Page 8 of Puck, Marry, Thrill

That was it.

That wasthestraw.

She was laughing wretchedly, sobbing, and looking at herself with horror. She flipped off her boss and quit a job she couldn’t afford to leave; her shirt was a disgraceful mess, her toes were sticking out of her torn pantyhose, she nearly messed herself in a rush to get to the bathroom… and she broke the toilet seat on the commode.

It wasofficiallya bad day.

And then, it was like Karma said, ‘But wait! There’s more!’… as she heard a knock on the front door.

“Seriously?” she said flatly to the air before hollering, “COMING! JUST A SECOND…”

Yanking her clothing into place, mustering any dignity she had in the condition she was in already, Jamie smoothed her shirt, plucked a chocolate-coffee-chip-thingie off her blouse, and opened the front door – bracing herself.

Okay, hot-model-next-door was not on her bingo card.

“Oh dang…” the man gaped, staring at her – and the little boy in his arms shrieked ‘Whoa!’ before slapping his hands on his cheeks. It would have been cute. It would have been comical. It would have been a moment straight outta Hallmark where the cute post office worker meets the bedraggled woman who has sworn off dating.

That’s me, by the way.

The bedraggled female?

Yup.

Yours truly… and in my finest form.

Ha!

“Can I help you?” she practically snarled as a bubble of panicked laughter threatened to escape as her eyes watered precariously. She was not going to cry in front of his Royal Hotness.

No way.

No how.

“Crayon, lady… can I helpyou?”

“Did you just say ‘crayon’?”

“I’m trying to clean up my language… kids, you know.”

“I get it. I’m doing the same… and no. I don’t know.”

“Are you okay?”

“Do Ilookokay?”

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“Not really,” she muttered and looked away. He was too pretty, to aggressively savage in some hot way. Oh yeah, she was getting all sorts of Gucci underwear ads flashing in her mind – you know, the one where the man is leaning on his side in some black and white image with every muscle highlighted and shadowed in sublime masculinity.

“I’m Kenneth, your neighbor,” he began, and she put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. Of course, he was a Ken doll. “What?”

“Your name is Ken?”

“Kenneth,” he stressed, frowning. “I hate the name Ken, Kenny, any other version. Kenneth – and for heavens sake do not refer to me as the male Barbie.”

Sore spot much?

“Oh?” she began innocently. “I didn’t even put the two together.”

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