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that’s the dealio, should I go beyond the perimeter of my yard with this house arrest bracelet on my ankle.
    Not that I can say that to Penelope. It would be the scandal of Hilldale.
    Penelope sighs mightily. “My God, Donna, get with the program! In fact, we’ve already done the hard work, putting the gift baskets together. All you have to do is deliver them. Even a trained monkey can do  that .”
    From where I sit, I’m within reach of few loose Spanish tile shingles. Should they fall on Penelope, the worst she’d suffer is a concussion.
    The thought is tempting enough that I nudge one with my toe—
    It stays put, but I go skittering down the roof instead. The only thing that saves me is a drain pipe, just within reach.
    I don’t know how much longer I can hang on when I hear Jack’s car skid into the driveway. At the same time Penelope and Hayley’s heads swivel in his direction, Tiffy’s telescope zooms in on him, too. 
    He whistles a happy tune as he hops out. His shirt goes taut over his biceps as he rummages in the car’s trunk for his gym bag. Tall, dark, and too handsome for his own good, Jack is catnip to this pride of tiger moms.
    He rewards the women with a big smile. “Ah, two of my favorite neighbors! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
    Hayley nudges Penelope out of her lust-filled stare. “Unfortunately, Donna has once again dropped the ball on the deliveries of the Hilldale Women’s Club Welcome baskets.”
    “Tsk, tsk! What a naughty girl she’s been.” Jack’s lascivious tone conjures up all sorts of fun and games. Penelope blushes fifty shades of pink. 
    In her dreams.
    He winks at me. “Donna my sweet, do you plan on being up there much longer?”
    “I should be down in a moment.” Make that a nanosecond. I’m barely hanging on by my fingertips. 
    “No rush. Take your time. In fact, I insist on delivering the baskets, as long as Penelope and Hayley tag along to give me directions.” As innocent as he sounds, he knows exactly what he’s doing.
    Both women squeal as they run to the car. Hayley reaches the front passenger door first, but Penelope shoves her aside and jumps in first.
    “No! Don’t leave yet! Wait for me,” Tiffy squeals from the window. She’s out her front door so fast that you’d think her house was on fire.
    They wave at me as they drive off.
    I do the same. Big mistake. I needed both hands to stay aloft.
    Thank goodness, I fall into the pool.
    My security ankle bracelet is waterproof, so at least a Homeland Security SWAT team won’t come running.
    I needed to wash my hair, anyway.
     

    “When did you first start having sex?” Mary asks.
    Her question causes me to swipe the nail polish brush over her pinky toe, and the one beside it.
    It’s Day Eight of my lockdown. I was wrong to presume that time would pass quicker if I painted my nails a different color each day. Initially I was able to coerce both Mary and Trisha to join me for my daily pampering session, but yesterday Trisha dropped out, despite the fact that the  colour de jour  was Disney Villain’s Cruella De Vil. 
    Her excuse: “Mommy, Cruella is a meanie. Besides, my toes miss being plain old pink.” That was her way of telling me I need a new hobby. 
    Don’t I know it.
    Considering the subject at hand, I’m okay that today it’s just Mary and me. But let’s face it, she’s asked a loaded question. Girls have sex so much earlier than we did. (Well, than I did...) If I answer honestly, she may think I was a slut. Or a desperate spinster.
     Either way, I come off as a loser.
    The GPS security bracelet on my ankle, coupled with freshly painted toes on my left foot, hobble me as I stumble over to the French doors that separate the sunroom from the media room. I lied and told the kids the bracelet was from my doctor, to strengthen my ankle against some imaginary tendonitis. 
    Now I have a bigger issue to fib about: Sex.
    I’m closing the doors so that my ten-year-old son, Jeff, and