Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead

by Saralee Rosenberg

  Still, the idea of participating in a talent search did seem as exciting now as when she’d read the article in the paper. The writer and artist who teamed up to develop the most original new greeting card line would split a hundred grand and receive a one-year contract.

  She may have been too pitchy to perform on American Idol, she thought when she downloaded the entry form, but compete with other writers to create a hilarious line of cards? Hello, destiny! And if she God forbid won? She would use the prize money to pay off the loan from Stacie’s bat mitzvah. Maybe even shop at Bloomingdales instead of use it as a shortcut to Sbarro pizza.

  Plus, this could be her chance for career advancement, not that she was suggesting that anything could top working reception three days a week at her father-in-law’s ophthalmology practice. “Mrs. Katz, you shouldn’t drive yet. You just had your eyes dilated. No, a cab home is not included in the fee.”

  Mindy was especially encouraged after Nadine read her entry. “I’m dying, this is so funny! They’d never know you just were flying through the house on your PMS broom.”

  But while waiting to hear back from the judges, Mindy vacillated between euphoria and dread. In one fantasy, they were so enthralled they said, “To hell with the contest. We have a permanent position for you.” Other times she could hear a Simon Cowell type skewering her. “You call this funny? I got more laughs reading the instructions for my Chia Pet.”

  Now as she dug through her end table drawer for the envelope, she felt the tension mounting. She so wanted to participate in this competition, if for no other reason than it gave her a good out to abandon the much ballyhooed project she’d begun on her fortieth birthday, a memoir entitled, Where Have I Been All My Life?

  Sadly, in the year that passed, she, a former flower child, still had no clue what her purpose in life was, or how several decades had come and gone with her biggest achievement being that she had a brownie recipe everyone wanted.

  Trouble was, whenever she fretted about her lack of inspiration, Artie would tell her to stick to what she knew—stain removal and getting through to Ticketmaster. Also, that she needed to have a better attitude. But this was so unfair. Most days of the month she was a very positive person. In fact, not only was she cautiously optimistic about this contest, she even had faith. Maybe if she held the envelope to the light, she could make out the word congratulations.

  “Great. You’re up.” Artie peeked out from behind the bathroom door. “Gotta talk to you.”

  She jumped, stashing the letter under the comforter.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I guess…did you recently buy a kayak?”

  “Me? The guy who’s going to need a Dramamine drip on the cruise? Yeah, absolutely. I went over to Yacht World with Thurston Howell III and we picked out a nice one.”

  “Never mind. I must have dreamt it.”

  “I thought you spent every night with Dr. McDreamy.”

  “Used to. Now I think he’s co-sleeping with your Dr. House.”

  “No! Not Dr. House!”

  “Why are you guys talking so loud?” Stacie grumbled.

  “You want it quiet?” Artie snapped. “Sleep in your own goddamn room for a change.”

  “Shhh,” Mindy scolded. “They don’t have to be up yet.” She scrambled to the bathroom.

  He stared at the envelope in her hand. “Is that an eviction notice?”

  “And you call me negative?” She closed the door. “No, it’s the letter from Downtown Greetings. It came yesterday but I was too chicken to open it.”

  “You’re kidding. You’ve been waiting weeks to hear from them. Although I still think it’s stupid that they didn’t just e-mail everyone.”

  “True. Why would a greeting card company have any use for the post office?”

  “Good point.” The five-nine teddy bear in brown curls laughed. “So let’s open it.”

  “I’m afraid. It’s like when I had to open all those letters from the college admissions offices. Big envelope, you’re in. Little envelope, you’re calling Antoine’s School of Beauty. I just don’t want to be disappointed by one more thing.”

  “Why do you always have to assume the worst? Why can’t you ever think, hey, today could be the day everything goes my way?”

  “That’s exactly how I think. It just never happens.”

  “Fine. Then don’t open it ’til Christmas.”

  “But what if they loved me? You think I’m hilarious! And besides, whenever I work on my memoir, I never get past the second page, and what are greeting cards? Two pages!”

  The sound of a loud, hacking cough coming from their bedroom stopped them cold. “Little Ricky!” They eyed each other and ran.

  “Mommmm!” Jamie screamed. “The little dweeb just coughed all over me.”

  “Did not.” He coughed again.

  “He’s gonna puke,” premed Stacie presented her case.

  “No he’s not!” Artie stared her down. “Come here, buddy.” He carried his son to the bathroom in case Stacie got lucky with her diagnosis. “You okay?”

  He said yes, but Mindy felt his forehead. He was warm and the coughs were coming closer and closer together like contractions.

  Please God. Not when they were T-minus four days until lift-off…the start of their first vacation in years: a Caribbean cruise, courtesy of her in-laws, who wanted the family together to celebrate their fortieth anniversary. Even Mindy’s widowed mom, Helene, had been invited.

  Granted, the week would be a mixed bag. Mindy would have to celebrate her birthday with her in-laws, eye doc Stan and Rhoda, a woman with more opinions than a retired judge; Artie’s brother, Ira, Mr. Hedge Fund, his wife, Dana, Queen of Tofu, their two children, Brandon and Abigail, aka Satanic Cretans. And adding to the merriment? A relative newcomer, literally.

  Artie’s seventeen-year-old son from his first marriage, Aaron, with whom he’d only recently been reunited, had unexpectedly said yes to the invitation to join them, forcing a fast, unrehearsed explanation to the kids as to how they had a half-brother in Oregon who had tattoos and a garage band called Pee-Nis.

  “Sounds like an amazing time,” Nadine said over lunch. “I can see the headline now: LONG ISLAND MOM JUMPS SHIP…MOTHER-IN-LAW DENIES INVOLVEMENT.”

  “I’ll be okay.” Mindy laughed. “If I have to, I’ll barricade myself and conduct a scientific study on exhibiting patience in confined quarters.”

  “No. The only study you should do is calculating how long it takes you to punch out Rhoda for all her kvetching. ‘My soup is cold…. I asked for well done…. What do you mean there are no more feather pillows?’”

  Normally, Mindy loved Nadine’s Rhoda impressions but now it only added to her angst, for no matter how much she dreaded being pent up with the whole, annoying Sherman family, she had waited an entire year for this vacation and would cry for the entire next one if she didn’t get the chance to sunbathe, island hop, and drink like Cinderella on her night off.

  At least now she finally had a convincing reason why her kids should be sleeping in their own beds: contagions that screwed up important plans. But what to do? This was her only day off before they left and she had a thousand errands to run.

  “Ricky, honey. Throw up if you have to,” she suggested. “You’ll feel much better.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Don’t like to. Do I have to go to school?”

  “Yes,” she replied to her husband’s of course not.

  Sure. Would Artie have to cancel his color appointment at the swanky Maximus salon and have to spend the whole cruise wearing a Mets cap? My, that would look lovely on formal night! Maybe she could leave Ricky home for an hour and run over there. Too crazy! This was a touch-up, not an emergency appendectomy. What if she picked up Stacie early from school and she babysat? No. She had play practice and Mrs. Morgan was threatening to kick out anyone who missed another rehearsal. And with all Jamie’s mishagas about scary noises coming from the attic, how could she be left in c
harge? Not even her mother could bail her out. She was already in Florida, visiting her twin sister, Toby, whom she’d invited on the cruise, as it would have been her anniversary, too, if only Toby’s husband hadn’t dropped dead two years earlier.

  But Artie was right. Why think the worst? Ricky was just congested. “Don’t worry, sweetie.” Mindy kissed him. “You’ll feel better after you take some medicine.”

  “Okay,” he said, then vomited on the rug.

  Mindy tried reading the clock on the microwave but didn’t have her contacts in yet and her glasses were upstairs. What good was it having family in the optical business if perfect vision wasn’t part of the deal?

  She tore through a junk drawer and found a red frame with rhinestone elephants that screamed, hello, I have no taste. And who cared what time it was anyway? Her son was sick, her day was shot, and if Rhoda got on the plane and felt a sniffle, she would diagnose it as pneumonia and never let Mindy forget that HER child had ruined THEIR special anniversary trip, for which they paid an ungodly sum AND generously invited her mother, Helene, who then had the NERVE to invite her sister.

  As Mindy contemplated this disastrous turn of events, she searched for medicine, then caught a whiff of aftershave. No matter how she pleaded, Artie was so heavy-handed, his scent trumpeted his arrival.

  “Hey, nice glasses.” He opened the fridge. “Maybe I should carry those in the store.”

  “That’s where I got ’em. Which probably explains last month’s sales figures.”

  “Impressive! Shermy gets a three-pointer.” He pretended to shoot hoops. “Anyway, I never got to tell you what I needed to tell you before.”

  “Oh yeah.” Mindy gathered enough cold medication to knock out Ricky’s entire first grade class. “What’s up?”

  “I got Mr. Waspy Banker to have another meeting with me.”

  “How is good ol’ Waspy?” She grabbed the thermometer, too. “Maybe this time you’ll believe me. The guy’s a blue blood. You have to wear a navy suit.”

  “I will if you will.” Artie took a large gulp of juice.

  “No, no. Between the dandruff and his little breath mints, he creeps me out.”

  “Please?” He fell to his knees. “My only experience begging is in bed with you.”

  Mindy laughed, but saw the worry in her husband’s forlorn face. “When is the meeting?”

  Artie bounced up. “Today at nine.”

  “You sound like a commercial for Regis and Kelly,” Mindy sighed. If only her optometrist husband hadn’t been so quick to buy into a new optical chain called Eye-Deals, he might have heard that the franchise fees were exorbitant and customers hated the selection and prices. The only clear vision she had now was of bankruptcy court.

  “We’ll take Ricky with us,” Artie persisted. “By this afternoon he’ll be bouncing off the walls like always.”

  “No, he won’t. He’s got a fever, a cough, and he threw up. What if it’s strep?”

  “See what I mean? You always have to think the worst! It’s not strep. Let’s just send him to school, and if he doesn’t feel good he can go hang out with the nurse.”

  “I hate parents who do that and you know it. What is wrong with you?”

  “I’m a desperate man, that’s what. I’ve been reworking the numbers and I think I can prove we’ll have a decent cash flow for the next fiscal year, but you’re the better talker.”

  “You’ll do fine. Besides, it’s my day to drive.”

  “Let the kids take the bus for God’s sake. Why do you have to carpool every day?”

  “Stop! I’ve explained this a hundred times. It’s just easier, okay?”

  “How is it easier? You have to get up, get dressed, drive to the middle school, then come back and drive to Lakeside.”

  “It’s easier because the buses come so early, and the kids always have so much stuff to schlep with their instruments and sports gear, and then they call me from school anyway to tell me they forgot their lunch or the envelope with the field trip money…. Trust me, it’s a lot less stressful when we drive and make sure everyone has everything they need the first time.”

  “Fine. Whatever. I’m tired of arguing over this. Just call Beth and see if she’ll switch.”

  “I can’t. As soon as she sees it’s me on the caller ID, she won’t answer.”

  “Then go on line and IM her.”

  “Can’t do that either. She blocked me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s Tuesday and I have type-O blood! How the hell should I know?”

  “What if you create a new screen name? Then you can at least see if she’s online?”

  “Oh screw it. This is getting stupider by the second. I’ll just be brave and call her.”

  “’Atta girl.”

  “I mean what’s the worst she can do? Report me to the National Association of Minivan Moms? ‘Mrs. Sherman, one more violation and we’re taking away your five-year jacket.’”

  When Artie laughed, his whole body erupted like a shaken can of Coke. It was one of the things she loved most. That and his capacity to eat anything she made without complaint, as long as it didn’t up and bite him first.

  “Oh. And out of curiosity,” she asked, “what happens if the bank turns us down again?”

  “No big deal,” he hugged her. “We’ll lose the store and probably the house.”

  “Fantastic!” she shrugged. “At least then you could stop feeling bad that we never got to buy a shed.”

  “Oh man,” Artie sighed. “I always wanted a shed. I wonder if they come in three-bedroom, two-bath…”

  Two

  Beth Diamond was the next-door neighbor from hell. Stunning to the point of distraction but with a chip on her shoulder bag. If she wasn’t complaining about your barking dog, she was accusing you of stealing her Saturday night sitter. And pray that this preachy, sancti-mommy didn’t hear you discussing plans for your child’s birthday party.

  “Please don’t feed the children cake and ice cream, then hand them goody bags filled with candy. Saying no makes it so difficult on caring mothers like myself.”

  But where this MILF1 stood her ground was with her tall, toned body. While most of the other moms were waging daily battles against gravity and Pepperidge Farm, Beth would roll out of bed, throw on those low-lying Juicy Couture pants, pull her hair into a ponytail, and still turn heads at Starbucks. So unfair to the girls who slaved away at the gym and resorted to the latest diet craze just to fit back into their jeans after indulging in fast food and vodka shots.

  “I’m on the Master Cleanse Diet, Mindy. It’s so easy.”

  “Oh, I heard. Pine-Sol for breakfast, Windex for lunch, and a small, sensible dinner.”

  “Ha, ha. No. It’s a ten-day fast. You just drink lemon juice, maple syrup, and water.”

  “Great. No need for an autopsy then. The cause of death will be stupidity.”

  When Mindy first met Beth, she assumed the story went like this. Nice Jewish boy meets blond shiksa goddess, waits for his mother to remove her head from the oven, then marries the green-eyed beauty. Only to overhear Beth’s mother call her by her Hebrew name, Batyah.

  Turned out her cover-girl face had nothing to do with swimming in Christie Brinkley’s gene pool. It was an inheritance from her regal-looking German-Jewish parents. Sadly, Mindy’s Polish ancestry hadn’t been quite as charitable, though Beth claimed that was a lousy excuse.

  “No reason you can’t get a decent haircut, drop twenty pounds, and let those nails grow!”

  Sometimes Mindy would retaliate with away messages that friends would “get” were about Beth. But that kind of jousting took a lot of energy and she hated stooping to her level.

  “How could someone so beautiful be such a misery?” Mindy would ask Artie during pillow talk. “Every day I have to listen to her go on and on about whose daughters aren’t as bright and athletic as hers, and whose bar mitzvah was pitiful because the sushi was tough. And get this. When I asked her to s
ponsor me for the Walk for the Homeless, she said no. So I go, ‘But, Beth, these people don’t eat for days at a time.’ So she goes, ‘Really? I admire their willpower.’”

  “No E-ZPass for life,” Artie always said. “Sooner or later she’ll have to pay the toll.”

  But after eight years of observing Beth’s charmed, I’ll-take-one-of-these-and-two-of-those existence, still no signs of ill fortune. No big weight gains or financial losses. No major crises or scandals. Not even an occasional run-in with a bad perm. To the contrary, Beth Diamond lived a sparkling five-carat life.

  Mindy was about to pick up the phone to call her when a shiny balloon floated past. Little Ricky had brought it home from a party, and as with all the other junk in the house, it seemed to move from room to room until Artie threw it out or posted it on eBay.

  She grabbed hold of the ribbon and glimpsed at her reflection. Was she really as unsightly as Beth claimed? She framed her roundabout face with her signature cocoa curls and sighed. In spite of a warm olive complexion and engrossing M&M eyes, she had yet to make peace with her portly, middle-aged train wreck of a body.

  How could she? In this era of jaws-of-life jeans, it was every mother’s dream to shop where her daughter shopped while prancing in front of the other moms who kept pulling their shirts over their asses. Oh to have the little salesgirl fetch you a size two that ran small.

  And what would happen if Mindy did lose those twenty pounds? Would Beth finally show her a little respect? Yes! As little respect as possible! Therefore, no reason to pass up the leftover Munchkins on the counter. Mouth awash in yummy sugar, she pushed “T.B.” (“the Bitch”) on the automatic dial.