And she proceeded to read about My Most Unforgettable Character. Sad to say, I’ve totally forgotten Mrs. Pechter’s most unforgettable character. I wasn’t concentrating. Nobody was. Not with Goldie Marcus in the room. All eyes were drawn to her as she sat there, fanning her impressive cleavage with her list of Favorite Things.

Finally, the last essay was read and it was time to go.

The ladies gathered their back-support cushions and headed for the door, shooting covert glances at Goldie. Goldie, meanwhile, put her Puddin’ Cup in her leopard-skin tote bag and smiled genially as Mr. Goldman volunteered to show her the ropes at Shalom.

The last thing I heard him say as they headed out together was, “Say, cookie. You like to mambo?”

I drove home, rattled by the effects of Hurricane Goldie. I wondered if my class would ever be the same again. Oh, well. Maybe with Goldie around, Mr. Goldman would finally learn some manners. I pictured the two of them together, going for moonlight strolls in the parking lot. What if they got married? Then Goldie would be Mrs. Goldie Goldman.

It was with these thoughts flitting around my brain that I climbed into bed and turned on the TV. I zapped aimlessly past ancient sitcom reruns, Ron Popeil infomercials, and sweaty bodies on the Whoopsie Doodle channel.

It was only when I happened to click on the Animal Channel that all thoughts of Goldie and Mr. Goldman vanished into the night.

They were showing a documentary about obesity in cats. I watched, horrified, as poor overweight cats struggled to breathe. A stern veterinarian lectured on the evils of feeding your cat human food. I gasped when they showed the deteriorated liver of a cat who was fed a steady diet of Chicken McNuggets, one of Prozac’s favorite snacks. Finally, there was heartbreaking footage of a cat owner weeping at her kitty’s grave.

“If only I’d put Taffy on a diet,” she sobbed.

I watched as much as I could stand and then switched to a Lucy rerun. But even Lucy couldn’t quell my panic, which by now was in full swing. If I cared about Prozac, I simply had to start feeding her diet food again.

I picked her up from where she was sprawled on my chest and cuddled her in my arms.

“You’ve got to go back on your diet, darling. It’s for your own good. Do you want to wind up like poor Taffy?”

She wriggled out of my arms and shot me a baleful look.

Oh, don’t believe everything you see on TV.

And with that, she jumped down from the bed and stalked off to the living room sofa. It looked like I’d be sleeping alone. But I didn’t care. This time, I was going to hang tough. There’d be hell to pay, but I’d pay it.