Slim to None Read online

  Why can she do it and I can’t? And then I remember my own smug little self the last time I got thin. My friends were still toting around excess flubber while I glowed with the newfound willowy shape with which I’d found myself. While humble to others, I secretly gloated because I knew I looked good. Little did I know that my standing in the slender department was only to be temporary.

  But life has been teaching me some large lessons lately. Some of these lessons have to do with accepting who you are, large, medium or small. And others have to do with letting go of the past, regardless of what happened. And I’m starting to realize that something about letting go of that past lends itself to no longer caring so much about what size you are, rather what begins to come into focus is what’s really important: what kind of person you are, deep down inside.

  I know these sound like obvious lessons, but I suppose some of us are a little more dense than are others. Sometimes lessons don’t come as readily. Or perhaps until we’re ready for them.

  So as I let those new notions sink in, maybe it’s time to reconsider the ADD angle to dieting and instead follow my friends’ approach and become an ADD eater, see where it leads me. I’ll keep you posted.

  * * *

  Well, sometimes a diet finds me whether I’ve planned it or not. Since I saw my father three days ago I’ve been laid out in bed, so sick I could barely get up to walk the dog. I’ve eaten nothing more than a few saltine cracks and several bottles of Lucozade I keep on hand for stomach bugs. It’s a British version of Gatorade but I think it has unique curative properties so I make sure to have it in stock for just such occasions. If you can call a stomach bug an occasion.

  Poor Cognac has been going absolutely stir-crazy. He’s become so acclimated to our long walks that he’s like a junkie needing a fix; he’s been pacing by the front door all day long, his claws clicking so loudly I hear it in my bedroom. Today I’m so tired of being bedridden that I’ve decided to force myself out and into the real world, even if I do feel weak and woozy. Some fresh air should do me good. I take a quick shower to wash three days of sleep out of my hair, slip on a pair of sweat pants and an old Princeton sweatshirt of Williams, and head out with the dog.

  After about twenty minutes of our usual circuit, we happen upon George and Sally.

  "What great timing! Fresh back from therapy, and now we meet up with Abbie!" George says as he gives me a hug.

  "Don’t get too close, I’m getting over being sick."

  "You need some chicken noodle soup to get you better," Sally says.

  I push my hands out as if I’m full. "Thanks but no thanks. Plenty enough of that on this stupid diet of mine. I’m chicken souped out, thank you. In fact I’m avoiding all things edible right now."

  "Ack. I can relate. Can’t eat a thing!" Sally adds, rubbing her stomach.

  George rolls his eyes. "She never eats anything. Afraid she’ll gain weight. Meanwhile, she could use some extra meat on her bones, don’t you think, Abbie?"

  "Now that’s a loaded question I’ll steer entirely clear of. We all have our issues with food. Speaking of food, I have to get this one back home soon or he’ll eat me up for dinner." I point to Cognac.

  As I’m walking away, Sally slips me her number on a calling card and motions with her pinky and thumb sticking out at her ear for me to call her. Don’t you love that she has a calling card? Guess we’re trying to keep this dinner gathering on the down-low to keep George from getting cold feet. Well, I’m determined to get him there one way or another so she has nothing to fear there.

  The sidewalks are getting heavy with pedestrians as rush hour thickens. Up ahead, across the street, I see a street vendor with one of those fake airplane things that hover above your head. Before I can even give a secure tug on the leash, Cognac sees it too, and takes off. Weakened from being sick, I can’t keep my grip on the leash and he’s gone in a flash.

  "Cognac!" I scream as he gallops off ahead of me. I try to wend my way through the mass of bodies but I’m no match for an agile dog who already got a head start on me. People are staring at me, wondering why I’m screaming out so desperately for an after-dinner drink at this hour, probably thinking this is par for the course in this crazy city.

  I lose sight of him between everyone’s coats and briefcases and then I hear a sickening screech of tires up ahead. I push through the crowd, knocking down a couple of people in the process and hearing in the background a good handful of expletives aimed my way. And too soon I see what I feared: the limp and impossibly bent body of my baby, my beloved dog, knocked unconscious and looking for all the world to be dead. A trickle of blood drips from his nose and I lay down to protect him as I scream his name over and over again.

  Tears obscure my vision as I lay there, my body wrapped protectively—too late for that—around him, afraid to move him, not knowing if doing so will further damage his already obviously damaged body. A cabby is standing nearby telling everyone who will listen that he didn’t do anything, the dog ran in front of him, he didn’t even see him till it was too late. A cop shows up and leans down to talk to me. He tells me someone is coming to help with the dog and tries to calm me down but he can’t understand, Cognac is my baby. Besides William, he’s all I’ve got. Well, until recently, anyhow. But I’ve invested all of my love and caring into this dog and, and, and I can’t lose him, I just can’t. I just can’t—

  The next thing I know I know nothing. I lose all consciousness, right in the middle of a filthy Manhattan street (even though really, they’re much cleaner than they used to be). Or so I’m being told, fifteen minutes later in some anteroom of an emergency veterinarian’s office. It seems they have me laid out on a makeshift couch in the head vet’s private office.

  "Cognac?"

  "He’s in surgery right now," a vet tech tells me.

  "Oh, God. Surgery?" I shoot her a terrified look that asks all of my unasked questions.

  The large tech, who looks so cheerful in her pink cotton scrubs with wagging dogs all over it, scrunches her brows. "He’s suffered a lot of internal trauma. They’re doing whatever they can for him."

  "You can’t let him die, you just can’t. He’s all I have—"

  She reaches out and strokes my head. "They’re doing everything they can for him. Have faith. The police went through your cell phone and pulled up your emergency contact. They’ve called that number and someone should be here shortly for you. In the meantime, can I get you anything? You should stay laying down for now." She looks at me and must see the terror in my eyes. "It’ll be okay, dear."

  A few minutes later I hear a familiar voice. "Abbie?"

  I look up to see William standing in the doorway. "William?"

  "I just talked to one of the vets assisting in the surgery," he says.

  "Is he going to be okay?"

  William looks grim. "They don’t know yet, Abbie. His body suffered a lot of damage. We aren’t going to know till they’re all done."

  I begin to cry all over again. William walks over and sits down next to me, wrapping his arms around me and letting me cry. We don’t talk for a lot of minutes, and all I can hear are my muffled sobs and the clock ticking along the minutes of Cognac’s surgery. Finally William speaks.

  "You want to tell me what happened?"

  "It was an accident, I swear it was. I was sick and I hadn’t walked him and he had all this pent up energy and we’d been walking for a little while already but then when I headed back toward home he saw something and he ran after it and I couldn’t hold onto the leash and I was still feeling so weak from being sick and the next thing you know I heard the screech of tires and then I saw my baby bleeding on the ground. I didn’t mean for it to happen—"

  "Of course you didn’t mean for it to happen, honey. I know that. Look, accidents happen." He scratches the back of my head in a soothing way.

 
"If something happens to Cognac I’ll—"

  "Let’s not go there. Let’s just hope that they can patch him up."

  "Patch him up? He was bleeding from his nose! That’s not exactly Raggedy Ann material, you know."

  "Take a deep breath, Abbie. Let’s just wait and see what we hear. No sense in jumping to conclusions, right?"

  Except that is one thing I’m really good at. I come from the "we’re all gonna die!" school of thought. Why think things will turn out right when I can imagine all of the horrible alternatives to that sunny scenario?

  For the next two hours we just sit there, me weeping intermittently, and William leafing through very old issues of Cat Fancy Magazine. You know things are dire when a middle-aged man is fixated on reading about the mating habits of Maine coon and Javanese cats (and here I thought Javanese described a coffee bean).

  "Did you know the Korat is an ancient Siamese breed?" He asks me.

  "Huh?" I must’ve drifted off to sleep after a heavy bout of sobbing.

  "Considered a good-luck cat. Given to brides on their wedding day."

  I wish I had a korat cat right now in that case. I need some good luck.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Jennings?" my very large, jovial-looking tech suddenly calls for us. "Follow me." We tail her as close as possible without being considered stalkers, hoping to get to see our dog. She shows us to a room and the vet, a Dr. Dawgley—no joke—comes in.

  "First things first," he says, after introducing himself. "I think Cognac is going to be fine."

  We heave a collaborative sigh of relief.

  "He lost a lot of blood. Perforated his liver, and has a broken leg. You’re really lucky that car wasn’t going faster—HBCs don’t usually have much of a chance. He’s lucky it was rush hour and traffic wasn’t moving as fast."

  "HBC’s?"

  "Hit By Car. I think the combination of Cognac being big enough to take the hit and in excellent cardiovascular health really helped him weather the worst of it."

  "You mean all that walking I’ve done has done him good?"

  "The dog’s in great shape. Well, discounting the injuries he’s suffered from this accident. He’s going to have a very slow road to recovery. He’ll have to stay here for a while, to make sure he’s stabilized."

  "But we’ll be able to bring him home once he’s all better?"

  "I think he’ll be fine."

  "Can we see him now?" I ask.

  The vet nods. "Now you’ll probably be disturbed a the sight of him. He’s still pinned down and has IV’s running in him. Patches of his fur are shaved off. He’s still under sedation."

  William takes my hand and we enter the recovery area and see our baby looking so weak and vulnerable. With bald patches where he normally has that wonderful teddy bear fur I love to run my fingers through.

  I lean over and kiss his head, scratching his ears like he loves so much. Even though he’s still asleep I swear his tail wags a little bit.

  "Sweet dog, I’m so sorry I let this happen to you," I whisper into his ear. "I don’t know how I let go of you but I’m so grateful your life was spared. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you like this."

  I try to wrap my arms around him but with the fluid attached to him and tubes all over the place I’m afraid I’m going to disconnect something vital.

  I lean over and bury my face in William’s neck and cry.

  "Hey, why ya crying? He’s going to be fine, sweetie. Only happy tears tears now, okay?"

  William reaches out to wipe my tears away with his thumb.

  We sit with Cognac for a good long while as he comes out of the fog of anesthesia. He’s weak and not very responsive but he does know we’re here and I can tell he wants to move to greet us but his body won’t let him.

  The vet techs tell us we need to let him rest, so finally, with great reluctance, we leave the room. We’re given information about his stay at the vet clinic, and hours during which we might be able to visit him, and warned that he’s got a long road to recovery ahead of him. I feel horrible about it all and can’t help but beat myself up over the what-if’s, even though I know it’s not particularly productive.

  As we’re walking out of the clinic, William leans over to give me a simple kiss on the lips. "You’ll call me if you hear anything on him?"

  "You’re not coming back home?" I’d just assumed he would, what with this crisis and all.

  He shakes his head. "Not yet, Abbie. I’ll let you know when I’m ready."

  With that he turns and begins to walk the opposite direction that we were going, never once looking back, as I stand, empty-handed. No dog, no husband, no nothing. If I thought things felt empty before, that was nothing compared to this.

  Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies

  pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.

  ingredients

  1 c. (2 sticks) butter softened

  1 c. Brown sugar

  1/2 c. sugar

  2 eggs

  1 tsp. vanilla

  1-1/4 c. flour (I used Wondra flour which is pre-sifted—I also use this for my pies, but it’s not always easy to find it)

  1 tsp. baking soda

  1/2 tsp. salt

  3 c. oats (use old-fashioned and not the quick oats)

  2 c. chocolate chips

  Cream butter and sugars till creamy.

  Add eggs and vanilla; beat well

  Add combined flour, baking soda & salt, mix well

  Stir in oats and chocolate chips.

  Drop by rounded tablespoonfuls onto ungreased cookie sheet.

  Bake 10-12 minutes or until golden brown.

  Cool 1 minute on cookie sheet and transfer to wire rack.

  yields about 4 dozen cookies

  *(can also spread out on ungreased 13 X 9" metal baking pan and baked for 30-35 minutes, then cut into bars)

  Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the Titanic who waved off the dessert cart.

  Erma Bombeck

  Ginger and Spice and All That’s Nice

  Coping. I’m all about coping right now. And part of coping for me means pretending that my dog is not recovering from near-death without me by his side while also pretending that my husband is just away on business and not on an extended hiatus away from me. Hell, I wonder if this was what Sally went through when George disappeared. I don’t suppose there’s much chance that William is lounging on a park bench anywhere in town, though. He likes his creature comforts too much for that.

  Oh, God, what if his creature comforts involve large breasts and an hourglass figure? I mean maybe that Vespa girl wasn’t the one, but maybe there is a one. Maybe even if there isn’t one this very second, maybe there’ll be one in an hour.

  He might meet her at the bus stop today. Even though he doesn’t ever ride a bus. Well, maybe he’ll be pressed up against her on the subway. What greater way to achieve instant intimacy with a gorgeous blond—and they’re always blond—than to be flesh-to-flesh in a rush hour subway car, when there’s no way to move, or if there is, it’s minimal. Only enough to get a little more intimate.

  Maybe she’ll have just stopped off for a mojito for happy hours, the crushed mint still lingering on her breath. And there they’ll be, jostling with the jiggling motion of the train, back and forth, side to side, over and under. Wait, no over and under.

  And maybe William will really notice another woman, for the first time in all these years. A tall, blond, well-endowed woman. A thin one, with no food obsessions whatsoever. In fact, she probably eschews eating in favor of herbal tea and colonic cleanses. They’re all the rage, you know. Maybe he’s already taken her back to his little pied-a-terre. Not that he has one—I mean as far as I know he doesn’t. But where is he, anyhow? And it seems like this would be just the right time to have a pied-a-terre and use it accordingl
y.

  You might be thinking that I am losing it and you might well be right about that. But how can I not be under the circumstances? My whole life has gone topsy-turvy on me and I feel like one of those enormous sea turtles that got flipped over on my back on the sand when the tide went out, flapping my flippers helplessly, completely unable to right myself without outside intervention.

  Only I don’t think there is any outside intervention—no one waiting to swoop in and save me this time. I guess it’s up to me to figure that out.

  * * *

  A week has passed since the accident and I’ve thrown myself into not being all about myself. Gym, work, gym, work. I’ve written enough columns to get me through a couple of months at this rate. And at the gym, I got weighed and found out I’ve lost another fifteen pounds: it seems that the tragedy diet does me well. Nothing like losing all that’s important to you to take away your appetite I suppose. The only way to lose is to lose. Hell, I can’t even muster up enough desire to eat the usual stress-eating standbys. It’s all very weird.

  Speaking of weird, I got a call today from Ling Chung, he of the recent phone conversation I heard with Barry. Seems Ling wanted to let me know that Barry had been up to no good with me, too. He had received my photograph way back when, before I was outed. I asked him whether Barry was trying to extort money out of him in order to get a good review, and he finally ’fessed up. Seems he was worried he’d ruin everything if he admitted that, what with Barry’s strong-arm tactics.

  Surprise, surprise. Luckily I’ve concocted a little surprise of my own for Barry, with the help of a new-found sister of mine.

  * * *