It Sounded So Much Better In My Head
I’m horizontal on my sofa, head propped on a pillow and legs tucked under a throw. The Phillies are playing the Dodgers and the commentator’s analyzing the data flashing across the bottom of the screen. A glass of red wine sits on the coffee table. A tattoo of my lips, Laura Mercier Peony, stains the rim of the glass. Just beyond is a bowl of fresh made popcorn. My apartment smells like a movie theater.
“What do you want now?” I ask with feigned anger when I answer the phone.
“Love you too,” Leslie says.
I mute the television, roll onto my back, listen to her talk.
“Hey, I’ve been thinking, when I’m making more money, I want to take in a foster child,” I randomly blurt out.
Leslie laughs. I’m quiet. “Oh my God, you’re serious?” She’s clearing her throat, swallowing down her giggles.
“Yeah. Kids don’t make the choice to be abandoned. And once they get older, they’re all but discarded. It’s shitty.”
“Wow, that’s admirable. Why don’t you become a Big Sister in the meantime?”
“Oh hell no! That’s too much of a commitment.”
Degrees of Class, Or Lack Thereof
A bellman insists on golf-carting me to my room, but I politely decline the offer. My legs, stiff from the flight, can use the stroll. Except I regret my decision when I see I have to climb two flights of stairs, suitcase and ten-pound purse in tow. It’s arid Arizona but I’m sweating when I reach the landing. Once in the room, I tend to pressing issues like peeing, hanging my dress, setting up my iPod, opening the sliding glass doors to let fresh air fill my room.
“Hey!” I say when I answer my phone, flopping down diagonal across the bed.
“I’d like to order ten Aztec print ponchos,” Leslie requests.
“Already bought you twelve.” I sit up, cross my legs, reach for the sealed bag of trail mix I brought with.”
“Cool. I can flip them for a profit. All the rage with the Buckhead ladies. So it’s nice?”
“I mean, the topography’s rather unappealing. It’s so flat, I feel like I have a bird’s eye view of the entire state. And I’m 5'4". Plus everything is turd brown. This is probably the only region where I’d thrive as a landscape designer. It’s like dead plants are chic out here.”
“How’s the room?”
“Nice. Though I’m certain the interior decorator was color blind. I can’t decorate for shit but even I know a moss green rug has no business being paired with pink and orange armchairs. Aztec print, of course. And then there’s the issue of red throw pillows and a striped ---”
“Paige?” Leslie breaks the silence.
“My Trader Joe’s trail mix just exploded all over the place.” I’m crawling across the bed, plucking pistachios and pumpkin seeds off the crisp white, 1000-thread count duvet.
“Listen, if you think I’m going to spend seven dollars for a handful of stale cashews, you’ve got another thing coming to you. Which reminds me,” I say before popping some stray craisins in my mouth. “I need to get out and find some bottled water that doesn’t cost ten dollars.”
“That’s my girl! So you already pocketed the complimentary toiletries?”
“God no. That’s so tacky.”