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Zoe & Sophia Dance for an Inter-state Audience on Webcam on Their Adventures as the Sublime Consumers of the Lightness of Being

January 6th, 2010 7 comments

Jan 6

Could more of you PL-EASE offer ADVICE to two single women, whose lives are suddenly crashing in chaos? Zoe and Sophia, BFFs for thirty years, find themselves unexpectedly cast into the world of re-creation and redefinition after decades of being faithful wives to George and Marty. They need advice from anyone willing to offer it. For instance, what advice would you give your BFF after she ACCIDENTLY LEFT ON HER WEBCAM, WHILE HAVING WEBCAM( U-NO) WITH A MATCH.COM DATE AS ANOTHER DATE WATCHED FROM A FEW STATES AWAY? Any advice you can give to Zoe would be helpful, but this is the advice Sophia gave her.

Early on the eve of Christmas Eve, Zoe finished the last of her gift wrapping. She couldn’t deny her mounting excitement about the arrival the next day of her beloved grown children, Meg, Sara, Jamison and Emily. Not only did their visit thrill her, but it would create a comfortable buffer between her soon-to-be ex, George, and the irritation she felt whenever anyone even breathed his name. Zoe’s house was spotless, except for the permanent stains left by her dog Sparky’s incontinence, a condition the poor stoke victim couldn’t avoid. Sparky limped around behind Zoe, casting sweet glances her way, as a large turd involuntarily plopped from his bottom. Satisfied that the house was clean enough, she felt restless and decided to drive five miles down the road to see Sophia.

Zoe fully expected to find Sophia in her usual stance, head down on the dining room table sobbing, with a fire roaring in the fireplace and a laptop with a black screen sitting next to her. After Sophia’s disastrous first Match.com date, even turning on the computer was traumatic, not a promising state for a writer. But to Zoe’s surprise, Sophia was nowhere to be seen. Remnants of Sophia’s dinner of Chex Mix and Nutella chocolate spread were visible, especially the spoon sitting erect in the half-eaten jar–waiting to be tomorrow’s breakfast.

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