The Best of Enemies by Jen Lancaster

you class.
    I open my No Screens for Ice Cream binder and smile to myself, content that in terms of the big picture, the Brandis and Ashleys of the world have nothing on me.
    •   •   •
    I’m partway through (halfway through) (all the way through) the bottle of wine I’d planned on packing for Ravinia when Dr. K finally arrives home. I’ve been up here in the den off the master suite watching
Dance Moms
, my guilty pleasure show. I can never quite figure out if I love or hate Abby Lee Miller.
    On the one hand, she drives those kids extra-hard, but on the other, they’re better dancers for it. Also, I share her opinion that most of the mothers in her orbit are dingbats. I have to wonder if her “bullying” is often just her attempt to herd cats, much like my life in the PTO. Like that time I practically had to frog-march Brooke Birchbaum into the Parental Involvement committee meeting? The irony was not lost on me, so you can see my dilemma in regard to the controversial dance maven.
    “That must have been some emergency!” I exclaim from my perch on the Pottery Barn love seat, adorned with the pillows I fashioned from old grain sacks. (My no-sew tutorial has received twelve thousand views on YouTube!)
    When I talk, I try to sound flirty, but I wonder if I’m not coming across as slurry.
    “What?” He pops his head into the den. His cheeks are flushed and he looks awfully invigorated for having had such an unexpectedly long day. “All I heard was
emergeshesh
.”
    Darn it! Definitely slurry.
    But how was I supposed to spend my suddenly free day? I sure as hell wasn’t doing laundry as planned. Except for the three loads I washed, folded, and staged next to detergent-filled Mason jars and sprigs of dried lavender. My Instagram caption? “Laundry today or naked tomorrow!” Which is also kind of ironic, now that I think about it.
    If the Littles were here, I’d be ferrying them all over to practices and playdates and lovingly preparing them all manners of meals, but no such luck today. After I met with Ashley, I added graphics to the PTO summer newsletter, wrote a blog post about an exciting new carrot-and-fennel laden pizza (delish!!), photographed the salmon and citrus salad I ate for a late lunch, read the new
Real Simple
cover to cover while I walked on the basement treadmill, rearranged the living room to try to make it seem less desolate (fail), and swapped out the pansies in the window boxes for petunias and verbena after seeing EarthMama’s latest Twit pic.
    I called Betsy but I never heard back from her. Thought about stopping by with some fresh fudge banana muffins (with bonus kale!), but she may not be in town. She said something about heading to Madagascar last time I saw her. I assume she’s taken Trip’s corporate jet—must be nice, eh? And even if she was at home, she’s been so busy on her newest fund-raising campaign that I figured trying to pop in would be an exercise in futility.
    At least, I’m hoping she’s just busy. We did have that weird moment when Trip cornered me in their butler’s pantry at the end of the last big charity dinner at Steeplechase. I chalked the incident up to our having been overserved. I’m sure Betsy isn’t actually mad at
me
. She’s not the jealous type. If she was, she’d never have allowed Trip to work so many long hours with his Jessica Rabbit–looking, twenty-five-year-old assistant, Ingrid. Likely her last text was terse because she was swamped. Everything will be fine when we finally see each other.
    I mumble, “I opened the goddamned wine because I was out of stuff to do.”
    “You owe the swear jar a dollar.”
    Two weeks ago, a cyclist pulled out in front of the Escalade, causing Kassie to exclaim, “What the fuck is his problem?” My first instinct was to laugh hearing that terrible curse coming out of her cherubic lips. But clearly she’s heard the word somewhere—
I’m looking at you, Nana Baba—
so I’m actively trying