Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
The point is, it’s taken me a while to grasp the concept of having a home, and admittedly I rent, not own, but I finally get it. I’ve finally let myself settle in, make a place of my own.
I’ve outgrown the electric purple, but I did paint the walls. A soft dove gray that makes me think of curling up with a cozy blanket on a rainy day. And since Manhattan life isn’t exactly known for its greenery, I’ve tried to create some green of my own. I have a bunch of potted plants—who I’ve named—along the window, and my walls are covered with photos I’d taken of trees and birds during a trip to the Catskills.
And then there’s the Couch. Yes, capital C, couch. It’s a three-piece sectional, white, and it was ridiculously expensive. An “investment piece,” the guy in the store had explained, and as with my corporate job, is one of those things that makes me feel like I’m betraying my true self. Betraying the Mac of the flea market prowess, who doesn’t get attached to belongings, who has a bag under my bed that’s always half-packed so I’m ready to traipse through Europe at a moment’s notice. Now I also have a couch that cost way more than I make in a single month.
And yet, even with all that guilt and figurative and literal baggage, I can’t deny that I love the couch in all its fancy, luxurious glamour.
I can still have a penchant for bad boys and naughty underwear and have nice things. Right? Right? Okay, yeah. I’m still working through the contradiction that I’ve become. It’s sort of like my pre-thirtieth-birthday project.
For now, I’m focused on more basic needs: dinner.
It’s Tuesday night, and I haven’t gone grocery shopping in I don’t know how long, but I open my fridge anyway. Sauvignon blanc and string cheese. Perfect.
Before I can indulge in my gourmet meal, my cell buzzes on my kitchen table, and a photo of my mom and me at a Memorial Day wine-tasting event pops up.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, baby! Ding dong!”
“Don’t say that like I’m supposed to know what it means,” I say, using my teeth to open the string cheese wrapper.
“I’m outside your front door! Are you home? Let me up! Oh, never mind—this nice boy is opening the door for me. See you in one sec!”
She hangs up in my ear and I don’t even bother to sigh, because I’m pretty used to this. It’s not the first time my mom’s popped by unannounced. It’s not even the first time this month. And I always like to see her, she’s my only family.
It’s the requests for another loan and accompanying guilt trips I could do without.
“Whoa,” I say, as I open the door to a waft of vanilla. “New perfume?”
“Grant bought it for me. You like?”
“Grant. The guy from your morning call last week?”
“Hmm?” She pulls down a wine glass from my cupboard, helps herself to a glass of the wine in the fridge. “Oh, no. That was Steve. He turned out to be a major yawn.”
She sips her wine, then sets it aside and uses both hands to sort of fluff my hair from the roots. My mom hasn’t set foot in her home state of Texas since she was in her teens, and not much of her Texan beauty queen self remains. Her love of big hair though—that’s stuck around.
She picks up the streak of blue hair, which I’ve braided today. “Love this. You get it re-blued?”
“Yup, last night.” The vivid blue fades to powder blue quicker than my roots grow, so I’ve taken to “re-bluing” it myself with drugstore dye in between salon appointments. “So what’s up?” I ask her, peeling off a string of cheese.
Mom drops onto my couch, her red hair and black leather pants looking even more vivid than usual against the white fabric. My mom is, oh, how do I put this? Hot. She’s the kind of mom you go out with, and people ask if you’re sisters and actually mean it.
I inherited her personality and her eyes, so I’ve been told, but not much else. She’s tall to my short, willowy to my curvy, and while the current shade of red hair is enhanced, her roots are strawberry blonde to my regular blonde.
“Ugh, baby girl, you know I hate to pester, but did you have a chance to look at that VA class I sent over?”
“You love to pester,” I point out.
My mom grins, though my lame attempt to dodge the question doesn’t get very far.
“What do you think? Great opportunity, right? There’s never been such a good time to lean into the remote workforce.”
I exhale through my nose, careful to do it slowly so it doesn’t sound like the sigh that it is. Honestly, I’m kind of surprised my mom’s still on this. The only thing she moves through faster than men is her get-rich-quick schemes. The virtual assistant thing isn’t the craziest of her ideas, just the latest. And I actually agree that it’d be good for her to have a job she could do from anywhere, especially with her nomad ways.