by Laura Levine
“Forget it, Pro. You’re not getting any fancy white albacore.”
I scooped her down off the counter and put her back at her bowl.
“You want to be thin, don’t you?”
Not if I have to eat this glop, I don’t.
The vet had warned me it wasn’t going to be easy. I’d just have to hang tough. Sooner or later she’d break down.
I headed for the bedroom to get dressed for my dinner date with Kandi. Prozac followed my every footstep, dodging between my ankles, all the while moaning piteously. I did my best to ignore her as I threw on some jeans, a silk shirt and an Ann Taylor blazer. But it wasn’t easy, because by now, Prozac was howling like a banshee.
“Jaine? What’s going on in there?”
It was my neighbor Lance, shouting from his apartment. Due to our paper-thin walls and his Superman-quality hearing, Lance knows a lot of what goes on in my life. Of course, he could’ve been Helen Keller and still heard Prozac’s ruckus.
“Oh, it’s just Prozac. She’s mad at me because I put her on a diet.”
“Well, keep it down, will you? Some of us are trying to have sex in here.”
“I’m so sorry, Lance. I had no idea you had anyone with you.”
“Who said I had anyone with me?”
Oopsie. A little more information than I needed to know.
“Have fun,” I said weakly.
Then I carried Prozac out to the living room and plopped her on the sofa, where she stared up at me with Starving Orphan eyes.
“Try to understand, Pro. I’m doing this for your own good.”
I bent down to kiss her, but she pulled away.
“I’m going out now to have dinner with Kandi,” I said, grabbing my car keys. “I’ll be back by nine. Eat your haddock.”
Okay, go ahead and leave me. Go eat some fancy dinner while I’m stuck here with that disgusting haddock goop. You, of all people, have got a lot of nerve putting me on a diet! You, who just last night polished off a pint of fudge ripple ice cream. And don’t think I don’t know about that Chunky Monkey cone at Ben & Jerry’s today.
Okay, what she actually said was Meow, but I could tell that’s what she was thinking.
I hurried out the door before she could bring up the slice of mushroom and anchovy pizza I’d eaten for breakfast.
(Okay, two slices.)
“So what do you think? Roses or violets for the bridal bouquet?”
I was sitting across from Kandi at Pacos Tacos, our favorite Mexican restaurant, scarfing down boatloads of chips and guacamole while Kandi barely nibbled at the edge of a pickled carrot.
In the old days, she’d be telling me about some harebrained scheme to meet men. Back then, I hated those schemes. I cringed when I heard them. But now, looking back, I yearned for one of her crazy ideas, for the good old days when we were two single gals in Lalaland.
“Armando thinks I should go with violets, but I’m not sure.”
“Armando? Who’s Armando?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Kandi said, abandoning her carrot slice. “I hired a wedding planner. I’ve been so busy with Beanie, I haven’t had much time to devote to details.”
Kandi, for those of you fortunate enough never to have seen her show, is a writer for Beanie & the Cockroach, a stirring cartoon saga of a short-order cook named Beanie and his pet cockroach, Fred.
“If Armando thinks you should go with violets, why not take his advice? That’s what you’re paying him for.”
“I guess you’re right,” Kandi said, plucking a grain of salt from a chip. “Although lately, I’ve been thinking freesia would be nice.”
Poor Armando. Something told me he’d be earning every penny of his fee.
“Armando is just so incredibly creative; he’s got the most fabulous ideas. He thinks we should get married on the beach at sunset with champagne and gypsy violinists.”
“The beach at sunset, huh?”
I could feel my hair frizzing already. Something Kandi, with her head of enviably straight chestnut hair, would never have to worry about.
“Although I was thinking,” Kandi said, taking a meditative sip of her margarita, “maybe it should be margaritas and a mariachi band.”
And so it went, through dinner—Kandi floating along on a cloud of wedding plans, yammering endlessly about the invitations, the flowers, the musicians, the bridal gown. And, of course, the most important part of the wedding, the fiancé. I heard what an angel Steve was, how sweet, how kind, how caring. I heard how, unlike some men, he didn’t go screaming into the night at the thought of planning a wedding with his bride-to-be. Apparently, he was a good sport about the whole thing. In fact, that’s where he was tonight, with Armando, choosing his tuxedo.
“Really, Jaine, he doesn’t mind a bit when I talk about the wedding.”
I was glad he didn’t mind. It was all I could to do keep from dozing off into my refried beans.
“Oh, by the way,” Kandi said, “I almost forgot the reason why I wanted to see you. I ordered the most fabulous bridesmaid gowns!”
She reached into her purse and took out a picture she’d ripped from a magazine.
“Here,” she said, handing me the picture. “Armando and I decided to go with the traditional look. Isn’t it divine?”
Omigod. I took a desperate gulp of my margarita. It was a bridesmaid’s nightmare. Big puffy sleeves. Tiny pinched-in waist. And a billowing hip-enlarging skirt. All of it in a nauseating baby pink.
Kandi smiled eagerly. “It’s the Cinderella look.”
Just what I always wanted to look like: Cinderella on steroids.
“So? What do you think? Isn’t it terrific?”
Horrific would be more like it, but I managed a sickly smile and nodded yes. But as it happened, Kandi didn’t notice my sickly smile because at that moment, Steve showed up at our table. I could see once more why Kandi had fallen for him. He was, in no uncertain terms, a cutie. Spiky Hugh Grant hair, chocolate-brown eyes, a heartmeltingly sweet smile, and buns to die for.
Kandi’s eyes lit up with love.
“Hi, honey,” she said, as he bent down to kiss her. “What are you doing here?”
“Armando and I finished early, so I thought I’d join you two.”
“That’s great. Isn’t that great, Jaine?”
For the second time in less than two minutes, I pasted a sickly smile on my face. “Yeah, great.”
Steve grabbed a chair, and the next thing I knew, he and Kandi were holding hands over their dessert flans and undoubtedly playing footsie under the table. Once again, I was demoted to fifth wheel.
Kandi gazed at Steve, gooey-eyed.
“Jaine just loves her bridesmaid dress. Don’t you, Jaine?”
“Just love it.”
And then I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances: Finish every last morsel of my flan. (And theirs, too, if you must know.)
I sneaked into my apartment like a cheating lover and raced to the bathroom to brush my teeth before Prozac could smell the chimichangas on my breath. I was hoping to convince her I’d had a low-cal tuna nicoise for dinner.
But Prozac wasn’t having anything to do with me. She stared at me through slitted eyes and wriggled out of my arms when I tried to pick her up. I checked her dinner bowl. She hadn’t touched a bite.
“Prozac, sweetie, you’ve got to eat something.”
I’ll eat when you feed me something that doesn’t look like recycled upchuck.
I had to admit, it did look pretty disgusting.
“Here. I’ll sprinkle some kitty treats on top.”
I grabbed a can of cat treats and tossed a liberal handful on top of the diet food. Anything to get her to give the stuff a try.
Prozac sniffed at the bowl dismissively.
I’d rather have bacon bits was what I think she was trying to say.
Bacon bits are Prozac’s favorite snack, right along with pizza anchovies and Chicken McNuggets.
“You can’t ha
ve bacon bits,” I said. “They’re not good for you. C’mon now. You love your kitty treats.”
Not that night, she didn’t. She eyed them disdainfully, then stalked off to the living room.
Call me when you’ve got something worth eating.
“Okay, be that way,” I shouted after her. “I’m not going to weaken. For your information, there are starving kitties in Asia who’d love to have Healthy Haddock Entrails for dinner!”
Usually Prozac snuggles up next to me when I watch TV in bed at night, belching fish fumes in my face. But that night she stayed alone and aloof on the living room sofa.
I figured eventually she’d wander in, but three hours later, there was still no sign of her. I turned out the light, but sleep wouldn’t come. I tried watching some mind-numbing infomercials, but they failed to make me even remotely drowsy. It looked like I was in for a sleepless night. I missed Prozac’s warm, furry body nuzzled under my neck. I tried cuddling with a pillow, but all I got were feathers up my nose. This would never do.
“Prozac, honey,” I called out. “Come to bed.”
Nothing.
I went out to where she was sleeping, like a displaced husband, on the living room sofa. I scooped her in my arms, but she wasn’t having any of it. In an instant, she was back down on the floor, glaring up at me.
“Prozac, come back to bed. Please. Mommy needs her sleep.”
You should have thought of that when you fed me that Haddock glop.
Then she jumped back up on the sofa and curled into an angry ball.
And so, with a weary sigh, I shuffled off to the kitchen, where I proceeded to fix her a bowl of fancy white albacore. With bacon bits on top.
She could always start her diet tomorrow.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: America’s Most Irritating
Jaine, honey—
Sit down for this one. You won’t believe what your father is up to now.
The absolutely nicest man has moved to Tampa Vistas, Jim Sternmuller, a retired minister from Minnesota. Just the sweetest, kindest man you could ever hope to meet, and a widower, to boot. All the single ladies have been tripping over themselves bringing casseroles to his townhouse.
But for some insane reason, your father is convinced that he’s seen Reverend Sternmuller on America’s Most Wanted! He says he’s the Hugo Boss Strangler, a madman who runs around strangling women with Hugo Boss ties. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? For one thing, Reverend Sternmuller doesn’t even wear ties. Usually he wears tasteful jersey-knit sports shirts, the kind I’d love your father to wear, but Daddy says his raggedy old T-shirts are good enough for him.
And now Daddy is determined to “unmask” Reverend Sternmuller and bring him to justice!
Where your father gets these crazy ideas I’ll never know. There’s no way on earth that Reverend Sternmuller is one of America’s Most Wanted. Although your father is far and away America’s Most Irritating.
Your frazzled,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: The Nose Knows
Hi, Lambchop—
Has Mom told you the big news? We’ve got a mass murderer in Tampa Vistas, some guy passing himself off as a retired minister. But I recognized him the minute I saw him. He’s the Hugo Boss Strangler. Kills all his victims with a designer tie.
Your mom thinks I’m crazy, but I know what I saw, and I saw “Reverend Sternmuller” on America’s Most Wanted. Besides, I’ve got a nose for these things. I can smell a bad guy a mile off.
Your mom thinks that just because he doesn’t wear Hugo Boss ties, he’s not the Hugo Boss Strangler. Well, of course he wouldn’t wear the ties in public. He’s probably got them hidden somewhere in his townhouse.
Trust me, sweet pea. The Nose knows!
Your loving,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: P.S.
P.S. I’ve been so upset with Daddy, I ordered a 360-day supply of Stress-Less vitamin pills from the Shopping Channel, only $36.99 plus shipping and handling. And while I was at it, I picked up the most adorable Calvin Kleinman capri pants set. With little martinis all over it. It’s perfect for L.A. Should I order one for you, too?
Love and kisses,
Mom
To: Shoptillyoudrop
From: Jausten
Thanks, Mom, but I think I’ll pass on the Calvin Kleinman. When it comes to martinis, I prefer mine in a glass.
And try not to worry about Daddy. This Reverend Sternmuller thing is probably just another Whim du Jour. I bet he’s already forgotten all about it.
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
I just called America’s Most Wanted and tipped them off to the Reverend, but who knows how long it will take for them to do anything?
In the meanwhile, he could strike again right here in Tampa Vistas. So I guess it’s up to your old Daddy to stop him!
Wish me luck, honey. “The Nose” won’t rest until he’s brought the Hugo Boss Strangler to justice!
To: Shoptillyoudrop
From: Jausten
Subject: Stress-Less Pills
Dear Mom,
On second thought, better have those Stress-Less pills shipped overnight.
Chapter 3
I drove over to Pam Kenton’s apartment the next night, my mind still reeling from my parents’ e-mails.
Can you believe Daddy, and his insane conviction that his new neighbor was one of “America’s Most Wanted”? I shouldn’t have been surprised. Daddy’s imagination has always been in overdrive. This is a man who insists he once saw Mother Teresa buying thong underwear at Victoria’s Secret.
There’d be trouble ahead, no doubt about it. My father attracts trouble like white cashmere attracts wine stains. I just thanked my lucky stars I was 3,000 miles out of his orbit.
I pulled up in front of the address Pam had given me, a great old Spanish-style apartment building in the heart of Hollywood. Built sometime in the 1920s, it had balconies and balustrades and an authentic Spanish red-tile roof.
Unfortunately, the inside of the building was a lot less impressive than the outside. Whoever owned it clearly was not spending anything on upkeep.
I headed up the chipped tile stairs to Pam’s apartment. The stairwell reeked of cabbage. I sure hoped it wasn’t part of the dinner Pam had promised me in exchange for helping her with her resume.
I rang the bell and Pam answered the door in sweats and Reeboks, clearly a graduate of the Jaine Austen School of Dressing.
“Hi, there,” she beamed. “It’s so sweet of you to help me with my resume like this.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said, still kicking myself for not charging her.
“I told everyone in the PMS Club that I’m bringing you to the meeting tonight. They can’t wait to meet you. Now c’mon in and I’ll give you the grand tour.”
She ushered me into a huge room with a high vaulted ceiling and French doors leading out onto a balcony.
“This is the living room,” she said. “And the bedroom. And the study. And the den. And the library.”
“Oh, it’s a studio apartment.”
“Yep. Come see the bedroom.”
She led me to the corner of the room, and there, behind a Victorian screen, was an old brass bed with what looked like a hand-sewn quilt and a platoon of kitschy souvenir throw pillows. I loved the way she mixed Victoriana with Americana and topped it off with junk shop finds. The whole place was like that, an eclectic mix of furniture, most of which I suspected she’d picked up at second-hand stores.
I admire people who can throw different styles together and have it come out looking good. When they do it, it’s eclectic. When I do it, it’s a mess.
“Your place is fantastic,” I said, taking it all in.
“But wait,” she said. “The tour’s not
over yet. You haven’t seen the Pam Kenton Hall of Fame.”
I followed her across the room.
“Voila!” she said, opening the door to her vintage bathroom, with its badly cracked original tile and fixtures that were installed back when Fatty Arbuckle was in diapers.
“It’s sure got a lot of character,” I said.
“I’d prefer some water pressure, but I guess I’ll have to settle for character.”
“So where’s the hall of fame?”
“Here,” she said, pointing to a wall covered with 8x10 framed glossies. “Here I am, in all my theatrical triumphs.”
I stepped closer to get a better look.
“Here’s me as Stella in A Streetcar Named Desire.”
“Wow, that’s great. Was that on Broadway?”
“No, off Broadway. About 3,000 miles off Broadway, at the West Covina Community Playhouse. Oh, here’s me as Hedda Gabler. And here’s me as Felix Unger in my high school production of The Odd Couple.”
“You played Felix Unger?”
“It was an all-girls school. I look good in a mustache, don’t you think? It’s nice to know, for when menopause sets in. Oh, and here’s my all-time favorite—me as an eggplant in a vegetable soup commercial.”
“Very impressive.”
“Sad to say, but that was the high point of my career. The spot went national, and I made some really nice money from it.
“Oh, well,” she sighed, leading me back to her studio. “Enough of my showbiz years. Time to get back to reality and work on my resume. Can I get you some wine?”
I shook my head.
“I really shouldn’t. Not if I want to keep a clear head.”
“You’re absolutely right. So what do you want? Red or white?”
“Red.”
“Great.”
She scooted over to her “bar,” a wrought-iron bistro table sporting a dusty jug of Costco gin and a couple of bottles of screw-top wine.
“Want to smell the cork?” she asked, tossing me the screw top.
I laughed as she poured us both some wine.
We settled down on her large chintz sofa and got to work on her resume.
“So what sort of work experience have you had?” I asked, taking notes on a steno pad.