Seagulls cry out overhead as we stroll along the water’s edge, listening to soft rhythmic whoosh of the ocean. He slowly grabs my hand, and looks at me out of the corner of his eye, I assume to gauge my reaction to his gesture. This man is beautiful. I mean, it’s almost gross how hot he is… and HE is holding MY hand. I give him a shy smile; after all, I don’t want him to think that just because he is getting a little hand holding action that it entitles him to anything else. But let’s be real, he totally is. I at least have to try and play shy. I don’t want him thinking I am some sort of epic whore bag.
As we walk down the beach, the sea spray starts to kick up and suddenly I have warm salty water being sprayed into my face… like a hose.
What the fu…
“MADI! MADI! Earth to MADI! I think he’s good. You can stop with the ambu-bag now. Dr. Kelly called it 2 minutes ago. He’s not a Macy’s Day balloon. You can stop pumping him full of air.”
Looking up, I see my friend Savannah holding a now empty syringe of saline—I’m assuming the very same warm salty water I now have all over my face.
Yep, it was too good to be true. This is what happens when you work the night shift in the ER.
I sigh deeply. Back to reality, Madi. You’re not walking on the beach with a hot ass guy, you’re standing in ER Triage 3 at Bridgewater General Hospital, over a dead body, while your friends and coworkers find entertaining ways to torture you. I really shouldn’t complain. After all, it could be worse. I could be lying here like this guy.
“What on earth were you thinking about, Madi? Jesus, Mary Mother and Joseph, you were in another world, weren’t you?”
I give a pathetic nod to Savannah. Yep, I was in a land far, far away where 20 minutes ago I didn’t fall ass over tea kettle trying to dodge the epic fight that broke out between 2 drunk guys brought in by the police after a bar fight. Apparently they still wanted to rumble. This hospital looks just like the skeezy bar they were pulled from. Granted, yes, there are people puking and there are bodily fluids on the floor, but for vastly different reasons. And when we say we are giving you a cocktail, it doesn’t come in a PBR can or with a fancy umbrella. It’s usually shoved into your arm with a gigantic needle to shut you the fuck up so you stop screaming, “I’m dying! I’m dying!” Heads up—no one, and I mean NO ONE, has ever dropped dead in an ER because they broke their ankle falling off of their stripper shoes. Just sayin.
Savannah and I start the lovely task of cleaning up “Bernie”, the now dead man lying in front of us. We call him Bernie because we don’t know his real name—all unknown dead guys that come in are Bernie to us. Yes, it’s crude, but don’t lie, you laughed a little as flashbacks of Weekend at Bernie’s went through your head, didn’t you? Granted, we didn’t try and reanimate this guy for our own shits and giggles, but Bernie fits.
I feel badly for his family and friends. Does he have family and friends? Will anyone notice that this man isn’t on the golf course tomorrow? Does anyone care that he had a massive heart attack in his driveway this morning, going to get his newspaper? I assume the woman out for her morning walk who came across him on the sidewalk cares. After all, she did call 911, so that shows some form of empathy. But how long will she care?
Would anyone notice if I didn’t show up in the ER for work tomorrow? Would anyone care? Oh, who am I kidding—of course they would. That would mean more work for those bitches if I wasn’t here. They would hunt me down if I didn’t show up. And if I WAS dead, they would in fact reanimate my corpse for their own shits and giggles.
I guess I am lucky enough to have an amazing circle of friends, and by amazing I mean judgmental, bitchy, catty, a tad whorish and all around awesome. I love those bitches!
Savannah is one of such bitches. “I’m about ready to blow this joint and my husband! I have done my 12 hours!” Jesus, she’s blunt.
“Thanks, Savannah, way to rub it in. I get to go home and do laundry, and the only blowing I will be doing is with my hair dryer after my shower. Jealous much?” I say, with a batting of my eyelashes and a flounce in my step as I walk over and pull up the sheet over Bernie.
“I told you, we need to find you a man. It’s been way too long since you have gotten laid and that is not OK. You and Andy split up what, like 6 years ago? He’s already married to that skank he fucked while you two were married.”
“Wow, that’s not at all painful to be reminded of. Thanks.”
It’s true. Andy Kennedy and I were married and had a beautiful baby girl we named Claire. Life was perfect, until (cue evil bitch music) Sindee the Slut happened upon our perfect little life. OK, I may have oversold the perfect life thing just a tad. But Sindee is a slut. I mean, really? Who names their kid Sindee, spells it that way, and doesn’t expect them to be a slut? That’s like naming your kid Cinnamon or Sapphire and not expecting them to spin on a silver pole bobbing for dollars.
Sorry, Savannah! I should mention that Savannah paid her way through nursing school by spinning on said pole. But she didn’t wreck any homes, as far as I know. Now she uses the skills she learned having George Washington’s face shoved in her panties by teaching Pole Dancing classes on the side. One of these days I may take her up on the class, but to be honest I am too chicken shit and she won’t let me forget it. Bitch!
“Yes, Vannah, I know, but I have been busy working and taking care of Claire. The last thing I need to be doing is barhopping. How pathetic does it look for a 40 year old single mother to be trolling a bar for a guy? I can’t compete with these 24 year old skanks, with their perky boobs, no stretch-marked skin, and fresh faces that aren’t sleep deprived. I have bags under my eyes so big they ask me at the grocery store if I’d like to just take my shit home in them!”
“Oh my God. Shut the hell up, Madi. You are hot and you need a man STAT!” Yes, we throw around medical terminology in our day to day conversation. It’s what we do.
“We need a GNO! You know, a girl’s night out! All of us—you, me, Lynn, Grace and Taylor. No excuses! You need to get drunk and dry hump some hot piece of ass while you’re gettin’ your swerve on,” she says with a laugh, shaking her ass.
“I will give you $1000 to never ever say the words ‘dry hump’ to me again.”
I’m afraid if I try to ‘get my swerve on’ I may need one of those ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ things.
Do I have it in me to troll the bars? Is it sad and gross? Will people look at me like I am some sort of icky cougar? I can’t think of anything worse than being called a cougar. Well, maybe Savannah saying the words ‘dry hump’ again.
“OK, Vannah. Yes, girl’s night. How about Saturday night in 2 weeks? But I’m telling you right now. If the word ‘cougar’ or ‘dry hump’ comes up, I am taking my ancient ass home to Ben and Jerry.”
I heart Ben and Jerry, they do God’s work. I don’t need a man—I have Chunky Monkey and Phish Food. They never let me down, I never have to worry about the toilet seat being left up, and they don’t hog the blankets or remote. They don’t ask questions and they don’t judge. They are just there, and it’s a beautiful thing.
“You’re thinking about ice cream, aren’t you? You’re going to go home and watch Antiques Roadshow and eat ice cream. Jesus, you need help, Eunice.”
I begin to laugh. “No, I am not going home to eat ice cream. It’s 7:20 in the morning and we just worked 12 hours in hell. I think I am going to hit the gym on the way home since Claire is at Andy’s until tomorrow. What are you going to do?”
“I told you. Go home and fuck my hot husband,” she says as she climbs into her gigundous truck. Seriously—it’s fucking huge, like I need a step stool to climb in it huge. If I didn’t know any better I would think Savannah was overcompensating for a small dick.
Did you hear that? Did you hear my eyes roll into the back of my head? Because it was pretty loud. That girl has more sex than anyone I know. But then again, I guess if I had a 6’4”, hot, tattooed, cowboy slash firefighter for a husband I would too. But noooo, I had to marry and divorce a 5’9” Italian salesman with the words Summers Eve stamped on his forehead. Strong work, Madi. Strong work.
“Bye, Vannah. Have fun dry humping Luke!” I shout with a wave over my shoulder.
“Oh, there will be nothing dry about it!! Later, hooker!” she shouts as she cranks the engine on her overly obnoxious phallic truck. I love her but she pisses me off sometimes.
As I walk over to my car and unlock the doors, I take yet another moment to indulge in buyer’s remorse. What was I thinking, buying this thing? Good God, I thought it was SO cute and I would look adorable in the Gucci Edition Fiat.
Really, Madi?
You have an 8 year old and 2 huge dogs. What business did you have buying Gucci anything, much less a tiny freaking clown car? That’s what I get for going car shopping hungover and possibly still drunk the morning after my 40th birthday. The salesman said I looked hot in it. He might have oversold it just a tad. It would do me good to remember in the future that they work on commission. Asshat. I should have gotten personalized plates that said Midlife Crisis, but that’s too many letters. Maybe LAME would be better.
Pulling up to the gym, I take a moment to say goodbye to my dignity before I attempt to work out. You see, I am not the most graceful person out there and have been known to forget that there are others around when I am working out. On more than one occasion, I have been humiliated to see several sets of eyes on me while I bust a move or hum a little too loud while on the treadmill.
“Hi, Taylor. How are you?” I say and wave as I walk into… are you ready… The Jungle Gym.
Yes, I currently have a membership to an establishment called The Jungle Gym. And no, it’s not at all stupid that the employees walk around wearing animal print shirts that say ‘welcome to the jungle’. I mean, really? Ripping off an 80’s classic for financial gain? I guess it could be worse—the shirts could say ‘let’s get physical’. Good luck getting those words out of your head and not picturing Olivia Newton John in shiny spandex, leg warmers and a headband. Why did headbands ever go out of style? I think it was Richard Simmons. He ruined it for everyone. Sorry, off topic.
Taylor Allen is the owner of The Jungle Gym. Jesus, I hate saying that. I met Taylor a few years ago when she came into the ER after getting hit in the head by one of the people she was training. We’ve been best buds ever since. Taylor is not your typical gym rat; she is one of those classy bitches who would never call anyone a classy bitch because she’s too classy of a bitch to do that.
She is always put together and immaculate in her appearance. I should remember that just because you work out in a gym doesn’t always mean you are going to be tall and beautiful like Taylor. No matter how many miles I log on the treadmill, I will never grow 7 inches in height and have her beautiful bone structure. I decided to join her gym after stitching her up and seeing what amazing shape she was in. I had put on a few pounds after Andy and I split as I chose to find comfort in the arms of Ben and Jerry while he found comfort in the crotch of a whore.
Taylor has always been extremely athletic and bought the gym after she came into an ass load of money several years ago. She has never spoken about how she made her money so it must be something good, like selling organs on the black market, or maybe she helped a Nigerian Prince move his money to an American bank and to repay her he split his fortune with her. Ooooooohhhh that’s cool!
“Hi, Madi. How are you? Are you going to do more than walk on the treadmill today?” Taylor asks as I walk in the door.
“No, just gonna feel the burn for a bit before I head home,” I reply as I head towards the locker room to change out of my Bernie-covered scrubs.
“You know, Madi, you pay me a ridiculous amount of money every month to use this gym and all you ever do is walk on the treadmill. I’m not one to turn away money”… I bet it was the Nigerian Prince thing… “but you do know that you can walk outside for free, right?”
“You’re right, Taylor, and I would if we didn’t live in Hell’s armpit. I can’t walk outside in this heat—no one can except camels and Sindee, the troll. And that’s only because trolls love the heat.”
“You’re an idiot, Madi, but I love you. Go do your thing and get the hell out. I know you’re dying to go home and eat ice cream and watch Antiques Roadshow,” she says with a chuckle.
“Bitch! Love you!” I shout as I walk into the locker room.
After about an hour on the treadmill, I decide it’s time to head home. It was a pretty long shift in the ER and I am exhausted. “Bye, Taylor. I’m headed home. I need to get some sleep.”
“Hey, don’t forget that it’s Girls Night In at your place tonight!” Taylor shouts as I head towards the door.
Oh shit, I forgot! It’s my week to host our monthly ‘Stitch and Bitch’ but to be completely honest, there is no stitching, just a whole lot of bitching, eating, and wine drinking.
“Aww crap. I forgot! OK, I will see you guys at 7. Don’t forget to bring the wine!!” I toss back as I head out the door. Great, now I have to go home and bake a cake for tonight. Ugh (face plant palm to forehead).
Why do I do this to myself? Maybe I’ll try out my new s’mores cake on the girls. What’s the worst that could happen? They all croak right in front of me after eating the cake? Would that be so bad?
I wouldn’t have to listen to Savannah bitch and moan about me getting laid and Taylor wouldn’t harass me about utilizing a personal trainer at her gym. Elise and Grace? Well, the hospital would be very quiet without them, and Lynn? Let’s just say I wouldn’t have to worry about getting arrested when I spend time with her.
“Ahh, home sweet home,” I say as I pull up in front of my house. I love my house. I bought it after Andy and I divorced. It’s my dream home, really. It has a huge kitchen and family room which was so important to me. All Claire cared about was that it was a 2 story house. What is it with kids and stairs? I think she will feel differently in a few years when I make her haul her own laundry up and down 2 flights.
The neighborhood is very quiet, mostly young families with kids around Claire’s age. The streets are lined with Jacaranda trees, covered in beautiful purple flowers. The front porches have rocking chairs, even though it’s hotter than a swamp rat’s ass in Arizona. We only get to use our porch swings and chairs a few months of the year, but they sure do add a homey feel. To be honest, the neighborhood is very charming. I’m waiting for Beaver Cleaver to skateboard past my driveway any minute, and I can hear the theme song playing in my head when I drive down the street.
Walking in the house, I am nearly knocked over by Zoe and Athena, my two huge mutts, also lovingly referred to as Moose and Cow. I swear they eat their body weight in food every week and it’s not OK, because as we all know, what goes in has to come out. I could fertilize crops with the amount of shit they put out. I won the dogs in the divorce, along with the furniture and everything else in my former house with the exception of the BBQ grill and surround sound system. Men do have their priorities. See, that’s what happens when you cheat and put your penis into a nasty troglodyte. Your ex-wife gets all the good stuff.
I jump in the shower quickly and rinse off the Bernie juice and Jungle Gym sweat of my day. Changing into a night shirt, I decide to take a quick power nap before I have to get up and start making a fucking cake for my fucking friends who are invading my fucking house tonight.
I wake up around 5:00 to the sound of my cell phone beeping with incoming messages. Nope, that’s not at all annoying. Time to make the whores some s’mores.
I love to bake and who better to test out my recipe ideas on than my friends? They love me no matter what, even when I accidently make a cheesecake with salt rather than sugar and they all dry heave in my living room. I warned them that I had just pulled a double shift in the ER and was too tired to bake, but no, Lynn wanted cheesecake. Well, she got it—a lovely salty as hell cheesecake. Ooops! To be honest, I was mildly amused to see their gagging faces; it reminded me of the blow job class Savannah tried to give all of us. I swear to God that girl is hornier than anyone else I know. How does she walk and not limp? Thanks to a few too many glasses of wine, an impromptu sleep over on their couch, and an unlocked bathroom door, I’ve seen Luke; I know he’s not normal. She must have some type of cavernous coochie.
Man, the house smells good. I love the smell of a baking cake. Sometimes when I think about my life I wonder if I should have gone to pastry school rather than nursing school. I love to bake and decorate cakes. Anything that has to do with flour, eggs, sugar, vanilla, chocolate and lard is just good stuff to me. Everyone is happy to see you when you walk into the room with an ooey gooey sweet concoction. People are less than pleased to see you when you walk into a room with an enema bag and rectal tip. But then, I remind myself that if I hadn’t gone to nursing school, I wouldn’t have met Elise, who got me the job at Bridgewater. And Bridgewater is where I met Grace, Savannah, Taylor and, of course, Andy. And if I hadn’t met Andy, I wouldn’t have Claire, which led me to meet Lynn. And I wouldn’t be where I am in life right now or be the person I am today. And how does that all tie back into Kevin Bacon? Yeah, it doesn’t.
I could have opened my own bakery, weigh 400 pounds, actually watch Antiques Roadshow and eat ice cream all day. No one would give me shit about it except the 14 cats I would have that I call my babies and dress in clothes.
Oh, God. Thank you for nursing school and Claire, Savannah, Grace, Taylor, Lynn, Elise, the gym and my allergy to cats. I shudder to think where I could be right now. Well, that was sobering.
It’s about 7ish when the first hag arrives. Lo and behold, it’s Taylor. She is never late—she is always 5 minutes ahead of everyone else and always dressed to the nines. She walks in and places her pricey quilted Chanel bag on my sofa table. Dear baby Jesus, please don’t let my dogs drool on that bag. I don’t make enough in a year to repair or replace it. Maybe I need to find a Nigerian Prince who needs to move some cash to the U.S. and share with me.
“House smells great like always, Madi. What did you make this time?” I take the bottle of wine she brought and walk into the kitchen.
“Chocolate s’mores cake. Wine?”
“No, I don’t want any wine. I came here for the witty conversation and insightful banter. Of course I want wine, you moron! Pop that open and give me a straw!”
I laugh and open the bottle of Chardonnay. As I hand her the glass, the doorbell rings. Guess who? Yep, it’s Savannah, and I could be wrong but she appears to be limping a little. Maybe Luke finally fucked an organ loose.
“Hey, Vannah, come on in. Taylor is in the kitchen sucking down the Chardonnay.”
“Bitch, save me some!’ Savannah shouts on her way into the kitchen.
“Where is Elise? Is she coming? I didn’t hear from her today,” I ask Vannah.
“No, she can’t make it. She’s working tonight. Someone called out in LDR and they had 5 women waiting to push kids out of their vaginas all at once so she stayed to help out.”
“I never get to see her anymore,” I reply sadly. Elise McCaffery is one of my oldest and best friends. She is a Labor/Delivery/Recovery nurse at our hospital and the one who helped me get my job at Bridgewater. How she works with screaming babies—and even worse, screaming mothers—all day is beyond me. I have the luxury of turning up the morphine drip if someone is bitching too much; she, however, can’t. I admire her for what she does. God knows I couldn’t do it. I would go ape shit on some woman who was screaming at the top of her lungs to get her an epidural and ice chips. Bitch, you are dilated to 3, get your own damn ice chips. You can walk.
I walked into the hospital with a smile on my face and dilated to 7 with Claire. True story. Walked in and said, “hi, I think I’m in labor.” 15 minutes later, they checked me and I was 7 centimeters. 3 hours later she was born. No epidural! BAM! That’s how it’s done, bitches! OK, sorry. Back to the story.
Elise and I met in nursing school. She worked at Bridgewater in transport while she was in school so when we graduated she had an instant job, and apparently sang my praises so they offered me one as well. YAY US!
We started working in the same unit together as new grads. Let me just tell you, the night shift in Med/ Surg is no fun, but it did give us experience and seniority. Elise married Eamon after they met through mutual friends. Eamon is a great guy and they are such a cute couple. He’s a computer wizard, not to be confused with a pinball wizard. He has the luxury of working from home so that he can be there before and after school for their 8 year old daughter Phaedra. I know, right? Irish much? Elise, Eamon and Phaedra McCaffery. I can practically see pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers and blue diamonds floating above their heads.
Phaedra and Claire are besties and have known each other since they were born. They are only 10 months apart and have grown up together. Elise and Eamon were my lifeline when Andy and I were separating. They helped me with Claire when I would get called into work at the last minute and Andy wouldn’t show to pick her up. They helped me when we moved and were just there for moral support. I could always count on Eamon to greet me with a freshly made cocktail in hand when I would arrive and they always knew when I needed one. Elise is also a baker like me and can I just say her carrot cake is the best I have ever had, better than mine. There, I said it.
Just as I am about the close the door, I see Lynn and Grace coming up the walkway. They must have pulled up at the same time. “Hey, BITCHES!” I shout to the last 2 to arrive. “Come on in! Taylor and Vannah are sucking down wine in the kitchen,” I give air cheek kisses to the girls as they come in, cuz you know it’s fancy and that’s how we roll.
“Quit pretending that you’re an actual hostess and get in here and have some wine with us, Madi!” Savannah yells from the other room. Grace walks into the kitchen with Lynn and shouts, “HEY, FUCKERS! The party can start, I’m here! Whoop! Whoop!”
Did she just say ‘whoop whoop’ and do that ‘raise the roof’ thing with her hands? Really? Have some decorum, Grace. You’re a doctor, for fuck’s sake.
Oh, Grace. Also known as Dr. Grace Kelly, ER doctor extraordinaire, and yes, her name really is Grace Kelly. She just dropped the F-bomb in my kitchen in pure Grace style—she’s pretty special that way. Dr. Grace Kelly is kind of the shit, though. She is the best ER doctor on the face of the earth and makes going to work every day worth it. For comic value alone it’s worth taking a shift with her.
I was lucky enough to meet her at the hospital when she was doing her residency and we clicked instantly. It could be the fact that she threw a scalpel at my foot to get my attention during a trauma code, but it worked, and we became fast friends. Most people would be offended that a sharp as hell blade was thrown at them, but I know she was just trying to “teach me”—teach me what, I have no idea. Perhaps how to dodge knives, which could come in handy if the whole nurse thing doesn’t pan out. I can always be a carnie, travel the country with toothless hicks and live out of a van…
WAIT! Never mind, I am TERRIFIED of vans! Cue slasher music ‘Re Re Re Re Re Re’.
At any rate, I now have mad fast feet and can Riverdance my way around the ER. I won’t lie, it’s impressive.
She is a petite spitball of fire with great hair and I love her to death, but to be honest, she is the most foul mouthed, vagina obsessed woman I know. She’s worse than Savannah and I didn’t think that was possible.
“Hey, what happened to you after you called the TOD on Bernie at shift change today?” I ask Grace.
“Oh, um, I had some charts to sign off on,” she replies with a shit eating grin.
“Are you serious, Gracie? Who the hell do you think you’re kidding? You were messing around with Kai in the resident’s room again, weren’t you? Charts, my ass,” I mumble.
Oh my God, I am surrounded by whores! What is wrong with me? Why do I do this to myself? I haven’t had sex in almost 2 years and these women can’t go 12 hours without an orgasm. Jesus. Is it really SO great that you have to have it every day? I mean, I am living proof that you CAN function like a normal human being without regular orgasms. I wonder if I even remember how to have an orgasm. Is it like riding a bike? Do you just… get on and instantly remember?
I picture my vajayjay, dusty and knitting a quilt, surrounded by cats, watching Antiques Roadshow. I’m 40 but I’m pretty sure my vagina is 85.
“Hey, it’s not my fault I married a fine piece of Hawaiian Irish ass!” Grace says proudly.
It’s true. Her husband Kai is a nurse in the PICU. Yes, he’s a nurse who is hot and works with critical babies—he’s the whole package. He probably knits shoes for orphan kids and reads to the deaf too. The beauty of their relationship is that they are OK with the fact that Grace earns 4 times his salary and is 5 years older. I think it’s because she puts out at work. I could be wrong, but doubtful.
“Let’s get down to grass tacks here,” Lynn says. “When was the last time YOU had sex, Madi? And I mean real sex, not ‘Charlie the Wonder Toy’ sex.”
“Oh my God Lynn! It’s BRASS tacks, not grass tacks, you idiot. If you are going to insult me, at least be grammatically correct!”
The girls all bust up laughing as Grace pipes up. “It’s been 2 years. 2 YEARS since she had a penis-induced orgasm and you know what, that shit’s NOT OK, Madi. It’s not natural. Your hoo-ha has needs and it’s crying out for you to feed it! It’s like that plant from Little Shop of Horrors. FEED ME, MADI, FEEEEED ME!”
The room fills with laughter again, and in true Savannah style she spits wine all over the back of Lynn’s head.
“Really? Really, Savannah? You just spit Chardonnay all over the back of me! What the hell is wrong with you?” Lynn shouts.
“That is a waste of good wine, and I call party foul!” Taylor pipes up, and we all know what that means. It’s a long standing tradition of ours that whoever commits the party foul has to bring the wine next time. But I have a feeling we won’t be having wine. Knowing Savannah, she will tap a keg filled with Bud Light and expect us all to do keg stands in her living room. Gotta love my Texas girl.
After hours of hoo-ha talk and the round table discussion on my lack of sex life, the night winds down. We start to clean up the epic mess that is now my living room—scattered Chinese takeout containers, empty wine bottles and cake plates. As we gather in the kitchen with our handfuls of trash and dishes, Lynn makes a comment on the s’mores cake I made tonight. “You know, Madi, the party planning business is really picking up. I had to take on a partner and I think your cakes would be a perfect addition to the business. I can plan the parties and you can supply the baked goods for the client. We can call it Madi’s Morsels or Madi Cakes. What do you think?”
Lynn is amazing. She started a party planning business called Bubbles & Fizz out of her home and it has now become an empire. The things she can do with crepe paper and a glue gun knows no bounds. Martha Stewart’s got nothing on her. I met Lynn when I hired her to plan Claire’s first birthday party. She did an amazing job, and during the arduous process we learned we had a lot in common and became fast friends. Lynn has a keen eye for detail and apparently and even keener eye for bullshit. She’s the one who pointed out to me that something was fishy between Andy and Sindee.
Lynn has been asking me for a while now if I would make cakes for her clients. Baking has always been something I did as a hobby and for those around me that I love, but I don’t know if I could do it for strangers. What if they didn’t like my work? What if the cake was burned and we didn’t know until it was cut into? I can handle my friends talking shit about me, it’s done on a daily basis, but I don’t know if I could handle strangers talking about me behind my back.
“I don’t know, Lynn. It sounds like a great idea, but I’m afraid with my shifts at the hospital and taking care of Claire I might not have time. Besides, what if I do a bad job and your clients hate it? I wouldn’t want it to affect your business in any way.”
Lynn rolls her eyes at me “Trust me, Madi, I wouldn’t have asked if I thought you weren’t up to the challenge. I have eaten countless cakes, cookies and ass-widening concoctions of yours and have yet to be disappointed. Just say you’ll think about it… again.”
I smile and nod, to appease her for now. It’s always been a deep-seated dream of mine to open a bakery… could this be the beginning of it? Doubtful.
After I walk the last of the girls out I decide it’s time to head to bed. I have the next few days off and my baby girl Claire is coming home after spending a few days with her father and the troglodyte. I always feel the need to scrub off the first layer of her epidermis with bleach when she comes home from their house. I am sure their house is clean and lovely; I mean, after all, pharmaceutical sales reps and trolls make decent money, right? It’s just the idea of my baby girl having any of their ick on her.
I finish closing up the house, turn down all the lights, blow out the last of the candles and make my way upstairs to my room. Can I just say that I love my room? It’s so cozy and inviting, inviting to who I have no idea, but I just love the Tiffany blue and grey color scheme I chose. My favorite part is my fluffy cloud four poster bed with its 147 pillows. It’s just divine. OK, 147 pillows is a slight exaggeration, but there are a lot.
As I climb in, I say a silent prayer, hoping maybe I can pick up where I left off on that beach earlier today with Mr. Fine-as-hell and see where it goes.
Deep sigh.
***