Page 90 of Mistletoe Season
Like me, Ramona is pursuing creative success. In the theater. Which is why, like me, she has a side hustle as a barista. Unlike me, Ramona is gorgeous, with long dark hair and dark eyes. She never met a brownie she didn’t like but still has the most perfect body on the planet... without enduring gym torture. When I get all jealous, she just shrugs and says she’s got good genes. The gene pool is a rip-off, if you ask me. Still, I love her, and I know she’s going to be a star on Broadway someday. She’s already promised me free tickets.
If, for some crazy reason, she ever changes her mind about acting, she could be a life coach.
“What if this kills me?” I shoot back at her.
She gives a snort. Ramona is a snorter, which I love. Everyone should have one flaw, right?
“You’re a successful author. Everybody’s going to fawn all over you.” She dives across the bedroom, which we share in our itsy-bitsy apartment, and pulls a gift bag from behind her twin bed. “Got you a care kit.”
“Aww, really? Sweetness.”
I dig into it, and the first thing I pull out is a Seattle Chocolates chocolate bar. Rainier cherry. My fave.
“Got it on Amazon,” Ramona says. “Save it for when you’re in crisis mode.”
“I’ll probably be in crisis mode the whole time,” I say. “Why did I let Mom talk me into staying clear through New Year’s?”
“Because it’s family, and family is important.”
She’s right about that.
Next, I pull out a small pink journal.
“I know you’re going to get inspired with ideas for book titles and characters,” Ramona says.
I hope I don’t get inspired to write a horror story.
Finally, I pull out an Anastasia Beverly Hills lipstick. Rose-colored.
“There’s not enough of yours left to dig out with a toothpick,” she points out.
What can I say? I make things last. I’m thrifty. Living in New York, you have to be.
Still, it’s worth it. I love the energy of the city. I love spending time in the art museums and hanging out at cozy little dives with some of the other writers I’ve met.
“You are the best,” I tell Ramona.
“Yes, I am,” she agrees. “And I have a mantra for you.”
“You know I don’t do mantras,” I say.
“Okay then, a slogan. Repeat it on the plane and when you land. Definitely repeat it if you go to any parties where there’s mistletoe.”
This should be interesting. “What is it?”
“Say, ‘I am smart, I am strong, I can conquer any situation, and I can resist mistletoe.’”
I repeat the words, stressing the mistletoe resistance. “You’re right,” I say. “I’ve got this.”
I give her a big hug and thank her. I feel like an ancient knight who’s just been armored up. I am now ready to go to battle, er, home.
***
The next day I am up before any bird with a brain and Ubering my way to the airport. I should be used to getting up early. I work amorning shift at the coffee shop around the corner, and my shift starts at a time I used to consider nighttime. But I don’t like it. I dream of the day when I’m making so much money as a writer that I can wake up when I want and set my own work schedule. (It’s coming soon. I hope!)
I don’t really like to fly either. Every little bump and dip sends my imagination soaring, and I can see myself trapped inside the plane with its tail on fire and its wings blown off, hurtling toward the ground. The dark side of imagination.
Happily, on this flight I am distracted by a friendly grandma–type who wants to yak. And when she learns I’m a writer, she wants to know all about what kind of books I write.
