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Authors: Laura Levine
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noticed.”
“Excuse me just a minute, will you?”
With that she walked over to a CD player on her work station and cranked up the volume on the sitar music, drowning out the moans of ecstasy from the next cubicle.
Then she returned to the massage table, mission accomplished.
She’d managed to get rid of Mallory.
For the time being, anyway.
All too soon, my massage was over, and I spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool, lying dazed in a deck chair, trying to tune out Cathy as she blathered on about the merits of Paper Vs. Plastic. In case you’re interested (and even if you’re not): Plastic’s a cinch, because you just load a whole bunch of bags on the metal holders and drop in the groceries.
But paper, on the other hand—whatever you do, don’t get Cathy started on paper. That’s at least fifteen minutes of your life you’ll never get back. The trouble with paper is you’ve got to reach over and get each individual bag, and then you’ve got to pull it open, and heaven help you if it doesn’t have handles. (“The way some customers act,” Cathy huffed, “you’d think I’d just shortchanged them again.”)
Of course, what really bugged Cathy were the people who wanted paper and plastic. (“For heavens sakes, can’t they make up their mind?”) According to Cathy—and you will be quizzed on this at the end of the book—the world would be a better place if customers bagged their own groceries.
Needless to say by the time dinner rolled around, I was ready to eat the wallpaper.
The wallpaper, yes. But not the depressing retread of last night’s fish and veggie fiasco. Somehow Kevin the cook had managed to poach every iota of flavor from the ghastly gray blob of fish on my plate. I struggled to get down a few mouthfuls and saved the rest for Prozac.
Back in my room, I found her out on the patio, her pink nose up against the mesh screen, staring intently at a koi pond just a few yards away. As she watched the plump golden fish flitting about in the moonlight, I knew exactly what the little monster was thinking.
Bet they’d be yummy sautéed in butter sauce.
“Forget it, Pro. They’re for ornamental purposes only.”
Then she turned from the screen and began her patented Feed Me dance around my ankles. It had been ages since her Fancy Feast, and she was ravenous.
Hurrying to her food bowl, I tossed out the diet glop she had been ignoring, and gave her my Gray Fish ala Kevin.
Even Prozac, a world-class chow hound, sniffed at it in disdain. But she ate it anyway, and began howling for more.
“Hang in there, honey. I’m heading into town to get us some goodies.”
Indeed, I had not forgotten my plan to slip into town after dinner and swan dive into a pepperoni pizza. As soon as I’d wolfed it down, I’d pop in at the local convenience store for Prozac’s cat food, and a candy bar or three to tide me over until the next night.
“Soon,” I promised, “you’ll be feasting on Savory Salmon Guts.”
Prozac greeted that news with a bossy swish of her tail.
Okay, but make it snappy!!
Bidding her a hasty adieu, I grabbed my wallet and car keys and headed down the hallway. I was just about to slip past the lobby to freedom, when Olga jumped out from nowhere.
“Oh there you are, Jaine,” she said, grabbing my elbow. “We’re all waiting for you. I’m about to begin my lecture.”
Her lecture??? For crying out loud. Exercise all day, and a lecture at night? How much could a body stand?
She marched me into the lounge where the other inmates were seated—Mallory and Harvy, cozy on a loveseat; Clint and Kendra, glowering in nearby armchairs. Only Cathy sat at the edge of her chair, eager for the festivities to begin. I took a seat as close to the door as possible.
As Olga trotted over to the massive fireplace to begin her talk, I saw Mallory sneak a sip of vodka from a minibottle.
“Tonight’s lecture,” Olga announced, “will be Fun Facts About Trans Fats .”
Trust
“Excuse me just a minute, will you?”
With that she walked over to a CD player on her work station and cranked up the volume on the sitar music, drowning out the moans of ecstasy from the next cubicle.
Then she returned to the massage table, mission accomplished.
She’d managed to get rid of Mallory.
For the time being, anyway.
All too soon, my massage was over, and I spent the rest of the afternoon by the pool, lying dazed in a deck chair, trying to tune out Cathy as she blathered on about the merits of Paper Vs. Plastic. In case you’re interested (and even if you’re not): Plastic’s a cinch, because you just load a whole bunch of bags on the metal holders and drop in the groceries.
But paper, on the other hand—whatever you do, don’t get Cathy started on paper. That’s at least fifteen minutes of your life you’ll never get back. The trouble with paper is you’ve got to reach over and get each individual bag, and then you’ve got to pull it open, and heaven help you if it doesn’t have handles. (“The way some customers act,” Cathy huffed, “you’d think I’d just shortchanged them again.”)
Of course, what really bugged Cathy were the people who wanted paper and plastic. (“For heavens sakes, can’t they make up their mind?”) According to Cathy—and you will be quizzed on this at the end of the book—the world would be a better place if customers bagged their own groceries.
Needless to say by the time dinner rolled around, I was ready to eat the wallpaper.
The wallpaper, yes. But not the depressing retread of last night’s fish and veggie fiasco. Somehow Kevin the cook had managed to poach every iota of flavor from the ghastly gray blob of fish on my plate. I struggled to get down a few mouthfuls and saved the rest for Prozac.
Back in my room, I found her out on the patio, her pink nose up against the mesh screen, staring intently at a koi pond just a few yards away. As she watched the plump golden fish flitting about in the moonlight, I knew exactly what the little monster was thinking.
Bet they’d be yummy sautéed in butter sauce.
“Forget it, Pro. They’re for ornamental purposes only.”
Then she turned from the screen and began her patented Feed Me dance around my ankles. It had been ages since her Fancy Feast, and she was ravenous.
Hurrying to her food bowl, I tossed out the diet glop she had been ignoring, and gave her my Gray Fish ala Kevin.
Even Prozac, a world-class chow hound, sniffed at it in disdain. But she ate it anyway, and began howling for more.
“Hang in there, honey. I’m heading into town to get us some goodies.”
Indeed, I had not forgotten my plan to slip into town after dinner and swan dive into a pepperoni pizza. As soon as I’d wolfed it down, I’d pop in at the local convenience store for Prozac’s cat food, and a candy bar or three to tide me over until the next night.
“Soon,” I promised, “you’ll be feasting on Savory Salmon Guts.”
Prozac greeted that news with a bossy swish of her tail.
Okay, but make it snappy!!
Bidding her a hasty adieu, I grabbed my wallet and car keys and headed down the hallway. I was just about to slip past the lobby to freedom, when Olga jumped out from nowhere.
“Oh there you are, Jaine,” she said, grabbing my elbow. “We’re all waiting for you. I’m about to begin my lecture.”
Her lecture??? For crying out loud. Exercise all day, and a lecture at night? How much could a body stand?
She marched me into the lounge where the other inmates were seated—Mallory and Harvy, cozy on a loveseat; Clint and Kendra, glowering in nearby armchairs. Only Cathy sat at the edge of her chair, eager for the festivities to begin. I took a seat as close to the door as possible.
As Olga trotted over to the massive fireplace to begin her talk, I saw Mallory sneak a sip of vodka from a minibottle.
“Tonight’s lecture,” Olga announced, “will be Fun Facts About Trans Fats .”
Trust
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