the bed, I do a quick count and a little mental calculation and am relieved to discover that none of the pills are missing.
I hop up, grab the trash bag, and head for the master bedroom. I drop the sack, then do another, less hurried (though still disappointing) perusal of Caroline’s closet. I opt for a pair of jeans—the only pair that has a zipper as opposed to elastic—and a dark-chocolate brown long-sleeved knit sweater. Within seconds, I’ve discarded the sweats and the lurid tee and donned the jeans and sweater, which are both surprisingly comfortable despite the fact that neither possesses a legible label.
I take a few seconds to drag one of Caroline’s brushes through my hair (yup, my brushes are packed), knowing my reddish brown locks, which I so carefully straightened this morning before my flight, are about to curl up like Orphan-Freaking-Annie.
If I thought my sister-in-law had any makeup that wouldn’t make me break out in a rash, I’d put some on. But I don’t trust Wet n’ Wild purchased from the Rite Aid next door to the 7-Eleven. And anyway, there’s no reason for me to put on makeup. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone. But damn it, why didn’t I put my makeup case in my purse instead of my luggage? (Answer: because it weighs a ton, and who knew my luggage would end up in Zaïre?)
Trash bag in tow, I return to the kitchen. In the three minutes I was gone, Tebow has been strapped to a kitchen chair with plastic wrap. He has a pointy tinfoil hat on his head, and all six girls are dancing around him like a tribe of Pygmies, laughing and making screeching noises and poking at him with Expo markers that happen to be uncapped. Basically, he looks like the victim of an ancient Egyptian tagger.
“What are you doing?” I cry, throwing my hands up in the air.
“He likes it,” says McKenna, crossing her hands over her chest defensively. “Don’t you, TeeTee?”
“Don’t call him that!” I say, remembering my childhood name for urine. Buddy, I have to make teetee! But when I look closely at my nephew, I see that he is giggling madly, despite the fact that his face is a rainbow of dry erase ink. Jesus, I hope that comes off.
I realize that cardigan man and the dog are conspicuously absent. I’d be conspicuously absent too, if it were up to me.
I cross to the back door, yank it open, and toss the trash bag out onto the concrete patio. Then I turn to face the mayhem and clear my throat in preparation for some serious stern voice.
“Just stop it, okay? STOP!” The girls freeze in their tracks, six markers suspended in mid-air. “McKenna,” I say, taking the pen from her clammy grasp. “Where is Mr. Ryan and Godiva?”
“Pizza!” she hollers, and the girls echo her. “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!”
It takes all of my restraint to keep from throttling her. “Yes. Pizza. It will be here soon.”
“Yup. That’s what Mister Ryan said,” McKenna agrees. “He left you a note.”
A note? She nods toward the counter next to the fridge where a small square piece of paper is tucked against the phone. I head for it, and the girls assume this is an invitation to continue with their satanic ritual.
“No!” I grab the note, then return to the table and swoop Tebow into my arms and away from the rabid beasts. He hollers in protest, his pacifier shooting from his mouth and smacking me in the eye.
“Youch!” Tears stream from my right eye as I try to read the note with the one good eye I have left.
Delivery was an hour behind, so I went to pick up the pizzas. Took Godiva with me—thought there was enough commotion going on without her.
Just then, the phone rings. I cross back to the counter to answer it, still carrying Tebow. As I lift the receiver, I sniff the air and realize that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. If the state of Denmark were my nephew’s diaper.
“Hel—”
Before I can complete the single-word greeting, my sister-in-law starts yelling at me
I hop up, grab the trash bag, and head for the master bedroom. I drop the sack, then do another, less hurried (though still disappointing) perusal of Caroline’s closet. I opt for a pair of jeans—the only pair that has a zipper as opposed to elastic—and a dark-chocolate brown long-sleeved knit sweater. Within seconds, I’ve discarded the sweats and the lurid tee and donned the jeans and sweater, which are both surprisingly comfortable despite the fact that neither possesses a legible label.
I take a few seconds to drag one of Caroline’s brushes through my hair (yup, my brushes are packed), knowing my reddish brown locks, which I so carefully straightened this morning before my flight, are about to curl up like Orphan-Freaking-Annie.
If I thought my sister-in-law had any makeup that wouldn’t make me break out in a rash, I’d put some on. But I don’t trust Wet n’ Wild purchased from the Rite Aid next door to the 7-Eleven. And anyway, there’s no reason for me to put on makeup. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone. But damn it, why didn’t I put my makeup case in my purse instead of my luggage? (Answer: because it weighs a ton, and who knew my luggage would end up in Zaïre?)
Trash bag in tow, I return to the kitchen. In the three minutes I was gone, Tebow has been strapped to a kitchen chair with plastic wrap. He has a pointy tinfoil hat on his head, and all six girls are dancing around him like a tribe of Pygmies, laughing and making screeching noises and poking at him with Expo markers that happen to be uncapped. Basically, he looks like the victim of an ancient Egyptian tagger.
“What are you doing?” I cry, throwing my hands up in the air.
“He likes it,” says McKenna, crossing her hands over her chest defensively. “Don’t you, TeeTee?”
“Don’t call him that!” I say, remembering my childhood name for urine. Buddy, I have to make teetee! But when I look closely at my nephew, I see that he is giggling madly, despite the fact that his face is a rainbow of dry erase ink. Jesus, I hope that comes off.
I realize that cardigan man and the dog are conspicuously absent. I’d be conspicuously absent too, if it were up to me.
I cross to the back door, yank it open, and toss the trash bag out onto the concrete patio. Then I turn to face the mayhem and clear my throat in preparation for some serious stern voice.
“Just stop it, okay? STOP!” The girls freeze in their tracks, six markers suspended in mid-air. “McKenna,” I say, taking the pen from her clammy grasp. “Where is Mr. Ryan and Godiva?”
“Pizza!” she hollers, and the girls echo her. “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!”
It takes all of my restraint to keep from throttling her. “Yes. Pizza. It will be here soon.”
“Yup. That’s what Mister Ryan said,” McKenna agrees. “He left you a note.”
A note? She nods toward the counter next to the fridge where a small square piece of paper is tucked against the phone. I head for it, and the girls assume this is an invitation to continue with their satanic ritual.
“No!” I grab the note, then return to the table and swoop Tebow into my arms and away from the rabid beasts. He hollers in protest, his pacifier shooting from his mouth and smacking me in the eye.
“Youch!” Tears stream from my right eye as I try to read the note with the one good eye I have left.
Delivery was an hour behind, so I went to pick up the pizzas. Took Godiva with me—thought there was enough commotion going on without her.
Just then, the phone rings. I cross back to the counter to answer it, still carrying Tebow. As I lift the receiver, I sniff the air and realize that something is rotten in the state of Denmark. If the state of Denmark were my nephew’s diaper.
“Hel—”
Before I can complete the single-word greeting, my sister-in-law starts yelling at me
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