reply, I filled the silence with, “Wow, it’s so good to see you.” We exchanged air kisses. “What are you up to now? Still at Eiderhaus?”
“Nah. Started my own firm.”
“Hold the phone—you’re that
Dylan Blass
? Of the Dylan Blass Revolution? With the show on Bravo? You guys brought back the skort! You’re seriously amazing!” I said. And I meant it. For the most part. As I was reflecting on our early days, I remembered having to tweak a few of her pitches.
Dylan stretched on her toes to whisper, “Don’t worry, I’m better at it all now.” She let out another one of those booming laughs. “Thank you again for always guiding me, whether or not I wanted it. Just think, if it weren’t for your coaching, I might have never won the Carolina Herrera account. Check out this snappy dress they just sent me! Could you die?”
Yes. Yes, I could.
And just like that, the free twenty-two-dollar striped shirt I’d received that morning from StitchBroker.sg (Singapore’s premiere online discount personal shopper’s subscription box site) seemed a lot less enviable.
So maybe I was swallowing a little disappointment along with the Kongsgaard chardonnay that night. On top of the whole Ghost of PR Christmas Future, Dr. K saw fit to hand out his business cards to everyone, whether or not they wanted one. I’m usually so proud of his hustle, but I wish he’d shown a touch more discretion with such a sophisticated crowd. Was he offering a luxury cosmetic dental experience or selling a used car?
So I’d say the wine plus envy multiplied by feeling out of place equaled me misinterpreting a completely innocuous gesture. I wince, remembering my reaction.
Dr. K sniffs at himself and grimaces. “I can tell by your expression that I must reek. I went right from the office to the gym and then we had a couple of beers, so I smell like a gym
and
a bar. Lemme hop in the shower and then we can talk.” He tosses me his dirty shirt. “Here. For when you do laundry.”
“Not exactly the kind of laundry I was hoping for,” I grumble. Yet I can’t help but admire his lats while he walks away.
He calls, “Babe? All I’m hearing is
nexjussho
.”
I hold his shirt to my nose to see if I catch a whiff of Brandi’s trademark Harajuku Lovers perfume. Nope. All I smell is my homemade fabric softener (rosemary and lemon oil—seventeen thousand and ninety – six pins within the first week!), cologne, and a slight trace of cigarette smoke, which comes from working in the vicinity of little Miss Two – Packs-a-Day.
Who
smokes
anymore?
Don’t answer that, because it’s apparently the same people who have
grandchildren
in their
forties
. My God, woman, you are the poster child for bad choices! We should pull Jerry Lewis out of the mothballs and hold a telethon for you!
I ball up his undershirt to use as a pillow while I shut my eyes, waiting for him to exit the shower. I’ll steal a quick nap now because when he’s done, we’re running a load together; I’ll be damned if I have to hand wash my delicates myself again.
• • •
“Kit, wake up.”
I’m shaken into consciousness, muscles aching from not being able to stretch out on the love seat.
“I wasn’t asleep,” I protest. Technically, I was passed out. There’s a difference, although I’m not sure I should argue it.
He sounds anxious as he drops down onto the couch next to me. “Listen, Kitty, you have to get it together, okay? It’s important.”
I sit up and try to brush away all the cobwebs. I’m all groggy and my light buzz has been replaced with a pounding headache. This? Right here? Is why no one should ever day-drink, regardless of how festive a tight, backlit shot of wineglass condensation looks on Instagram.
I squint at the clock and see that I’ve been out for a solid three hours. Stupid wine. I scrub at my eyes and chug some water from a Mason jar. I turn to Dr. K and give him a come-hither smile while he takes my
“Nah. Started my own firm.”
“Hold the phone—you’re that
Dylan Blass
? Of the Dylan Blass Revolution? With the show on Bravo? You guys brought back the skort! You’re seriously amazing!” I said. And I meant it. For the most part. As I was reflecting on our early days, I remembered having to tweak a few of her pitches.
Dylan stretched on her toes to whisper, “Don’t worry, I’m better at it all now.” She let out another one of those booming laughs. “Thank you again for always guiding me, whether or not I wanted it. Just think, if it weren’t for your coaching, I might have never won the Carolina Herrera account. Check out this snappy dress they just sent me! Could you die?”
Yes. Yes, I could.
And just like that, the free twenty-two-dollar striped shirt I’d received that morning from StitchBroker.sg (Singapore’s premiere online discount personal shopper’s subscription box site) seemed a lot less enviable.
So maybe I was swallowing a little disappointment along with the Kongsgaard chardonnay that night. On top of the whole Ghost of PR Christmas Future, Dr. K saw fit to hand out his business cards to everyone, whether or not they wanted one. I’m usually so proud of his hustle, but I wish he’d shown a touch more discretion with such a sophisticated crowd. Was he offering a luxury cosmetic dental experience or selling a used car?
So I’d say the wine plus envy multiplied by feeling out of place equaled me misinterpreting a completely innocuous gesture. I wince, remembering my reaction.
Dr. K sniffs at himself and grimaces. “I can tell by your expression that I must reek. I went right from the office to the gym and then we had a couple of beers, so I smell like a gym
and
a bar. Lemme hop in the shower and then we can talk.” He tosses me his dirty shirt. “Here. For when you do laundry.”
“Not exactly the kind of laundry I was hoping for,” I grumble. Yet I can’t help but admire his lats while he walks away.
He calls, “Babe? All I’m hearing is
nexjussho
.”
I hold his shirt to my nose to see if I catch a whiff of Brandi’s trademark Harajuku Lovers perfume. Nope. All I smell is my homemade fabric softener (rosemary and lemon oil—seventeen thousand and ninety – six pins within the first week!), cologne, and a slight trace of cigarette smoke, which comes from working in the vicinity of little Miss Two – Packs-a-Day.
Who
smokes
anymore?
Don’t answer that, because it’s apparently the same people who have
grandchildren
in their
forties
. My God, woman, you are the poster child for bad choices! We should pull Jerry Lewis out of the mothballs and hold a telethon for you!
I ball up his undershirt to use as a pillow while I shut my eyes, waiting for him to exit the shower. I’ll steal a quick nap now because when he’s done, we’re running a load together; I’ll be damned if I have to hand wash my delicates myself again.
• • •
“Kit, wake up.”
I’m shaken into consciousness, muscles aching from not being able to stretch out on the love seat.
“I wasn’t asleep,” I protest. Technically, I was passed out. There’s a difference, although I’m not sure I should argue it.
He sounds anxious as he drops down onto the couch next to me. “Listen, Kitty, you have to get it together, okay? It’s important.”
I sit up and try to brush away all the cobwebs. I’m all groggy and my light buzz has been replaced with a pounding headache. This? Right here? Is why no one should ever day-drink, regardless of how festive a tight, backlit shot of wineglass condensation looks on Instagram.
I squint at the clock and see that I’ve been out for a solid three hours. Stupid wine. I scrub at my eyes and chug some water from a Mason jar. I turn to Dr. K and give him a come-hither smile while he takes my
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