“Pretty much everything, but this week’s winner is . . .”

Ever since I’d first worked for him, Bruno had held a deep belief in dream time. Friday lunch was the hour when anything was possible. Forget the constraints of life and the limitations of reality. This was way-down-the-road-assuming-all-goes-well time, when we could award grants to every group we believed worthy.

“. . . Red Flag.”

Bruno’s interest was piqued.

“Since I’m a mother of two boys, this one caught my eye: Red Flag is a Stanford-based research group studying the alarming feminization of the male species in all classes of vertebrate animals, including people. Phthalates, flame retardants, PCBs, and a host of new chemicals in the environment are most likely the cause. Lower sperm counts are one by-product. In a lot of cases with these animals, the male genitals are shrinking.”

Bruno: “That has not been my experience.”

“What else? There’s a Nigerian-based charity devoted to distributing bed nets for malaria prevention, aptly named Nothing but Nets. There’s also Soles 4 Souls and Adopt-A-Minefield, the International Breast Milk Project . . .”

So, all in all, it had been another terrific week at work when Claudia called. “Can you talk?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Well, can I just say: If Dan took me to France for a month, I sure as hell wouldn’t come back looking like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Guess who put on some pounds in Paris?”

“Anna Brody?”

“Aka Miss Porky Pig.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad—”

“Don’t be so sure. We’re talking oink-oink.”

I like to believe that I’m above gossip. But with Claudia, it was cheap, easy, and abundant. It was a nice break from the problems of the world, and I began to crave her daily updates.

The following Monday:

“How are you?”

“Busy.”

“Then I’ll be quick. Miss Piggy waddled her way through the health club this morning. Debbie asked if she wanted to take a spinning class with us. She said, ‘No, I don’t feel like working out.’ Then she just stood there, so I asked, ‘Are you all right?’ Said she: ‘I don’t know why I’m here.’ ”

Later that week Claudia called with a series of reports about the arrival of an unfortunate-looking Chihuahua that had been delivered to the Ashworth-Brody house.

“Apparently, the dog has the runs.”

“How do you know?”

“The house tour committee met with Anna for a preliminary tour. In every room they went, the little dog—which isn’t a dog at all but a rat that barks—had shit or peed. The stench.”

Soon Claudia had other news. “Did you hear about the biting incident?”

“The dog?”