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I’m cataloguing the items that need to be ordered.  “Katie, I’m really sorry.  I want to go, but I told you, I don’t hav e anyone to watch Gracie.  Can we reschedule?”
    Georg ie taps me on the shoulder and I look up.  She points to herself and wiggles her eyebrows, mouthing me, me .
    I quirk my brow in an Are you sure? face and she nods double time.
    “Katie, I may have found someone, let me call you back.”
    I hang up the phone, cutting off Katie’s squeal of delight.
    “Georgie, you don’t have to do this.”
    “Oh, hon, I know I don’t have to but please, I’ve been dying for another chance to see my girl.  It’s been two weeks since you were over with her.”
    Georgina Jones—not to be confused with George Jones, as she always says—has the eyes of her youngest son , that midnight blue that shines out of thick black lashes, and the charisma and charm that she bestowed upon all three of them.  After I had Gracie, she hired me to take the Saturday shift at the auto shop whenever I wasn’t traveling so she could spend more time at home.  We both knew it was an excuse, as she’s here most Saturdays for a few hours anyway, but I’m too grateful for the small income to call her on it, and she wouldn’t be receptive if I did.
    If there’s one thing having three boys has taught her, it’s to ignore any and all complaints, suggestions, or statements that don’t support her ideas.  It seems to work as her husband and sons treat her like a princess …or a really demanding queen, which suits her just fine as well.
    Since this thought makes me think of Tripp and how he treats me, save the one time he spent the night with me and left me hanging, I shove it to the back of my mind. Not going there.
    “I might be late,” I say and she waves that away with a pfft .
    “ I have three grown boys, late isn’t even on my radar. I’ll put her down in her pac-n-play and you can wake her and take her when you’re done or you can stay.”
    I almost tell her for a second time that she doesn’t have to do this, that I can just stay home with her and go out another night.  And then I realize that it’s not so much that I don’t want to inconvenience her, it’s that I’m a little nervous to go out.  With a boy.  On a date.  That Katie had to set up because I’m obviously incapable of getting one myself.
    Wow, with that kind of perspective…
    “Thanks, Georgie,” I hear myself say.  “ I wouldn’t ask you to do this but I promised Katie, and well, it’s been a while since I actually did anything but laundry on a Saturday night.”  Again with the perspective.  My conviction to go and enjoy myself tonight gets stronger.  “You can call me to come get her if she gets to be too much.  She’s taken to ordering people around lately.”
    “Good, I’ll give her to Jack for a while and let her boss him around. He needs it.”  I laugh, but it sounds forced even to me and she leans over the desk to kiss my cheek.  If she sees my panic, she doesn’t call me one it.  “Bring over multiple outfits, huh? You know how much I like to play dress up with that girl.”
    ~
    I’m ten minutes late dropping Gracie off and goddammit if I’ll admit one more time that I’m nervous and therefore couldn’t pick a fucking shirt.  Halfway through my wardrobe (and I do mean halfway), I realized that everything I own is either a t-shirt or a sweatshirt or some sort of workout shirt.  And most of those have suspicious looking stains on them.  Digging further to the back, I was sure there must be something somewhat appropriate to wear on a date from my pre-pregnancy days.  When I found that this was not the case, I sat dumbfounded for ten minutes.  What the hell did I do before I had Gracie? Even more puzzling, how the eff did I get pregnant with Gracie?
    Booz e.  Lots and lots of booze. Right, mental note: stay sober. Gracie doesn’t need a brother.
    Since no matter how long I stared, ranted, or thre w