“Can you believe Rochelle’s empanadas with those Mexican flags? She’s Martha Stewart channeling Viva Zapata!…Marybeth and I were best friends in college, but she can be a bit much with her yummy news…. Doris…what a hoot. I hope I’m half as feisty when I’m her age…. And Colin…why are the cute ones always gay?”

She went on and on and before I knew it, I was giving my dry cleaning to a Goodwill guy in a wheelchair.

“Don’t forget to get a receipt,” Ashley said. “Tax write-off, you know.”

Yeah, right. First you need some income before you have to worry about taxes.

I took my receipt and watched in misery as my Ann Taylor silk blouses were tossed on top of somebody’s old VCR.

“C’mon, hon,” Ashley said, taking me by the arm, enveloping me in the heady aroma of her Vera Wang perfume. “You’ve done your good deed for the day.”

We walked back to our respective cars, and at last she got into her Jag.

“See you tonight,” she called out.

I waved feebly and watched as she drove off. The minute she was gone, I dashed back to the drop-off area.

The guy in the wheelchair, whose name tag said Carlos, looked up at me.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry, but I’d like my clothes back.”

Carlos’s eyes widened with disbelief.

“You want to take back your donation?” His voice was a tad louder than I would have liked.

Several other workers gathered around.

“What’s going on?” one of them asked.

“She wants to take back her donation.”

“You don’t understand; it wasn’t really a donation. It was my dry cleaning.”

Carlos shook his head, disgusted.

“Go ahead,” he said, pointing to my clothes, which were still on top of the VCR, “take them back.”

I felt the others shooting dagger looks at my back as I gathered my clothes.

“Why not take the VCR while you’re at it?” Carlos muttered.

“It’s people like her,” another one said, “who give charity a bad name.”

I slunk out, feeling like a cockroach in a five-star restaurant. It looked like I wouldn’t be shopping at that Goodwill any time in the next millennium.

I finished the rest of my errands and drove home, certain that by now Prozac had caved in and eaten her diet food. Well, I was half right. She’d eaten. But not the diet food. I found her sprawled on the kitchen counter, like a drunk after a binge. Somehow she’d managed to claw the lid off her kitty treats and she’d scarfed down every last one of them.

She looked up at me with what I could swear was a smirk.

Score one for the furball.

Chapter 8