BABY NOT ON BOARD
SEATTLE, Washington – Gattogate is especially urgent, because a writer friend is subletting my flat, as I scarper around Europe. Despite her deep affection for felines, Jenn might not appreciate the 7am insistence on cuddles and kibble. I certainly don't.
Her most recent book is Baby Not On Board, a sarky "celebration of life without kids," published under her lighter-project-pseudonym. She also just finished a masters degree in creative writing and whupped an over-exalted Canadian author in a short-story contest (final results pending, but we drank many a toast to "beating Maggie". Even if the laurels sprout no further in this competition, I'm fiercely, fiercely proud).
But here's the trouble with reunions: we chattered, we celebrated, we quaffed troppo vino. Together we rebuffed the Belligerent Boy in the pub, who kept shouting: "I'm just so MAD! But what would you ladies like to hear on the jukebox?"
Um. The Clash? And you not ranting, perhaps?
We had all the sly conversations that men pray don't occur. A piercing where? And then what? No, no, no, don't pitch that article there; think bigger!
Packing for a six-week trip was a low priority.
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