Heyyyyy! You over-paid, voodoo-speaking, collins-drinking, boss-fucking, investment bankers. Pay attention! It's me, Laney. I am still here. Surprise! So haven't you wondered why don't see me at the Match-up Market anymore?
     Heyyyyy! You! Yeah, you with the December tan and stairmaster buns, scanning the sunchokes. I was the one in the red leather skirt. Very short. Remember me now? So, you want to know where I've been? Well, when the stomach suggested I was in the grocery store to actually buy food, of the pickles and ice cream variety, I high tailed it to the Food Lion to avoid mortification.
     Did you actually think I would cash out quietly? Not a chance. I'm holding on in a falling market. The ultimate bear. Options, calls, and puts mean little. I have no options, make no calls, have no time to put. But I have learned a few new things: the meaning of roseola, syrup of ipecac, colic, and even Daddy. Of course, I heard the word "Daddy" before - just never knew what it meant. For your information, it's a guy who doesn't run out for a quick beer when the kid has colic. I bet you are ignorant of all this, Mr. Sunchokes.
     Heyyy, Kyle! Don't you miss seeing me in that skimpy little get-up at the gym, high stepping on the treadmill, working up a dewy mist? My secret? Waterproof make-up. You, my personal trainer, didn't even call when I stopped showing up. How personal is that? Course, you couldn't help but ogle me every time I walked by. Or was it your own reflection in the mirror?
     Nicole, I know you have not forgotten me. Although I am sure you'd rather. You finally snared my portfolio. But how will you manage? It takes more than platinum hair and Chanel suits. Despite professing mock shock and spreading little nasties about me, you admired me. Admit it. You'd kill for a bit of attitude.
     But hey, martini Michael, where are you? I left some Amazon.com-sized tips for you every Friday for almost a year. Until I became too nauseated to even look at those greasy wing-dings on the so-called appetizer table. Not even my Porsche dealer called me. We used to talk at least every week. We saw each other almost as often. Do any of you-who-matter notice I'm gone? No? The question is: do I still exist? Ask Kyle. Yes, ask him. Then let me know.

     My exit from the power lunch scene did draw some attention. One of those who noted it was my old boss. Not so old, actually. He observed a change in my anatomy early on. He was second, after my mother. Scared him, too. Despite the fact I assured him it wasn't his, he was less than thrilled. Huh? Tell that to his wife. Mother simply recommended termination. "So much money to made in the high-powered world of finance," she had said. She remarked on my potential, noted that I'd already climbed so far so fast. Little did she know I did it the old fashioned way.
    After my first trimester, my high-performing, low-yielding colleagues took me to lunch, to a second rate place with no cachet. Always thinking, those MBA-types: assess risk, size up customer, talk big. So we went to a new and happening place shunned by our clients, who would not be seen in a restaurant patronized by a tasteless woman in a jumper. (Eeek! she must have bought that off the rack.)
     Nicole, do you know what a jumper is? I thought not. Bosszilla decided he didn't need me on the Geneva trip after all. A small-waisted new hire jumped into my place. (See, Nicole, that portfolio won't be yours for long.)
     The father noticed. That is, after I told him. He turned pale and said moronic things like, "Are you sure?"
     "No, we can hope it turns out to be just a large tumor" and
     "How did it happen?"
     "Didn't your father give you that talk?"
     And why had I jumped into bed with a guy who rode the short school bus?
     Oh yea, I.Q. was a not a relevant factor. At the time. Anyway, the genius offered me a ring, not realizing that I wanted to throw it in his face -- which I would have but for my mother's recommendation to do so. I never take her advice as a matter of principle. By the time I realized she had already figured this out, it was too late.
     So I dropped off the face of the financially civilized earth. Can you hear me? Kyle? Michael? My Porsche dealer? ... Obviously not, my 23 inch waist is no more. Are you disappointed? Or are you thinking that there must be an angle, a way to make a buck off my social and physical decline. Yes? Ha, the joke is on you. You will not buy season's hockey tickets with my money.

     Life is insane now. I sleep with the same guy every night. More insane, this same guy sleeps with me, despite my lumpy belly, flapping biceps, mashed potato thighs. He's not a boss so I guess the field is not open to him. Yet ... Hey, did I say that I sleep with the same guy every night? No, no, I misspoke, I never sleep. It is like having perpetual jet-lag. Finally, there is something you can understand, o former friends of mine, closing multi-million dollar deals in Geneva while I mix formula. (Yes, I have the secret formula for keeping howling beasts at bay. That new hire will need it.)
     And get this, Kyle - the kid peed all over his Dad today. It's a boy, you know, so he really can squirt. No, it does not show a predilection for water sports. Does it? Oh my god. What am I doing here? I'm out of baby wipes and wet paper towels have not caught on as an acceptable substitute despite my award winning sales pitch. I've got to run to the drug store before the kid makes his next deposit.
     So long, Sunchokes, try hard not to forget me.


Contents

 Mary

 Catherine

 Malin