So…I’m just going to leave this here. Today I felt like writing something so I did. It’s basically stream of consciousness with no editing, polish or even planning. But I wrote some words. They are below. Now I’m going to go hide in a corner.
Pre-reading note for those that don’t know me in the real world: I miss my Granny, Myrtle Mills. She was something special. Over the years I’ve had more book ideas than is natural but one that always comes back to me is a mystery with her as the star. It’s meant to be fun, light-hearted, a little irreverent and sassy. Just like her.
Stop delaying, Mary and just hit “Post.” Here goes nothing.
A year ago I was a happily married 60-something retiree living in Pageland, SC with my handsome hubby Bradford. We owned our Maple Street house for over 40 years while raising our four children and watching them start their own families. It wasn’t a fancy life but I wouldn’t have traded places with Joan Collins for anything. (Well, let’s be honest, I would love to have a good old knock down, drag out fight and throw someone into a pool like she did on my favorite reruns of Dynasty but you can’t have everything.)
When Bradford died of a stroke in his sleep one night in May, I didn’t know if I would be able to go on. He was healthy as a man could be while smoking a pack of Camel no filters every day. I loved that man but what was he thinking? The Surgeon General knows a thing or two.
Anyway, through the visitation and funeral, I felt like one of those zombies my granddaughter, Mary, is always going on about. Days consisted of getting out of bed, realizing he wasn’t there and then crawling right back in. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The following week I had to meet with the lawyers. Joy. They told me that there was enough in Brad’s life insurance to pay the funeral costs and give me about a 12-month cushion for expenses. My social security barely covered food and utilities. How in the world was I going to buy clothes, pocketbooks and other essentials? My Friday morning breakfast meetings with my girls at Hardee’s were not negotiable.
That’s when I knew I had to find a job. I’ll tell you that story one day. It’s a hoot. Let’s just say I became the receptionist for the local insurance agent after I reminded him that I had wiped his dirty rear end many times when he was a baby so he owed me.
My first week at work was uneventful. My friend Vera asked me how I even stayed awake around all the paperwork and stodgy customers. (No, she didn’t use the word stodgy. I think she said, “complete bores with sticks up their butts” but I decided to paraphrase to protect the not so innocent. Namely my partner in crime, Vera.) I spent the 15 minutes before Wheel of Fortune came on trying to explain that not every day is going to be a big ball of excitement and I was just happy to have a job. She didn’t buy it. I’m not sure I did either. A little excitement might be fun for a change, right?
Now, 2 months later I’m sitting in my well-loved den looking at my blank television screen, bound and gagged by a person I’ve known their entire life, wondering how in the world I got into this mess.
“Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.” Whoever said that can bite me. Well, once I get out of here.
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