Slim to None Page 12

"It’s complicated," I say. I can’t get into this whole thing with the two of them.

  "Honey, I think you’ve got the idea. We’ll have to get her up to Pound Ridge, introduce her to the kids."

  "Poor Gretl will be beside herself, worrying about serving such a discerning palate," Sally says. "Maybe we won’t tell her."

  "No, honestly, you don’t need to have me up to your home, really, that’s not necessary." I can’t think of anything much more bizarre than joining this happy family I don’t even know for a formal sit-down dinner. Cooked by Hansel’s sister. Maybe I could wear a black and white striped shirt (vertical, of course, since horizontals are contraindicated for my size) and bring a whistle as a hostess gift.

  "But I love to entertain. And I haven’t had anyone over since George skipped out on me."

  "I didn’t skip out, Sally. I like Abbie’s term. Let’s just say I’m on hiatus."

  "From life."

  "Yep. From life."

  I start to wave my hand up high again. "Well, I really must get back with the dog. I’ll look forward to the invitation. Maybe I can escort George back there."

  "I’ll be in touch," Sally says. Which is sort of weird, considering her husband has no fixed address, and she lives an hour away from here and she hasn’t the slightest idea how to get in touch with me. I think I’ll chalk this up to George’s wife thinking of any ruse to get him back to home base. All I know is I’ve got enough turmoil in my life without having to add on someone else’s, thank you anyhow.

  Curried Chicken Salad

  Four chicken breasts, bone-in

  4 scallions

  1/2 bell pepper, diced finely

  small can mandarin oranges

  1/4 crisp, tart apple, diced finely

  1/4 pear, diced finely

  1/2 c. raisins or other dried fruit (cranberry, cherry, currant, golden raisin)

  1/4 pine nuts, toasted (can substitute almonds)

  1/4 mango, cubed

  1/3 c. papaya, cubed

  1 banana, sliced

  1 small jar mango chutney

  1 tbl. Curry

  1/2 tsp. cinnamon

  1/8 tsp. ground ginger (or grate 1 tsp. fresh ginger on microplane)

  pinch nutmeg

  pinch ground clove

  pinch turmeric

  1/3 c. sour cream

  1/3 c. plain yogurt

  1/3 c. mayonnaise

  coconut flakes, optional (dessicated unsweetened preferable)

  Cook breasts on cookie sheet in oven at 350 degrees for about 35 minutes, until done. Let cool, then shred meat and set aside.

  Blend all ingredients together, serve on croissants.

  I bought a talking refrigerator that said "Oink" every time I opened the door. It made me hungry for pork chops.

  Marie Mot

  Discard Zest and Skewer All Naysayers

  I drop Cognac back home and decide to go out to the bookstore. Newly resolved to make something of my sad self, I’m going in search of diet books. I’m sure there are a few on the shelves—it’s practically an industry unto itself, isn’t it?

  I mount the elevator one floor, two floors, all the way to the nosebleed section on the third floor in search of sage advice from some sort of dieting guru. And what I find are shelves. Shelves giving birth to more shelves, all buckling under the weight of the diet books (excuse the pun). Who’d have known? The heck with my foodie career—I should’ve been writing diet books all of these years. Clearly there must be a market for them.

  I simply cannot believe the various types of diets out there! Who knew there were diets for every mood, nationality, and place of residence? There’s the Skinny Bitch Diet, the French Women Don’t Get Fat diet, the South Beach, Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Scarsdale. Damn, if only I were a French woman living in a warm clime (or Scarsdale) I’d have nothing to fear.

  The thing that seems inherently unfair is that I’m obviously living in the wrong time: there was a day when skinny implied poverty, and fat suggested wealth and prestige. I’ve always felt myself to be wealthy in appetite. But unlucky for me, that sort of wealth is not valued. Whatever happened to those Rubenesque beauties with a wealth of flesh? They used to be all the rage. That would be just my luck that my body type will come back into vogue after I die, dammit.

  I decide to set my sights on the most obscure diets out there, figuring the tried and true isn’t really for me. I like to buck the trend. What I should buy is the Wheels of Wisdom Dial-a-Diet I see over there—I could pick my diet du jour that way. I pull it off the endcap display and give it a whirl. Wheee! It’s like a spin-the-bottle game, only instead of having to kiss the pimply boy sitting across from me at Janie Jacobs’ seventh grade birthday party, I leave it up to the spin of the wheel to decide a diet that will no doubt be the answer to all of my prayers.

  I pile up a stack of diet books and my Dial-a-Diet wheel and head to the check-out counter, my basket laden with healthful goodwill. At the counter I notice the latest People Magazine issue is featuring a svelte woman holding up a pair pants that you’d be able to fit a Panzer division into with ease. "Half My Size!" The headline proclaims. An inset photo reveals a corpulent version of this cover vixen and I can’t help but throw the issue in with my purchases—I must find out her secrets to lifelong thinness and apply them to my life. I also toss in a Godiva chocolate bar because sometimes at about midnight, the only thing that satiates those late-night cravings is chocolate. And I made William hide all of the chocolate last week so now I don’t know where it is. Which is fitting since I don’t know where he is either.

  Three hours later I find myself absolutely exhausted over my dieting options, and craving a juicy corned beef and pastrami sandwich with Russian dressing on seedless rye from the deli around the corner. Only I really don’t feel motivated to get up off the couch to pick it up, so I order it for delivery. I’m kicking myself the second I put down the phone. The ultimate lazy slob maneuver. At least I could’ve ventured out for the exercise. God, am I the queen of self-sabotage or what? Her Royal Highness, Abbie Scarf-It-Up. I can’t understand what it is about me that simply cannot latch onto the overall messages I’m getting everywhere. I’M FAT. I HAVE TO LOSE WEIGHT. What is it about this that isn’t able to sink in to my thick skull? Why am I not like everyone else who does this with such apparent ease? And how can I contemplate this still a half hour later as I sink my teeth into the best damned deli sandwich I’ve had in ages?

  So far I have only served to further frustrate myself with my task. That chick from People Magazine? Sure, she’s half her size, but she’s also given up living. Well, not exactly. But she’s give up eating pretty much altogether.

  She’s now a size two—a size two!!!—and a fitness buff. When asked if she ever splurges, she bashfully admits, "Sure, once a month or so I’ll order a skinny decaf latte." Uh, that’s her splurge? A modest splash of fat-free milk in coffee? That would be my diet alternative and the splurge would be a Frappucchino mocha surpreme with whipped cream and ice cream. Possibly served over pasta. But seriously, where is the sensual pleasure in a skinny decaf latte, will someone please tell me? A lifetime of broiled chicken, steamed broccoli and maybe some sautéed chard is what I have to look forward to in order to be tiny?

  Whatever happened to an indulgence being a pint of Ben and Jerry’s eaten standing up over the kitchen sink? Now that’s a splurge. Plus calorie-free, since it’s eaten out of the carton. Of course it’s nothing like my kind of splurge, which would probably include a five-course meal at Le Cirque. I mean, if you’re gonna go all out and blow the diet, you might as well do it memorably.

  So obviously what worked for her is not going to do the trick for me. Besides, I’m not aiming for a size zero. I’ll be happy staying in the double digits, just not in the stratospheric numbers to which I’ve become accustomed
. Although I’m starting to wonder if the only diet that will work for me is the Tragedy Diet: you know, when something so horrible happens to you that you simply cannot eat at all. Obviously job-lessness doesn’t fall under this category for me. But I’ve exhausted my brain cells on diet books tonight, and finally, with Tartare curled up at my feet, I fall into bed exhausted, thoughts of deprivation swirling through my head.

  * * *

  The week flies by quickly, oddly enough. I’ve taken to walking Cognac through the park for a good long time, until even he seems tired out. At least there we don’t have the traffic hazards we encounter on the city streets. Yesterday I lost track of the time and before I realized it, we’d been strolling for over two hours. I feel like a retiree. Maybe I should look into Elderhostel programs to fill my days. Perhaps a cooking class or two. Except that I’d be inclined to teach the class, not take it. And then I’d probably feel compelled to sample—or at least review—the output of the class. Nothing good could come of that in Abbie’s diet world.

  I’ve set up a whole system to my days, just to fill them as much as possible. I walk the dog, go to the gym, piddle around on my computer trying to come up with great ideas for my column. I’ve even enlisted a spy or two in my quest to nail Barry’s ass. So far I’m quietly fielding information, hoping I can find some damning evidence to return his favor. And then I walk Cognac yet again. The dog’s going to have calloused paws soon at the rate we’re going.

  Cognac especially likes to explore the scene over by the Conservatory Water; it seems he just loves watching those model boats go zipping by. Although perhaps he loves them a little too much, as he keeps chasing after them, and on more than one occasion I’ve had my arm tugged nearly out of my shoulder holding him back. Maybe Thor will be impressed with the upper body strength I’m building. After all, between hog-wrassling the dog, my daily workouts, and of course these walks, well, something must be going on. I did notice that my stretchy black travelers pants didn’t seem quite so stretched when I put them on yesterday. They’d started to seem almost gray, they were straining so much on my body. I’m pretty sure they looked more black.

  The cherry blossoms rimming the area near the pond have erupted into glorious pink powder-puffed splendor. They look downright edible, like a fluffy meringue. I decide to sit down at a park bench just to absorb this most agreeable afternoon. It seems that half of the city is in the park today, soaking in a gorgeous spring Sunday. The dog is enjoying a steady stream of loving from children, one of whom accidentally granted him a large tongue-swipe of ice cream. Which turned into a charitable donation when the child’s mother took the tainted cone away from the wailing child and handed it to Cognac, who gobbled it up in about two seconds. Which makes me wonder if I might be able to go up and just lick some kid’s ice cream and get a freebie that way. Clever canine.

  I’ve been trying to maintain discipline about food this week. Before going to crazy dietary lengths, I decided to try to channel those neuro-pathways that Jana and Thor had talked about. Instead of allowing those pathways to instant gratification to be gratified with food rewards, I’ve tried forge new pathways, healthier ones, by rewarding myself with other pleasurable things instead. For instance, each time I craved some form of dessert the past several days, I’ve instead bought songs on iTunes for myself. My credit card bill is going to start ratcheting up, however, what with the seventy-five new songs I’ve purchased this week alone. Only problem is I’m running out of music I really want to hear. I’ve started walking the dog with my iPod on just to justify the expenditure, though I hate to tune out the ambient sounds. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t cave and eat some sweets anyhow. But a couple of times I decided to do sit-ups instead of reaching for the ingredients to make a peppermint chocolate soufflé or something, so I’m making modest progress.

  I hear a familiar voice from a nearby bench, and glance over to catch Jess, of all people, out of the corner of my eye. I start to stand up to say something to her when I notice she’s not alone. She’s with Doctor Dex! Quickly I turn my back to remain incognito and try really hard to strain my left ear in their direction so I can overhear their conversation. Between snatches of "I loved when you did that to me, bear!", "that felt SO good" , "when’s he going out of town again?", a couple of growls, a purr, and a few "pookies", "bunnies" and "babes" thrown in for good measure, I’m fairly certain I’m either at a petting zoo or else I’ve found myself wiping the steam off of the window of the intimate world of Jess does Dex. Or the other way around.

  I can’t believe Jess lied to me! She wasn’t just thinking about launching into something with him, she’d already launched an all-out campaign! I loved when you did that to me! Please. I can’t bear to think about what it was he did to her. For that matter, I can’t seem to recall when something like that was last done to me. But that’s beside the point. How could Jess have drawn me into her adulterous web? And after all of those fabulous freebie meals I’ve lavished upon her! I never thought she’d taint me with her sordid sordidness! I feel like I’m personally involved in this thing.

  I ponder this for a minute. It’s weird, but it never bothered me when I was so far removed from it. Her little liaisons were sort of long-distance, out of sight, out of mind. But up close and personal, with all the pillow talk, blech. I feel downright soiled, like I’m the used sheets at the cheap motel.

  I hear him whisper something to her that rhymes with "wussy" and she giggles. I risk a backward glance and see them locked in a kiss. And his hands roving beneath her skirt. Oy. How can I bear witness to this? And this time I’m not even the intentional beard—I’m the unwitting beard. Well, more like sideburns. Those horrible mutton-chop types you don’t know why anyone would ever deliberately groom onto their faces. I scan the horizon and see happiness surrounding me. Grown men locked in carefree play with remote-control boats, kids with sno-cones, couples running in tandem, two seedy fellows who look like one is scoring drugs from the other. There are children nearby singing happy birthday, a cake aglow with six candles and a rich, delectable-looking buttercream frosting. My favorite kind.

  Icing. I need icing. There is no way I can get this Jess-Dex thing off of my mind unless I can retreat into something that will take this Jess-Dex thing off my mind. Wait a minute. What am I? Knee-jerk Nelly? The instant I feel stressed about anything, I seek the comfort of food? Yeah, dummy. You do seek the comfort of food. And you’re still going to seek the comfort of food. Because that’s what it’s there for. Your comfort.

  I feel as if I can just shout out "The devil made me do it!" the force is that intense, the need to feed that overwhelming. Part of me feels an intense gratitude that I need food, not smack. I mean sure, it’s bad enough that I’m filling my voids with food. But imagine if the addiction took over my life even more than this, if I was some junkie in a dark alley, scrounging for a dirty needle just to get my fix. Lord, at least my addiction is cleaner, less vulgar. And cheaper. Usually.

  Okay, where can I get my hands on ready-made buttercream frosting on a Sunday? Suddenly it comes to me: my salvation. Three blocks away, Takes the Cake (and Cupcakes Too), open seven days a week. They serve icing shooters for the icing-addicted. Like me. A little mainlining of double buttercream might shake the images of Jess and my doctor in pre- (or was it post-) flagrante delicto from my brain.

  I’m trying to figure out how to slip off without them noticing me, when they do me the favor of getting up and wandering away, their hands furrowed together as if fused with one another.

  * * *

  Back home, sugar buzz in full gear, I hunker down to write my column. This column thing is pretty easy, I realize. Since it doesn’t involve much in the way of research or even effort. It’s become my soap box, from which to launch into some of those emotions that I know so many other women share. I feel good that I’m giving voice to women all over the country who are in the same (sinking) boat as me.

 
Maybe It’d Better If I Was a Vampire

  My girlfriend and I were discussing photographs recently. Specifically how depressingly horrid we look in them. She was dressing up to attend a ritzy black-tie event at the British Consulate, at which she would be photographed alongside her husband and Prince Andrew. The Prince Andrew, of Fergie-with-the-foot-fetish fame.

  Amy lamented the fact that her husband was going to look good, as usual, and that she would end up looking like a cow in the picture, forever preserved as the unidentified heifer in the photograph. I suggested that she take the celebrity approach to having her picture taken: tuck her head beneath one arm while extending her other arm out, quasi-blocking the photographer’s lens with her hand spread wide. You achieve two effects this way: one, your little tromp l’oeil with the photograph makes it look as if you’re so famous, you merely don’t want your picture taken again— you’re simply so weary of everyone wanting to snap your image; and two, you end up not being frozen in technicolor, front and center, as the blivet in the picture with British royalty.

  Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier just being a vampire, because then at least your image doesn’t appear in photographs. So you’re not preserved for all of posterity looking too damned fat for the pictures.

  Mercifully technology has come to the rescue of those of us unhappy with our Kodachrome images. Now we can photoshop our blubber away. My friend’s son came home with a project he’d worked on in computer class a few weeks ago. In it, he downloaded an image of a dreary plain-Jane jowly-looking woman. Through the magic of photoshopping, he was able to put a sparkle in her eye, trim the turkey gobble from her neck, style her hair, rid her visage of wrinkles, and just generally make her look like someone she’d probably rather look like.

  If you can do this for a complete stranger downloaded from the internet, then why can’t we just doctor up our family photos for the viewing pleasure of all? Wouldn’t you rather be remembered as slightly better-looking than you might currently be? After all, think about those dreadful turn-of-the-century tin-types in which young women of childbearing ages look like they already have one foot in the grave. Dark circles ringing their eyes, stony-faced gazes, no smiles. Surely in real life these people had humor, had spark to them, were a little bit more pleasant than the dour image left in their stead. That’s all I’m after: to be preserved as how I think I ought to look, rather than how I actually look. Is that asking for much?