Emma Taylor wanted an engagement ring and a job promotion for her thirtieth birthday.What she got instead was the boot from herboyfriend, the heave-ho from his Manhattanloft -- and the indignity of having to work forthe weenie who stole her position. Her palsonly add insult to injury by giving her the "perfect" birthday gift: a bottle ofbreast-enhancing pills.
It would be enough to defeat even a well-endowed woman, but Emma's notabout to let such twists of fate get her down, even as she sets out on the most grueling task known to humankind: apartment hunting in New York City. But sleeping in the backseat of her car provides an unexpected bonus -- she meets Jack, who's kind enough to invite Emma into his home ... in a strictly landlord/tenant-type of arrangement, of course.
Perhaps things are looking up -- since honestly they couldn't get much worse.
Emma may not be able to fill a bikini, but she's going to do that "life and love" thing right this time. Because no matter what else destiny throws in her face, she's determined to come out where she never has before ... on top!
have mates because we choose not to select one from the poor array of single males we have so far encountered in this city. Yoga will be followed by breakfast at the really great Spanish café on Washington, because Tish has forbidden us to ever darken Rufus’s deli door again. I wonder, fleetingly, if Rufus’s business account will swing violently into the red because of our boycott. I foresee a massive downward surge in muffin sales. After delicious cake therapy, we are heading off for some
address on this. You were just supposed to get the receipt.” “Oh, good. So you’ll take the goats away, then, and make sure they get on their way to Africa?” “I don’t know about that. This guy here, he ain’t exactly been polite about the whole thing. Me and the boys carried these crates up to his apartment, too….” Aha. I completely understand what this is about, now. “I understand,” I tell Gus. “How about Mr. Blakestock gives you a hundred dollars for your trouble, and you take the goats
my guest.” We sit companionably for a few minutes while I attack my muffin and Rufus sips at his cappuccino, occasionally shaking his head with gloomy resignation. “It’s all the Manhattan yuppies,” he says, finally. “Sorry?” “That’s why the prices are so shite high. S’all them new developments along yer Hudson River, there, don’t ye see? Easy access by PATH and ferry to Manhattan. Had to happen sooner or later.” He scowls as if it is the end of the world. “I mean, it’s good for business and
deepened and we’ve gotten to know each other as individuals, maybe our love will grow. Plus, Norbert hasn’t mentioned small breasts at all recently, which is a good sign. Maybe he was just using the small breast thing as a way of making conversation—he is a plastic surgeon, after all. Of course he wants to discuss implants—it’s only part of his job. Better pick up the telephone… “Hello,” I say, in my best “I am a caring person, you can talk to me” voice. “Hi there! This is Hal, how’s it
kind here, is he? I mean, he’s hardly drawn breath and is now telling me that the bronze donation starts at thirty dollars. Thirty dollars! I can’t believe another bastard telemarketer has caught me unawares. I didn’t know the MASS mothers were into this kind of thing. God, I hope Katy won’t have to do this. I instantly forget my caring-person voice and decide on tonight’s method of getting rid of this irritating person who is trying to extract cash from me. And let’s face it, my feelings