the “good” side of the canal. She’d been wise enough to buy her apartment several years earlier, so she was now sitting pretty in a renovated row house at the end of the kind of street that was called a Place. An abandoned warehouse nearby was set to become an Organic Depot. There was talk of moving the New York Giants into a stadium complex to be built over toward Brooklyn Navy Yard, but the plan was being viciously protested by neighborhood activists who had nobler notions of community development (but whose sports experience, frankly, was limited to hot yoga). These people were particularly angry—and fair enough, given that many of them had been driven out of Manhattan when Hamilton Fish Town, the East Village’s storied affordable housing complex, had been razed to make way for a Wal-Mart.
Daphne had called Lola just yesterday morning—which now seemed like an eon ago—with an emergency on her hands.
“Hallo, Lola, it’s Daphne Duplex. Got your cell from your book publicist, hope to death you’re not sore.”
Ex -publicist. “Mind? I’m just glad she still has my number.”
“Oh, you are a stitch,” said Daphne. “But say, Lola, I’m in a bit of a pickle. I was wondering if you could do a gal a terribly big favor. I’m on the last day of my book tour here in—let’s see, if it’s Wednesday, it must be St. Louis—and it seems my regular dog-sitter has discovered that her new fella’s allergic to bassets. She insists she can’t stay another day.”
“With the boyfriend?”
“You raise an excellent point, but no. With the pooches. Would you be a peach and pop over tomorrow?”
Does she think I don’t work?
More times than she could count, Lola had told someone she was a writer, only to hear, “I’m so jealous! You must get to, like, go to the park all day and journal.”
Then again, of course, Daphne was now a work-at-home writer, too—though that was a recent development. The etiquette column she’d written for a now-defunct Web magazine had outlived its parent, unlike the once-popular online advice column that Lola wrote before and during her stint at the ill-fated Ovum. But then a fancy agent had called Daphne and said, “Love your column. Do you think there’s a book in there?” Said Daphne: “I do now.”
At least that’s how Daphne had told the tale, twisting her trademark pink scarf, to a rapt audience of pals, including Lola and Annabel, over cocktails. “Bella?” Lola had whispered. “Can you please go get me a rage-tini?”
But even if my time is more flexible than other people’s, which admittedly it is, I need more of it for me, thought Lola. I’m not as tireless as I used to be, nor—more importantly—as desperate to please.
Lola’s big plan for her thirties, all two of them so far, was to “put herself first,” like all the magazines said she should. It was time, she had recently declared, to stop trying to be all things to all people—all people, of course, being emotional extensions of Audrey and Morris Somerville—and to start focusing on numero uno, and numero uno’s career. Oh, and numero uno’s marriage. Right. Shit.
All of which means, Lola had resolved, that I really must learn to start saying no.
“So you’ll do it?” Daphne asked.
“Sure,” said Lola.
As she walked, Lola focused on the upside of dog-sitting, which was to begin with this daybreak visit to the dog run. Lola knew she couldn’t skip that; not only would the dogs be desperate to go out at their usual time, but, knowing these dog runs, if she didn’t show up with Daphne’s pets, someone, someone whose dog no doubt owns some sort of raincoat and four tiny boots, would tattle. But given the dogs’ schedule of outings—dog run, walk, dog run, walk, vespers—she’d figured she’d set up shop and work over at Daphne’s, where it’d be nice and quiet.
Especially now that I really have some thinking to do, thought Lola. It’d be the follow-up to the thinking
Daphne had called Lola just yesterday morning—which now seemed like an eon ago—with an emergency on her hands.
“Hallo, Lola, it’s Daphne Duplex. Got your cell from your book publicist, hope to death you’re not sore.”
Ex -publicist. “Mind? I’m just glad she still has my number.”
“Oh, you are a stitch,” said Daphne. “But say, Lola, I’m in a bit of a pickle. I was wondering if you could do a gal a terribly big favor. I’m on the last day of my book tour here in—let’s see, if it’s Wednesday, it must be St. Louis—and it seems my regular dog-sitter has discovered that her new fella’s allergic to bassets. She insists she can’t stay another day.”
“With the boyfriend?”
“You raise an excellent point, but no. With the pooches. Would you be a peach and pop over tomorrow?”
Does she think I don’t work?
More times than she could count, Lola had told someone she was a writer, only to hear, “I’m so jealous! You must get to, like, go to the park all day and journal.”
Then again, of course, Daphne was now a work-at-home writer, too—though that was a recent development. The etiquette column she’d written for a now-defunct Web magazine had outlived its parent, unlike the once-popular online advice column that Lola wrote before and during her stint at the ill-fated Ovum. But then a fancy agent had called Daphne and said, “Love your column. Do you think there’s a book in there?” Said Daphne: “I do now.”
At least that’s how Daphne had told the tale, twisting her trademark pink scarf, to a rapt audience of pals, including Lola and Annabel, over cocktails. “Bella?” Lola had whispered. “Can you please go get me a rage-tini?”
But even if my time is more flexible than other people’s, which admittedly it is, I need more of it for me, thought Lola. I’m not as tireless as I used to be, nor—more importantly—as desperate to please.
Lola’s big plan for her thirties, all two of them so far, was to “put herself first,” like all the magazines said she should. It was time, she had recently declared, to stop trying to be all things to all people—all people, of course, being emotional extensions of Audrey and Morris Somerville—and to start focusing on numero uno, and numero uno’s career. Oh, and numero uno’s marriage. Right. Shit.
All of which means, Lola had resolved, that I really must learn to start saying no.
“So you’ll do it?” Daphne asked.
“Sure,” said Lola.
As she walked, Lola focused on the upside of dog-sitting, which was to begin with this daybreak visit to the dog run. Lola knew she couldn’t skip that; not only would the dogs be desperate to go out at their usual time, but, knowing these dog runs, if she didn’t show up with Daphne’s pets, someone, someone whose dog no doubt owns some sort of raincoat and four tiny boots, would tattle. But given the dogs’ schedule of outings—dog run, walk, dog run, walk, vespers—she’d figured she’d set up shop and work over at Daphne’s, where it’d be nice and quiet.
Especially now that I really have some thinking to do, thought Lola. It’d be the follow-up to the thinking
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