The Whitney Chronicles. Judy Baer
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and I’d be flat-footed for the rest of my life. She also taught me that if I didn’t quit crossing my eyes, they would freeze that way, and if I drank coffee, it would stunt my growth. It’s a wonder I’m alive today considering all the risks I took.
September 21
Dad has begun hiding out to get away from Mother and her wildly fluctuating body temperature. He offered to come over and fix my plumbing (which isn’t broken), build me a piece of furniture (something he’s never done before in his life) and repaint my ceilings. He is one desperate man, so I invited him over for a visit. I thought I might cheer him up.
“Have you got something for me to do?” were his first words. “Please?”
“What’s Mother up to today?”
“Cleaning closets. She rented a Dumpster and is emptying everything we own into it. I expect to go home to an empty house.”
“Don’t worry. There’s probably a lot of junk you needed to get rid of by now.”
Dad scowled at me. “It’s only ‘junk’ until you throw it away. Have you noticed that as soon as the garbagemen leave the neighborhood, we have to replace everything we never thought we’d use again? Your mother is going to send me into bankruptcy!”
“It can’t be that bad. What harm can she do? Try to be more open-minded about this phase of her life,” I encouraged.
“‘Open-minded?’ Whitney, if I’m any more open-minded where your mother is concerned, my brains will fall out!”
I have the greatest father in the world. He’s odd, unique and one of a kind, but he’s also tenderhearted and very patient where his “little girl” and his wife are concerned. Mom is wonderful, but she can be opinionated, single-minded, stubborn and, these days, totally off-the-wall. If their strengths and weaknesses were blended together, they’d make one amazing parent—and one delightfully wacky one. They met as teenagers and it was love at first sight—on my dad’s part. Mom had taken longer to come around. Tiny, extroverted and beautiful, she’d had men circling her like planes over Dallas, and it had taken her a while to fit Dad onto her radar screen. Dad said she was the most popular girl on campus. Another thing I can’t relate with Mom about….
“Coffee, Dad?”
“Are you kidding? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon! Do you want me to be up all night? Do you know what caffeine does to me? Combine that with your mother jumping up to turn on the air conditioner and me having to go to the bathroom….” He shook his head so dismally, my heart nearly broke.
“It’s not that bad, Dad. She’ll get over this, things will be better soon. Don’t think of your glass as half empty. Think of it as half full.”
He gave me a wry grin. “Yeah, and before long I’ll have my teeth floating in it.”
September 22
I thought Harry (and, by association, Betty) would become hysterical when Kim and I outlined the plans for getting a late booth into the technology show in Las Vegas. The ideas were feasible, even downright brilliant…but also expensive. Unfortunately, Harry’s hobby is pinching pennies until they scream. I had to pay full price for airline tickets, and coach was booked, which meant an upgrade to first class. There was only one room left in the conference hotel, and that was a suite. Add to that the cost of the booth, getting signage and entertaining a client list (who, being called at the last moment, would need to be treated with extra—read expensive—care) and Harry might as well have invested in a small gold mine. But you can’t pull something together in a week for the cost of something planned months in advance. Unfortunately we who already knew this had to suffer right along in Harry’s learning curve.
The good news is that his tantrum was short-circuited by an incredibly handsome new client arriving at the office between “Do you know how much this is going to cost” and—my favorite—“Next time plan ahead for these unplanned surprises.”
Handsome Client had a great smile, dark brown hair and eyes so green they remind me of the Emerald Isle. (The one I’ve seen in travel magazines. I want to see it in person soon—add that to Yearly Goals.) And he was six feet tall, athletically slim and wore the best suit I’ve seen outside of GQ. I found myself wondering if he was nice, Christian and single. Mother would have been so proud.
Harry called me into his office to introduce me to Matthew Lambert, CEO of a small but successful firm that roasts peanuts, pecans and the like. Lambert also makes nut butters, glazed and candied nuts and a dozen other calorie-laden items.
Matthew Lambert must have noticed me licking my lips in response to his job description, because he commented on my apparent enthusiasm for the project. Actually, all I’d had for lunch was a pathetic pile of tuna and three slices of melba toast.
Lambert is building a completely automated and computerized plant and wants Harry to design some specialized software. Apparently he wants a computer that can roast peanuts. If technology can provide a way to burn CDs, it seems like roasting a peanut should be a snap.
Harry always calls me in for the preliminaries. This is usually best for all concerned, as I have some social graces. I take over while Harry disappears with his stable of computer geeks to work his software magic. He has a deft hand on a mouse and the ability to memorize all of the numbers in a phone book. I, on the other hand, have a personality.
While I was dreaming up a way to ask Mr. Lambert if he wanted to discuss his new alliance with Innova over coffee, his cell phone rang and he was summoned away. It’s my mother’s fault. She filled my head with all that talk about “nice young men.” (I did glance at his ring finger first, though. It was bare. Promising…)
It wasn’t until I got back to my desk that the cell phone thing began to annoy me. How do people justify thinking they’re so important that they have to be accessible to everyone, everywhere at all times? Humans are so vain. Men in gyms run on treadmills and talk into their cells. I’ve heard women in toilet stalls making luncheon dates and others in dressing rooms at the mall counseling their friends on the latest jerk they dated. Just last week I pulled up at a stoplight beside a guy on a Harley. He was talking on a cell phone and there was a bumper sticker on his bike that said, Thugs Are People Too. Go figure.
September 22, later
Eric has been calling. This boy/girl stuff can ruin a great friendship. Still, if he asks me, I wouldn’t mind going out for an evening. It’s been months since I’ve seen a movie that wasn’t on television.
Just the thought of an evening out inspired a rush of adrenaline through my system. Having recently traded my exercise bike (obscenely expensive clothes rack with wheels) for a bookcase, a yoga mat and a lava lamp, I decided to wax my legs.
Three minutes into the project I remembered why I hate waxing my legs.
Rather than scald off my skin by overheating the wax in the microwave, I heated it on the stove. I forgot about it for just a moment when I spied some leftover potato chips (very rare at my house). Not wanting to waste food (starving children in Beverly Hills and all that), I stuffed them into my mouth before I remembered my goal to lose fifteen pounds. Occasionally I worry about my memory. Some days the only thing I seem able to retain is water.
I tried spitting the chips out into the sink, but accidentally spluttered them into the hot wax instead.
Deciding that the potato chips wouldn’t hurt either the wax or my legs, I carried the pan to the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I began frosting my hairy legs with chip-speckled yellow wax. The wax went from being too hot to too cold in a nanosecond. I didn’t dare toddle back into the kitchen to return it to the stove as I was afraid the wax would harden on my legs and become a permanent part of my flesh.
I edged my fingernails under the globby sheet of goo and pulled upward. A rush of tears filled my eyes as hairless pink skin shined up at me. If someone told me I had to do this, I’d call it abuse. As it is, I inflict it on myself and call it grooming.
Since my legs were sticking together