.""Thank you," I tell her, "for that update.""Roseanna," she says, "it's late."I squeeze the phone as if to throttle it."Get him."The phone clunks down like it's been thrown. I rub my arm as though I've been bruised. Someone's put a hand over the receiver, so that they can talk about me without my listening. This is what they did the last time I called. This is how they treat me. So why have I called again? What is the pretense, I mean. I know...
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Book Description Thomas Dunne Books. Hardcover. Condition: New. 0312368216 Ships promptly from Texas. Seller Inventory # Z0312368216ZN
Book Description Thomas Dunne Books, 2007. Hardcover. Condition: New. Seller Inventory # DADAX0312368216
Book Description Thomas Dunne Books, 2007. Condition: New. book. Seller Inventory # M0312368216
Book Description Thomas Dunne Books, 2007. Hardcover. Condition: New. Never used!. Seller Inventory # P110312368216