said, my voice steely with resolu-tion. “For once, I am not weakening.” She continued howling while I made my instant coffee. Then, much to my surprise, she stopped.
Usually, when she wants something she can keep up her wailing for hours on end.
But I guess this time she could tell I meant business, that I wasn’t going to cave in. Interesting how effective a little discipline can be. I really had to start being stricter with her and assert my author-ity. If she got hungry enough, eventually she’d break down and eat her diet food. It was as simple as that.
So it was with a feeling of accomplishment that I 70
Laura Levine
dropped a Pop Tart in the toaster for my breakfast.
Prozac let out an indignant meow.
You call that fair? You get to eat Pop Tarts, and I’m stuck with Lite ’N Lively Lamb Crud?
It was then that she stalked off to the living room, treating me to that scenic view of her tush.
I gobbled my Pop Tart standing up at the kitchen sink, safely out of Prozac’s line of vision, then went to my office, otherwise known as my dining table, to check my e-mails.
Can you believe Daddy? Stealing a fork to get Reverend Sternmuller’s fingerprints? And pulling a hair from his head for his DNA? It’s just lucky he didn’t try to get a blood sample.
But I couldn’t sit around all day worrying about Daddy. That was Mom’s job.
I spent the next hour or so fine-tuning the Ackerman Awning Brochure ( With Ackerman, You’ve Got It Made in the Shade! ), then got dressed and ran out to do some errands.
I was heading down the path to my Corolla when I bumped into my neighbor Lance.
“Hey, Jaine. How’s it going?” he said, the sun glinting off his thick blond curls. Lance is a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, and he always dresses the part. He flicked a nonexistent speck of lint from his Ermenegildo Zegna suit. (No, Ermenegildo Zegna is not, as I once thought, a rare skin disease.
It’s a designer label, one of Lance’s favorites.)
“I heard Prozac on the warpath this morning,” he said. “Is she still on her diet?”
“Yes, she most definitely is.”
“She lose any weight yet?”
“Well, no. She’s putting up a bit of a fight. It’s going to be a battle of wills between us, but trust me, I’m going to win.”
THE PMS MURDERS
71
“Nothing personal, hon. But my money’s on the cat.”
Then he waved good-bye and headed off to his Mini Cooper.
Well, phooey on him. I hoped his curls wilted in the smog. Really, it was most annoying how he just assumed I was incapable of putting my own cat on a diet. Well, I’d show him. Before long, Prozac would be svelte enough to lick her privates on the runways of Milan.
I got in my Corolla and was tooling off to the dry cleaners with a load of slacks and silk blouses in the backseat when I happened to pass a Goodwill store. On an impulse I decided to stop in. Sometimes I find some really neat stuff at thrift shops.
I’d pulled into the parking lot and was just getting out of my car when I saw someone familiar walking toward me from the drop-off area. It was Ashley, the big-boobed, margarita-toting gal from the PMS Club.
Suddenly I was embarrassed. I didn’t want her to know that I shopped at Goodwill. I realized I was being ridiculous. I remembered how much fun Ashley had been at the club meeting, how down-to-earth. Not the least bit snobby. She wouldn’t think less of me if I bought my clothes here. Why, lots of people think it’s chic to shop at Goodwill. But for some insane reason, I was embarrassed. Maybe it was Ashley’s silver Jaguar gleaming in the parking lot, or the multiple carats of diamonds studded in her ears.
I reached down into my Corolla, pretending to be looking for something, hoping she hadn’t recognized me, but it was too late.
72
Laura Levine
“Jaine? Is that you?”
I straightened up and smiled.
“Oh, hi, Ashley.”
She hurried over, her ample boobs bouncing with each step.
“Jaine, sweetie. We’re so happy
Usually, when she wants something she can keep up her wailing for hours on end.
But I guess this time she could tell I meant business, that I wasn’t going to cave in. Interesting how effective a little discipline can be. I really had to start being stricter with her and assert my author-ity. If she got hungry enough, eventually she’d break down and eat her diet food. It was as simple as that.
So it was with a feeling of accomplishment that I 70
Laura Levine
dropped a Pop Tart in the toaster for my breakfast.
Prozac let out an indignant meow.
You call that fair? You get to eat Pop Tarts, and I’m stuck with Lite ’N Lively Lamb Crud?
It was then that she stalked off to the living room, treating me to that scenic view of her tush.
I gobbled my Pop Tart standing up at the kitchen sink, safely out of Prozac’s line of vision, then went to my office, otherwise known as my dining table, to check my e-mails.
Can you believe Daddy? Stealing a fork to get Reverend Sternmuller’s fingerprints? And pulling a hair from his head for his DNA? It’s just lucky he didn’t try to get a blood sample.
But I couldn’t sit around all day worrying about Daddy. That was Mom’s job.
I spent the next hour or so fine-tuning the Ackerman Awning Brochure ( With Ackerman, You’ve Got It Made in the Shade! ), then got dressed and ran out to do some errands.
I was heading down the path to my Corolla when I bumped into my neighbor Lance.
“Hey, Jaine. How’s it going?” he said, the sun glinting off his thick blond curls. Lance is a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, and he always dresses the part. He flicked a nonexistent speck of lint from his Ermenegildo Zegna suit. (No, Ermenegildo Zegna is not, as I once thought, a rare skin disease.
It’s a designer label, one of Lance’s favorites.)
“I heard Prozac on the warpath this morning,” he said. “Is she still on her diet?”
“Yes, she most definitely is.”
“She lose any weight yet?”
“Well, no. She’s putting up a bit of a fight. It’s going to be a battle of wills between us, but trust me, I’m going to win.”
THE PMS MURDERS
71
“Nothing personal, hon. But my money’s on the cat.”
Then he waved good-bye and headed off to his Mini Cooper.
Well, phooey on him. I hoped his curls wilted in the smog. Really, it was most annoying how he just assumed I was incapable of putting my own cat on a diet. Well, I’d show him. Before long, Prozac would be svelte enough to lick her privates on the runways of Milan.
I got in my Corolla and was tooling off to the dry cleaners with a load of slacks and silk blouses in the backseat when I happened to pass a Goodwill store. On an impulse I decided to stop in. Sometimes I find some really neat stuff at thrift shops.
I’d pulled into the parking lot and was just getting out of my car when I saw someone familiar walking toward me from the drop-off area. It was Ashley, the big-boobed, margarita-toting gal from the PMS Club.
Suddenly I was embarrassed. I didn’t want her to know that I shopped at Goodwill. I realized I was being ridiculous. I remembered how much fun Ashley had been at the club meeting, how down-to-earth. Not the least bit snobby. She wouldn’t think less of me if I bought my clothes here. Why, lots of people think it’s chic to shop at Goodwill. But for some insane reason, I was embarrassed. Maybe it was Ashley’s silver Jaguar gleaming in the parking lot, or the multiple carats of diamonds studded in her ears.
I reached down into my Corolla, pretending to be looking for something, hoping she hadn’t recognized me, but it was too late.
72
Laura Levine
“Jaine? Is that you?”
I straightened up and smiled.
“Oh, hi, Ashley.”
She hurried over, her ample boobs bouncing with each step.
“Jaine, sweetie. We’re so happy
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