“I haven’t dated in a long time, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to like my daughter more than me.” She steps backward, her ass meeting the end of the breakfast counter. Her place is small. An older kitchenette-style kitchen with a breakfast counter, a common living space, and I imagine two bedrooms.
My mind flits to my big place ... lonely and barren. Christ, I have more estrogen than the woman in front of me.
“I’m only trying to butter you up. Why don’t you start with giving me your number, and then I’ll say good night, maybe kiss you again, and get the heck out of here.”
She rattles off a few numbers, and I quickly pull out my phone and type them in. Then I hitSEND, calling her. “That’s me, in case you actually want to save it this time.”
I move close, my hands on either side of her hips, her firm ass still settled on the counter, and kiss her.
It’s not light. It’s nowhere near a caress. It could never be accused of a ghosting. It’s a fucking kiss. A sensational kiss, holding a thousand promises of what can be.
If she lets me in.
Dear Country Mamma,
This is what I don’t understand. You write a blog oncountry livin’, recounting tales of your brood farming and wearing your 100% cotton, organic clothes (that you peddle the shit out of ...#justsayin...), and we all love it. So, for the life of me, I don’t get the sideways flat-brimmed hats your son is always sporting. We’ve bought into your country culture. Crap, part of me wants to wrangle my own cowboy.
All joking aside, I do love some of your recipes. The fried zucchini—smacking my lips as I write. The carrot muffins—to die for.
But why, oh why does your son try to act like something he’s not? It makes me feel like you don’t really live on a farm. Maybe it’s a part-time thing?
Wait! This just in: Famed bloggerCountry Mammais a farce.
Yes, folks, or should I say urbanites. Mary Jane Mackenzie, farm mom, goes by MJ during the week while she resides in New York City. Originally from upstate New York, Mary travels there frequently for photo shoots, but rumor has it she’s a Photoshop master and has been known to insert her brood into farm-y backgrounds.
I guess she forgot to ask Little Ricky to take off his Brooklyn Nets hat.
By the way, who the heck ever thought little boys look good in those flat-brim thingies? They don’t. It would be like Mary Poppins putting on a miniskirt or Hannah Montana in a prairie dress. It simply doesn’t work.
No sponsor for this post. Just keeping it real this#humpday.
Looking for a bargain? Look at today’s earlier post on discount juice boxes! It’s a heck of a deal and a timesaver for lunch packing or soccer-mom snacks.
Affectionately yours,
The UnAffectionate Blogger
I twist my finger in my hair for the umpteenth time, scouring my brain for what I may write about later, and decide to repost something and go for a run. I don’t know why I agreed to do this play-house business on a school night.
Forget that. I don’t know why I agreed to it in the first place.
I don’t date. I barely leave the house. The last time I did anything adult-ish, it ended catastrophically.
Rather than dwell on the horrific, I lace my shoes, slip on my pullover windbreaker, grab my key and headphones, and slip out the door. Routine is my light saber—it slays the anxiety.
Except, I’ve agreed to something so freaking outlandish, I swear there are hives all over my body.
All over.
Even there.
Yep, there. Down there.
At the bottom of the outdoor stairs, I pick up my pace and attempt to run off the nerves. After a quick five miles, I’m still failing. Of course, Gabby nearly topples off the bus.
“FunZone, yesss.” She pumps her slender arm. “I told everyone at school, and they didn’t believe me. Only Lizzie did.”
Crap. I didn’t quite think about how Gabby would explain the outing and Reid to her friends, or maybe even to her teachers.
