by Laura Levine
It was the Diet Nazi, of course. Olga stood glowering in the open door, arms clamped across her chest.
“Give it to me,” she said, holding out her hand for my goodies.
I peeked into my shopping bag and saw my glorious ham and Swiss beckoning to me, the ice cream and fudge sauce calling my name.
For a second I was tempted to dash back to the car and lock myself in, defying the Diet Nazi. What could she do to me—have me arrested for snacking?
But before I could act on my impulse, Olga had snatched the bag from my hand.
“How could you?” she said, holding up an Almond Joy.
I saw the way she was eyeing that candy bar. Whaddaya bet she’d be scarfing it down the minute she was alone?
By now Cathy had wandered into the lobby in her bathrobe and pajamas, taking in the scene.
“I offered to be her diet buddy,” the little stoolie piped up.
“That was very generous of you, Cathy.” Olga shot her a Good Cop smile. “Now let’s all go to bed and pretend this shameful affair never happened.”
Cathy headed back upstairs to her room, having the nerve to actually smile at me and say, “Don’t feel bad, Jaine. I’ll be there for you next time.”
“Just leave me alone and worry about your own damn cellulite,” were the words I was too polite to utter as I turned on my heel and marched back to my room.
I was just about to let myself in, when I saw Delphine wheeling her cart out of a supply closet across the hall.
“What are you still doing here?” I asked.
“Waiting for you,” the perky teenager replied. “I saw what happened just now. I knew you’d try your little stunt.” She nodded smugly. “Your kind always does.”
This kid was really beginning to get on my nerves.
“So, how about it?” she asked. “Ready to do business?”
She gestured to the bottom shelf of her cart, where all her groceries were stashed.
“No, thank you. I’d rather go hungry than submit to your kind of extortion.”
Okay, so I didn’t really say that.
The lily-livered words that actually came out of my mouth were:
“Do you take credit cards?”
Delphine didn’t take credit cards, but she did take checks. And just my rotten luck I had enough in my account to cover her exorbitant prices.
I would have loved nothing better than to write that freckle-faced thief a rubber check.
“So what’ll be?” she asked, wheeling her cart into my room.
Prozac leaped off her treadmill from where she’d been napping, and came charging over to Delphine.
I don’t know about her, but I’ll take one of everything.
“I’ll have a pastrami sandwich,” I said, remembering the menu from earlier that day. “And a couple of Fancy Feasts. And an Almond Joy if you’ve got one.”
“Sorry,” Delphine shrugged. “I’m out of pastrami. All I’ve got left is American cheese.”
She held out a plain American cheese sandwich. And I do mean plain. No lettuce, no tomato, no nothing.
“How much?” I asked.
“Thirty-five bucks.”
“But just this morning the pastrami was only thirty.”
“You snooze, you lose. I’ve raised my prices since then.”
Indeed she had. The cat food, which had been twenty bucks earlier that day, was now twenty-five. And she didn’t have any Almond Joy, only a dubious looking packet of candy imported from China called M&N’s. For which she was charging a staggering seventeen dollars.
I seethed as I wrote out the check.
“Sure you don’t want to get a six pack of cat food?” Delphine offered, holding out some more cans. “I’ll give you a price break. Just one hundred bucks.”
“No, thank you.”
And this time I meant it. I fully intended to go back to town the next day. Only I wouldn’t be foolish enough to come trotting home toting grocery bags. Somehow I’d manage to smuggle my loot into the room, even if I had to sew the stuff into my panties.
“Nighty nite,” Delphine chirped, “and bon appetit!”
Then she wheeled her cart into the hallway, ponytail swishing.
It was all I could do not to run after her and yank the darn thing from her scalp.
I left Prozac inhaling her Fancy Feast and headed out to dine al fresco on the patio. Plopping down on the chaise, I unwrapped my sorry excuse for a sandwich. It was even worse than it looked in the wrapping—the bread stale and the cheese brittle around the edges.
The Earl of Sandwich was probably rolling over in his grave.
Still starving after only nine hundred calories and a Hershey’s kiss, I ate it anyway, washing it down with a piquant vintage of bathroom tap water.
I was sitting there, gnawing on my emery board bread and rubber cheese, wishing I’d forked over the extra two bucks Delphine had demanded for a mustard packet, when suddenly I heard giggling.
I looked up and saw Mallory running up the path from the pool, her fabulous body parts jiggling in a micro bikini.
And she was not alone.
Seconds later, Sven came chasing after her in a Speedo that left little to the imagination.
Mallory smiled slyly and let herself be caught.
Sven spun her around in his arms and the next thing I knew they were locked in what can only be described as a For Mature Audiences Only embrace.
Oh, dear. So Sven hadn’t been able to resist temptation, after all.
As they both ran toward The Haven, I saw someone step out from the bushes into the light from the footpath.
Good heavens. It was Shawna.
The fear I’d seen on her face in the gym, the serene smile in the spa cubicle—all gone. Now the only thing shining in her eyes was fury.
“Damn that bitch,” I heard her mutter as she stormed off into the night.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: The Death of Me Yet
Your father will be the death of me yet. Now he’s decided to run for president of the homeowners association. Against Lydia Pinkus, of all people!
What’s worse, he’s named me his campaign manager. Which is just a nicer word for slave. The man has been driving me crazy. He decided to campaign door to door and hand out cookies in his new To Gno-Me is To Love Me T-shirt. And get this. He expected me to make miniature gnome cookies! With costume icing and everything. Who does he think I am—Martha Stewart? I told him he’d get plain old chocolate chip, and like it.
I baked him three dozen Toll House cookies which lasted him all of about seventeen minutes. That impossible man wound up eating most of them himself. He came back home with a terrible tummy ache, which served him right. In fact, I was hoping the whole experience would make him call off his candidacy, but no such luck. He woke up after a nice nap, fit as a fiddle and raring to go.
Now he’s out in the garage painting a campaign sign. Would you believe he actually wanted to use the slogan, Time to Get Rid a Ya, Lydia! I told him if he did, he could meet me in divorce court. Well, he finally backed down and promised he’d come up with something else.
Anyhow, what with all the fuss and bother of Daddy’s campaign, I haven’t even had a chance to go over my notes for my Aztec and Incan History course. Oh, well. It will be a treat just to get out of the house and away from Campaign Headquarters.
Love from your frazzled,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Thought I’d Die
I just got back from class, and I swear I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life. There we were in Lydia’s living room as our marvelous teacher, Professor Rothman, told us the most fascinating story about how the Incans (or possibly the Aztecs) invented freeze dried food, when suddenly we heard someone shouting over a bullhorn, “Save the Gnomes! Vote for Hank!”
Needless to say, that “someone” on the bu
llhorn was Daddy.
“Good heavens!” Lydia cried, jumping up out of her seat. “What is that man up to now?”
Then she raced over to her front window to look outside. Unfortunately everyone else followed her, so they all got to witness my humiliation.
There was Daddy in his Camry, shouting through a bullhorn as he drove, one of his godawful gnomes attached to the top of the car.
And the worst part—the very worst part—was the huge banner he had on the side of the Camry. In big bright red letters was his new campaign slogan:
PINKUS STINKS!
Honestly, honey, I thought I’d die.
I apologized profusely to Lydia, but she just took me in her arms and hugged me, saying, “You poor thing. You have to live with him.”
And I could see that everyone in the room agreed with her. Professor Rothman even took me aside and gave me the name of a colleague of his, a psychiatrist, and urged me to book an appointment for Daddy ASAP.
“Meds might help,” he whispered.
Needless to say, I didn’t hear a word of the lecture after that.
I was so unhappy I couldn’t even begin to eat the homemade lemon tarts Lydia served after class. Well, technically, I did manage to force down a few mouthfuls. In fact, I might have finished off the whole slice, but I tell you, honey, I could barely taste a thing.
I was way too furious.
Just wait till your father gets home.
XXX
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Deserted!
You’re not going to believe this, lambchop, but for some crazy reason, your mom has quit as my campaign manager.
My own wife, deserting me in my hour of need! All because of an innocent little campaign sign.
But fear not! I can win this battle on my own. I am nothing if not self-reliant.
You know my motto: When the Going Gets Tough, the TOUGH—OH, DAMN, THE CAP LOCK KEY IS STUCK AGAIN. GOTTA GO GET YOUR MOM TO FIX IT.
TO BE CONTINUED—
DADDY (AKA “MR. PRESIDENT”)
To: Jausten
From: Sir Lancelot
Subject: Babaganoush To Die For
Sorry I missed your calls, sweetie. All eight of them. Crazy day. Had dinner at a new falafel place in Westwood. The babaganoush was to die for!
Hug hug, kiss kiss,
Lance
Chapter 11
Unaccustomed to a snack-free diet, Prozac clawed me awake the next morning at some ungodly hour, yowling at the top of her lungs to be fed.
“Prozac, please,” I groaned. “Show me some mercy.”
But all she showed me was her little pink throat as she kept on yowling, kicking it up a notch for good measure.
Reluctantly I tore myself out of bed and staggered to the bathroom to open one of Delphine’s twenty-five dollar cans of cat food, every muscle in my body throbbing from yesterday’s brutal exercise regimen.
The minute the Fancy Feast hit her bowl, Prozac dove in, inhaling it—according to my lightning calculations—at about two bucks a bite.
Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I hobbled over to the French doors to check the weather.
The sun was just beginning to illuminate the sky, and like yesterday, everything was blanketed in a thick early morning fog.
I stood there, rubbing my aching calves and thinking about the e-mails I’d been foolish enough to read last night before climbing into bed. I cringed at the thought of Daddy in his Pinkus Stinks Gnome-Mobile. No wonder Mom quit as his campaign manager.
But Mom’s anger was nothing compared to how steamed I was at Lance. Can you believe that guy? Sending me off to diet boot camp while he stuffed his face with babaganoush!
Just as I was thinking how much I’d give to baba his ganoush, I happened to see a most unusual sight—a nearlynaked man streaking out from The Haven’s back door.
In spite of the fog, I knew it was Sven. I could tell by his Speedo.
Looked like somebody had spent the night burning mattresses with Mallory.
Once again, my heart went out to Shawna. Her marriage had hit a speed bump, all right. But I didn’t have time to commiserate, because by now Olga was hammering on my door, yelling at me to get dressed for the nature hike.
A new day’s agony was about to begin.
But I didn’t care. I’d made up my mind to break out of diet prison. Yes, indeedie. It was time to take off my big girl panties and call it quits. As much as I hated to see Lance’s money go to waste, I planned to check out that afternoon. Just as soon as I had one more heavenly massage from Shawna.
Once my muscles had been pampered to mush, I’d pack my bags and be winging my way back to L.A. With a pit stop at Mickey D’s, of course.
Out in the lobby, Kendra informed us that Mallory was not coming on the nature hike.
“Why on earth not?” Olga asked.
“She says she’s too tired.”
Of course she was tired. Who wouldn’t be after a night of sexcapades with Sven and his Speedo?
And the galling thing was that Olga didn’t voice a single objection. If I’d tried a stunt like that, she’d be dragging me out of bed by my ears. She obviously had a separate set of rules for Princess Mallory. Or maybe she was just happy to be rid of her.
We started our trek up Mt. Olga, and in no time I was wheezing like a busted radiator. Everybody else seemed to be dragging their heels, too. Everybody except Cathy. Still gunning for the role of Diet Nazi’s pet, she plastered a bright smile on her face as she huffed up the slope.
“C’mon, everybody,” Olga barked, with a deafening blast of her whistle. “Let’s step up the pace! What’s wrong with you people today?”
“Some stupid cat woke me at the crack of dawn,” Clint grunted. “That’s what’s wrong. The damn creature was yowling like a banshee.”
“I know,” Harvy said, suppressing a yawn. “I heard it, too.”
“Me, too,” Kendra chimed in.
“That must’ve been Jaine’s cat, Xanax,” Olga pointed out, just in case they wanted to form a lynch party later.
“Her name is Prozac,” I managed to gasp between wheezes.
“Whatever,” Olga said, completely uninterested in what I’d chosen to name my beloved pet. “All I know is she needs to lose weight. I hope you’re making her use that treadmill.”
I wisely refrained from mentioning that the only thing Pro had been using it for was to catch up on her naps.
“Oh,” Cathy piped up, “so that’s your cat I’ve seen out on the patio scratching the furniture.”
Great. First the little fink acted shocked over my goodie bag, and now she was ratting out Prozac.
“You scratch it, you replace it!” Olga happily informed me.
“I wanted to bring my cat, Mr. Muffin,” Cathy said, “but he gets so cranky when he travels.”
“He couldn’t be worse than her little monster,” Clint snarled.
Well! I wouldn’t be going to any more of his movies, that’s for sure.
Eventually we made it up the hill and back down again with our lungs still intact.
Cathy stayed glued to my side throughout the whole ordeal, renewing her pledge to be my diet buddy, jabbering about Mr. Muffin and his crush on the neighbor’s Rottweiller.
“It’s so adorable the way he’s always running next door to play with her!” Cathy gushed.
I’ll bet he was. Even a Rottweiller had to be more fun than a Cathy chat-a-thon. Ten to one, Mr. Muffin was having the locks changed as we spoke.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of sweat, pretty much a carbon copy of yesterday’s exercise hell.
Mallory showed up for our aerobics class, once more dressed to seduce, practically doing a pole dance with her exercise bar and lingering behind afterward—no doubt to set up a rendezvous with Sven. All the while, Shawna smiled serenely, as if she had no idea about the whoopsie doodle fest going on between the two of them.
After aerobi
cs, I headed off for a fun session of slave labor in the garden (it was my turn to prune the hedges).
Like I said, just another day on the chain gang.
Until lunch, that is.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
Lunch started out peacefully enough. Mallory was at the “A” table yammering about Mallory, Cathy was at the “B” table yammering about Cathy, and I was lost in a George Clooney Chocolate Éclair Fantasy.
But it soon became obvious that Mallory was in an extrapicky mood.
“Olga dear,” she said, holding out her water glass. “My water’s lukewarm. It needs ice.”
Olga nodded with a brittle smile and took away the offending glass. Seconds later, she trotted out from the kitchen with a glass studded with ice cubes.
Mallory waved her away.
“Oh, that’s way too many!” she said. “I wanted a few cubes, hon. I didn’t want to build an igloo.”
Swallowing her annoyance, Olga once again went back to the kitchen.
I was beginning to think Mallory didn’t really care about the water, that she was just playing with Olga. The smile on her face told me she was getting her jollies sending her former show biz colleague back and forth to the kitchen.
“How’s this?” Olga asked, having returned from the kitchen with yet another glass of water.
Mallory eyed it critically.
“It’s not tap water, is it?”
“Nope, it’s Evian, just like you always drink.”
“I can taste the difference, you know.”
She took a sip and wrinkled her nose.
