eyes widened. “Don’t tell me you give Prozac birthday parties?”
“Yes, in fact, I do, and for your information she really enjoys them. I put a birthday candle in her can of Fancy Mackerel Guts, and afterwards we eat cake and ice cream.”
Okay, so I eat the cake and ice cream. But Prozac licks the lid.
Kandi shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re passing up a chance to go out with a wonderful guy to stay home and work on your relationship with your cat.”
“Sorry, but you’re going to have to tell this termite guy I’m not interested.”
“No,” Kandi said. “You’re going to have to tell him. I already gave him your number.”
“Kandi! How could you?”
“What’s the big deal? When he calls, just say no. You’ve had plenty of practice.”
“I will, don’t worry. And besides, if he’s so great, why don’t you go out with him?”
“I can’t.” Kandi’s eyes lit up with excitement. “I’m dating someone.”
“Really? Who?”
“A martial arts instructor!”
“How on earth did you meet a martial arts instructor?”
“He’s teaching a self-defense course at the studio. One of the producers on the lot got assaulted on the way to her car by an angry writer, and so now they’re making us study self-defense. Oh, Jaine, he’s such a doll. So manly and sure of himself. Unlike the cerebral wimps I usually waste my time on.”
“Does Mr. Manly have a name?”
“Matt Malone. Isn’t that a great name? It’s so No Frills.”
“How long have you been seeing him?”
“Well, he hasn’t exactly asked me out yet, but I know he will.”
That’s Kandi for you. Ever the optimist.
“It’s obvious he likes me. He keeps calling me up to the front of the class for demonstrations. Last night, I kicked him in the groin. Not really. But he showed me where to aim. God, it was sexy.
“I’m telling you, Jaine,” she said, dabbing at the guacamole with the tines of her fork. “This time I’ve met Mr. Right.”
I smiled weakly. Kandi meets an average of 2.38 Mr. Rights per month. And 2.37 of them turn out to be duds. The amazing thing, though, is that she never gives up. She sails from one guy to the next, never bloodied, never bowed. Unlike yours truly, who threw in the towel after one measly marriage.
True, it was the marriage from Hell. But lots of other women recover from bad marriages. Why didn’t I? I’ll tell you why: Because those other women weren’t married to The Blob. That’s what I call my ex-husband. I didn’t always call him The Blob. Back when we were still married, I called him My First Husband. I should’ve known I was in trouble when he wore flip flops to our wedding. I’ll spare you the painful details of the rest of our four years together. Let’s just say that by the time the divorce was final, I was ready to check into a convent and throw away the key.
“Here you go, señoritas.”
The waiter was at our table, with a pitcher of margaritas. He poured us each a frosty glass.
“Here’s to your new job,” Kandi said, “and my new relationship.”
As fate would have it, neither lasted two weeks.
“Mommy’s home!” I called out as I let myself into my apartment, which—for all you architecture fans out there—is a 1940s duplex in the low-rent area of Beverly Hills. Not that the rent is actually low, but it seems that way, compared to the Casa Kingsleys of the world.
Prozac raised her head from where she was napping on my best cashmere sweater and looked at me through slitted eyes.
When will you get over the ridiculous notion that you’re my mother? she seemed to be saying. In case you’ve forgotten, one of us is a cat, and the other a mere mortal.
I know she doesn’t like it when I call myself Mommy, but I’m the one footing the cat food bills, so Mommy it is.
“Mommy’s got a new job,” I said, scratching her belly. “And guess how much I’m getting paid, snookums? Three thousand lovely dollars a week! That’s enough to keep you in albacore tuna morning, noon, and night.”
Her eyes shot open wide. Just the mention of food can do that to her. We’re a lot alike, my Prozac and I.
The phone rang, and I got it.
“Three thousand dollars a week? Congratulations!”
It was Lance Venable, my next door neighbor.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” he said.
And it’s true. The man has x-ray hearing. Really. Lance hears toilets flushing in West Covina. Which was pretty disconcerting when I first moved in to my apartment, but I’ve gotten used to it now.
“So tell me all about your new job.”
And I did.
“Wow,” he said when I was through. “SueEllen Kingsley. I see her picture in the society pages all the time. What amazing tits. You really saw them naked?”
“Yep. They float.”
“How come nothing fun like that ever happens at my job?” he pouted. “All I get to see are bunions.”
Lance is a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus. Tall and thin with a headful of silky blond curls, Lance has been working at Neiman’s ever since I’ve known him.
Unlike the other shoe salesmen at Neiman’s, Lance is not an aspiring actor/director. He knows he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life selling shoes, but so far, he hasn’t figured out what he does want to do. So he spends his days fondling in-steps, and is kind enough to let me use his employee discount. Which means that instead of paying $500 for a pair of outrageously overpriced shoes, all I have to pay is $400. Not that I’d ever dream of paying $400 for a pair of shoes. But I could if I wanted to, thanks to Lance. And who knows? Now that I was making three thousand smackers a week, I just might.
We gabbed some more, mainly about Lance’s new boyfriend, a Brentwood real estate broker.
“Jim’s so great,” he gushed. “I only wish you’d meet a guy, too. Straight, of course.”
He babbled on about how kind/caring/handsome/loving/sexy/talented Jim was. I’d been down this road with him before, just like I’d been with Kandi, and I knew that as sure as Prozac would wolf down her next meal, there’d be heartbreak ahead. When it comes to picking boyfriends, apparently men are just as clueless as women. Which is why I for one am perfectly happy with a cat as my significant other.
Finally, Lance wound down about the Joys of Jim, and we hung up. I headed to the kitchen to get some kitty treats for Prozac and some Ben & Jerry’s for me. Then I checked my e-mail. Nothing except an offer to have hot cybersex with a woman named Brandi. And some letters from my parents. I decided to read my parents’ letters in the morning. I didn’t want anything to bring me down off my three-thousand-dollar-a-week high.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my mom and dad. But frankly, they’re—how can I put this gently?—they’re stark raving bonkers. To look at them, you’d think they’re just an average sixtysomething couple living in a retirement community in Tampa, Florida. But the truth is their lives are straight out of a soap opera. Somehow they always seem to be in the middle of a crisis, a crisis they expect me to solve. I’ve read about people like my parents, people who don’t feel alive unless they’re swirling in a maelstrom of drama.
Daddy is the main culprit. This is a guy who can take a perfectly ordinary day and turn it into an episode of Survivor. As