All About Me. Marcia King-Gamble

painted on eyebrows arched, and with some satisfaction, I read aloud. I hated Camille and she hated me.

      “Dear Jenna,

      I have lost respect for my husband. He’s a puppy dog and just follows me around. The worse I behave, the more loyal he is. I push to get a reaction, any reaction. He’s no longer interested in sex. All he wants to do is sleep. He’s a man of a certain age. Do you think he needs Viagra? I don’t want to leave him. Should I get a lover?”

      Jen frowned. “Why do you think it’s Camille?”

      “’Cause there ain’t nobody in this town she can talk to about her situation. Nobody trusts her.”

      “There isn’t anyone in this town she can talk to,” Jen corrected.

      “Whatever.”

      I was trying to clean up my act, really I was. It’s just when you’ve talked a certain way for so long, it’s comfortable for you.

      “Give me that.” Jen reached out a hand.

      I handed her the letter and went back to reading the others. I was bored, and sick to death of reading about other people’s problems. But something made me look up. I froze. On top of Jen’s desk was a pile of bridal magazines.

      It was a sad reminder that I wasn’t getting any younger. My biological clock was going tick-tock, and I had no man around. Time to hit the john before I got weepy.

      “Where are you going?” Jen called after me as I wobbled down the hallway in my three-inch platforms. “Stay away from the refrigerator.”

      She knew me that well. And yeah, I was beginning to feel faint. The lousy boiled egg and tuna minus mayonnaise had made me hungrier. I blinked a couple of times and dry-eyed, doubled back.

      “I’m taking the tour of my new home,” I said, trying to sound jolly. Fat girls are supposed to always be happy. I wasn’t. “When can I move in?”

      “When do you want to move in?”

      “Tomorrow.” I was half kidding. But this was living in the lap of luxury compared to how I lived. My landlady wanted me out. I had a running toilet and a broken dishwasher that hadn’t been fixed in weeks and I’d been slow on my rent.

      “How about week after next? That’ll make it close to the end of the month,” Jen said. “It’ll give me time to move some things into Tre’s place, the rest of the stuff I’ll put in storage.”

      “Yeah, two weeks will work. I need a favor.”

      “I’m not lending you money.”

      I cut my eyes at her. I’d only borrowed money from her once and I’d offered to pay it back with interest when my numbers came in. She’d refused to accept anything more than the loan.

      “Take me shopping.”

      “Sure. Do you have a credit card you can still use?”

      I shot her a dirty look. “I need business clothes. Manny says if I’m to work in real estate I need to dress the part.”

      “Manny is right. We could go shopping after you finish reading those letters. I’ll even treat you to dinner at the Pink Flamingo later.”

      “Okay you got it.”

      I had my teeth set for plump pork chops, garlic smashed potatoes and at least three buttered rolls.

      “What are you going to do about your hair?” Jen asked, circling me.

      “What’s wrong with my hair?”

      “Big hair’s dated, hides your pretty face.”

      I was sick to death of hearing about my pretty face. I’d been hearing about it all my life, that and my weight. Enough already, it was enough to make a body do some serious eating.

      Getting rid of my weave meant I’d need a relaxer and a cut. Jen knew how much I made. Couldn’t she let the weave slide? I’d have to take out a second mortgage just to improve my appearance and I didn’t own a home.

      “All right, all right. But I don’t want to look like those old ladies with the helmet hair and tight curls.”

      “What about going natural. Just add a little texturizer to your hair and you should be fine. If you play up your eyes and highlight your cheekbones, I say move over Halle, Chere’s the new girl in town.” She laughed and I laughed with her.

      “Okay back to work.”

      Jen plopped down in her chair, her attention again on her monitor. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. “What have I got for the Sunday column?”

      I snorted. At least she could say “we,” and acknowledge my contribution.

      Four hours later, my car was filled with shopping bags from the three stores that Jen insisted we go into. I’d been talked into buying black everything and I wasn’t feeling the clothes, reminded me of a funeral director. I’d turned into a Florida girl and I liked my vibrant colors. But I put on a happy face and pretended to go ga-ga over the slacks, skirt and jacket she’d picked out, all in the same boring black.

      Jen even made me buy old lady pumps. You know the kind with three inch heels and round tip that ladies with varicose veins wore. “Orthopedic” shoes I called them.

      By the time we were through shopping I was way over my credit card limit. I had to talk the bank into upping the amount. Now I was in serious hock. I’d better sell some houses quick.

      “I’m starving,” Jen announced as we pulled into a vacant spot in back of the Pink Flamingo.

      I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch so I was more than starving. Even the fluttering fake flamingos on the restaurant’s ceiling looked like they might make good barbeque.

      On a Wednesday night, the place was jumping. The hostess, a hot Latino woman who thought she was better than everyone, flirted with the restaurant manager, Rico. She managed to peel herself off of him to greet us.

      “We want a table in the bar area,” Jen said not consulting me. Guess I wasn’t good enough to be taken into the restaurant.

      Whipping long jet-black hair off her face, the hostess asked, “Is it just the two of you?”

      “You see anybody else?”

      Jen shushed me loudly before I could say something real smart-assed.

      “Follow me.”

      I clomped along behind them, looking around to see who was there. Drinks must be half-priced because the bar was jumping. Spotting Chet Rabinowitz, the mayor’s son, I waved. He and his lover, Harley, gave me the hand sign that meant “call us,” soon.

      My girls were out in full force, the ones I ran into at the curl and weave; those who were forever running their mouths. Most were on their way to being hooked up or laid.

      We slid into a booth. Jen and I faced each other. I was all talked out and just wanted the menu. I stabbed my finger at the first thing I saw. Jen barely glanced at hers before tossing it aside.

      “I know what I’m having,” she announced. “A Cobb salad.”

      “Cobb what?”

      “Salad. Nice, healthy and will justify my glass of wine.”

      “I’m having ribs with barbecued sauce.”

      She slapped my hand. “No you’re not.”

      “Am too.”

      “Don’t let me slap you. Didn’t you say something about having lost two pounds?”

      I stuck out my tongue. “Fine, fried chicken with collard greens on the side.”

      “We’ll have two Cobb salads,” Jen said when the waitress came over. Wine for me and water for her.”

      Who