apology.
Why is she
apologizing? Is she feeling guilty for shipping me off or taking Bo when my
back is turned?
“I have been
calling you all week to wish you good luck on the opening. But I can’t get past
the receptionist. Corporate told me you had a fantabulous week.”
“Secretary, My secretary.” I want to
make sure I correct her so she realizes I have my own personal assistant. “Yes,
I’ve had a wonderful week.”
Then she
launches into her made-up language.
Whoever came up
with the idea of turning their poodle/schnauzer mutt into a made-up name like
schnoodle because their poodle is a slut and got knocked up by a schnauzer is
brilliant! Any cross-breed is a mutt, no matter how you spin it, but if you
label it with designer…, badda bing! You’ve got yourself a gold mine.
Just like Piper.
She puts words together and makes up her own language with words like
fantabulous, ginormous, groceraunt, spanglish. Pipernomics has to be the best.
She claims it’s her ideas on the current economic status of the country. What
the hell?
“It was a good
week.” I try to sound even more joyful and to ignore the giggles and kisses
coming from her end of the phone.
“How is
Cincinnati treating you?” She asks, snidely.
“It’s fine.” The
less information I give her, the better off I am.
“Have you met
some new friends?” she questions.
Ah, no ! The ones I
have now are fine. I wish I had the guts to tell her I’m not in the market
for new friends.
“Work is keeping
me busy. Speaking of work, I have to get back to the grind.” I’m not going to
have everyday conversation like she’s my friend. She’s only trying to gather
ammunition against me and I don’t even know why.
“Adios, Hallie.
Have a good one.” She laughs. “A little Spanglish for you.”
I listen closely
for more noise before the final click, nothing. I never figured Bo to like the
Piper type. All prim and proper, not to mention giggly. Not a hair out of
place. She doesn’t even care about running. She always put me down for it and
now he’s off with her.
To help forget about Piper and her phone
call, I lace up my shoes and head to the square.
Earlier, I read
in the paper where The Running Store, in Hyde Park, is having a sale. I might
as well run down there and check it out.
I tuck a few
dollars in my running shorts just in case I decide to look there or elsewhere. If I’m going to
run, I have to take care of my barking dogs.
When I joined my
running group in Chicago, I spent an entire paycheck on running equipment. The
sales lady told me she’d never seen someone bring in an entourage of friends to
make sure the shorts look great. But it’s a facade I have to keep up until Bo
marries me and we have our first baby. Then I’ll stop running and take care of
his offspring.
Maybe I’m getting
a little ahead of myself. Though I can’t help but wonder what he’d
think of Cincinnati.
With the image
of my holding Bo’s baby in my arms, I fail to see the One Bead At A Time door
flew open, whacking me back into reality.
“Oh!” The woman
at the door tries to catch me as I stagger around. “Are you okay? I am so
sorry!”
“I’m fine. I’m
fine.” My heart is racing a mile a minute.
I can just see
it now. If the door hit me a fraction harder, I would’ve been out cold in a
hospital room with no one at my side except Aunt Grace in one of her goofy
wigs.
Bending over
with my hands resting on my hips, I reassure the woman, who looks like she’s in
cardiac arrest.
“Please come in
and sit down.” She gestures towards the bead store. “I’ll get you a glass of
water.”
That’s the least
you can do, I thought. Although, it was actually my fault for running so close
to the stores. “Really, I’m fine.”
I look around
her, noting the woman inside picking out beads.
“Deidra.” She
sticks her hand out.
She can’t be any
older than me. Her hair is as black as mine, cut in an angle bob with blunt
bangs
Why is she
apologizing? Is she feeling guilty for shipping me off or taking Bo when my
back is turned?
“I have been
calling you all week to wish you good luck on the opening. But I can’t get past
the receptionist. Corporate told me you had a fantabulous week.”
“Secretary, My secretary.” I want to
make sure I correct her so she realizes I have my own personal assistant. “Yes,
I’ve had a wonderful week.”
Then she
launches into her made-up language.
Whoever came up
with the idea of turning their poodle/schnauzer mutt into a made-up name like
schnoodle because their poodle is a slut and got knocked up by a schnauzer is
brilliant! Any cross-breed is a mutt, no matter how you spin it, but if you
label it with designer…, badda bing! You’ve got yourself a gold mine.
Just like Piper.
She puts words together and makes up her own language with words like
fantabulous, ginormous, groceraunt, spanglish. Pipernomics has to be the best.
She claims it’s her ideas on the current economic status of the country. What
the hell?
“It was a good
week.” I try to sound even more joyful and to ignore the giggles and kisses
coming from her end of the phone.
“How is
Cincinnati treating you?” She asks, snidely.
“It’s fine.” The
less information I give her, the better off I am.
“Have you met
some new friends?” she questions.
Ah, no ! The ones I
have now are fine. I wish I had the guts to tell her I’m not in the market
for new friends.
“Work is keeping
me busy. Speaking of work, I have to get back to the grind.” I’m not going to
have everyday conversation like she’s my friend. She’s only trying to gather
ammunition against me and I don’t even know why.
“Adios, Hallie.
Have a good one.” She laughs. “A little Spanglish for you.”
I listen closely
for more noise before the final click, nothing. I never figured Bo to like the
Piper type. All prim and proper, not to mention giggly. Not a hair out of
place. She doesn’t even care about running. She always put me down for it and
now he’s off with her.
To help forget about Piper and her phone
call, I lace up my shoes and head to the square.
Earlier, I read
in the paper where The Running Store, in Hyde Park, is having a sale. I might
as well run down there and check it out.
I tuck a few
dollars in my running shorts just in case I decide to look there or elsewhere. If I’m going to
run, I have to take care of my barking dogs.
When I joined my
running group in Chicago, I spent an entire paycheck on running equipment. The
sales lady told me she’d never seen someone bring in an entourage of friends to
make sure the shorts look great. But it’s a facade I have to keep up until Bo
marries me and we have our first baby. Then I’ll stop running and take care of
his offspring.
Maybe I’m getting
a little ahead of myself. Though I can’t help but wonder what he’d
think of Cincinnati.
With the image
of my holding Bo’s baby in my arms, I fail to see the One Bead At A Time door
flew open, whacking me back into reality.
“Oh!” The woman
at the door tries to catch me as I stagger around. “Are you okay? I am so
sorry!”
“I’m fine. I’m
fine.” My heart is racing a mile a minute.
I can just see
it now. If the door hit me a fraction harder, I would’ve been out cold in a
hospital room with no one at my side except Aunt Grace in one of her goofy
wigs.
Bending over
with my hands resting on my hips, I reassure the woman, who looks like she’s in
cardiac arrest.
“Please come in
and sit down.” She gestures towards the bead store. “I’ll get you a glass of
water.”
That’s the least
you can do, I thought. Although, it was actually my fault for running so close
to the stores. “Really, I’m fine.”
I look around
her, noting the woman inside picking out beads.
“Deidra.” She
sticks her hand out.
She can’t be any
older than me. Her hair is as black as mine, cut in an angle bob with blunt
bangs
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