Pesky Blogger commented:
Maybe they’ll get a charter plane thrown in to shuttle their guests (who are no doubt on a budget) to the destination.
My ass on the couch and slipper socks on my feet, I’m doing what I normally do—write a post, take a break, check on emails and comments from the day before, write another post, look for more fodder, schedule an evening post—when the phone rings. It’s a glamorous life, yada, yada.
I slideANSWER CALLfor my sister. “Hey, Delia.”
“Hey, how ya doing?”
“All good, what’s up?” I don’t know if she just wants to shoot the breeze or what. Sometimes she’s lonely when the kids are at school.
Needing to pee, I grab the phone and switch it to speakerphone while Delia jabbers about the preschool teacher this or that. Might as well be productive while she drones on and on. She’s used to my multitasking while we talk.
“This new teacher is so flashy and flamboyant. And young. Would you believe her cleavage was on full display during conferences? She had on this tight, bright green blouse andoopsy, she obviously missed buttoning up half the buttons. Between her perfect breasts and shiny red hair flowing all around, James couldn’t keep his eyes off her. I kept thinking, no way I can compare to this goddess in my dark-washed jeans and white layering tee. Plus, my hair was stuck in a braid. Andi, I feel completely washed up and dried out at thirty-one. How does that happen? This teacher is probably not that much younger, and she looks like a Spice Girl. I’m in an ugly mood, aren’t I?”
Not bothering to place the phone on mute so I can flush, I tend to my sister’s rant. It’s not the first one and won’t be the last.
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating, Delia. James loves you and the kids. He only has eyes for you. I swear, he’s been only into you since the moment he came to America. Maybe he felt bad for the woman? Maybe, just maybe, she was having a wardrobe malfunction and he wanted to tell her? He’s sort of a sensitive soul, you know? You know he’s so sweet.”
It’s doubtful—the guy’s sex on a stick—but I need to say something comforting to Delia or she’ll never hang up the phone. James is insanely good-looking and British, so yeah, he’s got the accent too. Oh, and he used to be a smoker, and his voice is still a tad scratchy and hoarse with the accent. I mention the accent twice because ... well, it’s an accent. I’m pretty sure every woman within a five-mile radius of him unbuttons her shirts in hopes he will notice her. This was no wardrobe malfunction.
Sadly, I understand my sister’s dismissal of her own looks. We’re twins. Not identical, but close enough that we could pass for it. I run my hand through my hair and shove it in a messy bun. I don’t have time to dissect my looks at the moment.
“No, you don’t understand. This girl looked like she wanted to climb James like a spider monkey, like he was her bright and shiny Edward. And now I notice he’s on his iPad at night, reading blogs.Blogs.Do you hear me, Andonia Schwartz? Blogs! Like what you do. What man does that?”
I don’t know what the big deal is. Obviously, it’s huge enough for my sister to use my full name, which she knows I despise. Our mom’s Italian and our dad’s Jewish. As if it’s not a lethal enough combo temperament-wise, they gave me the worst name. Andonia and Schwartz go together about as well as grape jelly and salami.
I rummage through the kitchen and make myself a K-cup while my sister continues to rattle on aboutJames and the Giant Blog.
“He’s surfing and searching, and now he has a favorite blog! It has all the latest looks on grooming beards and fashion trends, and of course, grilling. They don’t grill in England, but my husband wants to smoke a pig this weekend in his new flannel shirt. What if he wants to invite the teacher?”
“I really think you’re getting carried away. Are you PMSing?”
“That’s a myth. Women use PMS as a crutch. I’m not some overly emotional crazy person who is jealous of a preschool teacher. This is real.”
“We don’t use it as a crutch, and of course you’re not. Maybe you need a different birth control pill or something. You seem a bit off balance.”
“Andi, do you hear me? My husband, the British finance guy, is reading lifestyle blogs.”
“Okay, why don’t you tell me the name of the blog he’s so fascinated with and I’ll check it out? Give you the scoop.”
I’ll admit, dad blogs aren’t my favorite. Imposters, if you ask me. Especially that shamDollars for Daddy—the guy’s nothing but a trustafarian who sits at home trading options for himself and plays budgeting make-believe on his blog, probably while toking it up.
“Would you? I know you’re busy. I hate to ask—”
“Yes. You’re my sister.” I interrupt her poor excuse for pretending to understand my life. “What’s the name?”
“It’s calledGrill and Groom.”
Great. Another blog about a man in love, betrothing himself to some Disney-esque, big-eyed, bushy-tailed princess for a life in harmony.
I roll my eyes. “No prob, Delia. I’ll call you soon, okay?”
I swear I hear her suck in a tear, but I know better than to try to talk her out of this one without looking at the blog. She’s always been the emotional one.
Me? I’m the realist. The cynical, snarky one.
Of course, my life partner left me sitting in a hospital bed nursing a newborn and never came back. Oh, you don’t know he went out for that cup of joe right after I delivered Gabby?
