magic will rub off on you and you’ll be able to finish,” Hilda says, obviously not ready to let up on the pressure quite yet. She’d probably make a Marine drill instructor sweat. “Make sure you show up on time looking fabulous . . . well, at least shower and fix your hair, ’kay?”
Ouch, she knows me that well. Or maybe she can smell me through the phone? I might be rank enough for Verizon to carry the signal.
“Okay, I’m gonna be on it,” I promise her, crossing my heart even though she can’t see me. “Look, I want to finish at least a chapter, maybe two, and then I’ve got an appointment. And I’ll shower. Definitely shower.”
“With body wash?”
“Of course, I promise,” I tell her, trying not to hop up and down in excitement. I’m getting to meet J.A. Fox! “Look, lemme get to pounding my keyboard, and then I’ll scrub myself fully. Promise!”
“You’d better.”
We hang up, and though I just promised, when I check the clock, I see that writing will have to wait. I’ve barely got enough time to take care of Nut and Juice before it’s time to get on the road to get to the library on time. But I do grab a quick shower first, scrubbing down with some cinnamon scented body wash just like I promised and getting dressed.
I don’t do anything fancy, just some jeans and a baggy sweatshirt for comfort and to cover the bewbies before I let Nut and Juice out into the front yard. I’d prefer the back, but my ‘back yard’ is about the size of a picnic table with just enough space for a small barbecue and no grass. So front yard it is, but my babies know the invisible fence.
Looking around the neighborhood, I feel that I got pretty lucky. I live in a townhome complex that’s quiet and cute, with little two- and three-bedroom places lining the street. Each place has a neatly manicured lawn in front, with plenty of parking and cute mailboxes that let you express your personality. It’s not a cul-de-sac, but there’s only one other street at the end of the block, and those are cul-de-sacs. The exit to the neighborhood’s the other way, and most days, you can go for a walk, jog, or bike ride in the middle of the street with no problem.
I didn’t realize it when I moved in, but it’s mostly a female residential area. There are few younger women like me who’ve bought their first place on their own, boss babe style, and quite a few divorced women who downsized after their split. I can understand that because there’s no maintenance, it’s safe, and it’s close to a nearby park for custody changes.
Or so Renee from four houses down tells me. She gets her kids two weeks a month, and they’re pretty good kids. Her son, Kyle, even offered to walk Nut and Juice last summer, and he did a good job, all things considered. Like Nut’s tendency to pull on the leash and Juice’s preference to lie down and not go anywhere, but they absolutely demand to stay together and not be walked separately.
There are also a few older women like my neighbor, Helen, who interrupts my daydream where J.A. Fox raves about my work at the workshop luncheon, telling me I remind her of herself when she started out.
“Watch where the hell you’re going with that thing, you blasted dingbat!”
At first, I think she’s talking to my dogs, but when I look, I see Nut doing a number two and Juice peeing on the round rock that I buried my spare house key under, so all’s normal there.
I turn to see who she’s yelling at and find my next-door neighbor, a single woman in her sixties, pointing at a truck. It appears as if she’s moving out, with moving men moving in and out of the house hastily. Helen’s a cranky old woman with the voice of a leather-lunged truck driver, but she’s always been nice to me and loves to gossip about the drama inside our complex. With a few tweaks, I’ve used her on several occasions as inspiration for some of the colorful women in my stories.
“Helen!” I gasp in surprise. “What’s happening, you’re moving? You never said anything.”
“Too fast to even scoot next door to share the news,” she says as she comes over, grinning. “You know how I went to visit my new grandbaby last month?”