Mary wept. Twenty minutes later, she began waking Frank, Ned and Bianca, filled cereal bowls, started the wash, found stamps for the piles of bills and opened the drapes to another dreary 6 a.m.
I knew from the beginning I would be wed to my Lord, though I fought my father’s decision bitterly, having privately accepted my lot to rule my family’s lower household. Father longed to raise our name from ashes into greatness, however, so he offered me up to my Lord — a widowed, aging weasel, who had no heir to his name, his stature or his wealth — never guessing such dealings might breed a bitter, vindictive heart in his precious daughter.
Nobody really liked her; however, that didn’t stop her from sashaying (like a cat in heat) out onto the stage, wearing the tightest, shortest (Harper Valley PTA sleazy) hooker red dress we – or probably anyone else for that matter – had ever seen, to accept (without any reservations) the award for teacher of the year. Of course, the pubescent young men present erupted into thunderous applause, dog woofs, and whistling (a sound akin to what happens when someone scores a touchdown at the Superbowl), while the girls and adults – totally embarrassed by this flagrant sexual display – sat silent with looks of disdain and arms folded as she stepped up to the microphone and said,
“I want to thank you all for this honor, which I could not have possibly imagined that I would win; however, I cannot accept it, and would like at this time, to present it to my friend and colleague, Mary White, who is a better teacher, better person, better dresser (greeted by snorts and laughter) and is not having an affair with the principal,”
and, this being said, then handed the plaque to Mrs. White (who had been runner up), turned and walked out of the auditorium, which had fallen into complete and utter silence.
In the year he turned twenty-four he fell in love with four women.
He married the third.
In therapy, my husband shared that he’s been having the same dream every night for a year, of a beautiful stranger who tells him she loves him, and bakes delicious cupcakes.
I met the real her at the local bakery today and we’re going away together this weekend; he’s going to be so pissed.
Lester was the guy who talks loud in public bathrooms, pretending he’s on a cell phone, “Yes it’s me, in London all week banging the blond bitch.
Hay I’m offerin 2 mil for the land, farm included, take it or leave it you mother-f, and you better not hang up.
As Abigail peered through the banisters at her older brother and his friends and listened to them discuss the latest technological breakthroughs in science and the most pressing current political dilemmas, she wondered why she hardly heard young ladies murmur words like those, but then she laid her eyes on one of her brother’s friends – standing there like Michaelangelo’s David, only broader, and with better posture, and muscles you could practically feel with your eyes and, speaking of eyes, his were constructed of cerulean velvet that matched the color of the sky just after the last sliver of sun has tucked itself under the horizon, leaving only the memory of daylight swirled around in a vast sea of everything that is mysterious about night. Abigail twirled a piece of hair around her finger, speculated as to whether or not this specimen of a man had seen her – noticed her – and then her heart took in a poisonous concoction of love, lust and adrenaline that sent her whirling with urgency back to her bedroom to divulge every last detail of the man she had just witnessed on her diary’s hungry, anticipating pages.
If women really truly understood the way males thought we’d be fucked.
And not in the good way it’s all about either.