Death by Pantyhose (5 page)

I didn't blame the board of directors when they
suspended Daddy for six months. Of course, I
think they also should have suspended Ed Peters. But the board said that the food fight was
Ed's first offense, and Daddy had a list of infractions a mile long.

Oh, well. It's all going to be over soon, thank
heavens! All Daddy has to do is sign a contract
promising to behave himself and his
membership will be reinstated.

I've felt so guilty about leaving Daddy home
alone these last six months I've hardly gone to
the clubhouse at all. Both of us have been stuck
home trying to make the best of things. Somehow Bingo's not as much fun when you're playing with only two people. Anyhow, I can't wait to
get back in the swing of things.

That's about it for now, honey. Keep your eye out
for the UPS man!

Love and kisses from,

Mom

P.S. More good news: I finally got around to
cleaning out Daddy's closet and took two whole
shopping bags of his ratty old clothes to the thrift
shop!

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Betrayed!

Dear Lambchop-

You won't believe what your mother did. Without
even consulting me, she gave away my priceless
vintage clothing! All of it perfectly wearable. Just
because something has a stain and maybe a few
holes doesn't mean it's no good anymore.

What's especially galling is that she gave away
my lucky Hawaiian shirt. The one with the bright
orange hibiscuses on it. That shirt has brought
me good luck for the past twenty years. Why,
that's the shirt I was wearing when I saw Meryl
Streep at the car wash. And when I found a practically new pair of sneakers in the Blockbusters
parking lot. And when I guessed how many gumballs were in the jar at the Hop Li Chinese Barbeque Cafe and won free egg rolls for two!

If your mom thinks she's going to get away with
this, she's crazy. I'm going to march her down to
the thrift shop right now and make her get my
clothes back-before some discerning buyer
snaps them up.

Your betrayed,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Hit the Roof

Daddy just about hit the roof when he found out I
gave away his old clothes. The way he's been
carrying on, you'd think I'd lost our life savings.
He insists on dragging me down to the thrift
shop to buy those silly rags back.

Oh, dear. I've got to run. He's out in the car,
honking the horn.

More later,

Mom

P.S. I don't care what Daddy says. He never saw
Meryl Streep at the car wash. Not unless Meryl
drives a beat-up pickup truck with a bumper
sticker that says: Beer. It's Not Just for Breakfast
Anymore.

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Humiliation!

Well, we're back from the thrift shop and all I can
say is I've never been so embarrassed in all my
life. Daddy barged in, shouting, "My wife stole
my clothes!" I was so humiliated I wanted to hide
behind the used armoires.

The thrift shop ladies were only too happy to
give him his awful rags back. I'm surprised they
accepted them in the first place.

Finally, we were all set to go when Daddy realized he was missing his "lucky" Hawaiian shirt,
that orange monstrosity with gravy stains from
the Eisenhower administration. He calls it a
"classic." If by classic he means something that
will look ridiculous year after year, I suppose he's
right.

It's hard to believe, but someone actually bought
the darn thing! When Daddy found out, he went
ballistic. He insisted that they give him the name
and address of the buyer. The ladies tried to tell
him they don't keep those kind of records, but
Daddy didn't believe them. He even suggested
that one of them might have kept the shirt for
herself. Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous? Why would one of those sweet thrift shop
ladies want his silly Hawaiian shirt?

He stormed out of the store, threatening to report
them to the Better Business Bureau! After all
Daddy put those poor ladies through, I didn't
want to leave the store without buying anything.
So I wound up getting an oil painting of dogs
playing poker. It's a very cute painting but we
simply don't have any room for it. I think I'll send
it to you, darling. I'm sure it'll look lovely in your
living room.

Much love from,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Jinxed!

Dearest Lambchop,

I may never forgive your mother. Because of her,
my lucky shirt is gone forever. Without it, I'm in
big trouble. I can feel it in my bones. Bad things
are going to happen.

Your jinxed,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Jinxed?

Daddy's convinced that without his lucky shirt
he's jinxed. Did you ever hear of anything so
silly?

Wait a minute. Now he's shouting about something. I'll be right back....

Oh, dear. You won't believe what just happened.
Daddy's computer crashed! You don't suppose
he's right about being jinxed, do you?

)rozac was still in a snit the next morning,
wriggling out of reach when I tried to give
her her morning back massage. The minute she
finished inhaling her breakfast, she leapt up on
top of my bookcase, as far away from me as possible.

Yes, she was in major prima donna mode, but
I didn't care. All I could think about was my
lunch date with Andrew. I'd forgotten all about
yesterday's disastrous events and was floating
around the apartment on a cloud of unrealistic
expectations. By the time I'd nuked my morning coffee, I was mentally ordering flowers for
our wedding.

Nothing could bring me down off my Andrew
high. Not even those ominous e-mails from my
parents.

I smelled trouble ahead. When it comes to
Daddy, there's always trouble ahead. Daddy attracts trouble like white cashmere attracts wine
stains. Not that I believed he was actually `jinxed." The only person jinxed in that relationship was
Mom.

True, Mom could never remember Prozac's
name and was constantly bombarding me with
unwanted gifts. But she's a darling woman. And
now Daddy would drive her crazy for weeks, if
not months to come, over his "lucky" Hawaiian
shirt.

But for once, I wasn't bothered by the scent
of impending disaster. Nor was I troubled by the
prospect of a sequined shorts set and dogs playing poker showing up at my doorstep.

Que sera, sera. That was my motto du jour.

After checking my e-mails, I took a deliciously
long bath, up to my neck in strawberry-scented
bubbles. By the time I got out, Andrew and I
had just bought our first house in the suburbs.

Then I blow-dried my curly mop till it was
smooth as silk and floated into the bedroom to
get dressed for my date. I tried on several outfits
before going with jeans, an Ann Taylor blazer,
and a fabulous pair of high-heeled suede boots
I'd bought on sale at Bloomie's.

I surveyed myself in the mirror and saw, to my
delight, that yesterday's monstrous zit was barely
noticeable. After a dab of makeup and a spritz
of hair spray, I was ready to go.

Out in the living room, Prozac was still
perched on top of my bookcase.

"Bye, darling!" I called out to her as I headed
for the door. "You still mad at me?"

She glared at me through slitted eyes and
began clawing the paint off my bookcase.

I took that as a yes.

I was heading down the path to my car when
I saw my neighbor Lance stretched out in a
lounge chair outside his apartment. Lance and I
share a quaint 1940s duplex on the fringes of
Beverly Hills, where the rents are manageable
and the plumbing is impossible.

Lance works flexible hours as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, which gives him plenty
of time to loll about on lounge chairs in the middle of the day. That morning he was wearing
cut-off jeans and nothing on top, not an ounce
of flab visible on his perfect bod.

"Hey, Jaine." He looked me up and down and
nodded approvingly. "Nice outfit."

I beamed. That was high praise indeed from
a guy who says moths come to my closet to commit suicide.

"Thanks!" I preened.

Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Those jeans don't have an elastic waist, do
they?"

Lance hates elastic-waist pants. He thinks
they're classless and tacky and very Jerry Springer.
I keep telling him that they're comfortable, and
he keeps telling me that I've got to suffer for
beauty. Yeah, right. The only thing I'm willing
to suffer for is a hot fudge sundae.

"No," I assured him, "they're not elastic
waist. "

To prove it, I opened my blazer and showed
him the uncomfortable set-in waistband.

'Whatever you do," he warned, "don't unbutton the waistband. We don't want to look like a
lady teamster, do we?"

"I won't unbutton the waistband."

"You promise?"

"I swear on a stack of J.Crew catalogs."

He smiled, satisfied.

"So where are you off to?"

"Oh, just a lunch date," I said, playing it nonchalant.

"Date?" He sat up, interested. "Did I hear the
word date coming from your lips?"

I nodded.

"It's about time! I was beginning to think you
were a nun.

"It's not that bad," I protested.

"Honey, the last time you were out, they were
dancing the minuet."

"Harty-har. "

"So who's the lucky guy?"

"A bank executive. I met him on a job interview last year."

"Cute?"

"Adorable. "

"Well, if it doesn't work out, give him my
number."

"Will do."

He beamed an encouraging smile.

"You look terrific, Jaine. Really."

With Lance's approval ringing in my ears, I
headed down the path to Wheezy, where I unbuttoned the waistband on my jeans and set off
for my date with Andrew.

I debated about whether or not to take the
freeway. I doubted Wheezy could dredge up the
energy to go more than forty miles an hour. But
cross-town street traffic would be a nightmare,
so I decided to risk it.

And so I spent the next twenty harrowing minutes clutching the wheel with white knuckles as Wheezy coughed and sputtered her way in
the slow lane. Pedestrians were making better
time than I was.

I'm happy to report that Wheezy didn't conk
out on the freeway. Nope, she conked out 60
seconds after we got off the freeway. I was
stopped at a traffic light when I looked down
and saw all the warning lights blinking merrily
on the dashboard.

I tried gunning the engine. Nothing. Poor
Wheezy had breathed her last breath.

I checked my watch. It was five of noon, and I
was at least fifteen blocks away from The Patio,
the restaurant where I was supposed to meet
Andrew. No way was I going to make it there in
five minutes. Not in my fashionably high-heeled
boots.

Suddenly I heard a blast of car horns. I
turned and saw a line of cars backed up behind
me. I motioned them to go around me.

I was sitting there, blocking traffic and cursing Crazy Dave and his wreckmobiles, when I
heard someone tapping on my car window. I
looked up and saw a tall black man. His name
was Leonard. At least that was the name embroidered on his denim work shirt.

"Can I help you, lady?" he asked when I
rolled down the window.

I looked up into his eyes. They were kind
eyes, warm and sympathetic.

And then out of the blue, before I could stop
myself, I was crying. With big hiccupy racking
sobs.

This is crazy, I told myself. What was I doing
crying in front of a perfect stranger? And ruin ing my eye make-up, too. But I couldn't stop myself.

"Lady, what's wrong?"