It’s really hot. I didn’t know DC is in the south? Ugh, good thing I wore a dress, I’d be sweating through a shirt. Oh my god I love this dress. Twenty bucks at The Gap?… “With a taste of your lips, I’m on a ride. You’re toxic I’m slipping under. With a taste of a poison paradise, I’m addicted to you. Don’t you know that you’re toxic?” …. Oh and yellow looks so good on me, I really like the way it makes my tan look. Tanning is Effn awesome!

Is this right? I thought he worked at a newspaper? This looks like a regular office. Oh, yeah, Lawyerly Times. Like High Times. Only L-A-M-E.

Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. Ahhhhhhh! What’s he going to say? This could be so fantabulous. I don’t care what Carrie and Kari said. This is what you have to do for true love. “As you wish…” We could talk about this with our grandkids. I mean, it totally worked for Heidi and Spencer. Oh. I so totally love that episode. He flies to win her back! And now they’re together. Forever.

Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. He’s going to be so surprised and happy. I mean, what girl does this? I can’t wait to see his face.

That’s not a good look. Is he sick? He’s really red. Oh, man. Shit. Ohno. Ohno. Ohno. Ohno. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

You want me to LEAVE?

I feel sick. I feel sick. Why am I so stupid? What’s wrong with me? Did I – oh, I really like that girl’s shoes. I wonder where she – ohmygosh. WTF?! It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to grab me and hold me and maybe even skip out of work and take me to his place. I think I’m going to be sick. Screw Carrie and Kari. Sluts. Ugh. Ugh. Ohmygosh. What do I do? I have to ask him if he’s upset. I have to ask him what’s wrong.

Four months isn’t long enough for him to lose that connection. Is it? Did he? OMG!

Stop yelling! Why are you yelling at me? I never. Ugh. I think I’m going to throw up. I CAME HERE BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT YOU!!! YOU DON”T CARE THAT I CARE?!?!?!?! Your’s so MEAN!

He said I was the best sex he’d had. I tried that reverse cowgirl bullshit position just because he begged for it. I even put my finger in his ass. Ew. Gross! And he made me a mix CD! “Peaches and Cream, I need it cause you know that I’m a fiend!!!! Peaches and Cream!”

Ohmygosh. Oh. My. Gosh. EFFFF!

What do I do? Where do I go? Where am I? God damn it’s hot in this city. I don’t have anywhere to stay. Oh, is that a Filene’s Basement?

I can’t believe this is happening.

I haven’t seen this girl in months. Now, here she is, bigger than shit, sitting there smiling that same goofy smile I thought I’d never see again. I have a thousand other things to do, this is my job after all, and I have to deal with this. This is not how I wanted to start my Friday.

OK it took some doing, but it looks like she’s leaving, even if she is crying all over the place. Just a few more minutes, and I can forget this ever happened and get back to my job.

She does look cute though.

She obviously bought a new dress. It looks rather fetching on her.  I had almost forgotten how hot those flowers tattooed across her back. . .

Whoa. No way buddy. Stop thinking with your dick.

She may look cute, but this is unhealthy. I broke up with her months ago, and instead of moving on with her life, she flew all the way from Chicago to Washington without so much as a damn phone call warning me. That would have been too easy. Instead she Googles me, finds out where I work, and shows up at my office instead.

Not cool, you psycho.

She seems to be leaving. OK, it looks like she’s gone.  I’m going back to work. I have piles of shit to do, and I’m still trying to feel my way through the office and see how things are done here. I’ve only been here a few weeks anyway.

I can’t believe she’s here at my office. I need a drink.

Oh great, now my bosses are coming over. Look busy. Maybe they haven’t noticed. Maybe I contained everything.

Wrong.

Apparently she didn’t leave, and both of my bosses want to know why there is some woman carrying on, crying all over the place, and generally having a major shitstorm of a meltdown in the advertising offices. You know boss, I’d like to know there answer to that as well.

Yes, yes, I’ll get rid of her.

You have no idea how gone she’s about to be.

I need a drink. Something long, dark, and stiff.

That’s what she said.

It’s 3 p.m. Shit. It’ll be hours before I get a chance to get drunk. Way drunk. And then maybe make out with someone. Not her. Anyone else will do really. I need to get the taste of crazy out of my mouth.

Yes, haha, this is hilarious. Damn copy editor wants to know if she’s pregnant. I hope he catches some horrible fungus of the crotch. Something that burns. Who asks that? Only a douche bag. Well he’s certainly that. No she’s not pregnant. Thanks for bringing it up.

Asshole.

OK, she’s in a cab, and all I see are tail lights. I’ll never see her again. For real this time.

I hope.

I’ll definitely be looking over my shoulder on my way home. Thank God she doesn’t know where I live.

This is certainly not going to help me around the office. She did look cute.

I need a drink.

This is not exactly how I pictured my debut as a choreographer. But if I can make a floundering group of beached whales look good in tap shoes, that must count for something….right?

It all started with Sesame Street – it was a crucial show in my formative years. Not only did I learn how to count and read two-syllable words, but I also found my life’s work. The first time I saw Savion Glover tapping to the beat, I begged my mom to take me out for a shiny pair of those clicky shoes. Finally, I didn’t have to sneak into mom’s walk-in closet to pilfer a pair of patent pumps when I wanted to satisfy my burgeoning shoe fetish…I had a pair of my own! And it was socially acceptable!

Everyone at school agreed that Savion was hot shit, and once I learned a few of his tricks, all the little chicks on the playground flocked to me. I loved having an audience, of course. But why wasn’t I interested? Probably the same reason I found myself obsessed with Bert and Ernie and their male version of domesticity.

OK, time to breathe some life into these hippos. “Ladies! Don’t forget our deal – if you get a standing ovation I’m taking everyone to Arby’s after the shoooow!” You would not believe how these women will start hooting and hollering when they hear the word “curly fries.” Obviously I don’t eat any of that shit – especially the roast beef! – but I’ll be damned if I let these bitches embarrass me.

Well who is this fine piece of meat wandering around backstage? “Grandma, I ran home and got your medicine just in case you need it – I’ll leave it right here in your purse, okay?” So he’s thoughtful too. Now he’s bending over to drop the pills in Granny’s handbag, showing off those tight buns. Have I finally found the Bert to my Ernie?

“Scottie, you must meet our fabulous choreographer! Johnnie, this is my grandson, he is a Junior at Georgetown.”

Hmm, a little young…but not younger than T.R. Knight’s new boyfriend.

“So nice to meet you Scottie. But I have to ask you to shuffle back to your seat. The show’s about to start and I don’t want you to miss a single kick ball change.” Dammit, why do I always sound like such a fag when I talk about tap dancing?

Did I somehow teleport into John McCain’s wet dream?

Look at Mom’s dimpled old ass, squeezed into that hot mess of a costume. Like a spandex sack full of cottage cheese. Is this what my future holds? Fuck. It’s like staring down the barrel of a loaded semiautomatic.

Hmm…semiautomatic. That does sound quick, and relatively painless.
Can a person die from overexposure to Aqua Net fumes? I’m pretty sure that’s what killed Peggy’s hamster. Stupid bitch kept the poor thing in her bathroom in that tiny cage. Totally helpless while she teased her hair into that gigantic white trash disaster. And now here I am, feeling as trapped as that poor hamster, breathing in the toxins emanating from the rhino herd on stage.

Christ, did that lady really bring her own beer cozie to the geriatric dance recital? I mean, it’s humid as fuck in D.C. too, but at least we prefer our OxyContin over Natty Light. Speaking of which…maybe I can get high off all this hairspray. There is a silver lining to this fat, post-menopausal cloud after all.

Jesus I’m happy I got out of this shit hole before I turned into Peggy. Bitch looks like a two-cent tranny hooker dressed up for a debutante ball.

Maybe that flaming dance teacher, Johnnie, is an actual two-cent tranny hooker.
But all I ever heard in high school was Ruby, why can’t you try a little harder, like your cousin, Peggy?  No man will ever want you with all those opinions and that terrible emu music.

Well, guess what Fuckers?! I don’t care if no man wants me, because I’m a big, gigantic, vagina-loving LESBIAN! A real live lesbo, in the flesh! And guess what else, Dad?? I even like black girls! How do you feel about that?

Oh yes, it’s gonna feel soooo good telling them that as soon as this shit-show is over. Oh, and BTW Dad, her name is LaToya and she has a four inch tongue. Tap, tap away, Mom. And yep, these flowers are for you. Figured it couldn’t hurt to butter you up a bit. You and Dad probably think I flew all this way for money. Ha!

Oooh…who’s the hot blonde with big tits? Oh gross, Dad, stop staring. Well, at least we have that in common, I guess.

Fuck! Agh! That felt like a maple wood baseball bat.

Jesus. Am I bleeding?

God damn. Hemroids. Screw it. I’m not sitting down again. I’ll wet myself before getting up. AGH!

Boy, if tonight isn’t the night of nights. This is the night my asshole and the Turtle Creek Tappers put me out of my misery. Which is worse? Physical agony is one thing. But the mental anguish of seeing her stuffed into a costume, parading around like Raquel Welch after being stung by a huge bumble bee? Damnit. Get me a gun. Someone in this auditorium from Hades has to be packing. Fucking air conditioning? What the hell! This is Dallas. If the negroes don’t kill you the heat will.

AGH!!!!

Seriously. Flowers? Ruby is such a snot. Flying down for this bullshit? I get the ticket she gets a daisy? The little hussy is going to hit us up for cash.

Mommy, Daddy, you know with the subprime housing market and all…
Shit. More like you know with the booze and Mandingos. God damn whore. She might be the dumbest girl in all of Texas. Learning disability my ass. It’s called functionally retarded.

AGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!

Oh, this medication better kick in. It’s been, um, 20-25 minutes?

Usually about right.

Well, well, well. Look at this little sugar pie. Oh isn’t she just the Belle of the Ball. Blonde hair. Great boobs. Like down pillows. Wonder which beast up there is her mom. Oh and she has curves. Not like the little trollips running around here. Eat a sandwich. Have a beer. What is wrong with these girls looking like teenage boys? Get some meat on the bone.

Obama? Change? Jesus. That little fucker needs to take off that T-shirt, go pop that zit, wash his face and wake up to the fact that if a black man becomes president he’s only going to do to us what we did to them. It’s in the Bible. What is wrong with his parents? That kid needs to get a job. Pay taxes. Make me worry all day – AGH!!! Make me sit here and have to deal with Mr. Hussein as president. God damn pinko terrorist. Lee Harvey Oswald with a turban.

Agh.

Oh, that one wasn’t as bad. Meds must be kicking in. Hot damn.
Agh.

Here she comes … til death do us part. She looks like a platypus headed to prom.

Hi Honey! Love you so much! Beautiful! You’re beautiful!

Christ take me now.

Butterflies, butterflies!  

Tonight is the night of nights.  This is the night the Turtle Creek Tappers really put ourselves on the map.  On the map!

I know full well that from now on when the name Turtle Creek Tappers is mentioned anybody who is anybody in Dallas will know that little ol’ Dottie Rodgers was the one who got the group going, and any success or failure that we have tonight will be to my credit or blame, not that there’s anything to be done but simply to relax and go with the music as Johnnie has been telling us for the past six months of practice, practice, practice.

Johnnie has been wonderful.  Even after putting in a full day at his beauty salon he still has time to give us tap lessons each Wednesday evening.  Where oh where does he get his energy?

I’m so nervous, but what will be will be.  I guess we could have gone on reading novels until we all fell asleep or had a book club meeting where we finally realized that no one but no one had read that month’s selection.  So I was the one who finally said enough is enough. 

I said we’re all pushing 60 –most of us from the wrong direction!– and instead of just sitting there and Jane Austening ourselves to death why don’t we just get off our kiesters and MOVE IT!  Someone suggested ballroom, but we all knew that we could never get our husbands to go along with that, so that left line dancing and tap.  Of course we live in Texas and all, but line dancing is frankly not the type of music that our crowd appreciates, and tap dancing has a beautiful history from Bojangles to Arthur Duncan and it’s great exercise, too.  So that was that!

This is so exciting!  Mildred did such a great job on our costumes and we decided that the cowgirl theme was so perfect that we’d just use one costume for the entire recital.  I just love the fringe on the sleeves!  During the finale we’ll add kerchiefs and lariats, just for kicks.

Robert has been so supportive, although every time I practice my solo number, “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” he insists on teasing me.  He sticks his head in the kitchen and sings along, but he always replaces the lyrics with poems by Emily Dickenson.  The other day as I was tapping up a storm he sang “I heard a fly buzz when I died/ The stillness in the room…”  and the day before  “Because I would not stop for death/ It kindly stopped for me…”    Honestly, he has such a strange sense of humor!

But there he is, sitting in the front row with my daughter Ruby who just flew in from DC.  They both are holding a yellow rose!  How precious!

Where are my note cards? 

I’m the MC tonight, and if I mess up I’m afraid Robert will fall off his chair laughing. 

Don’t let the fringe get tangled in the mike stand.

Is my hat on straight?

Take a deep breath, Dottie, and everything will be fine. 

O.k. to start, Johnnie? 

Johnnie seems a bit distracted. 

Johnnie? 

Thanks.  It’s now or never!

“Hello, hello, hello, ladies and gentlemen.  Welcome to the premiere performance of the Turtle Creek Tappers.  Thank you!  Tonight our first dancer will be Evelyn Pierce Mulshinsky tapping to ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ ”

Oh me, Oh my!  It’s a dream come true!

Telephone bill…weekly circular…credit card promotion addressed to my husband (do they not realize that he’s been dead for 12 years?)…bank statement…JUNK.

All of it.

Four days after I send him the birthday check and still I’ve heard nothing.

My grandchildren obviously think money grows on trees. They’ve never had to work hard to achieve anything in their lifetime. Oh no. Why would they have to do that? One whine, one complaint, one shrug of the shoulders and that daughter-in-law of mine gives in immediately. Always has. And my poor son…He tries so hard to raise them up right. He knows to stand when I enter the room. He lets me be the first to exit off the elevator. He realizes that when the server asks, “May I take your order?” it’s I who must respond first. But oh Deborah…She’s always had to do things her own way, hasn’t she? Our first meeting and she wore a skirt above her knees. She thought it was perfectly acceptable to call me Kendra after our first introduction. “Oh Kendra, I love your oriental rug…Oh Kendra that must be Lenox…Oh Kendra, those shoes are snazzy.”

Excuse me missy. It’s Mrs. Harold Johnson the third to you. Or did your wrong-side-of-the-tracks full-time-working mother skip that part of your manners lesson? Did you not own a copy of Emily Post’s guide to etiquette? Didn’t you ever learn the proper way to fold a napkin for a cocktail party? Or how to arrange mini quiches…

Oh goodness! The ceiling inside this less-than-average establishment must have sprung a leak. There’s a drop of condensation on my table! This is what happens when I collect my coupons and exchange them for half off the price of spinach and artichoke dip…Oh my goodness gracious! The young lass behind me must have been hit hard. She’s covering her eyes and appears to be wincing in pain…

Oh you musn’t be so dramatic, my dear. That is very unbecoming.

And the young man just sits there, clueless. Has he not read the section in Most Post’s instruction manual on unforeseen circumstances? Well obviously not. Surely she covers this.

He just sits on his hands while the waitress escorts his lady friend to the facilities. Don’t bother to ask if she’s all right. Truly that’s too much. Oh so now you’re only worried about the check? Just want to scurry out of here as quickly as possible, do you?

I bet a birthday gift is paying that bill. And I think it’s safe to say that this oaf has yet to write a thank-you note as well.

Shit…did I…did I just squirt lemon juice in her eye? Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Look at her. She’s wincing. No, she’s crying. No, she’s…Oh my God I just squirted lemon in her eye.  In her eye.  I don’t even like shrimp. In fact, I hate it: white, rubbery, tepid. White. Had to be white. Couldn’t have ordered catfish. That would have been too black. They don’t serve lemon with catfish. It’s like the Kimbo Slice of fish. Shit. I can’t believe I just gunned her down with lemon juice. “Monique, are you okay?” Are you okay. Of course not. Her eye is awash in citric acid, fuck head. “I’m so sorry.” Yeah, so sorry. Tell her how sorry you are, you fu—is that…is that my dad? Oh my god. My dad is over there in the corner booth… Ensconced in the corner boot, leering at us. Are you serious? Get fucking serious. My dad is here. I told him to wait in the car. Oh my god.  Is that a smile? Is that cheeky fuckerlaughing at me? Cool dad. Cool. Awesome.  What the fuck is he doing here? God. Oh my god. The waitress is ushering Monique away, presumably, to go rinse her eye. If she sees my dad…If she sees him. Oh my god. I’ll never get laid. Never. This is it. Doomed to eating shrimp and chatting up girls about the Simpsons with my dad over there in the corner, looking like a pederast. He doesn’t even have a magazine or a novel. At least then he could cast himself as a pathetic loner. No, no book. Just that fucking grin.  I don’t even like this girl. I mean, I don’t dislike her enough to wreck a hole in her cornea. But seriously. On Monday, I’ll catch hell. Did I kiss her goodnight? Did I get my tree fed? No, how could I? The waitress barricaded her in the bathroom for an hour. By the time she got back to the table, I was so enraged with my peeping dad – that fucking asshole – all I could say was, “I got the check.”  God. I’ll never get laid.

OK, I’m the HEAD hostess, not a miracle worker!
 
So let me set the scene: Mr. Disaster shows up in a TUXEDO to Ruby’s. Which is fine if you’re like way old (and semi nutso) but this guy is like my age. And anyway it’s at least 129 degrees outside. So, anyway, this must be some sort of big deal for him, right? Wait, is prom this weekend at Hetford High? I think I remember Darcy saying something about that last night on IM…I have to remember to text her to get the 4-1-1. But I mean who would bring their date to Ruby’s?
 
Ohmigod I see he has this like corsage in his hand, so now I know he must be going to prom. So I’m trying not to laugh and I say as enthusiastically as I can, “Welcome to Ruby Tuesday!” and he’s not even making eye contact. Meanwhile I see he has such bad zits Jessica Simpson herself would feature him in a Proactiv Solution commercial. So I ask him if he would like a table, and he says that he’s waiting for someone who’s in the restroom. Oh really? So wouldn’t he like to wait for her at a table? No, he says, she’s coming right out. Poor guy! He’s standing in the entrance to RT’s, wearing a tux with corsage in hand. Can you say NIGHTMARE?
 
What seems like forty minutes later the girl walks out. He scrambles to his feet and thrusts the corsage at her. She’s awkward too, but thankfully not dressed like the First Lady or anything like that. So now they’re ready for a table, and he finally looks me in the eyes and says, “Table for two, please.” Oh Lordie. But okay, I can play along, so I walk them over to the table that’s as romantic as Ruby Tuesday gets: away from the mall entrance, no view of the dumpster outside, kind of in a corner (next to a loner old bag), and nowhere near any screaming kids. I even pull out the chair for her, to make it extra special (and knowing that I am getting no tip for this!)
 
I watch them from the hostess station, and there is a lot of squirming in their seats going on. I’m like sweating watching them, it’s so awkward. If I didn’t need to make money at this job to pay for my insane cell phone bills (seriously, night time minutes need to start after 7 NOT 9!), I would run out of the restaurant right now and leave my job forever!
 
So, the grand finale… He orders shrimp cocktail—I mean I don’t think anyone has ever ordered that here—and he squeezes the lemon and it squirts her in the eye. I know, I couldn’t believe it either—I had to look away and like fan myself with my hand, I was feeling so stressed out! But give me a break, right? Mistakes happen! But not to this girl apparently. She’s going completely ape shit! Candie, their waitress, runs over to try and calm her down. This girl just takes off runing to the bathroom, like a bat out of hell. He’s left sitting there alone with his mouth hanging open.
 
I tell Candie to just go ahead and quickly and quietly put the check on his table so he can slip with maybe a shred of dignity left. But then, when she does, he pulls out this gigantic wad of bills from his pocket. And now I’m curious. I scoot a little closer to him, pretending to rearrange paper placemats on the table next to him, and they are not a mess of 1′s and 5′s, more like 10′s and 20′s! It’s a mound of cash! I mean, besides the acne, he’s really not all that bad, and zits aren’t permanent things anyway. He did show up in an Infiniti. Who cares if he wasn’t driving it? He looks so lonely sitting there at his romantic table for one. Maybe I’ll just slip him my number…

We’ve sat at the same lunch table for two years – and we’ve sat next to each other in Bio for a whole semester. But sitting down to dinner, I feel like I’m meeting him for the first time.

Which probably explains why I feel so awkward. He shows up at my doorstep with flowers and a paid chauffer and suddenly I’m a bumbling nervous idiot. Will he ask me out again? Or have I completely ruined my chance at having a boyfriend? I know it’s silly to want one just for the sake of having one. But when you’re dating you always have something to do on Saturday nights, you don’t have to worry about getting asked to the next formal – speaking of which, you can go dress shopping weeks in advance! – and all of the other girls are oh so jealous. Junior prom. And I’m only a sophomore.

Wait…what were we talking about?

“Anyway, it was hilarious. Have you ever seen that Simpsons episode where Homer gets fired?”

Gasp. I’m so pop culture challenged. I have to confess: “I don’t really watch the Simpsons…”

“Don’t watch the Simpsons! But it’s basically the best show ever to be on television!”

“For some reason I just can’t get into adult cartoons. When drawings start engaging in crude humor, it just freaks me out.” Great, if this date wasn’t sabotaged already, now I’m criticizing his favorite show. Will I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” he counters between bites of shrimp. “You know, I think this needs a little something.” I watch him reach for the lemon as I try to invent a way to salvage this disaster of a conversation.

“OUCH!” Was that me screaming? Oh my God, why is my eye burning?

“Monique, are you okay? I’m so sorry!” Why is he apologizing? Why do I smell citrus all of a sudden?

Suddenly the waitress is whisking me away to the bathroom. “We just need to splash a little water in your eye,” she explains. Who cares about my vision…now I’m never going to have a hot boyfriend to look at, so what’s the point? I remember someone telling me that rejection stings…but I didn’t know they meant literally!