It’s Saturday afternoon and I get a frantic phone call from Heels.
“Do you have a minute?”
I glance over at Buddha who is dangerously perched on the coffee table.
“Sure... is everything okay?”
I’ve become accustomed to asking this question the moment I hear Heels’ voice. Ever since she got engaged last Christmas there has been flower drama, sister drama, hair drama and even shoe insert drama (“If I use my Dr. Scholls inserts my Manolos don’t fit!” she told me last week.)
But this time she calls with a real problem.
“I want you and PJ to come to a baseball game with us tomorrow.”
A real problem for me. I scramble to think of an excuse, thinking that I’d rather scrape dried baby food off the kitchen floor than go to a sports game of any kind.
“Can’t. We don’t have a sitter,” I say. It’s an obvious cop-out, but worth a try.
She doesn’t buy it. “Get your mom to look after him! Come on, it’ll be fun!”
“I don’t know if I want to go out…”
PJ saunters in gnawing on a piece of sausage. “Go out where?”
 “Baseball,” I roll my eyes.
“Awesome! Call your mom!”
The next day we wait for Heels and Draggy Feet at the stadium entrance.  The smell of concession food wafts through the air and my mouth starts to water. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Suddenly, through the crowd they emerge. Heels is never hard to spot. No matter what the occasion she comes dressed to the nines and today is no different. She’s wearing a Reiss sundress and six inch heels. 
I give her an exaggerated once-over. “You going to the prom after we’re done here?”
She smiles as if she’s just received the biggest compliment. “You like it? Kate Middleton has the same one.”
“I heard they make those in a Romanian sweatshop,” I say, bitterly looking down at my jeans and t-shirt.
She ignores me and pulls out a large floral print umbrella.
“You think it’s going to rain?” I say looking out at the clear blue sky.
Heels launches in to a long-winded explanation of the sun’s rays and the damage it can do to a person’s skin. I am sorry I asked.
After loading up on mini-donuts and climbing over a sea of legs we are at our seats. Heels settles in, opening up her enormous tent of an umbrella.
“Put that thing away,” says Draggy Feet. “You’re going to block other people’s view.”
I don’t often agree with Draggy Feet (last I heard he wanted to have a wrestling themed wedding) but today he’s making some sense.
“Yeah, Heels. You really should listen to him.”
“I can’t sit here in the sun. I’ll roast!” she wines.
“I can’t see!” says a kid in the row behind us.
“Be patient, she’s putting it away,” says his father.
“See, you’re blocking people. Put the umbrella away!” insists DF.
Heels glares at him as if to say “shut the F up” and he does. It's an outright abuse of female power if I've ever seen one. 
It’s the third inning and finally someone taps Heels on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
She turns around, eyebrow raised.

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