Read Online Pampered to Death by Laura Levine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Levine
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me. There are no fun facts about trans fats. Which quickly became evident from Olga’s lecture, a yawnfest that made Cathy’s paper vs. plastic dissertation seem like an HBO comedy special.
As Olga droned on, I shook my head in disbelief. The nerve of that woman. Lecturing us on healthy eating, when just last night she was stuffing her face with Sara Lee!
At last she ran out of fun facts and the lecture ground to a halt.
Cathy asked me if I want to join her in a game of Parcheesi, but I told her I was bushed and that I was going straight to bed.
Which was a lie, of course.
I did not intend to go anywhere near my bed. Instead I snuck out the back door and over to the parking lot.
By the time I got in my car, I could practically taste the pepperoni.
Chapter 10
I groaned when I saw the sign in the pizza parlor window.
CLOSED
Darn that Olga. If only she hadn’t yakked for so long, I might have made it in time.
Cursing her and her stultifying trans fat lecture, I checked out the only other restaurant on the town’s tiny main street, a froufrou French joint I shall call, for the purposes of this narrative, Le Petit Ripoff. You know the kind of place. Where the prices are sky high and the customer is never right. It was still open, but I wasn’t about to fork over thirty-seven bucks for a slice of duck in orange sauce.
I’d just have to make do at the local convenience store, a minimarket called Darryl’s Deli.
Great news. Not only was Darryl’s open, but to my eternal gratitude, Darryl turned out to be a discerning purveyor of fine chow.
Making my way down the narrow aisles to the prepared foods section, my eyes lit up at the sight of a ham and melted Swiss cheese sandwich on a gorgeous foccacia bun. I quickly tossed it into my cart, along with a side of cold pasta salad, and several cans of assorted fish innards for Pro. For dessert, I treated myself to a pint of fudge ripple ice cream. Normally I am a Chunky Monkey gal, but after my George Clooney/ hot fudge sundae fantasy, I zeroed in on the vanilla ice cream swirled with fudge. I even went a tad crazy and bought a small jar of imported fudge sauce.
My taste buds, which had been lying dazed in my mouth from the onslaught of Kevin’s gray fish, suddenly sprang to life. This was gonna be even better than the pepperoni pizza.
Grabbing a few emergency candy bars, I wheeled my cart to the checkout counter where a lanky guy with shaggy hair was sitting at the register reading a book. As I got closer, I saw the book was by P.G. Wodehouse, one of my all time fave authors. How interesting.
“Welcome to Darryl’s Deli,” he said. “I’m Darryl.”
God, what a great smile—the kind I’m a sucker for—with deep laugh lines around the edges.
Suddenly I was conscious of my baggy sweats and grungy mop of curls.
“You must be from The Haven,” he said.
Oh, crud. What if Darryl’s Deli had some sort of deal with Olga? What if he refused to sell food to customers cheating on their diets?
“Yes, I’m staying there,” I said, waiting for an alarm to go off and the Calorie Cops to come racing in and drag me back to Diet Hell.
But thank heavens he just started ringing up my sale.
“I figured you must be,” he said. “I know pretty much everybody in town, and if you lived here, I would have remembered you.”
There was that smile again. Was it my imagination, or was this guy flirting with me?
Oh, why the heck hadn’t I at least put on some lipstick?
“I get a lot of customers from The Haven. I hear the food stinks.”
“Straight out of Oliver Twist .”
“You poor kid.”
At last. Someone who understood my pain.
“Excellent choice,” he said, holding up the fudge sauce. “I see you’re a connoisseur of fine chocolate.”
Needless to say, I didn’t tell him that when it came to chocolate, I’d eat anything that wasn’t nailed to the shelf.
“Well,” he said, as he started to bag my stuff, “enjoy all your goodies.”
I
As Olga droned on, I shook my head in disbelief. The nerve of that woman. Lecturing us on healthy eating, when just last night she was stuffing her face with Sara Lee!
At last she ran out of fun facts and the lecture ground to a halt.
Cathy asked me if I want to join her in a game of Parcheesi, but I told her I was bushed and that I was going straight to bed.
Which was a lie, of course.
I did not intend to go anywhere near my bed. Instead I snuck out the back door and over to the parking lot.
By the time I got in my car, I could practically taste the pepperoni.
Chapter 10
I groaned when I saw the sign in the pizza parlor window.
CLOSED
Darn that Olga. If only she hadn’t yakked for so long, I might have made it in time.
Cursing her and her stultifying trans fat lecture, I checked out the only other restaurant on the town’s tiny main street, a froufrou French joint I shall call, for the purposes of this narrative, Le Petit Ripoff. You know the kind of place. Where the prices are sky high and the customer is never right. It was still open, but I wasn’t about to fork over thirty-seven bucks for a slice of duck in orange sauce.
I’d just have to make do at the local convenience store, a minimarket called Darryl’s Deli.
Great news. Not only was Darryl’s open, but to my eternal gratitude, Darryl turned out to be a discerning purveyor of fine chow.
Making my way down the narrow aisles to the prepared foods section, my eyes lit up at the sight of a ham and melted Swiss cheese sandwich on a gorgeous foccacia bun. I quickly tossed it into my cart, along with a side of cold pasta salad, and several cans of assorted fish innards for Pro. For dessert, I treated myself to a pint of fudge ripple ice cream. Normally I am a Chunky Monkey gal, but after my George Clooney/ hot fudge sundae fantasy, I zeroed in on the vanilla ice cream swirled with fudge. I even went a tad crazy and bought a small jar of imported fudge sauce.
My taste buds, which had been lying dazed in my mouth from the onslaught of Kevin’s gray fish, suddenly sprang to life. This was gonna be even better than the pepperoni pizza.
Grabbing a few emergency candy bars, I wheeled my cart to the checkout counter where a lanky guy with shaggy hair was sitting at the register reading a book. As I got closer, I saw the book was by P.G. Wodehouse, one of my all time fave authors. How interesting.
“Welcome to Darryl’s Deli,” he said. “I’m Darryl.”
God, what a great smile—the kind I’m a sucker for—with deep laugh lines around the edges.
Suddenly I was conscious of my baggy sweats and grungy mop of curls.
“You must be from The Haven,” he said.
Oh, crud. What if Darryl’s Deli had some sort of deal with Olga? What if he refused to sell food to customers cheating on their diets?
“Yes, I’m staying there,” I said, waiting for an alarm to go off and the Calorie Cops to come racing in and drag me back to Diet Hell.
But thank heavens he just started ringing up my sale.
“I figured you must be,” he said. “I know pretty much everybody in town, and if you lived here, I would have remembered you.”
There was that smile again. Was it my imagination, or was this guy flirting with me?
Oh, why the heck hadn’t I at least put on some lipstick?
“I get a lot of customers from The Haven. I hear the food stinks.”
“Straight out of Oliver Twist .”
“You poor kid.”
At last. Someone who understood my pain.
“Excellent choice,” he said, holding up the fudge sauce. “I see you’re a connoisseur of fine chocolate.”
Needless to say, I didn’t tell him that when it came to chocolate, I’d eat anything that wasn’t nailed to the shelf.
“Well,” he said, as he started to bag my stuff, “enjoy all your goodies.”
I
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