Read Online Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) by Laura Levine - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Levine
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tummy instantly,” she said, morphing into an infomercial spokeswoman before my eyes. “I simply adore mine.”
“Why on earth are you wearing a Tummy Tamer? You don’t even have a tummy.”
“That’s because I’m wearing my Tummy Tamer. You wouldn’t believe how fat I am without it.”
Don’t you just hate it when skinny women talk about how “fat” they are? Don’t you want to just choke them with a celery stick?
“Honestly, Jaine,” she said with a missionary gleam in her eye. “You have to promise you’ll get one for Peter’s party.”
I could see there’d be no living with her unless I promised.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get a Tummy Tamer.”
Of course, I had no intention whatsoever of buying one of the silly things. Girdles are just too darn uncomfortable.
But after Kandi and I had hugged good-bye and I’d sneaked back to the food court for a giant salted pretzel, I happened to be walking through a department store I shall, for legal reasons, call Floomingdale’s, when I ran smack into a display of the very Tummy Tamers Kandi had been raving about.
There they were, stacked high on a table, with the most amazing Before and After pictures propped up in the middle of the display. I gaped in amazement at a woman, who in her Before picture looked a lot like me after a rendezvous with Messrs. Ben and Jerry, and in her After picture resembled a runway model in Milan. Like magic, her tummy had disappeared.
“It’s a miracle, isn’t it?” a seductive voice whispered in my ear.
I turned to see a stick-thin saleswoman at my side.
“I’m wearing one now,” she confided, running her hands down her size 0 body.
And for one crazy minute, I actually imagined I could look like a Milan fashion model with the help of a piece of spandex.
As if in a trance, I reached for a box.
“Is it very uncomfortable?” I asked, wondering what price I’d have to pay for such a fabulous body.
“Not at all,” Ms. Stick assured me. “You’ll hardly even know you have it on.”
And like a fool, I believed her.
Chapter 8
T here’s got to be a special place in hell for the guy (it can’t possibly have been a woman) who invented the Tummy Tamer. A place of honor right next to the guys who invented bikini waxes and rice cakes.
It was the night of Peter’s Halloween party, and I’d waited till the last minute to try it on.
Freshly showered, my hair blow-dried to perfection, I was standing in my bra and panties, admiring my newly sleek tresses, thinking how cute they’d look with the feather headband that came with my flapper costume. Prozac was stretched out on my bed, watching me get dressed, taking an occasional time-out to claw my comforter.
Up until that moment, everything had been humming along smoothly.
And then I reached for the Tummy Tamer.
When I took it out of the box, I groaned to see it was the size of a Barbie headband. Surely there had to be some mistake. Obviously someone had put a toddler’s Tummy Tamer in the wrong box.
But no. When I checked the label on the Tummy Tamer, I saw it was the right size.
Gingerly I stepped into it, wondering if I would be able to get it up past my ankles.
You’ll be happy to know my ankles were a breeze. The rest of the journey, however, was a struggle of monumental proportions. I tried valiantly to tug the diabolical band of elastic past my thighs and up around my hips, grunting and groaning every step of the way. All the while, I swear I could see Prozac snickering from her perch on my bed.
At last the battle of the bulge was over. Gasping from the exertion, I checked myself out in the mirror and was pleasantly surprised to see that the Tummy Tamer had lived up to its name. It had, indeed, whittled inches off my tummy.
True, it felt like my internal organs had been sucked into a space bag, but on the plus side, I couldn’t help thinking how wonderful I was going to look in my flapper outfit.
Suddenly all the effort seemed worth it.
I was busy
“Why on earth are you wearing a Tummy Tamer? You don’t even have a tummy.”
“That’s because I’m wearing my Tummy Tamer. You wouldn’t believe how fat I am without it.”
Don’t you just hate it when skinny women talk about how “fat” they are? Don’t you want to just choke them with a celery stick?
“Honestly, Jaine,” she said with a missionary gleam in her eye. “You have to promise you’ll get one for Peter’s party.”
I could see there’d be no living with her unless I promised.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get a Tummy Tamer.”
Of course, I had no intention whatsoever of buying one of the silly things. Girdles are just too darn uncomfortable.
But after Kandi and I had hugged good-bye and I’d sneaked back to the food court for a giant salted pretzel, I happened to be walking through a department store I shall, for legal reasons, call Floomingdale’s, when I ran smack into a display of the very Tummy Tamers Kandi had been raving about.
There they were, stacked high on a table, with the most amazing Before and After pictures propped up in the middle of the display. I gaped in amazement at a woman, who in her Before picture looked a lot like me after a rendezvous with Messrs. Ben and Jerry, and in her After picture resembled a runway model in Milan. Like magic, her tummy had disappeared.
“It’s a miracle, isn’t it?” a seductive voice whispered in my ear.
I turned to see a stick-thin saleswoman at my side.
“I’m wearing one now,” she confided, running her hands down her size 0 body.
And for one crazy minute, I actually imagined I could look like a Milan fashion model with the help of a piece of spandex.
As if in a trance, I reached for a box.
“Is it very uncomfortable?” I asked, wondering what price I’d have to pay for such a fabulous body.
“Not at all,” Ms. Stick assured me. “You’ll hardly even know you have it on.”
And like a fool, I believed her.
Chapter 8
T here’s got to be a special place in hell for the guy (it can’t possibly have been a woman) who invented the Tummy Tamer. A place of honor right next to the guys who invented bikini waxes and rice cakes.
It was the night of Peter’s Halloween party, and I’d waited till the last minute to try it on.
Freshly showered, my hair blow-dried to perfection, I was standing in my bra and panties, admiring my newly sleek tresses, thinking how cute they’d look with the feather headband that came with my flapper costume. Prozac was stretched out on my bed, watching me get dressed, taking an occasional time-out to claw my comforter.
Up until that moment, everything had been humming along smoothly.
And then I reached for the Tummy Tamer.
When I took it out of the box, I groaned to see it was the size of a Barbie headband. Surely there had to be some mistake. Obviously someone had put a toddler’s Tummy Tamer in the wrong box.
But no. When I checked the label on the Tummy Tamer, I saw it was the right size.
Gingerly I stepped into it, wondering if I would be able to get it up past my ankles.
You’ll be happy to know my ankles were a breeze. The rest of the journey, however, was a struggle of monumental proportions. I tried valiantly to tug the diabolical band of elastic past my thighs and up around my hips, grunting and groaning every step of the way. All the while, I swear I could see Prozac snickering from her perch on my bed.
At last the battle of the bulge was over. Gasping from the exertion, I checked myself out in the mirror and was pleasantly surprised to see that the Tummy Tamer had lived up to its name. It had, indeed, whittled inches off my tummy.
True, it felt like my internal organs had been sucked into a space bag, but on the plus side, I couldn’t help thinking how wonderful I was going to look in my flapper outfit.
Suddenly all the effort seemed worth it.
I was busy
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