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He Spewed On Me

upmarket southern gothic suspense novel, upmarket suspense novel, upmarket southern gothic suspense writer, upmarket suspense writerIt wasn’t the first time a boy spewed foamy wetness in my direction. Third grade earned that prize, as I sat  on a hard bench in the school cafeteria and nibbled my Chef Boyardee.

Commotion broke out behind me when I opened my package of Little Debbie. Perhaps, someone screamed. My long brown hair was wet, inexplicably wet, with sticky foam. It was one of those things we watch happen to us, our reactions delayed, without realizing what an unfortunate situation we find ourselves in.

Until everyone else is laughing. And laughing. And laughing at us.

The boy who spewed viscous matter all over my head gaped in awe at his prolific eruption, holding the incriminating evidence in one hand. His co-hort glowered at him and whispered, “I told you not to get that out.” But, even he had hints of mockery at the upturned corners of his mouth when he looked at me.

The boys were snatched up and marched to the principal’s office, but I was stranded. No relief. Ooze drying in my hair, I spent the rest of the school day smelling the stink of his randy ejaculation.

And, the whole thing replayed again last night, in front of a room full of men. A board room, no less, and me at the head of the table. The female leader. The example of Rotary dignity and decorum. In the midst of my provocative discussion of bottom lines and financial ratios, a grown man spewed on me. My face. Another bullseye in the center of my left boob. Much snickering. One downright cackle.

It was third grade all over again, only I smelled like Miller High Life instead of Orange Crush.

Makin’ Bacon

So, could you stop at Costco after you visit the hair chair?


An excerpt of an actual conversation between MTM and me. Monday night. Before he dozed off after our full day of flying.

The scene Tuesday morning. I was rushing out the door at o-dark-thirty to run a Rotary meeting with my eyes pressed shut, and I managed a quick question to MTM.

Any last minute requests for my Costco run?


Thoughtful face.

More silence.

Fiddling with the espresso machine.

Still more silence.

Do you think they have bacon in bulk?

Outrageous laughter.

Just how long have you – craven vegetarian that you are, MTM – been wondering if Costco sells bacon IN BULK?


Sheepish face.

More silence.

Could you just check? Please?

I suffered in the hair chair for over two hours, because it takes a long time to get my hair to look decent one day a month. Suitably sleek, straight, and de-grayed, I ventured back into the coastal South Carolina world: a tropical Charleston downpour.

In spite of the dark, dripping day, I swerved into the big box store with one thing on my mind. I splashed through puddles and destroyed my coiffure to get to the front door. Heedless of everything else on my list, I pushed my dripping cart to the refrigerator section.

And, I shrieked so loudly I scared the poor man who was demonstrating juicers in front of the bacon case. (I mean, the irony……) I fear he sprayed juice all over the poor gathering of people in front of his station when I screamed, “IT’S BACON!!!!!!!!”

So, tonight, my vegetarian husband has his honking package of pig.

I hope I’ll get some later.

When You Have An Itch…….

The first time it really occurred to me that the Queen’s English was different from my own dumbed-down, American version, I was in a play. I was cast as a British woman who was desperate to participate in a wife-swapping scheme and run away from grey Clapham to sunny Barcelona.

The health and welfare of the cat was of paramount importance. Everyone was concerned about Pussy. Everyone except me, that is.

I take that back.

The only line we changed was one of mine. Our little playhouse was kept afloat by people of discerning tastes, blue-haired and no-haired folks with sensitive ears – when they heard anything – and a well-honed sense of Southern genteel propriety.

So, everyone got to wring their hands all over the stage, wondering what would happen to Pussy when we all fled to Barcelona, but my one shining moment of scene-stealing, scenery-chewing was botched. For, I could not say, “You’ll get plenty of pussy in Barcelona.” The rude American version of the word simply would not do.

I still think my character had her priorities in order. She needed someone to scratch her itch. Would that she had opened the magazine on the plane and found this contraption……….


Stick a Fork in Me. I’m Done.

Regular readers, please pardon the brief post today. It’s early to bed for me, and I just don’t have a post in me.

Or, maybe I do.

I have to put this somewhere, so I’m going to put it here. I know this blog was originally founded to not say this word, but I NEED to say it……I HATE GOOGLE. I HATE FACEBOOK. I HATE WHAT THEIR RECENT CHANGES HAVE DONE TO MY BLOG READERSHIP.

It is demoralizing to work as hard as I have on a blog for as long as I have, only to watch my page views fall by half in a three week period. Facebook making everyone pay to play, combined with Google’s now deciding to change their algorithms, has well-and-truly screwed me.

And, anyone wanting to make a comment about how Facebook and Google own their platforms and can make their own rules can shove it.

Happy, happy Monday.


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