The Move (The Creek Water Series Book 2)

by Whitney Dineen

  Chapter 2

  I am allowed to eat twenty-nine points a day. I keep telling myself this as I sit at my desk and wait for lunch. With my handy little points app I discover that my forage to Burger City the other day was worth thirty-two points. Thank goodness I ate that bunion. That’ll be one less temptation for me while I attempt to lose this weight.

  Three days ago after my trip to WWI (Weight Watchers, first attempt, not to be confused with the World War) I stopped by Rite Aid to pick up my shoe insert. I’ve been wearing it since and am having serious equilibrium issues. I can only wear it with loafers or tennis shoes as it’s a foot-shaped silicone wedge and won’t fit into heels. The whole contraption pushes me toward my proper posture but I swear it’s dislocating my center of gravity at the same time. I have never been considered graceful but now I’m downright klutzy, as demonstrated by the five large bruises covering my legs. I seem to tip as easily as a sleeping cow and have not been landing in the softest of places either.

  Eleven fifty-eight, eleven fifty-nine, come on noon. I want to eat. I had a bowl, and by that I mean one cup (which is really only half of a bowl), of raisin bran and half a cup of skim milk for breakfast. At ten, I gobbled up an apple and an ounce of part-skim mozzarella cheese. For lunch I’m having a turkey sandwich on the softest white bread on the planet. It’s low-cal but has enough fiber to jumpstart a dead person’s bowels, ergo giving it the Weight Watcher’s seal of approval. I’m also having a salad with fat-free raspberry vinaigrette. When I packed my lunch this morning, I registered how beautiful the food looked, all orange and green and red. It really was a feast for the eyes even though the portions would leave a Lilliputian begging for more.

  I’m trying to do what Marge told me and that is to appreciate my food on all levels. Enjoy the beauty of it, the smell of it and last but not least, the taste, which I am supposed to do while chewing the ever loving crap out of it before swallowing. This way it will take me longer to eat and I will start to fill up before overdoing it. It’s all a load of hooey if you ask me. I’m so hungry by feeding time that I’ve inhaled my meal before I know it. Yesterday I was crawling around the base of my desk when my co-worker Elaine asked me what I was looking for.

  “My lunch,” I answered, “I think I dropped it.”

  Elaine looked slightly alarmed and declared, “Mimi, you just ate your lunch.”

  “Really?” I asked, more than a little surprised by this knowledge.

  Elaine confirmed it was so, but that didn’t stop me from picking up and eating a stray peanut I found on the floor from my South Beach days. Tick, tick, tick, NOON! Time to strap on the old feed bag.

  I scurry into the break room and fill a glass with cold water. I know I’m blending diet tips here but South Beach recommends a glass of Metamucil before each meal to help fill you up. It works beautifully too, except that with all the fiber I get on Weight Watchers, I find I need to be close to a bathroom at all times. As I munch on my salad, my boss, Jonathan Becker, walks into the break room.

  Jonathan embodies all that is right with the world. He is thirty-eight, smart, funny, remarkably good looking and talented. He is also married to my sister Ginger. How, you wonder, did that happen when I should have had first dibs on him? I haven’t a clue, really. It must have been fate. I mean heaven knows I didn’t introduce them. I am not in the habit of trying to help my perfect sisters show me up even more by introducing them to perfect men. That is not my way.

  Ginger met Jonathan completely independently of me as she was showing a tour group through the Museum of Contemporary Art. She is the director of the museum, but still enjoys educating the masses by pitching in with docent duties every once in a while. At any rate, Jonathan’s parents were in town and he was taking them to the requisite tourist spots when they stumbled into the museum. In front of one particularly abstract painting, Felicity Becker declared, “I suppose the medium here is human feces?”

  Ginger smiled, and explained how the artist was trying to express the sepia tonality of his native Cuba; the tobacco and human waste were representative of a culture that repressed its own and refused to let it rise above menial servitude. I think she may have quoted Descartes and then conjugated several verbs in Latin for effect. Whatever she did, it was like a mating dance to Jonathan because he asked her out that afternoon and thereafter until they became man and wife a short year later.

  When they first started dating, Ginger carried on and on about how smart and funny her boyfriend Jonathan was. Then the day came when she brought him to brunch to meet the family. I had just regained the thirteen pounds I lost on Phase I of South Beach and was not looking forward to meeting the Ken to my sister’s Barbie. I remember pulling on my brown skirt with the elastic waist thinking, “Who am I trying to impress anyway? It’s not like this guy is coming to see me.”

  When I drove up to my parents’ house, I saw that Muffy and Tom were already there as well as Renée and her husband, Laurent, along with their two kids, Finn and Camille. I walked in and made all the appropriate rounds of kisses and hugs. But the truth was my heart just wasn’t in it. Once Ginger introduced her new boyfriend, it would just be me, Mimi Finnegan, spinster.

  Ginger and Jonathan walked in the front door as I was filling the water glasses on the dining room table. I heard them before I saw them. Ginger announced, “Hello everyone, we’re here!” The whole family tore off towards the entry like a stampeding herd of cattle at the sound of her voice. Everyone that is, but me. I wanted to enjoy the last few moments of not being the only sister without a significant other. So I poured water and concentrated on breathing deeply.

  They all came into the dining room moments later and I plastered a smile on my face, prepared to be all that is gracious to Ginger’s new beau. When I first saw Jonathan, I was confused and mistakenly thought maybe my Jonathan from work had somehow shown up to be my date so I wouldn’t be the family pariah. Then he saw me and I knew that wasn’t the case. His face morphed somewhere between total and utter shock and open-mouthed bass. “Miriam, is that you?” Because before Jonathan learned my family nickname, I went by my real name at work. Now they all call me Mimi, too.

  “Jonathan?” I squeaked.

  He strode over and slapped me on the shoulder in a very platonic way and said, “Well, I’ll be. I didn’t know you and Ginger were sisters!”

  I countered, “And I had no idea you two were dating.” It occurred to me Ginger should have known Jonathan and I work for the same PR firm. You would think that when he revealed that he worked at Parliament, Ginger would have remembered that I work there, too. But the truth is, while brilliant, Ginger has never been wired for details. For instance, she knows the square root of one million, six hundred forty-two thousand and eight, but she can barely remember her own birthday. She’s kind of like Rain Man that way.

  The brunch was unbearable and lasted about twelve days. I must have gained three pounds, as the meal became show and tell for the Finnegan family (as I didn’t have that much to show or tell, I ate). Jonathan had never met us as a whole, so we owed it to him to trot out the whole dog and pony show. With circus music running through my head I could see myself as the ringmaster. “If I could have your attention in the center ring, I’d like to introduce you to Renée! Yes, that’s Renée “supermodel turned designer” Finnegan and her high profile fashion photographer husband, Laurent Bouvier. But please, before you leave center ring, notice their perfect and charming offspring, Finn, who was recently featured in the Gap Kids ad, and little Camille, the Ivory Soap baby!”

  I drank so many mimosas that day I was forced to stay over at my parents’ house and sleep it off. In my drunken haze, I swear I heard my mother say, “Now if only Mimi could find someone to love her.” There was laughter and then my dead Grandma Sissy started reciting dirty limericks.

  Chapter 3

  I weigh in right after lunch today. It’s hard to believe that I’ve only been on this diet for seven days as I can’t remember the last time I was
actually full after eating a meal. Well, yes I can. That would have been last week right before I joined up, signed on, and volunteered to go to war for my bunion. It did have a sort of military feel to it. I’m kind of like Private Benjamin without being cute, tiny, and rich.

  I’m discovering that the weekends are going to be a little tougher for me than the Monday through Friday stint. At least during the week, I’m required to actually work, thus limiting my constant obsession over the next morsel I’m allowed to put into my mouth. When I woke up this morning, I forgot I was on Weight Watchers at all and longed for the cheesy omelet and turkey bacon from my South Beach days. Of course that particular meal translated into six hundred and forty-two Weight Watchers points, so I tried to gear up for more raisin bran. Ugh. I pick up my little red tips booklet and search out a more appealing option. After all, it’s the weekend, I don’t have to rush. I can plan, execute, and enjoy more complicated fare today. I decide on french toast with fat free syrup. Here’s a tip for you on Weight Watchers approved french toast. The bread is so thin that you can’t let it soak in the egg for more than an eighth of a second. If you don’t heed this rule, the pathetic slice simply falls apart, disintegrating before your very eyes. There’s just not enough substance to withstand a normal drenching.

  After eight slices of bread and four eggs, I am finally able to salvage three somewhat questionable-looking pieces. I do as the book recommends and heat my one tablespoon of syrup so it spreads farther, consequently making it feel like more (though it isn’t even enough for one piece) and dig in. The problem is I have finished my breakfast in forty-seven seconds. I feel as though I’ve just had my appetizer and now I’m salivating for the main course. I know! I’ll drink another glass of water. That’s always so satisfying.

  Its seven forty-three a.m. and I don’t get to eat again for another two hours and seventeen minutes. What to do … what to do … I could always wash my clothes, but that would involve going through the kitchen to get to the laundry room and I’m afraid I’m not strong enough for that yet. I could run errands, but my car can’t be trusted not to take me to Pete’s House of Pie against my will. So I decide to go through my closet and try on every garment that I own. This way I can have a full before and after appreciation of how everything fits. I start with the clothes I wear all the time, the size twelves.

  Next I pull out the tens. I squeeze myself into the Ralph Lauren jeans, a process involving a coat hanger and lying on the floor (and Crisco if I had any). Once I inhale and fasten the top button, I roll over onto my stomach and attempt to bring myself to a kneeling position. It feels like I’m on the receiving end of a denim enema. By the time I’m in the praying position and leaning against my bed, I’m panting like I’ve just run a six minute mile. I’m sure if I don’t remove the offending garment soon, I’ll be on my way to a nasty yeast infection. Pushing up into a standing pose, I goose step over to the full length mirror and check out the final result. Do the words camel-toe mean anything to you?

  The last item I try on is my all-time favorite black cocktail dress. Working in PR as I do, I’m often required to attend launch parties for books and products we’ve signed on to promote. So I need to have several dressy options in my closet. I bought this one at Marshalls of all places and while I know the dresses there are crap, this one was the pearl in the oyster. It’s a Mui Mui, size eight (my dad calls this designer Mahi-Mahi) and it has tiny spaghetti straps to hold up the plunging neckline and flirty little skirt. The bargain basement price tag of one hundred and ninety-nine dollars is still hanging on it as I bought it too small and have yet to fit into it. I needed to lose ten pounds at the time of purchase. Now I need to lose twenty-three.

  I can’t wait for the day when I’m finally able to show this little number off at a launch party. For the last seven months I’ve felt like one of the ugly stepsisters lusting after Cinderella’s glass slipper. I slide the dress over my head and the nice flowy little skirt is skin tight on me. But I’m not deterred. Inch-by-inch I scooch it down my body until it hits mid-thigh where it finally gives up the ghost. Then I zip the bodice up as far as I can (about an inch), then squinch my eyes so the whole effect won’t throw me right into cardiac arrest. Very slowly, I open them, taking in my full reflection bit-by-bit. As I stare at myself, I wonder what I was thinking when I bought this thing. It looks like a sausage casing. One guess who the sausage is.

  I have one hour and twelve minutes until my snack. I briefly consider taking a nap to fritter away some time when the phone rings. It’s my mom, Maureen O’Callaghan-Finnegan, not a non-Irish bone in her body. While my parents are both one hundred percent Irish, they are also one hundred percent American. It can be a very odd combination at times. While Mo, as her friends call her, has never declared, “Faith and begorrah my wee bairn, tell Father McMurphy all yur many sins.” She has demanded that we eat every last bit of our potatoes in honor of the thousands upon thousands that died during the black rot, otherwise known as the Irish Potato Famine. She is also fully convinced fairies live in the backyard and are responsible for killing her begonias. She’s taken to leaving them homemade soda bread in hopes of gaining their favor. I don’t know about the fairies, but the squirrels love her.

  My mom greets, “Happy Saturday, Meems.” The only name I hate worse than my nickname is my nickname’s nickname.

  “Hiya, Ma, what’s up?”

  “Just checking to make sure that you didn’t forget that tomorrow is Camille’s second birthday. We’re all meeting at Renée and Laurent’s at one.”

  Shit, I had forgotten! The very last thing I needed was to be at a gathering with my perfect family and not be able to self-medicate by eating my way into a coma. So I bluff, “Of course I didn’t forget. I’m picking up her present this afternoon.”

  Mom reminds me, “She’s registered at Pottery Barn Kids.”

  Is it just me or has this registering thing gotten totally out of hand? It used to be something only brides and expectant mothers did as they could logically suppose that a shower in their honor would involve gift giving. But now, everyone does it, for every occasion imaginable, high school graduations, house warmings, bar mitzvahs, first communions, two-year-old birthday parties. Hello, my name is Wanda and I’m an alcoholic and I’m registered at Macy’s. When did our society get so greedy we just assumed people should be buying us nonstop booty? Well, that’s that, then. I have to leave the house. I throw an apple and cheese stick in my purse and gulp down a half glass of Fibercon and I’m off.

  Camille is the most gorgeous, adorable, lovely, child in the world. Every time I look at her, I feel an egg drop. She is the poster baby for the kids I want some day, as well as being the Gymboree poster child. When I retrieve her list at Pottery Barn Kids, I discover she has impeccable taste for someone whose age, until tomorrow, is still measured in months. I can see the work of her mother here.

  Renée has decided it’s time Camille’s room retires as the nursery and become a full-fledged little girl’s room. This must be why she’s registered for a complete bedroom set including duvet, drapes and lamps. I’m just guessing here, but I can’t see Camille performing a clog dance in appreciation of these items, which is why I make the decision to boycott the registry altogether. I pick out the sweetest little white wicker rocking chair and a pretty in pink baby doll. Renée won’t be thrilled but it’s not her birthday, is it?

  In the Pottery Barn Kids parking lot, I inhale my apple and cheese stick, realizing it’s almost time for lunch. While I’m out, I decide to drive by Weight Watchers and get my weigh-in over with. Checking my purse to make sure I have my loss/gain chart with me, I take off. Before you can sing “Danny Boy,” I’m there, but not at Weight Watchers. Burger City, again. “What am I doing here?” I chastise my car and it replies with a rev of the engine.

  “Absolutely not,” I tell it. “I’m about to weigh in!” But before I can back out of the line, a minivan pulls up behind me, trapping me in the fast food queue at lunch time. Oh God,
the smells are going to undo me. I now feel obligated to order something because I’m in line, but what? What on this whole menu is Weight Watchers approved? I start to drool, the smell of cheeseburgers is wafting through the breeze. My stomach growls like a rabid dog. “Feed me … feed me … feed me …” I’ve got to get control of myself.

  That’s when I hear another voice call out, “Don’t do it!” It’s my bunion to the rescue! It reminds me I’m off Burger City because they serve bunions, delicious smelling, and mouth-watering, but bunions all the same. So when it’s my turn, I order a large Diet Coke and keep it for after the weigh in.

  Marge declares, “You’ve lost 3.7 pounds. Good for you!” And while I’m not one who fancies my weight being broadcast in anyway, ever, I find I’m okay with this. This is a loss, baby! Slurping down my large Diet Coke, I force my car to take me home so I can prepare a healthy lunch. A lunch that feels vastly more satisfying knowing it is going to help the scale go down even more. I’m so euphoric to be on a downward trend I put on my Priscilla, Queen of the Desert soundtrack and fast forward to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive.”

  Standing on my couch, singing into the remote for my DVD player, I belt out, “Walk, walk out the door. Just turn around now, you’re not welcome anymore.” I’m not singing to an ex-lover that’s done me wrong, either. I’m serenading my fat clothes and I can actually see them dancing down the steps before they leave the house, never to return.

  I’m convinced only good things can happen from here on out …

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