8. Keep it short and sweet
Closing remarks should be brief. For example: “I would like to thank you for all the years you have kept me employed doing your dirty work without once giving me a raise. My career is a dead end and my love life is in shambles, but all of this has taught me a very valuable lesson. In a city taken over by the wealthy, where white-collar crime is the norm, where everyone has a price, nobody blinks at a little cream being skimmed off the top. When it comes to the ‘tax planners’ of Vancouver, who are the lubricant of the astronomically priced real estate market, everyone does it. The thing about stashed money and the misrepresented funds of companies that are not required to disclose their real owners, also, is that anyone can steal from a thief without repercussions. Nobody in this shady business wants to bring on any extra scrutiny. So thank you for all of your help in padding my own shady accounts, and sayonara.”
See? Easy as Bridget.
Hope your speech goes well tomorrow. I have booked you an economy seat on a flight that’s always jam packed. Good luck on getting upgraded to business class this time, asshole. And if you’re thinking of trying to get back at me somehow, remember that I’ve seen the pervy videos on your phone and, whoops, made a few copies.
If you’re upset about suddenly joining the ranks of the lower classes, remember that your office window opens outward.
And by the way, I left that diagram on your desk. Happy hunting?
Editor’s note: As an idealistic youth, Sheena Kamal underwent extensive public-speaking training by a guy who was allegedly trained by the guy who trained Bill Clinton. She feels as though she’d have been far more successful in life if she’d gotten Obama’s guy’s guy instead.
The Perfect Playgroup
by Robin Spano
West Vancouver
Sage is more fabulous dead than alive. West Vancouver’s finest boutique mortician has selected jeans, summer heels, and a silk tank, for a look of understated elegance. The look she sported when I met her, when she lured me into her web of lies that ended with a vial of poison in my hand.
We’re in Whole Foods with our daughters, both one and a half. Sage and her blond-ringleted Emmaline share a kale smoothie while I struggle to keep Hannah from smearing mac and cheese all over her face. Sage is dressed down today, in five-hundred-dollar riding boots and organic green leggings. I’m dressed up, in jeans and my polo shirt from Costco.
Our tables are adjacent. Her shopping cart is filled to the brim with organic goodness. Mine has the discounted family meal, the Wednesday special where your family can get fat for twenty dollars. I wouldn’t normally talk to someone so perfect, but Hannah shouts, “Hi!” and Emmaline giggles, and soon we’re chatting gaily as rain pounds the two-story windows.
“There’s a fundraiser on Saturday.” She fishes a flier from her Coach diaper bag. “My friends and I are hosting. Proceeds send underprivileged kids to camp.”
“That sounds worthy.” Does the rip in Hannah’s raincoat make it obvious we’d qualify?
“The event’s sold out but I have an extra seat at my table. No charge. If your husband doesn’t mind watching Hannah for a night, it could be fun, right?”
Husband. Yeah. I’d have better luck asking the grumpy Polish lady who used to clean his parents’ house. They fired her when we moved into their boathouse last month. Now it’s my job to scrub their toilets in lieu of rent. The upside? We get to raise Hannah in a neighborhood where all her little friends will have weekly allowances bigger than her parents’ net worth.
“Why me?” I say.
“Why not? You’re a mom. You seem like a good one, which means you need a break. Have you had a night out since Hannah was born?”
I snort.
“But your husband has, right?”
“Of course.”
“So this is fair. It’s also free and fun. Say yes.”
I search for excuses. “None of my dresses fit since pregnancy.”
“Come raid my wardrobe.” Sage toys with the hem of her shirt. “I gave up and bought all new clothes after Emmaline. Stroller fitness, mom and baby yoga, and thousands of dollars in pelvic floor physio won’t budge my annoying potbelly.”
I laugh. “It’s a generous offer, but your entire body could fit into one leg of my jeans.”
“Not true! But there’s a designer in Dundarave who’s been brilliant for my postpartum body. Emmaline and I could play with Hannah while you try on dresses.”
“Hannah won’t stay with a stranger.”
“Sure she will.” Sage smiles at Hannah’s cheesy cheeks, holds her arms out like she wants a hug.
Hannah shocks me by reaching for Sage.
Skinny women in artistic dresses mingle under the Happy Campers banner, their men standing by in tailored dark suits with bold ties. I want to slink back to the bus stop, but retreating home won’t make me feel more significant. When I asked Jake if I looked okay in the first dress I’ve worn in two years, he glanced briefly away from his keyboard and said, “You look fine.” He’s watching Hannah, at least. Meaning he’s working on his novel while she empties every drawer in the boathouse.
I’m about to find a bathroom when Sage grips my arm.
“You look supremely hot in that dress.”
I feel like an elephant among the gazelles, but I remind myself I’m only five pounds up from prepregnancy — it’s just all distributed in a jiggly balloon around my stomach.
At the silent-auction table, she introduces me to Jenna and Misty.
“We’re bidding things up,” Jenna says.
“Only items we want. Like wine.”
“And weekends at Whistler.”
“And wine.” Misty pirouettes to face me. “What are you going after?”
Sage slaps Misty’s hand. “Let her swallow a drink before you reach for her wallet.”
Ugh. Of course. I have to bid or I’ll look like a freeloader. But I maxed out my MasterCard to buy the little red dress I’m wearing. The tag is tucked into my bra and it’s going back on Monday.
I scribble my name on bid sheets. Lowballs only, items I’ll never win because the night’s still so young.
“So what do you do with your daughter around town?” Jenna asks. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at music class or Playmania or anywhere.”
“Um, we’ve done Mother Goose and Strong Start.” The free stuff. “What do you guys do?”
I expect the answer to include aquarium memberships and ski passes at Cypress. But Misty says, “We’re outside every day. We explore beaches, hike the mountains. Last week we did a collaborative art project at Lighthouse Park using mud, rocks, and sticks.”
“We make up songs as we go,” Jenna says. “And Sage does snacks like no mom I’ve ever seen.”
Hannah would love that life. I feel guilty that I’ve been barely treading water, that most days we don’t make it out of the house until it’s too late for anything but rushed errands.
“Have you met Tommy?” Sage drags a man into the circle. His suit is probably worth three grand, but the stubble on his face says that doesn’t make him special. “He’s the hired help.”
“Please.” Tommy’s laugh is so infectious that I find myself smiling along with him. “Sage wishes I was hired help. I’m playing sax in the orchestra, but I’m donating my time so she doesn’t think she can order me around.” He reaches a hand to shake mine, his grip firm and friendly. “She tells me we have lots in common.”