to set the example now.
I take a sip of water and I say, more distinctly, “I said,
‘That must have been some emergency!’
You were gone all day. And part of the night.”
He enters the den and begins to pull off his shirt while we speak. He’s not cut like he was back in his power-lifting fraternity days, but he’s in better shape than a lot of men his age, even if he is carrying a couple of extra pounds. (Suspect he doesn’t always eat the healthy lunches I pack for him.) Regardless, I’m the appreciative beneficiary of how he takes care of himself. He says keeping fit is an important part of his “professional image.” Again, this must be new in the world of dentistry because my father was the most popular practitioner in all of Lake County, complete with a bald spot and a paunch I could barely wrap my arms around as a kid.
“Didn’t Cookie tell you I was dragged into a pickup game of hoops with Brad?” Ugh, Brad the Cad, King of the Girlfriend Cheats. Granted, his rep comes from junior year of college, but I’m slow to forgive. I hate anything that smacks of infidelity. Like, I feel physical anger just thinking about any form of unfaithfulness. That’s probably why I was so wigged out at Steeplechase for the W3 dinner. Trip’s a demonstrative guy and I shouldn’t have been so huffy over a meaningless gesture. He’s plenty friendly with all the women in his life. He didn’t make a pass at me. I’m sure of it now. I just wish I hadn’t been so histrionic.
I’m embarrassed about our misunderstanding—I’d definitely hit the vino too hard that night. (Is not a trend, I swear.) Every time I turned around, a waiter was right there to top off my glass. I generally have admirable self-control, but perhaps I was feeling a bit out of place. We were the only couple at Betsy and Trip’s event who weren’t either high rollers or local celebrities.
“I have a big surprise for you!” Betsy said as we approached the head table in the Steeplechase ballroom. We walked up to a petite, polished brunette in a stunning Carolina Herrera two-tone jacquard sleeveless dress. The top and bottom were the most gorgeous shade of oyster gray with a center panel of midnight blue. The oyster and blue sections were divided by sprays of embroidered daisies in alternating colors. I didn’t know love at first sight was possible until I spotted this garment. Suddenly, my darling scalloped, lace-overlay Ann Taylor tank dress felt decidedly pedestrian.
“Do you remember Dylan Blass?” Betsy asked.
Dylan let out the kind of hearty guffaw that seemed at odds with her tiny little body. Her brown eyes sparkled in the glow of the candelabras on the tables. While she seemed familiar, I still couldn’t connect the dots. She said, “I doubt it—I was Dyta Blaszczyk back then.
Someone
told me early on that when people can’t say or spell your name, you’re leaving money on the table. She used the Ralph Lauren né ‘Lifshitz’ example to sell me. I had it legally changed about fifteen years ago.”
Her huge laugh was what sparked my memory. I remembered hearing that sound from a dozen cubicles away. “Oh, my goodness,” I exclaimed. “Yes! We were at Eiderhaus PR together right after graduation. I didn’t recognize you at first—was your hair different then?”
“Brazilian blowout. Because
someone
used to say that frizz was a
Glamour
Never, not just a
Glamour
Don’t.”
“Surprise!” Betsy cheered. “I’ll leave you two to catch up.” Then she excused herself to mingle. I still can’t get over how effortlessly Betsy works a room now. She glided away, a vision in a champagne-colored sequin Hervé Léger bandage dress.
Dylan said, “Remember we both worked on the Calvin Klein Obsession launch? Those were the days, huh? All those late nights, using hot water from the coffeemaker to fix our Ramen noodle suppers? That’s when you dropped your last-name bomb, which obviously resonated.”
Unsure of how to
I take a sip of water and I say, more distinctly, “I said,
‘That must have been some emergency!’
You were gone all day. And part of the night.”
He enters the den and begins to pull off his shirt while we speak. He’s not cut like he was back in his power-lifting fraternity days, but he’s in better shape than a lot of men his age, even if he is carrying a couple of extra pounds. (Suspect he doesn’t always eat the healthy lunches I pack for him.) Regardless, I’m the appreciative beneficiary of how he takes care of himself. He says keeping fit is an important part of his “professional image.” Again, this must be new in the world of dentistry because my father was the most popular practitioner in all of Lake County, complete with a bald spot and a paunch I could barely wrap my arms around as a kid.
“Didn’t Cookie tell you I was dragged into a pickup game of hoops with Brad?” Ugh, Brad the Cad, King of the Girlfriend Cheats. Granted, his rep comes from junior year of college, but I’m slow to forgive. I hate anything that smacks of infidelity. Like, I feel physical anger just thinking about any form of unfaithfulness. That’s probably why I was so wigged out at Steeplechase for the W3 dinner. Trip’s a demonstrative guy and I shouldn’t have been so huffy over a meaningless gesture. He’s plenty friendly with all the women in his life. He didn’t make a pass at me. I’m sure of it now. I just wish I hadn’t been so histrionic.
I’m embarrassed about our misunderstanding—I’d definitely hit the vino too hard that night. (Is not a trend, I swear.) Every time I turned around, a waiter was right there to top off my glass. I generally have admirable self-control, but perhaps I was feeling a bit out of place. We were the only couple at Betsy and Trip’s event who weren’t either high rollers or local celebrities.
“I have a big surprise for you!” Betsy said as we approached the head table in the Steeplechase ballroom. We walked up to a petite, polished brunette in a stunning Carolina Herrera two-tone jacquard sleeveless dress. The top and bottom were the most gorgeous shade of oyster gray with a center panel of midnight blue. The oyster and blue sections were divided by sprays of embroidered daisies in alternating colors. I didn’t know love at first sight was possible until I spotted this garment. Suddenly, my darling scalloped, lace-overlay Ann Taylor tank dress felt decidedly pedestrian.
“Do you remember Dylan Blass?” Betsy asked.
Dylan let out the kind of hearty guffaw that seemed at odds with her tiny little body. Her brown eyes sparkled in the glow of the candelabras on the tables. While she seemed familiar, I still couldn’t connect the dots. She said, “I doubt it—I was Dyta Blaszczyk back then.
Someone
told me early on that when people can’t say or spell your name, you’re leaving money on the table. She used the Ralph Lauren né ‘Lifshitz’ example to sell me. I had it legally changed about fifteen years ago.”
Her huge laugh was what sparked my memory. I remembered hearing that sound from a dozen cubicles away. “Oh, my goodness,” I exclaimed. “Yes! We were at Eiderhaus PR together right after graduation. I didn’t recognize you at first—was your hair different then?”
“Brazilian blowout. Because
someone
used to say that frizz was a
Glamour
Never, not just a
Glamour
Don’t.”
“Surprise!” Betsy cheered. “I’ll leave you two to catch up.” Then she excused herself to mingle. I still can’t get over how effortlessly Betsy works a room now. She glided away, a vision in a champagne-colored sequin Hervé Léger bandage dress.
Dylan said, “Remember we both worked on the Calvin Klein Obsession launch? Those were the days, huh? All those late nights, using hot water from the coffeemaker to fix our Ramen noodle suppers? That’s when you dropped your last-name bomb, which obviously resonated.”
Unsure of how to
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