Take it Like a Mom by Stephanie Stiles

Author:Stephanie Stiles
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2011-06-09T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

By five o’clock, my face, though not noticeably less bloated, was significantly less red. I don’t know if the actual discoloration had faded or if we had just coated so much makeup over it that it was no longer visible to the naked eye, but whichever one it was, it was enough to convince me that I would still have to go to the party. So, while Alicia and Robby played downstairs in the family room, I put the finishing touches on my toilette—just a fancy way of saying that I sat across from the mirror, staring at the image I saw there. My hair, a month after my mother’s henna rinse, was sallow and wilted. My dress—I had to be honest—felt a hell of a lot tighter than it had the day before. And my makeup . . . Well, I mean, come on—even premium gas won’t make a Pinto win the Indy 500. But it was nearing six, and I had to go. Damn it, I had to go.

Alicia was holding Robby on her hip, waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs when I came down.

“Wow, you really look . . . ggrreat,” Alicia said with exaggerated emphasis on the “great,” just like Tony the Tiger, only without the blue box and sportif red kerchief.

“Thanks. And all it took were thirty extra pounds, a dress two sizes too small, and a recent skin allergy. It’s a strict beauty regimen, I know—but not without its rewards.”

“Nooo! Don’t joke about it. You look terrific,” she said reassuringly. “Doesn’t Mommy look beautiful, Robby?”

“Why you wearing Daddy’s robe?” he asked with a scowl. Oh my God. He had already made it abundantly clear what he thought of my “rosy” complexion, but now, on top of everything, I was enlightened of the fact that I looked to be cross-dressing in bedroom attire. And it was kind of true, because Alex did have, thanks to my mother one Christmas, a black cotton bathrobe that wrapped at the waist like my dress. The only time he ever wore it was when my mother was actually in our house to observe it, during their Thanksgiving visit, but Robby still remembered the damn garment. And now, apparently, I was basically wearing the same thing. So, in a flash of morbid self-pity and hatred for my son, I threw on my sunglasses and hit the road before I’d have time to reconsider the party and leave Alex stood up.

I drove slowly—really slowly—but, alas, I still managed to get there. And I wasn’t even late. Damn it. I took off the sunglasses (I’m just not the I-wear-my-shades-indoors kinda girl; I mean, my future’s not that bright), and entered the dreaded building. I used to like this place. When I had a job. And regular hair appointments. And heels on my shoes. Now I hated the place. I hated all the mature and civilized businesspeople who would, inevitably, use words like “synergy” and “incentivize” while downing trendy drinks named for cool cities I’d never heard of and would never go to.

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