“Where’s the applause meter when you need it?”
I have died and gone to Mooreville, Mississippi.
I knew things were bad when that peroxided, collagen enhanced, nubile nymph stole my role as the reigning
TV goddess in “Love in the Fast Lane,” but I didn’t know I’d be killed off for real and sent to the backside
of nowhere. Good lord, just because a woman turns forty-five shouldn’t mean she gets tossed out and consigned
to life without long-stemmed roses and Godiva chocolates.
Trying to make sense of things, I close my eyes, but when I open them again I’m staring at the same wide
expanse of cloudy sky slashed with a sign that says, Welcome to Mooreville. Plus, I have a lump on my head
the size of California.
“Is anybody here?”
Expecting Saint Peter to answer, I ease up on my elbow and spot my powder blue Ferrari Spyder.
Or what remains of it. They don’t let you take cars to the heareafter, no matter which way you go,
so this means I’m not dead.
To some people that would come as a relief, but the mood I’m in, it just makes me mad……………….
“ “He didn’t have me at hello.””
I’m up to my elbows in pie crust when the phone rings. Rick’s cell phone number pops up and I
start not to answer it. There was a time when a phone call from Rick Miller would send me into
a hormone-fueled tizzy, but now all I can think about is the passing of years that have left me
with cellulite and crow’s feet while my husband still looks like every woman’s wet dream.
Considering our track record of the last few months, there’s no way he’s calling me in the middle
of the day to propose something kinky or even mildly flirtatious. He’s probably calling to see
when I’ll have the pies ready.
I’m tired of pies.
“Up yours,” I say, and my testy tone sends Rollo and Banjo scurrying under the table.
Well, good. I’m also tired of keeping two dogs of dubious heritage happy – my other major daytime activity.
The phone keeps on ringing, so I finally give in and wipe the dough off my hands.
“Jenny, I’ve got a problem.”
Don’t we all?