Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (14 page)

“She
didn’t give you no box?” Vito asked.

“No…”
I replied, feeling a twinge of righteous indignation.  If Vito was going to be
this much of a dry cleaning junkie he could meet, and pay, his own dealer. 
Hrmphh.

“What
about the bag?”

“Well
you know, I figured since she was new and all… it’d be better to deliver your
bag to Mrs. Phang after she got back from her vacation,” I said.

“Vacation?!”

“Well,
yeah, I guess she has to take a day or two once every seventy years or so…”

“So
yous didn’t drop off the bag?”

“No
– it’s right here… I just forgot about giving it back to you, with everyone
visiting and all…” I stammered.

“That’s
okay… that’s okay, Toots… I’ll just take this bag of dirty duds off your
hands,” he said.

“Don’t
you want your clean shirts?” I asked.

“I’ll
help myself tomorrows.”

Vito
left with his gym bag of dirty duds, while I stood in a dust of
disappointment.  I hung my head.

“Well
goodnight, my dears. I must bid you adieu,” Aunt Muriel called out at us, after
checking to see Vito was well inside his house.  I exchanged glances with Ma,
and we shrugged.  I figured Aunt Muriel was still a little paranoid about Vito,
what with his church boob petting and all.  She pointed at the prescription
bottle of horse-size antibiotics. “Before I go, take these!” she warned.  “For
her infection.  From the laceration,” she explained to Ma, pointing at my foot.

“Oh,
yeah, right,” I said.  I got some water, choked on a horse pill, and chased it
with another pain med.

Ma
and I got everything in the kitchen stashed away.  The dishwasher hummed
happily.  Vinnie lay on his back in the middle of the living room a la
cock-a-roach and pfffed more pepperoni fumes happily into the ozone.  Ma held
her nose and waved herself off to sleep in my room.  I shrugged and trudged
upstairs after her with a piece of pizza crust for Marie and got in my
jammies.   Then I headed back downstairs with a blanket, a pillow, and last
month’s self-help book purchase, ‘The Cretin’s Cavalcade for Kitchen
Addictions’.  I was glad the author obviously knew how to help with
self-esteem, too.  I made myself a little nest on the sofa and settled down to
read behind closed eyes
.

CHAPTER 5

(Tuesday morning)

Tuesday
morning, I
woke
up around dawn to a Biblical scourge of smells.  I looked around the living
room and didn’t see Vinnie.  But clearly his pepperoni eating was a lot more
toxic than I’d figured.  I stumbled into the kitchen to open a window and found
the terrier growling at Flower the Skunk over Vinnie’s bowl of Kitty Cookies.

I
scooted Vito’s would-be-pooch away from Flower and into the basement.  Flower
responded by showering me and my kitchen with skunk spray.  Then she waddled to
the back door, looked over her shoulder at me with a dismissive glance, and
pushed her snout at the gap in the door and let herself out.

Since
I was now up and stinky, I decided it was time for Ma to be up and stinky, too.

“Ma-aaaa!!”
I screamed congenially.

“Wha-aaattt!?”

Ma
came downstairs and yawned.  Then she choked.  “Pew! What have you been doing
down here?” she asked, holding her nose.  I explained about the close
encounters of the smelly kind.  Ma leaned toward me and sniffed.  “Phew!  You
stink!”

“Ya
think?”

“Do
you have any tomato juice?”

“You
want a Bloody?”

“No,
you fool! You’re supposed to take a bath in tomato juice to get rid of skunk
stuff.”

“Oh. 
I have a six pack of individual cans.  But I only have 4 left because K. and I
had Bloodies a few weeks ago.”

“What
you need is a few gallons,” Ma said.

I
responded by crying.

“There,
there, it’s not your fault you’re stinky,” Ma said, patting my head from an
arm’s length away.

“Thanks,”
I sniffed.  “But it’s just everything… and on top of the burning dog poop job
stuff, my head hickey and the shredded foot thing, I gotta smell bad now, too?”
I blubbered.

“Maybe
this is a good time to ask your neighbor for some help,” Ma said
sympathetically.  I sighed.  The last thing I wanted to do was invite Vito over
for an additional visit.  Especially while I, along with my kitchen, was
stinky.  Vito might never stop Swiffering.  “After all, Vito does like that
dog.  And he’ll probably be over here to Swiffer anyway,” she finished.

She
was right.  “Okay,” I sniffed.

Ma
left me to walk across the front porch and negotiate with Vito for help.  I
trudged upstairs with 4 individual cans of tomato juice, wishing I could have
brought the vodka, Tabasco, Worcestershire sauce, horseradish and a nice fresh
lemon wedge along, too.

Let
this be a word to the wise.  The stinky wise, that is.  Washing with tomato
juice to get rid of skunk stuff does not work like the old wives’ tale we’ve
all heard about.  It’s more like being stuck with no running water for a week
or two, and then settling to wash up with cans of Minestrone soup.  It kind of
masks your stinky smell, so you don’t completely reek of BO.  But you end up
smelling like soup instead.  Which got me thinking: it had been a long time
since I’d made a nice vat of homemade soup.  Since it was August, maybe I’d
make a small stockpot of zucchini soup.  I could serve it warm, with a dollop
of sour cream on top.  Or a bit of grated parmesan.  It was comfort food, and
lo-cal.  How could I go wrong?  And while I was on the Italian theme, with the
zucchini soup and all, I could throw together a nice summer veggie lasagna,
with squash and mushrooms and a light béchamel sauce.

I
finished fantasizing about my summer menus once the hot water ran out.  I got
out cleaner, and about six recipes richer.  I sniffed.  I still smelt a bit
like Flower.  Should have used the tomato juice to make a Bloody after all. 
I’d still smell funny, but I wouldn’t have minded so much.  I pulled on a soft
clean short-sleeve shirt and khakis, and trudged downstairs with my hair back
in its usual wet pony tail.

“Oh-my-gawd!”
Ma yelped and leapt away from me. This was not exactly the reaction I’d hoped
for.

“What’s
the matter?” I asked.

Ma
held her nose and tapped into the Borg.  She put her Bluetooth in her ear. 
Seriously, her cell phones are pretty slick.  I’ve only seen kids working
Target or drug dealers use these.  I hate to admit it, but Ma’s techno savvy
knowledge thingy is scarily impressive.

Ma
got through to Aunt Muriel, and a lot of Mhming and “Yes, yes that’s right…
yes, you did hear me correctly,” went on.  I hunched on the landing.  Vinnie
came down from upstairs and looked around a little wide-eyed.  Clearly the
aroma was not conducive to his sensibilities either.  He sniffed me, shook a
paw and stalked back upstairs.  I didn’t blame him.  I didn’t want to sit near
me either.

I
didn’t know what to do.  So I cried.  It didn’t start out full-blown: just a
few sniffs while Ma talked on her Borg Phone and paced around the front porch. 
Anyone not knowing she was talking on the phone would swear she was a raving
lunatic talking to herself.  And getting answers.

The
whole situation reminded me of when in the sixth grade and I went to school all
happy because I could show off my first pair of official bell bottoms.  Ma had
let me pick them out myself:  Blind Your Eyes White, just like I remembered
Marcia Brady wore on ‘The Brady Bunch’.  The day was great until recess when my
best buddy Mona came up to me and tied her sweatshirt around my waist.

I’d
gotten my first period.  In fact, I was the only girl in the entire grade
school to get her first period before matriculating to Junior High.  Which was
a shock.  Because we all were convinced that Betsy Heffelstein was gonna be the
one because she had to wear a bra.  But there I was, in my brand new white bell
bottoms, with a crimson splotch that looked like I’d sat on a stuck pig.  So I
had to go to the principal’s office and call Ma – and then had to wait for her
in Mrs. Heinz’s office perched on a copy of the Bergen Record.    I liked Mrs.
Heinz.  She had white hair that she rinsed each week to match her suits.  That
week was lilac – my favorite – so her hair was a misty shade of lavender to
match the various styles of purple and grey suits.

Ma
flew down to school and swooped me and a clean section of the newspaper back
home.  I told her I felt awful about the new slacks – they weren’t even a full
day old. But Ma went out that afternoon and bought me a replacement pair right
away.  And I didn’t even have to beg.  Go figure.  Ever since then, Ma and I
were on different terms.

Anyway,
sitting on the landing bruised and stinky felt a lot like being in the
principal’s office.  So I cried some more. Ma marched back into the hallway on
a mission.  Then she saw me. I palpably felt her put on verbal brakes when I
saw her jaw clench to a screeching halt.  Probably bit the end of her tongue in
the process, I wagered.  She took a deep breath, and in a strange tone I
suspect she uses mostly for clients said, “Aunt Muriel suggests bacon.  I saw
Vito on the porch.  He’s bringing some over.”  She removed the Borg Phone from
her ear and came toward me, and patted my shoulder – once again from a safe
distance.  “There, there, there. My poor lamb,” she said.  Although I noticed
she wasn’t about to get close to me.  When you’re stinky, you’re stinky.

Vito
came over with a pound of bacon.  I took it and headed into the kitchen to find
a frying pan.  Ma slapped her hand to her forehead.  “You’re not supposed to
cook it!” she yelled at me.

“Huh?”
I replied.

Vito
looked awkward.  “Uh, I got some things I have to do,” he said, and beat a
hasty retreat.

Ma
motioned to the hallway, then pointed to the stairs.  “You’re supposed to rub
it on you.  Where you got sprayed.  It’s supposed to get rid of skunk stuff,”
she instructed.

“Raw
bacon gets rid of skunk stuff?”  Ma nodded.  “Doesn’t sound very kosher,” I
said, taking the bacon upstairs.  Vinnie trilled happily and trotted back
upstairs underneath my feet.

I’m
not so sure about the political correctness of rubbing bacon on yourself.  But
ever since Lady Gaga wore a brisket, it might not be such a big deal.  Most of
Flower’s spray had gone on my knees and shins, so I rubbed the bacon there. 
Then I redressed and put makeup on.  Vinnie licked my legs.  I headed back
downstairs a new fake woman.  Ma looked sort of happy.

“See,
I told you everything would be fine,” she fibbed.  “Now just stand there a
moment.” She sprayed me with cologne.  I cringed.  I hoped I wasn’t going to
smell like apple-smoked cologne.

I
drove to EEJIT, and after helping another octogenarian negotiate the
intricacies of the parking garage, decided to drive up to the rooftop and park
next to Bauser. I knew his favorite spot by the piles of peanut shells
littering it.  Except that Bauser’s car wasn’t there.  Which was weird, because
he starts at o’dark hundred.  I shrugged, took the garage elevator out and
walked up the covered path to EEJIT.

The
building’s security guards were still in place.  And the fans blowing out the
smoke fumes were, too.  I nodded to them – the security guards, that is –
produced my ID badge and headed toward my desk.  A lot of the cubes were empty,
which didn’t surprise me.  I figured most of my co-workers didn’t need much of
an excuse to not work in smoked cubes.  EEJIT, in its usual spirit of corporate
decay, was open, forcing its employees to burn a vacation day if they didn’t
want to come in and work in the smoke.  Unless of course they were looking
forward to their families cashing in early on life insurance policies from
inhaling a barrage of carcinogens.  In which case it smelled like they had it
made.

What
got me in the door, in spite of the carcinogens, was curiosity.  I had a few
ideas I wanted to run past Bauser.  Also, I needed Bauser’s help dealing with
the insurance stuff.  I hoped he was coming to work.  I couldn’t imagine Bauser
taking a day off since he had to literally be forced to neutralize his
accumulated vacation days a couple years ago.  That was because EEJIT used to
let us carry over unused vacation time from year to year, mostly because a lot
of the employees visit family in China, India, the Ukraine or other countries
that are a good 14 hour plane ride away.  Last year, another large corporation
bought EEJIT and stood firm.  Our new parent corporation, Effhue Ltd., refused
to allow any more vacation carryovers, so everyone had to use up their
accumulated time.  As a result, a lot of my co-workers took month-long
vacations last year.  Consequently, we hired a lot of temps, who in turn made a
lot of mistakes.  So our projects took twice as long, because none of the
project managers were allowed to factor in re-work time into development
because of using temp contractors instead of the real developers.

Anyway,
since Bauser accrued his benefit time since 1989, by the time the new corporate
edict came around, he had almost 13 weeks of vacation time and 18 personal
days.  Once corporate realized Bauser is our IT department, a deal was made
that forced him to take two weeks of vacation off in perpetuam, with the
remaining time paid out clandestinely.  Which made sense, considering his cash
purchase of a 54” flat screen TV that he hung on his 108” long living room
wall.  So I guessed Bauser was taking off today, to keep up his end of the
bargain.

I
got to my desk, logged in, and waited for the one thousand and one diatribes
from How-weird to appear, and sorted through for bonafide emails.

The
phone rang.  “Mina speaking, EEJIT,” I said automatically.

“Girl,
you are not going to believe this!” Belinda hissed at me.

“How
you mean?” I whispered.

“Halloween?!”

I
emailed her my question.  Yeeshkabiddle.  “Oh,” she said after she’d read it. 
She knew that I knew better than to fool with her about Halloween.  Baptists
take Devil Worshipping Holidays pretty seriously.  After all, she was going to
go up in the Rapture while I was going to get blown to oblivion because of
sporadic attendance to St. Bart’s, Breakfast Wars or not.

“They
put Bauser on the Plan,” Belinda whispered.

“What!?”

“You
better watch your back with Howard,” she added, and hung up.

I
stared at my screen.  “Shit.”

Norman
looked up, came over with his
towel and folded it up and placed it on the desk in front of me.  “Don’t let
EEJIT give you permanent brain damage,” he said kindly, preparing the space on
my desk where I usually bang my head.

“It’s
pretty bad,” I said, and told him about Bauser.  Norman shook his head.

“This
place gets lousier every day.  I can’t believe they opened the office for work
with all this smoke,” he said.  Then he looked at me.  “Hey, do you smell bacon?”

I
got up and mumbled, “Thanks,” then grabbed my purse and hightailed it to the
Ladies’ Room.

This
was just too much.  Especially for a Tuesday.  So I started to cry.  Then I
tried not to cry – which only made me cry more.  Which, in turn, made me look
awful.  Mascara tears streaked down my face.  I blew my nose hard.  Then I
heard someone coming in.