| Shann Palmer
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| The Terror of Trefoils She did the math. One-hundred and sixty calories per serving, that's six-hundred and forty calories. She'd had four servings. Seventy times forty, TWO-HUNDRED AND EIGHTY grams of FAT!! Even the protein doctor would grab his chest at that. Eighty grams of carbs total, and for kicks, twenty-eight grams of refined sugar. She had committed dietary suicide. In just a few minutes. Okay, it had taken about an hour, total. She had eaten only six at first, one sensible serving. Her mistake was sitting at the computer with the bag and box at arm's length, too close for her, too close for any fatty, even a thinning one. It was the kids, screaming at each other, wrestling around the living room debating the virtues of kung fu versus karate. That was it, that, and her husband. He had a cold and any woman knows a man with a cold is akin to a raving psychopath with good crowd control skills and a devoted, well-equipped army. In other words: loud, intrusive, and in charge of everything, making sure his presence is felt, even in territories he already possesses. One more John Wayne movie or cop show and she would heave a shoe through the TV. And would he take medicine??? Hell no, he was man enough to fight it off with underarm odor and toenail clippings, which he was carefully collecting and placing neatly on the coffee table. She contemplated voodoo dolls and spells for a minute or two, ate a cookie. Bourbon and coke, he'd say, that's a man's cure! A little more bourbon and he'd be asleep, snoring like interstate truck traffic, ready to grab her when she finally got to bed, as if sex with a runny nosed man was her fantasy. She would sleep on the couch tonight. Sighing, she had another cookie. She looked at the trefoils, two more wouldn't hurt. Talking on the phone with a friend who was preparing for foot surgery, the doctor had mentioned amputation, that's worth another cookie. Frozen to the chair, she watched Frasier throw out his back out on TV. Hahahaha, chomp. Only two left in the bag, stupid Girl Scouts anyway. She hadn't been on a diet when she ordered them from the kid up the block. It was a guilt purchase, the kid and her daughter had been in elementary school together, thick as thieves, but now, they never spoke. Her daughter attended a all-girl fancy private school, while this child muddled through in the increasingly horrid public school in their neighborhood. It was paid for by a generous Godmother, but still, she felt guilty about it. Guilt eating is always savory. The last two cookies tasted as good as the first, she held them in her mouth letting saliva melt them away, chasing them with diet Coke. Might as well enjoy, she figured. It had been sixty-five days and she'd dropped twenty-five pounds, walking, lifting weights, dancing to music videos, nibbling vegetables at school buffets and church suppers. She'd passed up dark chocolate on Valentine's Day and New York cheesecake at a political rally, made sandwiches out of lean meats and thin cheese, rolled up and stuck with a ruffled-top toothpick so they seemed festive. It had been easy, she was motivated and ready, until the doorbell rang and she let temptation sashay right into her living room. Ridiculously expensive cookies, they are for a good cause, as special as egg nog after Thanksgiving, watermelon on dog days, an American ritual as dangerous to her as smack to a junkie. And she had eaten the whole bag. Well, she figured she could up her water intake, wash some of it out. Walk early before school, at break, and again when she got home, it isn't the end of the world, there had been a time when she would've eaten the whole box at the drop of.........the whole box. She'd only had half the box. There was another bag in the box. Another cellophane wrapped stick of dynamite, waiting like a ticking tell-tale heart attack. She couldn't throw it away, not at those prices. Maybe put it in the freezer, she'd heard they froze well. The kids hated trefoils, but if there were no other cookies, when the Samoas, the Tagalogs, and the Do-si-dos were gone, they'd eat even those, her favorite. If only she could resist their buttery voices long enough, not give in to the sweet vanilla smell. She felt a surge of sympathy for Ulysses, understanding what it was to be turned into a pig. |
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Copyright © 2000 Shann Palmer All Rights Reserved |
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