“So, tell us about Mr. Wonderful, Ursula. How’s that gorgeous man doing?”
My sister Monica and probably half of the women in this city have a celebrity crush on Coop.
“Funny that you mention him.”
“Yeah—what is it? Do you have some tea on him?”
Both of my sisters are practically salivating at the mouth. They think I’m going to break my confidentiality clause and tell them some sort of juicy gossip (also known as the tea) about Coop. They’re so predictable. They’ve been dying for me to spill the beans on him for years. I never do. I never would. It’s against my confidentiality clause and more importantly my moral compass.
“Is he really seeing Ariana Grande?”
“No.”
They don’t listen to me.
“Ooh yeah—is he, Ursula? I mean she’s so young.”
“No,” I say again with emphasis.
“Totally too young for him and way too skinny. Plus, they’re not a good match. She’s a Cancer and Coop’s an Aquarius.”
“Is she a June or July Cancer?”
“She’s June.”
“Ewww.”
Seriously?
“Yeah, those late June Cancers are the worst, but I think her voice makes up for it. That girl can really sing.”
“Yep, that’s true she can, but your butt looks way better than hers.”
“Does it? Thanks, sis. I’ve been using this squat press thing at the gym and—”
I hold my hand up to stop them both from their incessant chatter and to finally share my big news.
“I’m quitting my job.”
Suddenly three sets of jolted eyes are on me.
“WHAT?!” they exclaim.
“You can’t do that,” my sister Carla says. “I won’t let you do that.”
“I can, and I am,” I say defiantly.
“What on earth for? You have a dream job. People would die for that job. You get to hang around that beautiful specimen of a man and get paid handsomely for it.”
“Yeah and aren’t you like the big kahuna at your job? I’ve overheard you on some of your work calls. Don’t you tell his other employees what to do? Didn’t you have a big hand in his big awards night?”
“Not to mention that you get to make your own hours. When you’re getting a blow out at the hairdresser’s in the middle of the freakin’ day, I’m carrying a heavy mailbag and running from vicious Pomeranians.”
“I might pay to see that one day. You running from a dog as big as the size of your head,” Carla jokes.
“First of all, I never go to the hairdressers during work hours. I barely go at all.”
“That’s obvious,” adds Nana, giving her unwanted two cents about my lack of style.
