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“We burned those jeans last night, remember? You chanted ‘Fuck mom jeans’ and made everyone do a shot before you threw them in the fire,” I recap. “And stop calling this a date. It’s not a date.”
Turning completely around and looking over my shoulder at my butt, I smile to myself when I see the way Anastasia’s skinny jeans hug my curves and sit low on my hips. I paired them with a fitted pink-and-dark brown flannel that I tucked into the jeans, and finished the outfit off with a cute brown belt and pink ballet flats, all courtesy of my daughter, who doesn’t make me call her Asia anymore, but still refuses to wear anything with color.
“Hey, are you still there?” I ask Ariel when she doesn’t immediately reply. I turn back around to face the mirror, checking out the messy bun I attempted myself, since there’s no way I wanted to try keeping my hair down and curling it like Tiffany did last night.
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, I still can’t get used to you dropping f-bombs like it’s no big deal when two weeks ago you were still saying shit like goshdarnit and tarnation. Also, this is sooooooo a date. He picked the time. He picked the place. And he’s picking you up in ten minutes. It’s a date.”
It’s not a date. It’s stripper boot camp, just like PJ said, whatever that means. I’ve been texting him all morning asking where we’re going, and he just keeps telling me it’s a surprise and reminding me to wear a shirt.
Annoying man.
I’m not at all freaking out that I ripped off my shirt in front of him last night, drunkenly went off on him, then let him stick his tongue down my throat while everyone in my yard watched, as well as a few neighbors I didn’t realize were lurking around. They all just stood there and stared while I got lost in his kiss, never wanted it to end, and wondered if a woman could drop dead in the middle of her front yard from overstimulation.
Nope, not freaking out at all. I’m cool as a cucumber now, but only because I did all my freaking out last night after everyone went home and I spent all night stress baking. My kitchen counter is currently full of Anxiety Apple Pie Muffins, What the Hell Did I Do Last Night Lemon Tarts and I’m Never Drinking Again Donuts. All full of gluten and sugar.
“It’s not a date. I’m changing the subject. Did you hear me when I said I got fired from the PTA? In an email. Can you believe that? They couldn’t even tell me to my face that I’m no longer welcome, or that they’ve decided to go in another direction for the running of the bake sales,” I tell her in annoyance as I make my way downstairs.
I’m not even kidding when I say news travels fast on this street. I received my first firing email exactly one hour after my little strip show in my front yard. No more being the PTA president, no more being in charge of all PTA bake sales, I was kicked off the homeowner’s association, and removed as chair from the Fairytale Lane Party Planning Committee. The hits just kept coming, one right after another, all night long, until I finally had to put my phone on silent so I wouldn’t throw it across the room each time it dinged with a new email. I’ve suddenly become the pariah of the neighborhood.
“Thank God they finally fired you. Your cupcakes suck,” Ariel complains.
“Those were vegan cupcakes, you asshole, and I didn’t tell you to waltz into my kitchen and help yourself,” I say as I get to the base of the stairs and take a seat on the bottom step. “These committees, that PTA . . . it’s my whole life. Gone, just like that. Just because I live on a street filled with judgy idiots.”
“No, it was your whole life. You were filling the void doing a bunch of shit you didn’t even care about so everyone would continue thinking you were perfect. Your life is no longer perfect, it’s a hot mess. You’re selling your belongings to pay your bills, opening up a business where you’ll take your clothes off for money, cursing like a sailor at the top of your lungs in your front yard, and making out with a hot strip-club owner with your top off, also in your front yard.”
“Gee, thank you so much for reminding me of all the mortifying things I’ve done in the last twenty-four hours,” I deadpan.
“You’re also finally standing up for yourself, you officially pulled that stick out of your ass for good, you’ve loosened up, you’re figuring out who you want to be, and you’re making out with a hot strip-club owner with your top off,” Ariel says with a smile in her voice.
