Slim to None (24 page)

I race to open the card, but am instantly deflated.

Dear Abbie,

I’m not exactly sure how to make things right with you. I know that I betrayed you and I know that you’re disappointed that I used you to help me with Dex. It was wrong and it wasn’t the type of thing a good friend does. I hope you’ll find a way to forgive me for my selfishness. If not, I might just jump off the Brooklyn Bridge in despair. Ha ha. Just joking! I miss you, Abbie. Call and tell me we can be friends again.

Love,

Jess

Sheesh, how’s a girl to stay mad when she gets a letter of apology like that? Plus this arrangement has the most divine aroma, the exotic scent of an Asian market almost.

I guess I’d better reach out to Jess. I just have to figure out how and when. In the meantime, I’ve got to put the finishing touches on my column and send it over to my boss.

Being Jiggly in My Piggly Wiggly

By Abby Jennings

I was standing in line at the grocery store the other day and it brought to mind my that my favorite shirt in the world is from the Piggly Wiggly, a grocery store chain popular in the South. Only never would I wear this shirt in front of a soul. I don’t dare wear it for anything but a nightshirt. Because I fear that I am setting myself up for public ridicule if anyone but my all-forgiving husband sees me wearing this thing. Ah, the irony, they’d say, the piggly wiggly wearing a Piggly Wiggly shirt. Designer fatso. I’m left to wrestle with this all-important dilemma: Do I dare be jiggly in my Piggly Wiggly?

Of course, if you’re like me, sometimes you lose perspective on exactly how bad—or good—you look. You go along ignoring the reality of your appearance for awhile, but then you see someone who you suspect looks much like you and you wince. "Oh, no. Do I look that bad?" you think.

I used to always ask my husband that question. I’d point out some stranger at a party, or walking down the street, and I’d say, "Okay, do I look that bad?" Early in our relationship he was foolish (or in love!) enough to obligingly respond. Eventually he knew that no matter what he answered (he: "honey, you’re not that fat." Me: "Well, what do you mean by that fat? Are you saying I’m fat?"), he was in trouble, so he gave up attempting to placate me.

Since then I’ve been left to my own devices to gauge my size against other women of comparable girth. A while back, I saw a woman at the gym wearing the exact same bathing suit I own but haven’t tugged onto my body in five years, it was so tight the last time I tried. When I saw her, packed in like a bratwurst in the thing, the first thought that came to mind was this: "I really have to do the South Beach diet and not cheat this time." She looked that bad. And so, evidently, must I.

So a few days later, I was at a dinner at a high-end restaurant. Amongst those at the table were: two slim and gloating South Beachers; one over-exerciser, who has the body of a goddess; one Neanderthin (in which you must eat like a caveman, although I’m pretty sure cavemen didn’t pound Jack Daniels, as did he); one who stays-slim-courtesy-of-her-antidepressant; one who claims to be perpetually on Atkins all the while guzzling wine (an Atkins no-no) and eating more than her share of carbs; two diet-at-dawn-turned-dessert-at-duskers (we can assume that I fall into this category); and one who just couldn’t give a damn, as he happily drank his dinner: a bottomless tumbler full of Ketel One on the rocks with a twist.

The courtesy bread found its way down to our end of the table by its rejection at the other end (they acted as if it was radioactive as they hurled it toward us). Which was fine by me: made me happy, tasted delicious. As did the complementary crostini goat cheese bruschetta appetizer we ate (and our end of the table gladly consumed the other ends’ allotment). Obviously as the meal progressed, I’d forgotten all about my twin from the gym who hardly shone in her Land’s End blivet-wear.

Admittedly, I was self-conscious in my too-tight dress that night. I gazed enviably upon my good friends who looked so thin and so damned happy that they were thin. I am assured that coursing through their minds weren’t feelings of remorse over the umpteen million moments of caved willpower they’d suffered through during the past six months. But I also was kind of left to wonder why people who don’t actually eat go out to dinner. It seems a practice in futility. Although I will grant you, they can drink hard liquor to their heart’s content on these carb-free existences. If that could be considered any healthier than binging on crostini.

I don’t know. After all of the back and forth, to eat, to starve, to live a balanced life—and is that even a possibility when your metabolism doesn’t allow for that?—I’m still wrestling with what would truly make me happy when it comes to my body size. The older I get, the more I am inclined to just say "to hell with it, life really is too short to waste time and effort worrying about these things." But those notions of body image ingrained in our minds from an early age are hard to exorcise.

Which brings me back to the grocery store, to my morning’s dilemma (while not wearing my Piggly Wiggly t-shirt). Standing in the check-out line, I couldn’t help but notice the myriad magazines on display. The grocery store is one of those places of irony where the entire time you’re stuffing your cart, you’re fantasizing about what to make (and then stuff your face) when you get home with all the new fun foods you’re about to buy, but then you get in line and are guilted into at least pondering every diet known to mankind on the cover of twenty some magazines featuring impossibly-thin-bordering-on-anorexic celebrities. All this while checking out with a basketful of ingredients intended for use in that Amaretto torte with drizzled marzipan icing and crumbled toasted almonds that sounded so damned good only minutes earlier.

And so I’m left to wonder: do I really care? Or would I rather wear my Piggly Wiggly, don that lumpy bathing suit, shame myself perpetually in public, because I’m fighting a losing battle anyhow? Or can I really go out to dinner and never again eat a carbohydrate again? Do I have to decide that now? I think I’ll just mull it over while I sleep tonight, in my soft, comfie Piggly Wiggly t-shirt. I’ll let you know in the morning.

* * *

Two hours later the door bell rings yet again. Honestly, it’s a man bearing flowers. Now
these
must be from William. I tip the deliveryman and slam the door, setting the beautiful arrangement down and grabbing the card.

To my Muffin,

I just want you to know how much I appreciate your coming to visit. Janie told me all about your subterfuge and I’m glad you collared that creep and got your job back. They’re lucky to have you. I thought this was the perfect bouquet to send someone like you.

Love,

Dad

I look closely at the arrangement and see that it’s made up of herbs and spices and everything you can re-use in the kitchen. How very thoughtful. I wish I could feel more enthusiastic about my beautiful arrangements but neither of them is from the one I’d hoped would send me something. That certain someone who’s starting to seem like he’s on permanent hiatus.

Stir in Two Cups Kindness

I’m having yet another bad dream about Cognac’s accident, turning over and over in my sleep, like a free-range chicken over a spit. No, wait, more like one of those horrid-looking unidentified doner kebobs (what
is
in those things, anyhow?). Correction: I toss all night like a salad. With a tiny splash of oil and fig vinegar. Much more dietetic of me.

Suddenly the blare of the phone jars me awake. I glance at the clock to see that it’s barely seven in the morning.

In my sleep fog I can’t find the phone anywhere. By the time I do, my number has been re-called three different times. Someone must really want to talk with me. God, I hope it’s not a emergency to do with William or Cognac.

"This is Abbie," I answer on about the fortieth ring.

"Abbie—it’s Sally. We have a crisis on our hands!" The woman is panting into the phone like she’s having a panic attack. She probably broke a fingernail or something: crises of the rich and famous.

"Calm down. It can’t be anything we can’t deal with."

"Oh yeah? Well, how about this? Gretl refuses to cook," she says, as if she’s thwacking me with a leather glove and saying "take that!"

"Isn’t she your employee?"

"Been with us for twenty five years."

"And isn’t she in your employ to
cook
for you?"

"Uh huh."

"Then why won’t she cook for you? Surely she’s anxious to see George and ply him with her weiner schnitzel or whatever her spécialité de la maison is."

"It’s you." Sally let’s that drop like a thud.

"
Me
? I’m the house special?"

I can practically hear Sally rolling her eyes at that one. "No! You’re the reason she won’t cook! She knows you’ll be there."

"How’d she find that out?"

"She saw your name on the guest list."

"Yeah but how’d she know I was anybody?"

"She saw your picture in the paper. Read about your little exposé back in the springtime. Never forgets a name or a face. Abbie you’re notorious!"

God, even the hired help knows about my humiliation? Besides, I’m not notorious! That would imply something bad about me. And I can’t think of a bad thing about me. Although perhaps my reputation is a bit tarnished, what with my being demoted and all.

"Just what we need. A housemaid with performance anxiety. Can’t she at least take some pity on me?"

"Heavens no! She won’t dare serve you food. She thinks you’ll be feeling vindictive after the incident and give her cooking a bad review."

"Oh, come off it. Vindictive? Me? I wouldn’t hurt a flea!" I can’t seem to get a break these days, can I? "Besides which, what food critic gives reviews to home cooking?"

But Sally is too busy verbally wringing her hands. "What are we to do? This dinner is only days away—who can I get to help?"

"What about all of your friends’ chefs. Don’t they moonlight for extra cash?"

"Tried that. Couldn’t even get Bittsy Malone’s cook, and she’ll do just about anything for enough money," she moans. "What am I going to do?"

"She’ll do anything? Sounds like deep in the jungles of your version of suburbia instead of Desperate Housewives you have Desperate Housemaids."

"This is no laughing matter."

"Of course not. So let’s think. Who can we get to prepare an elegant dinner for a slew of people on short notice?"

Sally’s silent for a moment before yelling out loudly into my ear as if she’s got BINGO. "
You
! My God, Abbie, why didn’t I think of this earlier?
You
are the perfect person to prepare this meal. There’s no way that George could bag out on this if you’re at the helm in the kitchen. He loves your cooking too much. Plus you have that kitchen! You cook! Oh, this is absolutely perfect. Wait’ll I tell Bittsy. The food critic for the Sentinel being
my
personal chef!"

"You can’t boast all around town about something like that! I’m not anyone’s personal chef! Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not what I do! Besides,
you
have that kitchen too! Why don’t you roll up your sleeves and give this little thing called manual labor a whirl?"

How do I get myself involved with this stuff? Here I was trying to do a little Good Samaritan deed and next thing you know I’ve been impressed into servitude?

"Oh, Abbie, I’ll pay you handsomely, of course. You just send me the bill and I’ll pay you on the spot for everything. It’ll be just divine. Tell me, what are you going to prepare?"

Well, if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a quitter. And I’ll be darned if this thing will lose momentum over lack of kitchen staff. How hard can it be to do this? I’ve been cooking my whole life. This is what I’ve been preparing for, forever. Sure, I’ll need a sous chef, but I’ve got just the slave labor in mind: Jess owes me one. I’ll rope her into helping me and we’ll call it even with the Dex affair. Literally.

"I can’t believe these words are about to pour forth from my mouth, but...I’ll do it," I say, sounding more enthusiastic than I’d have expected myself to sound. I must be losing my marbles. "But you really can’t be bragging to your pals about this. You need to keep this on the down-low. You got it?"

"I could hug you! I knew you had a heart of gold. I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me. This is going to be a night to remember, I just know it."

Let’s hope it’s not a night destined to be notorious, that’s all I have to say.

* * *

It seems to be the trend of late to destroy my well-intended sleep with phone calls. This one is well past bedtime. A glance at the caller-ID shows that it’s Jess calling. I hesitate to pick up, but then I reconsider, since I’m trying to just take the chill approach to life now. No sense in having a million axes to grind. I’m all about good ju-ju and holding a grudge against Jess isn’t going to benefit me one iota. Plus I need a huge favor from the woman.

"Jess?"

"Hey, Abbie. How’s it going?"

"It’s going, all right," I say, figuring it’s going to be a long conversation if I get into my whole gloomy saga at this very minute. "You?"

"Oh, same ol’ same ol’," she says. "Did you get my truce offering?"

"Yes, I did, and they’re gorgeous. Thank you for the gesture and the sentiments behind them."

"Look, I just wanted to call to apologize again for how things happened. I didn’t want to stick you in the middle of things. It was wrong of me and I really am sorry about that."

I’m quiet for a minute, digesting this.

"Uh, you could say that again, just so we’re clear on the matter? As much as I can appreciate your situation, I just don’t want to be any part of it, and you made me a part of it. It was just so
awkward
, Jess. Obviously, your private business is your business, but please, please don’t make it mine, ever again. Friends?"

"Friends. I really am sorry, you know."

"I know you are. Otherwise I’d have told you what to do with your apology. But with my acceptance of your apology comes a slight penance."

"Penance?"

"I need your help. I’ve been corralled into fixing dinner for an important family gathering—"

"Uh, Abbie, you don’t exactly have a family, last time I checked."

"Not my family. But actually I do. So much has gone on, I have to catch you up. But before that, here’s what I need from you."

I tell her about George’s reunion dinner and Jess is so charmed with the notion of helping out the wealthy homeless man that she immediately accepts the challenge.

"As long as I can also go along to Pound Ridge. I love Pound Ridge!"

"Actually, that would be good. Maybe we can get you husband’s driver to take us out there? I hadn’t quite figured out how I was getting to their house."

"Not a problem."

Jess and I talk longer, I fill her in on the unfortunate turns of events around here, she’s duly empathetic, and then we say our goodbyes.

* * *

One important project I’m left to do in planning this sweeping dramatic reunion is to clean George up. I mean who wants to embrace someone who smells like a candidate for a body odor transplant? And this is my project du jour.

It’s cold out today so I throw on my leather jacket—noticing it’s gotten rather loose on me, and take a walk, minus Cognac, who I’ll visit later today, in search of George. I need to get all of my plans in place.

I find him at my third stop of his regular haunts.

"George!" Normally I’d hug someone I haven’t seen in a while but I am partial to cleanliness and instead wave. Is that bigoted of me? I hate to be scent-biased. I guess I’m just partial to lovely aromas, kitchen ones.

"Abbie, my dear, where have you been hiding? And don’t you look skinny? It appears those peanut M&Ms are doing you well!"

Me? Skinny? And the man doesn’t even want anything out of me. He’s just saying it because, well, just because.

"Why thank you, George! And I suspect my sweet tooth has little to do with it and it has more to do with other things." I’m trying to take a compliment at face value, no small task for a girl used to being invisible to men.

"Things? Like what kind of things?"

I update George on Cognac, what happened since the time I saw him and Sally. I fight back the tears as I talk about it because I can tell George is squeamish around waterworks.

"Enough about me. Today is going to be about you. Today it’s time for George."

"Time?"

"Prep time, George. Prep time."

He raises his eyebrow, curious.

"For the dinner. It’s time to polish you up a bit. Turn that lump of coal into a diamond."

"I’m a lump of coal then?"

"Course not! But we need to unearth the former George just a little bit."

"But I like who I am!"

I tut-tut him. "We’re not changing anything about who you
are
—only changing how you look."

"What’s wrong with the way I look?"

"Sometimes we all just need a little overhaul. And I’d like to be truthful here—to put it delicately, um, George, you could use a good scrubbing. You could use a good overhaul, for that matter. I’m all for putting a spit shine on you if that’s fine by you."

I think George must feel badly about my misfortune because he holds up his wrists as if allowing me to cuff them. "I’m all yours," he says. I’m touched that he’s willing to do this. I’ve never given someone a makeover before. This should be fun.

First we go to Metro, a chic little man-spa in Soho that Jess suggested. I don’t dare tell George that the full name of the place is Metro(sexual). Even I would be put off by that. I think the well-groomed receptionist is a bit repulsed by George’s appearance and ushers him quickly back to the facilities.

"Don’t forget to shower first, George! And scrub yourself really well!" I tell him, speaking the obvious.

I have him slated for the works: a cut and a shave, a mani-pedi, facial, massage, even back-waxing. By the time he’s done in here he won’t ever want to look back on his days of wandering the streets. Although that waxing might be enough to send him back there regardless. While he’s in the oven, so to speak, I grab a cab and head uptown to visit my pup at the animal rehab center.

"Cognac! Baby! Come tell mama how you’re feeling!" I talk in sickening baby talk to him as he limps his way over to me. He’s wearing an enormous radar dish on his head to keep him from chewing on his bandages, and he looks as if that alone is worse than all his injuries put together.

"Oh, fella, you are a sight for sore eyes!" I scratch behind his ears and shower him with kisses and I can’t believe he’s right here, all warm and furry and clean-smelling. My perfect doggie. He tries to lick me but that radar dish keeps bumping into me so I stick my head right up to his head inside the dish so he can lick me all over my face. I’m tempted to lick his own face right back, I miss him so much, but that might be a little weird. I brought him cookies and feed him too many so he knows who loves him the most and finally have to let him go back to rest for a while. At least this place isn’t as dreary as where my father is a permanent resident. "Dad and I will be back to pick you up in just a few days, I promise," I tell him before giving him one last kiss. Of course I don’t know if William will be with me to pick him up, but I can’t foresee him missing such an auspicious occasions. He’s mad at me, not the dog.

When I return to retrieve George, he’s wearing the pair of loose-fitting jeans of William’s that I lent him, along with a black t-shirt and too-large sneakers. George looks so
normal
, albeit it in an ill-fitting manner.

"You sure do clean up well," I tell him. "Who’d have known your skin was so pale! I didn’t realize you were Caucasian!" I lightly brush my fingers across his newly-shorn face.

He looks worried.

"Joking! But you are a few shades lighter. Doesn’t it feel good to be so clean?"