Free Pampered to Death by Laura Levine Page B

death of me yet. Now he’s decided to run for president of the homeowners association. Against Lydia Pinkus, of all people!
     
    What’s worse, he’s named me his campaign manager. Which is just a nicer word for slave . The man has been driving me crazy. He decided to campaign door to door and hand out cookies in his new To Gno-Me is To Love Me T-shirt. And get this. He expected me to make miniature gnome cookies! With costume icing and everything. Who does he think I am—Martha Stewart? I told him he’d get plain old chocolate chip, and like it.
     
    I baked him three dozen Toll House cookies which lasted him all of about seventeen minutes. That impossible man wound up eating most of them himself. He came back home with a terrible tummy ache, which served him right. In fact, I was hoping the whole experience would make him call off his candidacy, but no such luck. He woke up after a nice nap, fit as a fiddle and raring to go.
     
    Now he’s out in the garage painting a campaign sign. Would you believe he actually wanted to use the slogan, Time to Get Rid a Ya, Lydia! I told him if he did, he could meet me in divorce court. Well, he finally backed down and promised he’d come up with something else.
     
    Anyhow, what with all the fuss and bother of Daddy’s campaign, I haven’t even had a chance to go over my notes for my Aztec and Incan History course. Oh, well. It will be a treat just to get out of the house and away from Campaign Headquarters.
     
    Love from your frazzled,
     
    Mom
     
     
    To: Jausten
    From: Shoptillyoudrop
    Subject: Thought I’d Die
     
    I just got back from class, and I swear I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life. There we were in Lydia’s living room as our marvelous teacher, Professor Rothman, told us the most fascinating story about how the Incans (or possibly the Aztecs) invented freeze dried food, when suddenly we heard someone shouting over a bullhorn, “Save the Gnomes! Vote for Hank!”
     
    Needless to say, that “someone” on the bullhorn was Daddy.
     
    “Good heavens!” Lydia cried, jumping up out of her seat. “What is that man up to now?”
     
    Then she raced over to her front window to look outside. Unfortunately everyone else followed her, so they all got to witness my humiliation.
     
    There was Daddy in his Camry, shouting through a bullhorn as he drove, one of his godawful gnomes attached to the top of the car.
     
    And the worst part—the very worst part—was the huge banner he had on the side of the Camry. In big bright red letters was his new campaign slogan:
    PINKUS STINKS !
     
    Honestly, honey, I thought I’d die.
     
    I apologized profusely to Lydia, but she just took me in her arms and hugged me, saying, “You poor thing. You have to live with him.”
     
    And I could see that everyone in the room agreed with her. Professor Rothman even took me aside and gave me the name of a colleague of his, a psychiatrist, and urged me to book an appointment for Daddy ASAP.
     
    “Meds might help,” he whispered.
     
    Needless to say, I didn’t hear a word of the lecture after that.
     
    I was so unhappy I couldn’t even begin to eat the homemade lemon tarts Lydia served after class. Well, technically, I did manage to force down a few mouthfuls. In fact, I might have finished off the whole slice, but I tell you, honey, I could barely taste a thing.
     
    I was way too furious.
     
    Just wait till your father gets home.
     
    XXX
     
    Mom
     
    To: Jausten
    From: DaddyO
    Subject: Deserted!
     
    You’re not going to believe this, lambchop, but for some crazy reason, your mom has quit as my campaign manager.
     
    My own wife, deserting me in my hour of need! All because of an innocent little campaign sign.
     
    But fear not! I can win this battle on my own. I am nothing if not self-reliant.
     
    You know my motto: When the Going Gets Tough, the TOUGH—OH, DAMN, THE CAP LOCK KEY IS STUCK AGAIN. GOTTA GO GET YOUR MOM TO FIX IT.
     
    TO BE CONTINUED—
     
    DADDY