my palms trying to get it to let go.
I can't go out there looking like this.
An image flashed in my head of the dermatologist standing blindfolded in his office, a bottle of vodka in one hand, and a Botox needle in the other, playing a game of Pin-The-Eyebrow-On-The-Old-Lady.
Fucker.
Now what am I going to do?
A few minutes later, Jaimee pushed open the door. “Annette, are you—” She stalled when she saw my face. “What happened? You look…scared.”
“My forehead is stuck.” The complete absurdity of my situation balanced my emotions precariously; my eyes filled with tears.
“Holy shit.” Jaimee stifled a giggle. “That sucks.”
We burst out laughing together.
“Here, let me help.” Jaimee paddled my forehead with her fingertips while holding the back of my head with her other hand.
It looked like a Benny Hinn spiritual revival. The only thing missing was some zealot yelling: “You're saved.”
I pulled away from Jaimee when two girls entered the bathroom. “How are we going to get me out of here?” I whispered.
“Just walk behind me and keep your head down,” Jaimee said.
We pushed through the crowd toward the front door. Junior the Tongue Stud didn't notice when we passed. He was too busy chatting up one of the contestants for Miss Rocky Mountains in her thong suspenders.
Outside, Jaimee rushed the valet to get the car. I could feel my forehead beginning to release. Within seconds, the cramp, or whatever it was, completely disappeared.
“It's gone.” I reached to smooth my hand from one temple to the other. “I'm sorry to ruin the night, did you want to go back inside?”
Jaimee surveyed the parking lot. “Nah, it looks like everyone is leaving anyway. Let's just go back to Del Taco and go through the drive-thru. I'm starving.”
The valet pulled up and opened Jaimee's door. Before she could get in, a staggering Colin Farrell wannabe invaded her personal space. “Hey, you're fiiine. Where ya goin’?”
“Excuse me.” Jaimee plucked his hand from the frame of her car, climbed in, and closed the door.
“Yeah, you think you're hot shit, well that's only a 3 Series BMW, so try to get over yourself,” he spit-sprayed the side window with his slurring.
Who says there are no princes in Newport Beach?
norman rockwell slept here
Thanksgiving
Thursday, November 22
Josh sprinted from the car to the front door. As I climbed out of the seat, I juggled the keys and my purse. “Don't just barge in. Knock first,” I called out to him, bumping the car door closed with my hip.
“Mom, I practically lived here. Sandi won't care if…” The sound of his voice faded as he ran inside.
I entered the living room just in time to catch the reunion.
“Look at you, you're so big.” Sandi hugged Josh tightly against her apron. “Tom, come look at Josh, he has little hairs on his face.”
“How's it going, big guy?” Tom pulled Josh into a hug and clapped his back. “Don't you have an important birthday coming up?” Tom pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and settled himself back on the couch.
“Only twenty-one more days ‘til I'm a teenager.”
Visiting the Loomis family was like time travel back to the 1950s.
It was the kind of family I always wanted, but never had. Meals together, the entire family gathering to watch the classic movie channel in the evenings. On the weekends, Mom baking, the kids making crafts, and Dad puttering in the garage. It was all so perfect.
Perfectly enviable.
Norman Rockwell would've blown his load all over the canvas sketching a Loomis family scene.
Josh and I were invited into their world when Sandi answered an angst-filled ad from a struggling single mother seeking reliable childcare for a six-month-old baby boy.
“I'll only watch him for a few weeks until you find a permanent sitter,” Sandi said.
How can twelve years pass so quickly?
After all the greetings were exchanged, I sat and swiveled on a wooden stool,
I can't go out there looking like this.
An image flashed in my head of the dermatologist standing blindfolded in his office, a bottle of vodka in one hand, and a Botox needle in the other, playing a game of Pin-The-Eyebrow-On-The-Old-Lady.
Fucker.
Now what am I going to do?
A few minutes later, Jaimee pushed open the door. “Annette, are you—” She stalled when she saw my face. “What happened? You look…scared.”
“My forehead is stuck.” The complete absurdity of my situation balanced my emotions precariously; my eyes filled with tears.
“Holy shit.” Jaimee stifled a giggle. “That sucks.”
We burst out laughing together.
“Here, let me help.” Jaimee paddled my forehead with her fingertips while holding the back of my head with her other hand.
It looked like a Benny Hinn spiritual revival. The only thing missing was some zealot yelling: “You're saved.”
I pulled away from Jaimee when two girls entered the bathroom. “How are we going to get me out of here?” I whispered.
“Just walk behind me and keep your head down,” Jaimee said.
We pushed through the crowd toward the front door. Junior the Tongue Stud didn't notice when we passed. He was too busy chatting up one of the contestants for Miss Rocky Mountains in her thong suspenders.
Outside, Jaimee rushed the valet to get the car. I could feel my forehead beginning to release. Within seconds, the cramp, or whatever it was, completely disappeared.
“It's gone.” I reached to smooth my hand from one temple to the other. “I'm sorry to ruin the night, did you want to go back inside?”
Jaimee surveyed the parking lot. “Nah, it looks like everyone is leaving anyway. Let's just go back to Del Taco and go through the drive-thru. I'm starving.”
The valet pulled up and opened Jaimee's door. Before she could get in, a staggering Colin Farrell wannabe invaded her personal space. “Hey, you're fiiine. Where ya goin’?”
“Excuse me.” Jaimee plucked his hand from the frame of her car, climbed in, and closed the door.
“Yeah, you think you're hot shit, well that's only a 3 Series BMW, so try to get over yourself,” he spit-sprayed the side window with his slurring.
Who says there are no princes in Newport Beach?
norman rockwell slept here
Thanksgiving
Thursday, November 22
Josh sprinted from the car to the front door. As I climbed out of the seat, I juggled the keys and my purse. “Don't just barge in. Knock first,” I called out to him, bumping the car door closed with my hip.
“Mom, I practically lived here. Sandi won't care if…” The sound of his voice faded as he ran inside.
I entered the living room just in time to catch the reunion.
“Look at you, you're so big.” Sandi hugged Josh tightly against her apron. “Tom, come look at Josh, he has little hairs on his face.”
“How's it going, big guy?” Tom pulled Josh into a hug and clapped his back. “Don't you have an important birthday coming up?” Tom pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and settled himself back on the couch.
“Only twenty-one more days ‘til I'm a teenager.”
Visiting the Loomis family was like time travel back to the 1950s.
It was the kind of family I always wanted, but never had. Meals together, the entire family gathering to watch the classic movie channel in the evenings. On the weekends, Mom baking, the kids making crafts, and Dad puttering in the garage. It was all so perfect.
Perfectly enviable.
Norman Rockwell would've blown his load all over the canvas sketching a Loomis family scene.
Josh and I were invited into their world when Sandi answered an angst-filled ad from a struggling single mother seeking reliable childcare for a six-month-old baby boy.
“I'll only watch him for a few weeks until you find a permanent sitter,” Sandi said.
How can twelve years pass so quickly?
After all the greetings were exchanged, I sat and swiveled on a wooden stool,
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