Read Online Must Love Dogs by Claire Cook, Carrington Macduffie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Claire Cook, Carrington Macduffie
Tags: Humorous fiction
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on me as a warm-up for someone younger, prettier, perkier, gorgeouser.
*
The swing dance teacher had broken her foot. I didn’t ask how. Certainly K-3s were developmentally too young for swing dancing anyway, but the parents loved the idea, and she’d come highly recommended by someone who worked in my sister Christine’s office. As usual, Christine was feeling abandoned. “I can’t believe you left me in the trailer by myself for so long,” she’d said.
“You weren’t by yourself,” I tried. “Siobhan was there, and Dad, and the little kids. Carol just needed a moment alone with me to try to run my life.”
“That’s what I mean. Why does Carol always get to do everything? Why can’t I help you fix your life?”
I’d distracted her by asking about a dance teacher. And until the foot, she’d been a good referral, lining up half the class facing north and the other half facing south, no talk about gender at all, even though eighteen of the twenty children were female.
Slow, slow, quick, quick
, they’d all managed some version of the step, turning to face all four walls, “Just a Gigolo” blasting from a portable CD player.
I dragged myself down the hallway to Kate Stone’s office to ask for advice.
“Why, of course, you’ll call each of the parents and give them a choice: a credit for the next session after the instructor has recovered, or continued participation in a new dance class.”
“But I can’t find another swing dance teacher. I can’t even find any kind of dance teacher.” I tried to tone down the whine in my voice. “I’ve called everywhere.”
“This, Sarah, is where you apply your creative problem-solving training.” Kate Stone picked up a carved wooden box from her desk, lifted the cover. “Open up, Sarah. Step out of the box and see things in a fresh way. Then seek and ye shall find.” Kate Stone rolled her office chair over to the window, pulled gently on the string at the bottom of her wind chimes. We listened for a moment to the delicate tinkle of brass before she continued. “And, Sarah, if I wanted to manage the afterschool program myself, I wouldn’t have hired you to do it.”
Chapter 8
The Brady kids were having so much trouble sharing the telephone that Mr. Brady was simply going to have to install a pay phone. I forgot I hadn’t finished my Cheerios yet, and took a sip of the wine I’d poured for after dinner. The wine made the milk taste a little off. I slid the cereal down to the far end of the coffee table. I took another sip of wine. One more and the milk residue was gone. This episode wasn’t quite as good as last night’s sharing-the-bathroom episode. Although who was I to criticize, since every single one of the Bradys had more of a life than I did.
I picked up the cassette tape and opened and closed the case a few times. Taking it out, I read “Personal Ad Responses” centered neatly in Carol’s handwriting. Most of the tape was still coiled at one end, the end we hadn’t listened to. Just one, I decided. I’ll listen to just one.
Seven thirty-eight p.m. October 18.
Hi, my name is John and obviously I heard your ad. It’s a very fetching message you left. Sorry, that was supposed to be kind of a joke about dogs. You know, fetching? Never mind. What I really want to say is that you have a terrific voice. Anyway, before I forget, let me give you my number. It’s, uh, 617-555-1412. That’s downtown Boston, Beacon Hill. So all right. Um …. you’re voluptuous, sensuous, alluring and fun. Well, I think that could work. And I’m a huge dog lover, too…. I mean, not just huge dogs but any size dog. Um, okay, I guess I should start with the obvious, banal stuff first. Um, I’m forty-three, and I’m completely divorced, so don’t worry about that. I’m a little over six feet tall. I get accused of looking, uh, like Harrison Ford sometimes. Kind of blondish hair, brownish eyes and, uh, I’ve been wearing wire-rimmed glasses lately
*
The swing dance teacher had broken her foot. I didn’t ask how. Certainly K-3s were developmentally too young for swing dancing anyway, but the parents loved the idea, and she’d come highly recommended by someone who worked in my sister Christine’s office. As usual, Christine was feeling abandoned. “I can’t believe you left me in the trailer by myself for so long,” she’d said.
“You weren’t by yourself,” I tried. “Siobhan was there, and Dad, and the little kids. Carol just needed a moment alone with me to try to run my life.”
“That’s what I mean. Why does Carol always get to do everything? Why can’t I help you fix your life?”
I’d distracted her by asking about a dance teacher. And until the foot, she’d been a good referral, lining up half the class facing north and the other half facing south, no talk about gender at all, even though eighteen of the twenty children were female.
Slow, slow, quick, quick
, they’d all managed some version of the step, turning to face all four walls, “Just a Gigolo” blasting from a portable CD player.
I dragged myself down the hallway to Kate Stone’s office to ask for advice.
“Why, of course, you’ll call each of the parents and give them a choice: a credit for the next session after the instructor has recovered, or continued participation in a new dance class.”
“But I can’t find another swing dance teacher. I can’t even find any kind of dance teacher.” I tried to tone down the whine in my voice. “I’ve called everywhere.”
“This, Sarah, is where you apply your creative problem-solving training.” Kate Stone picked up a carved wooden box from her desk, lifted the cover. “Open up, Sarah. Step out of the box and see things in a fresh way. Then seek and ye shall find.” Kate Stone rolled her office chair over to the window, pulled gently on the string at the bottom of her wind chimes. We listened for a moment to the delicate tinkle of brass before she continued. “And, Sarah, if I wanted to manage the afterschool program myself, I wouldn’t have hired you to do it.”
Chapter 8
The Brady kids were having so much trouble sharing the telephone that Mr. Brady was simply going to have to install a pay phone. I forgot I hadn’t finished my Cheerios yet, and took a sip of the wine I’d poured for after dinner. The wine made the milk taste a little off. I slid the cereal down to the far end of the coffee table. I took another sip of wine. One more and the milk residue was gone. This episode wasn’t quite as good as last night’s sharing-the-bathroom episode. Although who was I to criticize, since every single one of the Bradys had more of a life than I did.
I picked up the cassette tape and opened and closed the case a few times. Taking it out, I read “Personal Ad Responses” centered neatly in Carol’s handwriting. Most of the tape was still coiled at one end, the end we hadn’t listened to. Just one, I decided. I’ll listen to just one.
Seven thirty-eight p.m. October 18.
Hi, my name is John and obviously I heard your ad. It’s a very fetching message you left. Sorry, that was supposed to be kind of a joke about dogs. You know, fetching? Never mind. What I really want to say is that you have a terrific voice. Anyway, before I forget, let me give you my number. It’s, uh, 617-555-1412. That’s downtown Boston, Beacon Hill. So all right. Um …. you’re voluptuous, sensuous, alluring and fun. Well, I think that could work. And I’m a huge dog lover, too…. I mean, not just huge dogs but any size dog. Um, okay, I guess I should start with the obvious, banal stuff first. Um, I’m forty-three, and I’m completely divorced, so don’t worry about that. I’m a little over six feet tall. I get accused of looking, uh, like Harrison Ford sometimes. Kind of blondish hair, brownish eyes and, uh, I’ve been wearing wire-rimmed glasses lately
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