Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead (3 page)

“Okay,” he said, then vomited on the rug.

Mindy tried reading the clock on the microwave but didn’t have her contacts in yet and her glasses were upstairs. What good was it having family in the optical business if perfect vision wasn’t part of the deal?

She tore through a junk drawer and found a red frame with rhinestone elephants that screamed, hello, I have no taste. And 16

Saralee Rosenberg

who cared what time it was anyway? Her son was sick, her day was shot, and if Rhoda got on the plane and felt a sniff le, she would diagnose it as pneumonia and never let Mindy forget that HER child had ruined THEIR special anniversary trip, for which they paid an ungodly sum AND generously invited her mother, Helene, who then had the NERVE to invite her sister.

As Mindy contemplated this disastrous turn of events, she searched for medicine, then caught a whiff of aftershave. No matter how she pleaded, Artie was so heavy-handed, his scent trumpeted his arrival.

“Hey, nice glasses.” He opened the fridge. “Maybe I should carry those in the store.”

“That’s where I got ’em. Which probably explains last month’s sales figures.”

“Impressive! Shermy gets a three-pointer.” He pretended to shoot hoops. “Anyway, I never got to tell you what I needed to tell you before.”

“Oh yeah.” Mindy gathered enough cold medication to knock out Ricky’s entire first grade class. “What’s up?”

“I got Mr. Waspy Banker to have another meeting with me.”

“How is good ol’ Waspy?” She grabbed the thermometer, too.

“Maybe this time you’ll believe me. The guy’s a blue blood. You
have
to wear a navy suit.”

“I will if you will.” Artie took a large gulp of juice.

“No, no. Between the dandruff and his little breath mints, he creeps me out.”

“Please?” He fell to his knees. “My only experience begging is in bed with you.”

Mindy laughed, but saw the worry in her husband’s forlorn face. “When is the meeting?”

Artie bounced up. “Today at nine.”

“You sound like a commercial for Regis and Kelly,” Mindy Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead

17

sighed. If only her optometrist husband hadn’t been so quick to buy into a new optical chain called Eye-Deals, he might have heard that the franchise fees were exorbitant and customers hated the selection and prices. The only clear vision she had now was of bankruptcy court.

“We’ll take Ricky with us,” Artie persisted. “By this afternoon he’ll be bouncing off the walls like always.”

“No, he won’t. He’s got a fever, a cough, and he threw up.

What if it’s strep?”

“See what I mean? You always have to think the worst! It’s not strep. Let’s just send him to school, and if he doesn’t feel good he can go hang out with the nurse.”

“I hate parents who do that and you know it. What is wrong with you?”

“I’m a desperate man, that’s what. I’ve been reworking the numbers and I think I can prove we’ll have a decent cash f low for the next fiscal year, but you’re the better talker.”

“You’ll do fine. Besides, it’s my day to drive.”

“Let the kids take the bus for God’s sake. Why do you have to carpool every day?”

“Stop! I’ve explained this a hundred times. It’s just easier, okay?”

“How is it easier? You have to get up, get dressed, drive to the middle school, then come back and drive to Lakeside.”

“It’s easier because the buses come so early, and the kids always have so much stuff to schlep with their instruments and sports gear, and then they call me from school anyway to tell me they forgot their lunch or the envelope with the field trip money.

. . . Trust me, it’s a lot less stressful when we drive and make sure everyone has everything they need the first time.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m tired of arguing over this. Just call Beth and see if she’ll switch.”

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Saralee Rosenberg

“I can’t. As soon as she sees it’s me on the caller ID, she won’t answer.”

“Then go on line and IM her.”

“Can’t do that either. She blocked me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s Tuesday and I have type-O blood! How the hell should I know?”

“What if you create a new screen name? Then you can at least see if she’s online?”

“Oh screw it. This is getting stupider by the second. I’ll just be brave and call her. ”

“’Atta girl.”

“I mean what’s the worst she can do? Report me to the National Association of Minivan Moms? ‘Mrs. Sherman, one more violation and we’re taking away your five-year jacket.’”

When Artie laughed, his whole body erupted like a shaken can of Coke. It was one of the things she loved most. That and his capacity to eat anything she made without complaint, as long as it didn’t up and bite him first.

“Oh. And out of curiosity,” she asked, “what happens if the bank turns us down again?”

“No big deal,” he hugged her. “We’ll lose the store and probably the house.”

“Fantastic!” she shrugged. “At least then you could stop feeling bad that we never got to buy a shed.”

“Oh man,” Artie sighed. “I always wanted a shed. I wonder if they come in three-bedroom, two-bath . . .”

Two

Beth Diamond was the next-door neighbor from hell. Stunning to the point of distraction but with a chip on her shoulder bag.

If she wasn’t complaining about your barking dog, she was accusing you of stealing her Saturday night sitter. And pray that this preachy, sancti-mommy didn’t hear you discussing plans for your child’s birthday party.

“Please don’t feed the children cake and ice cream, then hand them goody bags filled with candy. Saying no makes it so difficult on caring mothers like myself.”

But where this MILF1 stood her ground was with her tall, toned body. While most of the other moms were waging daily battles against gravity and Pepperidge Farm, Beth would roll out of bed, throw on those low-lying Juicy Couture pants, pull her hair into a ponytail, and still turn heads at Starbucks. So unfair to the girls who slaved away at the gym and resorted to the latest diet craze just to fit back into their jeans after indulging in fast food and vodka shots.

1 mother I’d love to f---

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Saralee Rosenberg

“I’m on the Master Cleanse Diet, Mindy. It’s so easy.”

“Oh, I heard. Pine-Sol for breakfast, Windex for lunch, and a
small, sensible dinner.”

“Ha, ha. No. It’s a ten-day fast. You just drink lemon juice,
maple syrup, and water.”

“Great. No need for an autopsy then. The cause of death will
be stupidity.”

When Mindy first met Beth, she assumed the story went like this. Nice Jewish boy meets blond shiksa goddess, waits for his mother to remove her head from the oven, then marries the green-eyed beauty. Only to overhear Beth’s mother call her by her Hebrew name, Batyah.

Turned out her cover-girl face had nothing to do with swimming in Christie Brinkley’s gene pool. It was an inheritance from her regal-looking German-Jewish parents. Sadly, Mindy’s Polish ancestry hadn’t been quite as charitable, though Beth claimed that was a lousy excuse.

“No reason you can’t get a decent haircut, drop twenty pounds, and let those nails grow!”

Sometimes Mindy would retaliate with away messages that friends would “get” were about Beth. But that kind of jousting took a lot of energy and she hated stooping to her level.

“How could someone so beautiful be such a misery?” Mindy would ask Artie during pillow talk. “Every day I have to listen to her go on and on about whose daughters aren’t as bright and athletic as hers, and whose bar mitzvah was pitiful because the sushi was tough. And get this. When I asked her to sponsor me for the Walk for the Homeless, she said no. So I go, ‘But, Beth, these people don’t eat for days at a time.’ So she goes, ‘Really? I admire their willpower.’”

“No E-ZPass for life,” Artie always said. “Sooner or later she’ll have to pay the toll.”

Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead

21

But after eight years of observing Beth’s charmed, I’ll-take-one-of-these-and-two-of-those existence, still no signs of ill for-tune. No big weight gains or financial losses. No major crises or scandals. Not even an occasional run-in with a bad perm. To the contrary, Beth Diamond lived a sparkling five-carat life.

Mindy was about to pick up the phone to call her when a shiny balloon floated past. Little Ricky had brought it home from a party, and as with all the other junk in the house, it seemed to move from room to room until Artie threw it out or posted it on eBay.

She grabbed hold of the ribbon and glimpsed at her reflection. Was she really as unsightly as Beth claimed? She framed her roundabout face with her signature cocoa curls and sighed.

In spite of a warm olive complexion and engrossing M&M eyes, she had yet to make peace with her portly, middle-aged train wreck of a body.

How could she? In this era of jaws-of-life jeans, it was every mother’s dream to shop where her daughter shopped while prancing in front of the other moms who kept pulling their shirts over their asses. Oh to have the little salesgirl fetch you a size two that ran small.

And what would happen if Mindy did lose those twenty pounds? Would Beth finally show her a little respect? Yes! As little respect as possible! Therefore, no reason to pass up the leftover Munchkins on the counter. Mouth awash in yummy sugar, she pushed “T.B.” (“the Bitch”) on the automatic dial.

“What is it?” a breathlessly annoyed woman answered.

Damn caller ID.

I’m good, thanks. You?
“Hi there,” she swallowed. “I need a small favor.”

“With you it’s never small.”

Did you really just make a crack about my weight?
“Okay. Anyway, Artie just asked if I could go to this meeting at the bank with him this morning, so I was wondering if you—”

22

Saralee Rosenberg

“Forget it. It’s your day to drive. Plus, we’re in the middle of a challenging art project.”

Art projects on a school day? That would go over big at her house. “Come, children. It’s seven a.m. Let’s make popsicle forts.”

Lord knows where those sticks would end up.

“And why didn’t you clear this with me sooner?”

“I swear he just mentioned it like two minutes ago, but it’s very important that I go.”

“Damn you,” Beth whined. “If I drive, I’ll have to cut the project short, and the girls will want to resume tonight, which is impossible because I have the PTA fashion show and I never picked up the outfits I’m modeling. God I hope they don’t do to me what they did last year. Seriously, do I look like a size eight . . . no, Jessica, the gray gives the sky better definition. Emma, please stop dropping the pastels. They’re very expensive. Honestly, Mindy.

I agreed to this car pool to make my life easier, not harder. But this constant switching around business is a pain. Next year I’m starting a new one.”

A new car pool with whom? The Mongolian housekeeper down the
block? Nobody who spoke English wanted to deal with Beth. Or anyone
over a size eight.

“What switching-around business? I asked you maybe once or twice the whole year!”

“Not according to my records.” Beth jabbed at her BlackBerry.

“This problem started on October fourteenth.”

Ohmygod! She was keeping track? October fourteenth. What was October fourteenth?
“Wait. That was Artie’s grandmother’s funeral.”

“Whatever,” Beth continued, “then in November I had to drive three days in a row.”

“Yes, because I had to have my gallbladder out.”

“A totally unnecessary surgery if you followed basic dietary guidelines. All I’m saying is I don’t appreciate being taken for granted. I am not your private chauffeur, and from now on—”

Dear Neighbor, Drop Dead

23

“What?” A f lustered Mindy pretended she was being called.

“Okay, be there in a sec . . . Beth, sorry, I have to go. Artie is yelling for a plunger . . .”
Because I can’t take your shit!

“Did you call her?” Artie yelled from upstairs.

“Oh yes.” Mindy raced to the foyer. “And not only did she accuse me of being a food whore who treats her like a chauffeur, she’s threatening to take her car pool business elsewhere.”

“She said that? Wow! Call Morgan Freeman. Tell him we’ve got an idea for a sequel called
Driving Miss Crazy.
”

“Exactly!” She laughed. “Now do I have your permission to kill her?”

“Not until the country-club jails get Tivo . . . but what did she say? Will she drive?”

“Nope. She requires a week’s notice in writing. Of course that’s never the case when she needs a favor. I swear she is the worst person ever, and don’t you dare start defending her.”

“I’m not. But remember how nice she was when my grandmother died? She made that amazing dinner so we could eat when we got home from the cemetery. And that time Ricky’s igloo collapsed the night before it was due? She spent hours helping him rebuild it.”

“Fine, so she occasionally acts nice. I still hate her and would appreciate it if you—” The phone rang. “Oh, joy. Twenty bucks says it’s her calling with more accusations.”

“Why don’t you let me handle this?” Artie followed Mindy into the kitchen. “I know she intimidates you.”

“She does not!” Mindy took a deep breath. “She just scares the crap out of me, but this time I’m going to speak my mind.”

“Right.” Artie rolled his eyes.

“I’ve decided that I will drive today because you’re giving me no choice,” Beth started in. “But there is a way you can make it up to me.”

Raise your girls so you have more time to shop?
“Sure. Anything.”

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Saralee Rosenberg

“It so happens I will not be available to drive on April twelfth.”

“No problem.”
In most states
,
car pool changes aren’t even misde-meanors
.

“Actually, I will be in Chicago on business and I’m not sure what day I’m getting back.”

Beth had business in Chicago? Wasn’t that generally limited to people who worked? “Are you going to one of Richard’s conventions?”