Millie Criswell: Body Language

“Mr. Moody’s not married, Mom. He doesn’t have a family, and I doubt he’d give a rat’s ass about anyone else’s.”

Herbert Moody was a prick. Ellie lived for the day when the man retired and was replaced with someone of this century.

“What is he, an atheist?”

“No, just a crotchety old man who should have retired years ago. I think Moody’s been at the U.N. since the day it opened.” There’d been talk of letting him go, but so far it hadn’t happened. Ellie figured the man had dirt on anyone who was anyone, like J. Edgar Hoover, only she didn’t think Herbert Moody was gay.

“There’s a lot to be said for older people. You shouldn’t discount them, Elinore. You could learn a lot from them, if you would just listen.”

Rosemary always called Ellie by her given name when she had a point to make, as if stretching Ellie into Elinore could somehow emphasize the importance of what she was saying: Elinore don’t ignore.

“Normally, I don’t, but Mr. Moody is hard of hearing and has a very sour stomach. His breath could knock down an elephant from a mile away.”

“I’ll let your father know you’ll be coming. Maybe it’ll cheer him up, get him interested in something other than that computer of his.”

“Maybe you and Dad should think about going on a cruise, or taking a romantic vacation somewhere. A change of scenery would be good for both of you.”

A moment of silence ensued as Rosemary digested this suggestion. Then she said, “You know, Ellie, that’s not a bad idea. Most of the cruise ships leave from Miami or Fort Lauderdale. We wouldn’t have to pay extra for airfare. I’m going to look into it.”

“You can get some really good fares online.”

“Good. I’ll check. I’m not as good at the Internet as your father, so I rarely use the computer, but I think I can find my way.”

Ellie felt hopeful. Her mother rarely took her advice. Actually, she never took it, and Ellie gave very good advice, if she did say so herself. But Rosemary was of the opinion that she knew everything. Pearls of wisdom spewed forth from her mouth like an uninterrupted lava flow. And like lava, which hardened when it cooled, her mother’s opinions were of the etched-in-stone variety.

“It’ll give you and Dad something in common that you can talk about,” Ellie added. “And cruises are very romantic. I think you should go. But make sure you book a good line, splurge a little. You both deserve it.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m glad I called. I feel so much better.”

Breathing a sigh of relief that Rosemary wouldn’t be purchasing a plane ticket for the Big Apple any time soon, Ellie smiled to herself and replied, “Let me know what you find out about the cruise.”

“Of course I will. Did you think I wouldn’t discuss every detail with you? You’re my daughter; this is an important decision I’ll be making.”

Ellie rolled her eyes. The woman was going on vacation, not having brain surgery! “Okay, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“And Ellie—”

“Yes?”

“Be sure to spray your toilet bowl and seat with Lysol before using it. You never know who was living there before you. And it wouldn’t hurt to scrub your floors with Murphy’s Oil Soap, and then—”

“Someone’s at the door, Mom. Gotta go. ’Bye.”

As Ellie hung up the phone, she looked heavenward or, in this case, at her ceiling, which was slightly soiled with soot. “Please, God, let the cruises be available.”

“If you want to meet men,

go where the men are.”

IT WAS SATURDAY and Ellie was taking the big plunge.

She had enrolled at Gold’s Gym for a three-month trial period. Exercise not being her thing, she didn’t want to commit to any time period longer than that, just in case it didn’t work out. Although, she was fairly certain—okay, pretty sure—well, if not pretty sure then relatively hopeful—it would.

And there was method to her madness.

Not only was she planning to lose weight and get in shape—that’s what she told herself, anyway—she decided that going to the gym would be an excellent way to meet men. Hanging out where the guys did made perfect sense to her.

Ellie didn’t play golf, racquetball or frequent those sports bars with the big-screen TVs. But she could exercise, if she was so inclined.

And now that Brian was out of her life, she was definitely inclined.

Ellie didn’t intend to remain celibate any longer than she had to. Sex by mechanical means was the pits. Not to mention that she’d gotten a shock the other night, and it wasn’t of the pleasant variety. In fact, it had given new meaning to the phrase “tickling your fancy.” Unfortunately, her fancy had almost fried.

She would never confess to her mother that she liked sex. Rosemary preached that sex before marriage was immoral and that intercourse should be solely for procreational purposes.

Yeah, right!

Sex was a great way to release tension, it curbed her appetite—well, she wasn’t one hundred percent certain about that; her lack of hunger could have been due to exhaustion—and it made her skin glow.

Yes, having sex on a regular basis with someone who knew what they were doing—translation: orgasm proficient—was definitely a goal to strive for.

But first, she needed to get back in shape. Cellulite and sex didn’t go well together, despite what her mother claimed—this, from a woman who probably hadn’t had sex in the last ten years, not that Ellie wanted to think about such matters. Parents having sex was at the very top of the ick factor scale. A child could go blind if she thought about such things.

“You must be Ellie Peters,” the brawny man with the clipboard pronounced as he approached, interrupting her disturbing thoughts. “I’m Will Travers, your personal trainer.”

Wow! Her personal trainer was a major hunk. The man had pecs and abs to die for and pretty green eyes that were warm, friendly and made Ellie’s tummy flutter.

Should she give him her phone number now, or wait until they became better acquainted?

“I’m Ellie.” She smiled her cutesy Meg Ryan smile.

He pinched her upper arm and the cellulite bunched like warm chicken fat around his fingers.

Meg Ryan did not have upper arm fat, she thought, wanting to scream, “It’s baby fat!” figuring everyone under the age of thirty-five should be able to claim baby fat, if no one called them on it.

Unfortunately, he had called her on it.

“Looks like we’ve got some work to do.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here.”

“Excellent! Then let’s get started.”

Mr. Gorgeous proceeded to weigh her, take her measurements and body fat, and then he put all of the information into a folder with her name on it, no doubt making a notation about her extreme obesity in big red letters: “BABY FAT PHONEY!”

Normally, Ellie would have told an insensitive Neanderthal like Will to go “F” himself, but since the man had arms like tree trunks, a chest the size of a small country and no wedding ring, she decided to suck it up and remain friendly.

There was no telling what other large “attributes” Will might possess, and he was definitely a dating possibility.

Size mattered, regardless of what anyone said. Whether you were talking male genitalia, female breasts or brain matter, size was definitely important—the bigger the better! Let’s face it, and she wasn’t trying to be mean, but a teeny, weeny weenie wouldn’t be able to hit the A, B, C or G-Spot.

“I’m sure I’ll be in good hands,” she said.

After all, only King Kong had meatier palms!

Will looked her over from top to bottom, scribbled something else on his clipboard, and pronounced, “You’ve got a good body, Ellie. It just needs a bit of toning. Go change and meet me at the treadmills in ten. We’ll go over your dietary plan and workout program as soon as you’re ready.”