Read Just Add Water (1) for Free Online

And
don’t forget, you have to put it somewhere. God knows what a parking place
costs,” said Jan, the practical one.
    “Slip. You put it in a slip.
According to these,” I waved a pile of flyers, “they can run over three hundred
a month. And that’s cheap. In La you can double that. ‘Course in La you can
double everything. They do lean toward excess, you know.”
    “Like you don’t? I hope this
plethora of information puts an end to our little sailing adventure, Hetta?”
    “Certainly not. Look here,” I said,
showing her a handout. “We can take sailing lessons.”
    “ You can take sailing lessons. There’s no way in hell you’re getting
me out there.”
    Dismissing her objections I
countered, “You said that about skiing.”
    “I think you’d best pick a better
example. I was in that leg cast for weeks.”
    “Oh, come on now. As long as you
can swim, how could you possibly get hurt on a boat?”
    “You can’t.”
    “Get hurt?”
    “No, Hetta. Swim. You can’t swim.”
    “I can learn?”

 
    5
     
    Sunday night we recovered from our weekend of drinking,
exorcizing, and boat hunting and got down to preparing for the workweek ahead.
I hate Sunday nights.
    While Jan made a tuna salad, I
checked for faxes and e-mail in my upstairs office. There were four hang-ups on
my answering machine, so I made a note to myself to call the phone company the
next day and order caller ID. I then joined Jan in the kitchen for our one and
only allowed glass of Sunday night wine.
    RJ halfheartedly nosed the dry dog
food plaguing his bowl, then gave me a dirty look. I was reminded of Sunday
nights when I was a kid. After all the fun on the weekend, we had to get back
to the dull routine preceding Blue Monday. And here I was, dooming us to
repetition. Certainly no way to embark upon a major life change, especially if
I wanted to do it before my change of life.
    I
dumped out RJ’s dish, gave him two scoops of Ben and Jerry’s, poured myself an
extra wine, and heated garlic bread to go with our salads. Take that, Sunday
Night Blues!
    After dinner, Jan and I exfoliated,
masked, waxed, and steamed. All those things “they” tell us lead to younger
looking skin. Yeah, as soon as it grows back.
    Jan touched up her acrylic tipped
nails while I sorted my wardrobe for the week. Selecting a blue pinstriped suit
from my “meeting and work” closet, I added a cream blouse, pinned my
grandmother’s cameo to the high Victorian collar, and laid the entire ensemble
out on my ashes of roses duvet cover for inspection. A rummage through an
antique tansu chest produced taupe
hose. Navy and ecru spectator pumps completed the getup. After a quick
inspection for dog slobber and wine stains, I pronounced the outfit,
“Wednesday.”
    Jan gave an approving nod. “Very
nice. Chick, even. But is it suitable subcontractor, butt-kicking attire, Miz
Hetta? Looks more like IBMer duds. Well, except for that slit up the side of the
skirt.”
    “I keep it buttoned, except for
emergencies.”
    “What kind of emergency, pray tell?
Them buttons go mighty high on the thigh.”
    “This week’s emergency might entail
distracting the client’s in-house buffoon who thinks he’s God’s gift to the
computer world. Lucky for me, the house nerd also thinks he’s God’s gift to
women. A button or two might divert the little pervert’s attention while I
convince his boss of what they really need in their new system. If I can’t persuade the big dogs to pay for good tech
support up front instead of relying on their house jerk, they’ll pay through
the teeth later. So, I slip a couple of buttons, the nerd spends the day
covering up a boner, and I save the client a fortune. That’s why they pay me
the big bucks.”
    “Hetta, they have a name for women like
you.”
    “Yep, they most certainly do. Chief
Executive Officer.”
    “Gee, the great and glorious Gloria
Steinem was right. You are becoming the man you once wanted to marry. Very
scarily, I