Читать книгу The Whitney Chronicles - Judy Baer - Страница 10

God wants everyone to eat and drink and be Happy in His work. These are gifts from God.

—Ecclesiastes 3:13

September 20

I’m getting the hang of this journal thing. It’s like telling a close personal friend about my day. I haven’t made much progress in the self-improvement area other than managing to get the zipper closed on my fat pants.

I returned the black blouse. Since I’d put the blouse on my credit card, I didn’t really feel I’d spent any money—or gained any when I returned it. So, being financially even, I went shopping, bought shoes and, naturally, charged them. There is something to be said for the tactile quality of cash. It is definitely much harder to pry out of my hand than plastic.

My feet are pretty much the only things on my body that don’t change size. Of course, my mother did tell me if I didn’t wear shoes, my arches would fall 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 anyway and I couldn’t walk, I decided to call my mother.

“Whitney! How are you? Isn’t this weather something?”

“It’s been raining, Mom.”

“But warm rain. I’ve been wearing shorts all day.” I didn’t tell her that I expect she’ll have them on in January, too.

When I broke the news to her that I’m going to Las Vegas for a trade show, she was not happy.

“Sin City? How can your employer send a young girl like you there?”

“I’m thirty, Mom. And I’ve always traveled with my job.”

“It’s a den of iniquity, darling. Tell him you can’t go.”

Kim, on the other hand, was in love with the idea. “Bring me something, will you?”

“I promised Mother I wouldn’t leave the hotel for purposes of a touristy nature,” I reminded her.

“Something from the hotel, then. With rhinestones.”

So much for the good influence of friends.

September 23

I’ve been inundated with plans for the trade show. Whitney’s my name, Creativity’s my game. At least that’s what Harry thinks. Only Bryan knows that today, between brilliant zaps of originality and ingenuity, I figured out which was the longest word I could type with my left hand—stewardesses (a travel-related exercise accomplished while being left on hold by a travel agent who went shopping and had a facelift before getting back to me). And—this one is big—when you rearrange the words slot machines, you can make the words cash lost in ’em.

Of course, after foisting the Las Vegas trade-show problem on to me, Harry promptly forgot about it and began trolling for bigger fish. In this case it was someone from whom he’d already had a nibble but wanted to land completely, Matthew Lambert, the nut-roasting magnate I’d fondly begun referring to as Mr. Peanut.

As I walked toward Harry’s office this morning, Bryan—wearing that panicked look he so often does—raised his eyebrows and pointed frantically toward Harry’s door. Figuring my assistant was trying to indicate that Harry was out of sorts, I strode in expecting to see a man who hadn’t yet had his sixth cup of coffee today. What I did see nearly knocked me flat.

Harry had gotten himself a permanent. Though not yet bald, his hair is thinning except for the thick assortment of hairs that halo his head in the traditional style of medieval monks.

I took a deep breath and attempted to quash the image of an unevenly growing Chia Pet on Harry’s head. No wonder Bryan had looked as though he was about to faint. He’d probably been under his desk laughing himself silly.

“Are you busy tomorrow evening, Whitney?” Harry leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his neck and fingered the tight curls at his collar.

A working dinner? With Harry? Harry never paid for anything he didn’t have to, and he was married, so this wasn’t a social dinner. Had his permanent given him so much aplomb that he was asking me out on a frivolous whim or were the newly tight curls on his head squeezing his brain? My relief was actually physical when he added, “I’m having dinner with Matt Lambert, and I’d like you to come along. What do you say?”

I was so happy I didn’t have to dine alone with Harry and be forced to admire his Chia Pet scalp that I agreed immediately. That Matthew Lambert would be there didn’t hurt either.

It wasn’t until I was back at my desk that I realized that I was not in any way prepared to go anywhere or do anything with a hunky, single man. I’m a woman who—as recently as six days ago—was holding her clothing together with rubber bands. I had nothing to wear. Visions of pilled and holey sweatpants, stained T-shirts, too-tight jeans and my work clothing—mostly interchangeable black and beige separates and low-heeled pumps—danced in my head. I usually go into a shopping frenzy the week before a big date. It was clearly apparent that I hadn’t had a frenzy—or a date—for quite some time.

It wasn’t until noon that I could discuss the emergency with Kim.

“Don’t you have a ‘fat dress’?” she asked. “I always keep one of those empire-waist corduroy or cotton things on hand for a crisis.”

“Then I might as well pitch a pup tent in the middle of the restaurant and stick my head through the top to eat. I want to look good for this….”

Kim, the least vain person on the planet, puzzled that one over. “Your mom has been on your case again, hasn’t she? All that stuff about meeting a man?”

“She’s worried about me,” I admitted weakly.

“And she has her own subscription to Bride’s magazine just for the fun of it. Get real, Whitney, she’s a wedding planner waiting to happen.”

“I know, I know, but I still want to look nice tomorrow night.”

“‘Nice?’ You’re already gorgeous! Sometimes I wonder if you ever look in a mirror. That dark hair of yours, those eyes, and no matter how many times you say you’re ‘fat’ you know there are women who would give a front tooth for your curves!”

A front tooth? Scary thought. But that’s part of why I cherish Kim. She actually believes I’m beautiful and isn’t afraid to say it. Bless her heart.

“I know, I know, but I still need to look stunning tomorrow night.”

“Then how about that wonderful black jumpsuit we bought last time you were pre-diet?”

I love Kim’s tactfulness. I grabbed her cheeks between my palms and gave them a squeeze. “You are brilliant. Problem solved.”

She nodded benignly. “Now that we’ve settled that, let’s discuss Harry’s hair.”

I couldn’t help it. I had to go shopping anyway.

When I don’t really have anything to shop for, my default is always shoes. The good news is that there are finally cute shoes that are actually comfortable. The bad news is that nothing looks all that cute on my size nine feet. Granted, they match my five-eight height, and I’m nicely proportioned. I think of myself as the new-and-improved, more-for-your-money package.

I found a great pair of black shoes with strappy backs. These are not to be confused with my black shoes with the little bow, my black shoes with the flat heels, my black patent leathers, my black sandals, flip-flops or slippers or my several pairs of black pumps and my black running shoes. These were different—not different enough, however, that anyone but me would notice. And, of course, they were still black.

After a rip-roaring internal debate, I decided to buy a purse instead. No danger of falling into the I-think-I’ll-buy-it-in-black trap there. Purses have personality these days—flashy colors, weird shapes, sequins and rhinestone thingamabobs dangling off them. My question is, who buys these things? Seems to me a precious little bag that’s shaped like a parakeet, decorated in yellow and green sequins and holds a tissue and a tube of lipstick is doomed to extinction.

Uh-oh. Were those my mother’s thoughts coming out of my mind?

I settled on a slightly larger bag shaped and decorated like a seashell because it would also hold my keys and a credit card and had pretty turquoise sequins. Who buys these things? Me, apparently.

Eric called tonight. He’s so charmingly disorganized that I’ve gotta love him. Today he spent two hours looking for his dry cleaning. Not in the house, mind you, but in his car. He’d dropped off his clothes on the way to an appointment, and when he returned to pick them up, he realized he couldn’t remember exactly which cleaner he’d used. Unfortunately, he’d done a few dozen other errands in the same trip and had a ten-mile radius within which his clothing could be waiting. While he was out scouting for his Laurens and his Hilfigers, he managed to hit an estate sale and a going-out-of-business blowout. It cost him a hundred and seventy-five dollars in unnecessary purchases to find his clothing.

“It’s okay, though,” he justified cheerfully. “I was really hoping to find an Andirondack chair and an Arts and Crafts floor lamp someday. I just ran across them sooner than I expected.” Unfortunately, while we were on the phone, his dog, Otto, managed to chew through the cord on the floor lamp and one leg of the chair.

It’s Eric’s own fault, really. He loves that dog so much that he’s afraid to hurt his feelings by scolding him. I’m not sure Otto has feelings. Bulldogs rarely appear to be in touch with their emotions. Still, Eric is crazy about him, and there is something rather sweet about an airplane buff and his dog Otto-Pilot.

I couldn’t get Eric and Otto-Pilot out of my mind while I was doing my Bible readings tonight, so I looked up Job 12:7-9. “But ask the animals, and they will teach you; the birds of the air, and they will tell you; ask the plants of the earth and they will teach you; and the fish of the sea will declare to you. Who among all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this?” I have a real passion for His creatures. After all, if God set aside two full days of creation—the fifth to create fish and birds and the sixth to fashion animals (including the man and woman kind)—then why don’t we realize how important they must be to Him—and therefore, to us?

Ironic, isn’t it, that of all the creatures on the face of the earth, only humans don’t seem to realize who and what they are. Animals behave like animals, plants like plants and fish like fish. Only we try to behave as if we’re God.

I like it that Eric cares so much for that dog even if Otto does digest furniture the way other dogs do kibble. Tomorrow night, I’ll have to remember to ask Mr. Peanut if he’s fond of animals.

September 24

I think I’m in love! Or, at least, I have a serious case of “like.”

Matthew Lambert is one handsome, charming man. When he looked at me with those Irish eyes tonight, I turned into a human puddle—and, unfortunately had to spend the rest of the night mopping up. Okay, so I’d already reached my objective of meeting a really nice man. My other goal was not to get into any foolish entanglements in the dating scene. Unfortunately the edges of my determination are crumbling already. Why did I set a stupid goal like that anyway?

I knew I was in trouble when I saw him coming across the restaurant in a stunning black suit and pristine white shirt that had been laundered and starched within an inch of its life. His tie was so red and professional-looking, it hurt my eyes to stare at it. If my mother had been there, she would have labeled him “the one” for me without hearing a word out of his mouth. She’d always dreamed I’d marry a doctor, so she’d have someone in the family with whom to discuss her various and ever-changing “symptoms,” but a peanut salesman who looked like this would run a close second.

“So good to see you again, Ms. Blake.”

For a moment I didn’t respond. I’d forgotten my name and didn’t realize he was talking to me. Then he did this corny thing and picked up my hand and kissed it. That was when I forgot my entire family history and where I’d parked my car. Until that moment, I’d always thought giddy was an unlikely word since I hadn’t had a giddy moment in my life. Now I know the definition and it’s a doozy. Matthew Lambert oozed charm like a broken toothpaste tube might ooze… Well, wow, am I bad at metaphors or what? Fortunately, Harry arrived, and from then on it was all business.

We spent the evening talking about the nut-roasting software. Harry did his usual computer-babble, and I efficiently and succinctly translated it into understandable English. (And Mom thought I needed to take Spanish to become fluent in a foreign language!) We make a pretty good team, Harry and I, even though all night I couldn’t make eye contact with him because I kept having the urge to water the top of his head to make it grow.

There was an awkward moment when our meals were served. I used to hate it when my parents bowed their heads to pray in restaurants. I wanted to look like everyone else chowing directly into my meal. It takes some maturity to realize that there’s no way this food would be on our plates without God’s help. Frankly, what others think of me is no longer my concern. Only God’s opinion counts.

Harry is not a Christian. I pray for him and am optimistic that he is a work-in-progress along with some of my other co-workers. At work, I try to witness by my actions. Matthew 5:15 is my verse there. “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Christians should always be the brightest bulbs. Harry often calls whoever isn’t agreeing with him the “dimmest bulb in the pack.” Someday I pray he’ll see the real Light.

What I’m really trying to say is that Harry has learned to tolerate my praying and not look so embarrassed when I do it. To me, that’s progress. Matt, however, gave no indication what he felt about my attitude of gratitude. That’s the trouble with people who have impeccable manners—they never let you see them sweat.

Matt and I really connected. He laughed at my jokes and I at his. He winked at me in that conspiratorial way men have with the women they love. Or maybe he had a tic in his eye. How do I know? I’m only describing my fantasy here, not his. There were no unwelcome advances, (if I don’t count that hand-kissing thing, which was not at all unwelcome) no stupid pick-up lines, no improprieties, only flawless manners and irresistible charm.

When I think of the stupid pick-up lines I’ve experienced with other men, including, “Excuse me, may I look at the tag on your dress? I’m sure it says ‘Made in Heaven,’ just like you,” there was no way the evening could have been a failure. In fact, the night would have been absolutely perfect if I hadn’t had to use the ladies’ room.

After eating, I got up to walk a bit, as my jumpsuit had somehow shrunk while hanging in my closet—probably due to the excessive humidity caused by recent rain showers. Anyway, I needed to jiggle the food beyond my waistband, so I excused myself and went for a stroll.

If my mother’s famous teaching—“Always use the bathroom when you have the opportunity. You never know when you’ll find another”—weren’t indelibly engraved in my head, I wouldn’t have gotten into trouble.

Still, I learned something, albeit the hard way. Never, ever wear a jumpsuit anywhere that you might have to use a rest room. One, you must practically undress to use the facilities. Two (here’s where I goofed), you must keep the top half of the suit out of the toilet while you’re using it. Actually, only one arm of my suit fell into the water, and that was after I flushed, so it could have been worse—but not much.

I spent five minutes squirming back into the soggy thing and another fifteen with my arm under the hand dryer. I had no idea how slow those things are—no wonder you always come out of the rest room hoping no one notices that you’re drying your hands on your clothes.

Anyway, the ridiculousness of the whole situation got the best of me, and I did what I often do under stress. I giggled. And guffawed. And hee-hawed and ho-hoed until my stomach hurt. Every time some innocent lady walked through the bathroom door, it got funnier and funnier until tears were streaming down my face. At one point, there were four of us in there holding our sides and gasping for air. Pretty soon they were telling me all their bathroom stories, too—like getting the hems of their skirts caught in their waistbands, walking through the restaurant and wondering why everyone was staring or dragging a long piece of toilet paper through the room on the heels of their shoes. I made some new friends, but it was the weirdest bonding experience I’ve ever had.

As I was coming out of the ladies’ room with bits of the toilet paper that I’d used to soak up water still sticking to my suit (thousands of polyesters died for this outfit), Harry and Matt were loudly asking a waitress to go in after me.

“…she’s been gone a long time….”

“…maybe she isn’t feeling well….”

“…you could ask her if she needs help….”

It was not my best moment. I’ve always dreamed of being a damsel in distress saved by a knight in shining armor. Being rescued by a human Chia Pet and a man I had now upgraded to Mr. Cashew because I’d wasted a half hour fishing my clothing out of a toilet was just not the same. I am also positive that this is not what Jesus meant by “All who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.” This wasn’t humbling. It was humiliating—never mind that in a few years it will be a great story to tell my friends.

For the rest of the evening Harry kept looking at me with beetled brows, as if he expected me to do something ridiculous at any moment. Matt, however, acted as though he knew lots of women who spent time washing clothes in the toilet. Still, at the end of the evening I was thankful to escape, and relieved that Matt didn’t offer to drive me home.

September 25

Harry and I couldn’t meet each other’s eyes today. I was unable to look at his head and he couldn’t meet my eyes after the rest-room fiasco. About four o’clock he sauntered past my desk and told me I could “wrap it up” for the day.

I asked him twice if he’d meant what he’d said. He never encourages anyone to leave early. Sometimes I feel like the Bob Cratchitt of the software world.

“Sure. You’re going to Las Vegas soon, aren’t you? Isn’t there something you need to pick up?”

“I could use a few new binders and highlighters,” I stammered.

“There you are. See you tomorrow.” Then he paused and turned back as if there was something he’d forgotten to mention. I waited for the other shoe to drop.

“By the way, Matt Lambert told me last night that he’d be attending the Las Vegas trade show as a customer.” Harry scowled. “I hope he doesn’t have any ideas of shopping around and replacing us.” He stared at me. “But you’ll be there to make sure that doesn’t happen, right?”

My heart sank into my gut. Was there no justice? Why, after publicly humiliating myself in front of this man, do I ever have to see him again? If Harry thinks I’d be good at preventing Lambert from jumping ship to another company, he wasn’t looking very closely last night when Matt gawked at my wet, paper-encrusted arm.

I couldn’t go to the bathroom without a disaster. Who knew what might happen when I was sent to Las Vegas, of all places, to save a corporate account?

“Harry, I can’t—”

But he would have none of it. “You’d better leave now and get those binders.”

Mitzi did not like my leaving before she did. She gave me a scorching glare as I headed for the door. Sailing in late and dashing out early are traditionally her domain, and she was sorely miffed. I smiled widely at her as I left. Kim gave me a thumbs-up as I passed.

I had my paycheck in my pocket and an extra hour in my life. What else was there to do but shop? Unfortunately my sensible gene kicked in before I got to Ann Taylor, so I went to a department store to look for much-needed, long-overdue bedding. I inherited my sheets from my mother, and they’re paper-thin in the sunlight. Last night, after tossing and turning over the jumpsuit debacle, I put my toe between the threads and ripped the sheet in half trying to untangle myself. That, combined with a “Got To See It To Believe It” white sale, seemed like a sign. I didn’t count, however, on the determination and stamina of women in need of cheap sheets.

They were standing in front of the shelves like gate-keepers, determined not to let anyone past until they had found the perfect white sheet with a faint ribbon of blue running through it. I bent down to pull an interesting-looking bed-in-a-bag ensemble from the bottom shelf and nearly got my fingers crushed.

I’d been too optimistic about this run-in, grab-some-sheets and run-out thing. After twenty-five minutes I’d determined there were no sheets that fit my bed. The bottoms were all fitted kings except for a huge stack of twins. The flat sheets were all regulars but for two queens, one in some orange and yellow design and one in dirt blue and tonsil pink that could have scared the paint off walls. I backed out of my spot disconsolately, and a woman with a designer handbag leaped into my place with the grace of a jaguar. Amazing.

I drove home vowing to sleep on the mattress pad until that ripped, too, after which I would order something off the Internet.

I complained to my mother about my shopping misadventure but, as usual, she couldn’t relate. She doesn’t buy sheets—she sends Dad out for them. Mother’s version of shopping is sailing into what I call the itty-bitty section of the store. She picks out what she wants, slides it over her head to try it on, takes a twirl and pulls out her credit card. She’s done shopping and in a coffee shop waiting before I find any two matching pieces in my size, the most popular and picked-over in America—which shall remain unmentioned.

September 27

dep•ri•va•tion: Deficiency, lack, scarcity, withdrawal, need, hardship, distress.

“I thought you were doing something about those snug pants,” Mother said with her usual lack of diplomacy when I arrived at their door today.

“I am. Sort of.”

“Are you still sneaking around in rubber bands, Whitney?”

“Maybe I’ll join a class, something that meets every week and gives me encouragement.”

“There’s one at church,” Mom offered. “I’ll go with you if you don’t want to go alone the first night.”

My diversion hadn’t worked. “Mother, you’d be run out of the room. No woman on a diet wants so see an entire human being who’s the size of someone’s thigh.”

She sighed. “All right then, go alone. Here, let me read you the information.” She picked up the bulletin, which she’d no doubt kept handy just for this purpose. “‘Join us as we gather to support one another in our weight-loss goals, experience fun, fellowship and new recipes. For more information, call—’”

“What’s the name of this group?” I interrupted.

“It doesn’t say. Maybe they don’t have a name. If you went, you could suggest something.”

Mother thinks that I should be able to take over any meeting by receiving all the information I need about the entire group by osmosis as I wander through the room on my initial visit. She also believes the well of my creativity is artesian. Strangely enough, however, a name did pop into my mind. Ecclesiastical Eaters Anonymous Training. EEAT. If that wasn’t the name of this group, it should be. At least that way, when I told someone I was going to EEAT, they’d think I was going out for dinner.

“By the way, Whitney,” my mother continued, “your father came home from church council last night with some very exciting news. We’re hiring a new youth pastor.”

“What’s wrong with the other one? Did he outgrow his youth?”

“Don’t be flippant, dear. He’s staying. Our youth program is expanding so quickly that the council decided we needed a second pastor.”

“Super. That’s very exciting.” I’d chaperoned more than a few sleepovers at the church myself. It’s good news that interest is on the rise.

“But that isn’t all.”

The hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. Mom had switched tones. She was no longer talking church business.

“He’s single.”

“Motherrrrrr!”

“And quite nice-looking. I think you’d make a lovely couple.”

“Have you discussed this with him yet? Or is the call committee using me as bait?”

“I’m serious, Whitney. This could be your big break.”

“Mom, you sound like this man is a job opportunity! Is he taking résumés?”

“Just consider it, dear. You are thirty, you know.”

“All too well, Mom. All too well.”

September 29

I’m already feeling guilty. EEAT met and I didn’t go. (No matter what the name of the group, it will always be EEAT to me.) Kim talked me out of it. “Are you kidding? Start a diet when you’re leaving for Las Vegas—buffet capital of the world?”

“Maybe it would keep me from falling on my face in a chocolate display and eating my way out,” I suggested timidly.

“Nonsense. Start trying to lose weight when you get back. I tried to diet on a cruise once, and my sister found me at the midnight buffet, clinging to a loaf of bread shaped like a swan and whimpering, ‘Give me butter and jelly.’”

Smiling, I succumbed to the wisdom of her experience. Still, I will be aware of what I eat at every moment. To do that, I’m leaving my rubber bands at home. There will be no way out.

September 30

Church was great today. I felt so energized and lifted by the music. The typos in the bulletin didn’t hurt, either.

There was an announcement about the upcoming Spiritual and Physical Health and Wellness Seminar.

Don’t let stress kill—let the church help.

You will hear a top-notch presenter and heave a delicious lunch.

The sermon, however, seemed written for me alone. It was based on the parable of the sower. The parables have always fascinated me. They are so childishly simple and yet so profound that once you understand them, they can rock your world. The sun that melts ice hardens clay. The parables are like that—they have different effects on people, depending on where their hearts are.

I’m blessed that my parents raised me off the path where the seed couldn’t root and grow. Nor was I grown in shallow soil that couldn’t support my faith. My family and my church offered me rich, dark earth in which to send the roots of my faith downward and grow a system that is firm and healthy. But there’s always the danger of weeds springing up to choke out healthy plants and make them die.

It’s so easy to be distracted by life—work, money, greed, busyness—that I’m in danger of forgetting that what I have is to be used for God’s causes, not my own. I imagine myself pulling up weeds in my life one by one—the weed of laziness, which prods me to sleep in on Sundays, the weed of ungratefulness, which reminds me of what I don’t have rather than what I do, the weed of jealousy, which makes me miserable and cranky—and the weed of greed. That one makes me put my energy into earning money to buy things I don’t need to get results I don’t want.

Put weeding my heart on my goal list—to be done often and with thoroughness.

As we were singing our closing hymn today, it occurred to me that Christians are economical with the truth when they sing. As I sat in the pew paging through the hymnal, I began to read the words of the hymns. I mean, to really read them….

“Where He leads me I will follow…” Sometimes He leads us through deep water and we resist—big-time.

“I lay my sins on Jesus…” But we keep picking them up again.

Or “I surrender all….” All? That’s a pretty inclusive word. From now on, I’m going to sing those words and mean it.