that. But that self-righteous battle-ax insisted it was a “three”
on the date stamp, not an “eight.” Of course, if the cheapskates on the Tampa Vistas board of directors would invest in a new date stamp or get a computer like the rest of the world, we wouldn’t be having this problem.
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
103
I stood up for my rights, as any red-blooded American would do, and refused to pay the fine. True, it was only 18 cents, but it was the principal of the thing! If nothing else, Lambchop, I am a man of principle.
And now I’m also a man without a library card.
Because when I told that Pinkus woman I intended to keep my library book until she waived the fine, she ripped up my card.
Did you ever hear of anything so unjust? My civil rights have been sorely violated, and I intend to sue! Lydia Pinkus will live to rue the day she ever crossed swords with Hank Austen.
I’m calling an attorney right now!
Your gravely wronged,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Crisis Averted
Daddy’s been on the phone all afternoon trying to get a lawyer to sue the Tampa Vistas library. He even called the immigration lawyer who advertises in Spanish on the back of the bus.
Needless to say, nobody wanted to take the case, not over an 18-cent fine. Like they all told him, the Tampa Vistas library is privately owned. They can rip up anybody’s card whenever they want.
They all advised him to return the book and pay the silly fine.
104
Laura Levine
Which is what he’s going to have to do.
To think that he was going to sue Lydia Pinkus, an absolutely lovely woman and just about the smartest gal in the Tampa Vistas Book Club.
Well, at least that crisis is averted.
Much love from your frazzled, Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Change of Plan
Hi, honey—
Minor setback in my lawsuit. None of the attorneys I called met my specifications, so I’ve decided to take the case myself. I’ve always wanted to be an attorney, and now’s my chance.
I can’t wait to sock it to Lydia Pinkus—right in her Dewey Decimal System.
Lots of love from,
Your daddy,
Hank Austen, Esq.
Chapter 11
Remind me never to read my e-mail on an empty stomach. I tootled over to my computer first thing the next morning and instantly regretted it when I saw the latest missives from my parents.
I shuddered at the thought of the Tequila Sunrise comforter set winging its way to me. My mom’s heart is in the right place, and I’m touched that she cares so much about me. But we don’t exactly have the same taste in, well, anything. Mom’s idea of “a tad loud” is my idea of a raging inferno. I was certain the comforter’s “orangey-magenta”
color would be the soothing hue of neon traffic cones.
But the comforter set was a mere blip on my anxiety radar screen. It was Daddy who really had me worried. The thought of him running amok as an attorney—it was only a matter of time before some judge locked him up for contempt of court—was enough to ruin my appetite.
It stayed ruined for all of maybe thirteen seconds and then, as it so often does, came roaring back to life. I’m funny that way.
Minutes later, I was in the kitchen, slathering 106
Laura Levine
butter and strawberry jam on a freshly toasted cinnamon raisin bagel.
Prozac was at my feet inhaling her morning Mackerel Guts. I was still angry at her for masterminding Mamie’s romp in the garbage. Now don’t go shaking your head like that. She planned it, all right. I know she’s only a cat, but you have no idea what she’s capable of. Honestly, that cat could give lessons to Machiavelli.
I’d been giving her the cold shoulder ever since I got up, but it obviously hadn’t affected her appetite. I guess she gets that from me.
Armed with my bagel and a steaming cup of coffee, I settled down at my dining room table and opened the morning paper.
Holy Toledo. Just when I thought I’d seen the last of Patti, there she was—plastered all over the
on the date stamp, not an “eight.” Of course, if the cheapskates on the Tampa Vistas board of directors would invest in a new date stamp or get a computer like the rest of the world, we wouldn’t be having this problem.
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
103
I stood up for my rights, as any red-blooded American would do, and refused to pay the fine. True, it was only 18 cents, but it was the principal of the thing! If nothing else, Lambchop, I am a man of principle.
And now I’m also a man without a library card.
Because when I told that Pinkus woman I intended to keep my library book until she waived the fine, she ripped up my card.
Did you ever hear of anything so unjust? My civil rights have been sorely violated, and I intend to sue! Lydia Pinkus will live to rue the day she ever crossed swords with Hank Austen.
I’m calling an attorney right now!
Your gravely wronged,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Crisis Averted
Daddy’s been on the phone all afternoon trying to get a lawyer to sue the Tampa Vistas library. He even called the immigration lawyer who advertises in Spanish on the back of the bus.
Needless to say, nobody wanted to take the case, not over an 18-cent fine. Like they all told him, the Tampa Vistas library is privately owned. They can rip up anybody’s card whenever they want.
They all advised him to return the book and pay the silly fine.
104
Laura Levine
Which is what he’s going to have to do.
To think that he was going to sue Lydia Pinkus, an absolutely lovely woman and just about the smartest gal in the Tampa Vistas Book Club.
Well, at least that crisis is averted.
Much love from your frazzled, Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Change of Plan
Hi, honey—
Minor setback in my lawsuit. None of the attorneys I called met my specifications, so I’ve decided to take the case myself. I’ve always wanted to be an attorney, and now’s my chance.
I can’t wait to sock it to Lydia Pinkus—right in her Dewey Decimal System.
Lots of love from,
Your daddy,
Hank Austen, Esq.
Chapter 11
Remind me never to read my e-mail on an empty stomach. I tootled over to my computer first thing the next morning and instantly regretted it when I saw the latest missives from my parents.
I shuddered at the thought of the Tequila Sunrise comforter set winging its way to me. My mom’s heart is in the right place, and I’m touched that she cares so much about me. But we don’t exactly have the same taste in, well, anything. Mom’s idea of “a tad loud” is my idea of a raging inferno. I was certain the comforter’s “orangey-magenta”
color would be the soothing hue of neon traffic cones.
But the comforter set was a mere blip on my anxiety radar screen. It was Daddy who really had me worried. The thought of him running amok as an attorney—it was only a matter of time before some judge locked him up for contempt of court—was enough to ruin my appetite.
It stayed ruined for all of maybe thirteen seconds and then, as it so often does, came roaring back to life. I’m funny that way.
Minutes later, I was in the kitchen, slathering 106
Laura Levine
butter and strawberry jam on a freshly toasted cinnamon raisin bagel.
Prozac was at my feet inhaling her morning Mackerel Guts. I was still angry at her for masterminding Mamie’s romp in the garbage. Now don’t go shaking your head like that. She planned it, all right. I know she’s only a cat, but you have no idea what she’s capable of. Honestly, that cat could give lessons to Machiavelli.
I’d been giving her the cold shoulder ever since I got up, but it obviously hadn’t affected her appetite. I guess she gets that from me.
Armed with my bagel and a steaming cup of coffee, I settled down at my dining room table and opened the morning paper.
Holy Toledo. Just when I thought I’d seen the last of Patti, there she was—plastered all over the
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