nudges me in the arm.
We start the uphill climb, and I tell Cameron about my job interview on Monday. She is very excited and thinks it sounds like a great opportunity.
“You’ll never believe this one,” I say to Cameron, stopping suddenly.
“What?” she asks, stopping and looking at me.
“I found a grey pubic hair this morning!”
“Grace!” Cameron exclaims a little disgustedly, but she is laughing.
“What? You’re a doctor. Surely, I can discuss anatomical developments with you,” I say, laughing along and starting to walk again.
“Well, you’re almost forty so it’s fitting. Speaking of which, have you figured out what you want to do for your birthday? You need to get on this. It’s only five months away,” Cameron says sarcastically.
“Ha ha,” I say. She knows I like to plan far in advance. “I think my original idea of you, Jack, Darren, and I going on some indulgent Caribbean vacation is out of the running at this point.”
“Why? Maybe it’s just the thing you two need.” I can tell Cameron and my mom are on the same page here. Cameron is also a BFOD. Maybe even president of the fan club.
“Maybe just a luncheon with friends,” I say.
“A luncheon? What are you, eighty?”
“What’s wrong with a luncheon?”
“How about just a ‘lunch’? A luncheon is something that smells like moth balls and ends with Jell-O. It just sounds so old.”
“Well, then, it’s perfectly fitting.”
“Oh come on, Grace. Forty is not old.”
“You’re right. As I mentioned to you the other night, I’m excited about forty. I think it’s going to be the beginning of a new direction in my life.” And then I add solemnly, “I just didn’t think it might be without Darren.”
“Okay, don’t get all down on me. You and Darren are going to be fine. And I think a ladies’ luncheon will be lovely.” Cameron doesn’t use words like “lovely.” I know she threw it in there to emphasize her distaste for the word “luncheon.”
“I hope you’re right. On both accounts.”
When I get home, there’s a note from Darren saying he took the boys to the playground. A nice relaxing shower without my little Rugrats coming in to disturb me will be nice, and then I plan on working on my article for Nicole Winters.
After I’ve showered, had cereal, and made coffee, I open my laptop to start writing. First, I log on to Facebook to check in with Scotty.
I see I’m not the first to get to his wall to offer congratulations, and it’s fun to see all of the people who have already posted. I don’t keep up with many friends from high school, but apparently Scotty does, and here they all are. I rarely check my Facebook page because I end up spending so much time looking at people’s pictures, reading what they’ve been up to. It’s a time suck.
I look at Scotty’s photos and am thrilled to see all the ones he’s posted of Abigail, Abigail with him, more of Abigail alone. She’s beautiful, and they look very happy. Good for him . I write something witty on his wall and then send him a longer, more personal private message. I’m about to click over to see if there’s any activity on my page when a chat box pops up.
JakeDoyle: hey grace!
I giggle and type back right away.
GraceMay: Hey Jake! Why are you up so early?
JakeDoyle: about 2 go surfing
GraceMay: So why are you on Facebook?
JakeDoyle: you ask a lot of questions at 7am
GraceMay: I heard the good news about Scotty.
JakeDoyle: who says it’s good news?
GraceMay: Why? Something wrong with Abigail?
JakeDoyle: yeah, she stole my wingman
GraceMay: Oh, I see.
JakeDoyle: guess I’ll have 2 settle down now
GraceMay: You? Never!
JakeDoyle: can’t-the good 1 got away
GraceMay: Who?
JakeDoyle: u
I spent the bulk of my high school years lusting after Jake Doyle. Free-spirited Jake played the guitar, was an artist and a surfer, and had an uncanny resemblance to Rob Lowe—pure high school rapture. We were in
We start the uphill climb, and I tell Cameron about my job interview on Monday. She is very excited and thinks it sounds like a great opportunity.
“You’ll never believe this one,” I say to Cameron, stopping suddenly.
“What?” she asks, stopping and looking at me.
“I found a grey pubic hair this morning!”
“Grace!” Cameron exclaims a little disgustedly, but she is laughing.
“What? You’re a doctor. Surely, I can discuss anatomical developments with you,” I say, laughing along and starting to walk again.
“Well, you’re almost forty so it’s fitting. Speaking of which, have you figured out what you want to do for your birthday? You need to get on this. It’s only five months away,” Cameron says sarcastically.
“Ha ha,” I say. She knows I like to plan far in advance. “I think my original idea of you, Jack, Darren, and I going on some indulgent Caribbean vacation is out of the running at this point.”
“Why? Maybe it’s just the thing you two need.” I can tell Cameron and my mom are on the same page here. Cameron is also a BFOD. Maybe even president of the fan club.
“Maybe just a luncheon with friends,” I say.
“A luncheon? What are you, eighty?”
“What’s wrong with a luncheon?”
“How about just a ‘lunch’? A luncheon is something that smells like moth balls and ends with Jell-O. It just sounds so old.”
“Well, then, it’s perfectly fitting.”
“Oh come on, Grace. Forty is not old.”
“You’re right. As I mentioned to you the other night, I’m excited about forty. I think it’s going to be the beginning of a new direction in my life.” And then I add solemnly, “I just didn’t think it might be without Darren.”
“Okay, don’t get all down on me. You and Darren are going to be fine. And I think a ladies’ luncheon will be lovely.” Cameron doesn’t use words like “lovely.” I know she threw it in there to emphasize her distaste for the word “luncheon.”
“I hope you’re right. On both accounts.”
When I get home, there’s a note from Darren saying he took the boys to the playground. A nice relaxing shower without my little Rugrats coming in to disturb me will be nice, and then I plan on working on my article for Nicole Winters.
After I’ve showered, had cereal, and made coffee, I open my laptop to start writing. First, I log on to Facebook to check in with Scotty.
I see I’m not the first to get to his wall to offer congratulations, and it’s fun to see all of the people who have already posted. I don’t keep up with many friends from high school, but apparently Scotty does, and here they all are. I rarely check my Facebook page because I end up spending so much time looking at people’s pictures, reading what they’ve been up to. It’s a time suck.
I look at Scotty’s photos and am thrilled to see all the ones he’s posted of Abigail, Abigail with him, more of Abigail alone. She’s beautiful, and they look very happy. Good for him . I write something witty on his wall and then send him a longer, more personal private message. I’m about to click over to see if there’s any activity on my page when a chat box pops up.
JakeDoyle: hey grace!
I giggle and type back right away.
GraceMay: Hey Jake! Why are you up so early?
JakeDoyle: about 2 go surfing
GraceMay: So why are you on Facebook?
JakeDoyle: you ask a lot of questions at 7am
GraceMay: I heard the good news about Scotty.
JakeDoyle: who says it’s good news?
GraceMay: Why? Something wrong with Abigail?
JakeDoyle: yeah, she stole my wingman
GraceMay: Oh, I see.
JakeDoyle: guess I’ll have 2 settle down now
GraceMay: You? Never!
JakeDoyle: can’t-the good 1 got away
GraceMay: Who?
JakeDoyle: u
I spent the bulk of my high school years lusting after Jake Doyle. Free-spirited Jake played the guitar, was an artist and a surfer, and had an uncanny resemblance to Rob Lowe—pure high school rapture. We were in
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