LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER 3

       I’m Supposed To Handle This How?

      After Carl and Carol left to start their busy days, I stood in the kitchen, staring at the coffeemaker. My head thumped in time with the impatient foot taps as I waited for the liquid gold to brew. Between the stress, an untold amount of wine, and a night humping like a teenager in the hot tub, I needed an entire pot to set me straight and vanquish the disturbing thought patterns from yesterday. Rather than dwell on the fact my inner beast had roared to life, I decided to chalk up the violent imagery as a by-product of my grief. No blood and gore for this demure housewife! Nope, those yearnings needed to stay inside my demented dreams. I would, however, take serious stock of some other areas of my life.

      It certainly was time.

      Fridays were earmarked for mopping the floors, dusting, and cleaning the pool. For over fifteen years, I’d adhered to the strict schedule I set up, only deviating when I was sick or one of Carol’s school activities popped up. Every other day of the week had a list of items to check off, and I stuck to them like superglue on fingers. Just because I didn’t work “outside the home” didn’t mean I wasn’t organized! Taking cues from my mother, Rule Number Fifteen about maintaining a tidy home was a snap.

      Ever since my taxi days ended after Carol got her license, I started a new tradition. I gave myself forty minutes of me time each morning after the hubster and offspring departed. I’d enjoy several stout cups of coffee, smoke like a freight train on the back deck, and read. Once finished, I’d head inside and hit the weights and treadmill in our home gym. The extra bedroom had been earmarked for another child but, again, uncooperative reproductive organs changed the plans. I’d spend an hour each morning to rid myself of the poison I’d consumed the previous day.

      After bypassing the dreaded 40 it took a lot more effort to maintain a nice figure. Unlike several of my neighbors, who were too lazy or pampered to sweat, I refused to keep up my looks by visiting a doctor and have he or she whack, slice, or inject shit, to stay young.

      Nope! One trip to the plastic surgeon for breast reduction was all I needed, thank you very much. No knives, needles, or chemical alterations will touch this body!

       Rule Number Fifty-three: A suburban housewife must maintain a pleasing appearance for her spouse at all times, no matter what.

      Score one for me; a huge demerit for Elaine Shock.

      Today was different. I’d finished the erotic romance already and couldn’t quite remember which novel was next on the reading list for book club. If my headache would ease up just a tad, I could go look for the list, but meh, why? Sasha was on a romance kick, and if I read another sappy, Oh, baby, I love you so much I’ll show you by giving up everything to prove it novel, I’d puke.

      Literally.

      Toss up my cookies all over my clean floor. Romances were nothing but trash and drivel and completely unrealistic. I didn’t know one single couple who married because of true love, not even my parents. They married because they were supposed to—again, sticking to the rules—not because they couldn’t stand being apart from each other. Of course, that little bundle of truth I didn’t discover until Mom’s mind deteriorated and I put her into the memory care facility. While going through all her belongings, packing, sorting, and crying like a lost goat, I discovered the truth about the sham marriage of Roger and Claire Rayburn: Pregnancy.

      Hmmm. Like mother, like daughter. Wonder if a sinus infection fucked-up her life too?

      Demerit!

      The real marriage certificate, with a date only three months before I burst from the womb, had been stuffed in the back of Mom’s closet, buried underneath piles of paper. I laughed and cried at the same time, realizing all the massive anniversary parties thrown for Mr. and Mrs. Roger Rayburn had been off by six months.

      No, I wouldn’t think about the dream marriage I’d always looked up to and strove to emulate. Knowing the union of Roger and Claire Rayburn was faker than Rebecca’s new tits made me feel nauseated. I’d already dealt with that load of emotional garbage anyway, months ago.

      “That’s enough, Roxy. It’s time to refocus and stop thinking about the ugly truth behind the shiny façades everyone wears. Back to book club woes!” I muttered while pouring a full cup of black gold.

      We’d kicked up the heat level several notches last month at the request of Sasha. The latest erotic bestseller destroyed countless brain cells after reading. Gag. Gag. Double gag. Yes, a woman’s lonely, fucked-up life can be fixed by a man with bulging biceps, abs and chest tight enough to bounce quarters from and slipping his enormous schlong inside every available orifice.

      Same is true for the uber-wealthy, emotionally damaged billionaire playboys: The right pussy to control would save them from a lifetime of sorrow and loneliness.

      Please. Orgasms are great but they certainly aren’t life-altering!

      The next time our group of bored housewives converged at Sasha’s, I planned on lobbying for a thriller, one full of psychotic deviants wreaking havoc on unsuspecting victims, rather than the next book on the agenda. I’m sure it will be yet another literary masterpiece entitled The Perils of

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