Slim to None (12 page)

* * *

William has been awfully quiet since my gut-spilling episode, and his silence makes everything seem a bit off. Like when you pour the shampoo into your left hand instead of your right hand and begin to lather up, and it just feels wrong. In fact he’s been spending an awful lot of time at work, I suspect being a typical man, off in his cave mulling things over. And perhaps the lack of him contrasted by my near omnipresence at home draws particular attention to the situation. The silence is downright distracting. It’s enough to make me lose my appetite. Well, not quite. I fear it would take an act of Biblical proportion for that to occur.

Since I’ve got so much more time on my hands, I’ve decided to start taking over some of the dog walking duties. This is something that has always been William’s job, since Cognac is so powerful and easily distracted into making a break for it the minute he sees something interesting ahead. Up until now I’ve assumed my rotator cuff wasn’t up to the task. I guess we’ll soon see. I might as well walk the dog, now that I only write one measly column a week, which I can knock out in about ten minutes flat. Thank goodness, because then I don’t have to hang out at the office and feel inferior. A girl can only take so much of watching Barry jaunt off to his three-martini lunches on the expense account. The one I so closely guarded (and coveted).

I figure while I take Cognac for his constitutional, I’ll divert by way of George and bring him something to eat. I throw together a box lunch with curried chicken salad, couscous and red lentils from the fridge.

I call for the dog, who comes running the minute he sees the leash being taken out of the coat closet. He sits patiently, his enthusiastic tail sweeping the floor, his loving brown gaze fixed on mine, a cuddly teddy bear of a dog, not expecting a thing from me. It’s so refreshing. Someone—make that some
thing
—that doesn’t want me to lose weight or have babies or pretend I give a shit about this, that or the other. I suppose this is what they call unconditional love. Or maybe he just wants a doggy biscuit. Which is fine, because if nothing else, I’m all about satisfying hunger.

"Come on, boy, let’s start this walk off on the right foot, with a yummy treat." I toss him a slice of organic dehydrated yam, which isn’t exactly the pig’s hoof he’d probably choose, but it’s way better on his breath.

We head up the street at a brisk pace and after about ten minutes I realize that this effort somehow approximates exercise. I’m actually sweating. Who knew taking the dog to go potty was like walking on a treadmill. Minus the swarm of beautiful people around whom I feel inferior to the extreme.

I’d completely forgotten that William and I used to walk Cognac together all the time, when he was a puppy. It was our quiet time, really. After being gone all day at our respective jobs, we’d come home, walk the dog, return back and fix dinner. It was lovely, really. I wonder what happened to those days. Why did we stop with our daily ritual?

Because I got too busy with work. And I had openings to attend. Restaurants to review. Long, belabored dinners that William found to be tedious and bled one into the other. That’s why. Because of me.

Things were so much easier when we were young and traveling around Europe, picking up odd jobs wherever possible. Working as dishwashers at Michelin-starred restaurants in the French countryside, watching, learning, absorbing. And if we were lucky, dining on the scraps of others’ indulgences. Geeze. That sounds a lot like George. Dining on the scraps of others’ indulgences...Not so different, really. By choice, in fact. Exactly like George.

Ahhh, those were the days. Nothing but us and that crazy Italian scooter that carried us across the continent and back. Back when I could fit on an Italian scooter without blowing the shock absorbers or busting the tires. I think we had a total of four outfits between us that we stowed in a tiny knapsack along with our toothbrushes. Simple. Keep it simple, stupid.

I start to think about the phrase,
less is more
.
Less is more
. It’s so true, on so man levels. Less
is
more. More simply
complicates
things, causes misunderstandings, resentment, bitterness. I mean, look at us. When we had next to nothing was when we were happiest. Once we added in high-powered jobs, crazy schedules, a fancy home, all of that, then it got crazy. In a bad way. How does one strike a balance between nothing and too much?

And if less is more in
life
, would the same hold true that less is more with
food
? Could I be totally satisfied with eating far less? Have I simply lost my perspective? Less means not filled. Can I be happy not being full? Is this different than being unfulfilled? Is that what it is—that I somehow have created a situation whereby I need to be fulfilled? And if so, then why?

Lost in thought, I barely notice that Cognac has begun to tug hard on the leash and he’s got me up to a trot. I am so not trotting material. He recognizes George before I do, apparently. Only George is sitting with someone at the bench. I squint to get a better look. I’ll be darned. It’s a woman. A very attractive older woman.

I try to lay low and observe, in case George needs his space, but Cognac won’t grant me that courtesy and instead tugs me along till I’m front and center before George and a lovely, very classy-looking woman with a shoulder-length silver bob and inviting blue eyes. She’s got on a pair of black suede Tod’s driving shoes and crisply-pressed khakis. Her white button-down is tucked neatly into her waist, which is concealed with a smart belt (which she probably needs, unlike me). A scarf is wrapped snugly around her neck the way the French know how to do so well. I swear I’ve seen this woman before on a Dove soap commercial.

"Abbie!" George greets me like a long-lost friend.

The woman’s eyes track me head to toe and I can’t help but feel a little bit interrogated just with her mistrusting gaze.

I reach out with my little care package. "I brought you a little something. It’s not much."

George takes the food and then elaborates. "Abbie, this is my wife, Sally. Sally, Abbie keeps me dining like a king."

Sally arches her eyebrow with suspicion. I reach out my hand to shake it. She hesitates before extending her own. The diamond on her finger could be Plymouth Rock, it’s so enormous. "Pleased to meet you. I was so happy to learn that George has such a lovely family."

She glares at George for a long, cool minute, clearly in a mental wrestling match about whether to discuss their lives with me present.

"Hmph. George was never one to go for your run-of-the-mill cliché midlife crisis. He couldn’t have just gotten a sports car—"

"I already
had
the sports car," he interjects. "Two, in fact. You’re just lucky I didn’t go for the mistress."

Crossing her arms tightly to her chest, she rolls her eyes at him so hard I think she might cause ocular damage.

"As if one would want you."

It’s George’s turn to glare now. I feel like I should’ve brought along a missile interceptor or something, what with the bombs being lobbed left and right near me.

"Besides, Dr. Saravio said you need to self-actualize more."

"What do you call this? I’m self-actualizing as we speak. I’ve just not self-actualized myself back to Pound Ridge."

"I guess you aren’t quite done punishing me."

"If I can interrupt for just a second, I’ll be going now," I poke my hand up to interject. "I just wanted to drop off this meal. Buon appetito!" I wave with cupped hand and turn to leave.

"Aww, Abbie. I’m sorry! I guess you can see why me and the missus are in therapy."

Sally looks embarrassed. Because they’re fighting in public? Or that I officially know they’re in therapy.

"No, no, really, it’s fine," I insist.

"It most definitely is
not
fine," Sally says. She has a look on her face like she’s scheming—like a teenager who’s figured out how to sneak out even though he’s been grounded. She drums her fingers atop her still-crossed arms. "Wherever are our manners, George? I think we ought to invite your lovely friend to our home for dinner to make up for our rudeness."

"She’s the food critic for the
New York Sentinel
," he says. "I don’t think that Gretl’s cooking is enough of a lure to bring her all the way up to Pound Ridge, frankly."

Gretl? They’ve got the little girl from the Sound of Music cooking meals for them? They really
must
be rich.

"Correction—
was
the food critic for the
New York Sentinel
," I say, holding my hands up in surrender. "On indefinite hiatus."

Sally taps her fingernail to her mouth on her tooth in thought, then holds up her pointer finger in her light bulb moment (which seem to be contagious lately). "So
that’s
how I recognize you.
The New York Post
!" Now she’s pointing straight at me, interrogation-style.

I shrink back, humiliated.

"What’s wrong with them? You’re the best darned critic they’ve had in years. Makes a hell of a trout amandine, too." He winks at me.

"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.

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.