The Best of Enemies Read Free Page B

one who maintains a laserlike focus. That’s why
my
number’s at the top of the phone tree.
    Betsy believes I’d have been running a Fortune 500 company by now if I hadn’t opted for the mommy track. Yet at this point, I can barely even remember what my PR job was like, save for all the cosmos we used to drink after work. And really, it’s not as though writing press releases about a new brand of antiperspirant for teens could compare to, you know,
creating baby humans
!
    I do recall having fun crafting the client pitches, and the day we landed the fragrance division of Calvin Klein as a client was amazing. They sent over so much free perfume! But about a minute later, I got pregnant with Kord, so now I always associate the smell of my old favorite Obsession with barfing in a metal office trash can.
    Definitely no longer obsessed with Obsession.
    I breathe in one last time and I am Zen again.
    “I don’t know how you’re so calm,” Ashley tells me, wrapping an extension (?) around her French-manicured digit. “If someone famous swooped in on my million-dollar idea, I would be batshit? You are amazeballs for not, like, hating her?”
    I’m very strict with the Littles about the “H” word in our home. It’s simply not something we say, ergo it’s on the Never Never list. Plus, I don’t
hate
Jessica Seinfeld. I’m simply disappointed to not have been first to market. If only I’d known about blogging back then I could have staked my claim! Yet what really matters is that my children are thriving because they’re properly parented. That I have way more pins than Mrs. Not Shoshanna on Pinterest is an added bonus. (My coco-loco energy balls did make me a household name in the blogosphere. Fact.) Plus, it’s against my policy to hate people, even Nana Baba, my overbearing MIL. I don’t hate anyone except for those who truly
need
hating.
    Like Jack Jordan, for example.
    But that’s a story for another day.
    I appraise Ashley one last time. Time to turn Ashley into an asset. “Sweetie, have you ever heard of a
wonderful
clothing store called Talbots?”
    “Um . . . no?”
    I hook my arm through hers and guide her down the hall, away from the second grade classroom. “Then do I have a treat for you!”

CHAPTER TWO
    GIRL O’ WAR: A MEMOIR CUSTOMER REVIEWS
    * * * * * ARE YOU FLIPPING KIDDING ME?
    By: BestSmileEVAH, April 21, 2013
    Format: Kindle
    Amazon Verified Purchase
    I wish I could give this book zero stars. I’m sorry, but how is anyone impressed with this navel-gazing piece of yellow journalism? A “new American classic”? Please. Beth Harbison’s Shoe Addicts Anonymous is a million times more classic than this could ever possibly be.
    Seriously, are we supposed to buy that Jack Jordan is some kind of saint for donning a flak jacket and traipsing around the Middle East, sharing her Very Important Feelings about the state of the world? Well, I have news for you, Ms. Jordan—some of us do important jobs every single day by raising the kind of children who will eliminate the need for war when they’re adults.
    So put that in your peace pipe and smoke it!

    Helmand Province, Afghanistan
    March 2014
    I hate girls.
    I do. Can’t stand ’em.
    I hate how petty girls are. I hate how they’ll smile so kindly to your face while they’re mentally tearing you to shreds, for committing no transgression other than wearing the wrong shoes.
    I hate how girls pass judgment as easily as they’d hand out Halloween candy. I hate how they’re more concerned about the content of your closet than the content of your character. Although a few reporters mentioned Margaret Thatcher’s power suits when she died last year, Iron Maggie’s legacy is that of changing Britain, not changing hemlines.
    Margaret Thatcher was young once, but I guarantee she was never a
girl
.
    I can’t stand the way girls giggle for no good reason. Or all the shrieking, which is as grating as the whispering. Or their inability to use