LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

Rule Number Thirty-seven: Housewives must always maintain a happy, well-adjusted demeanor, a perpetual smile on their faces, even when sad or disgusted.

      Seriously, who cares about the freaking rules? Didn’t I decide yesterday to make my own, anyway? The Suburbia Handbook was grossly outdated and in desperate need of an overhaul. I was a dying breed, and it was time to start Roxy’s Rules for Living.

      By nature, I was a note taker. I wrote down everything from detailed grocery lists, family schedules, vacation itineraries, you name it. My OCD drove Carol to the brink of insanity when she was applying for scholarships. In the end, she gave up and opted to take the free ride offered from Carl’s university (another perk of being a tenured professor!) not because Carol wanted to go to college so close to home, but because she couldn’t take another tenpage list of notes from me.

      Since I was sober, Carl’s ridiculous suggestions prior to our hot tub encounter drummed inside my head. The man had some nerve to suggest I see a shrink or that I was losing my memory like Mom! Hello pot, I’m kettle—have you considered plopping on the psychiatrist’s couch to discuss your own issues? No, I’m sure the great Professor Davenport wouldn’t dream of baring his soul to a stranger then hearing the words: “Sir, I believe you have an unhealthy addiction to pornography. We need to work on that issue.”

      Getting a job was out of the question. Seriously, what the hell would I do? Two years of college spent taking general classes (because I was too busy partying and going to football games to watch the once hunk of a man play ball—then got knocked up) wouldn’t help me in the least.

      I had no discernible skills to speak of, so what could I do, realistically? Sling java down at the local coffee shop to my snobby neighbors as they rushed off to work? The only enjoyment there would be me spitting in their double latte skim mochas. Work the counter at some superstore? Greet strangers with a fake smile while urging them to enjoy their day? Biting my tongue each time I wanted to say something snarky, like: “Thanks for choosing to shop with us! I hope you enjoy your shopping experience of purchasing cheap shit that will last all of five minutes. Get your crap, go home, and then attempt to pass it off as expensive purchases to all your friends and neighbors.”

      Thank you, but I’ll pass.

      No, instead of giving my spouse the satisfaction that he’d offered up viable solutions to my problems, I’d fix the hole inside my chest all by myself. Today, I would start a new tradition—actually writing down my new life rules, rather than adhering to the non-existent, antiquated set embedded inside my mind. Trudging back inside, head still pounding, I snatched a notebook from the junk drawer and headed back to the deck. Pen at the ready, it took me a few seconds to remember the first rule I’d come up with last night. Wine, it had something to do with wine. Ah, yes:

       Roxy’s New Rule Number One: Always maintain a constant supply of wine and the jets on at full blast to keep from going insane.

      A sense of giddiness after writing down the first rule made me smile, despite my throbbing head. It didn’t take long for me to come up with the second item.

       Roxy’s New Rule Number Two: Mentally incinerate The Suburbia Handbook and move into the twenty-first century like every other woman has done!

      Oh, I’m on a roll! This is liberating! Hmm, did the new ideas spring forth after last night’s sexual release in the water? Possibly, though it certainly wasn’t because of Carl’s great moves. While doing the nasty in the hot tub, I closed my eyes and pretended I was riding Tom Selleck, cowboy hat and chaps still on, rather than my bland husband. Did I feel guilty about this switch of identities? Absolutely not! There was no doubt in my hungover mind Carl was picturing himself thrusting his cock into Coco, so we were even. I got my rocks off while grinding on Quigley Down Under while Carl blew his wad by porking Blow-Up Barbie.

       Roxy’s New Rule Number Three: To achieve multiple, mind-blowing orgasms, picture Matthew Quigley. Check! Ride ’em cowboy!

      Satisfied with my progress, I lit a smoke while enjoying my coffee. More new rules bounced about inside my head, each one more disturbing and twisted than the one before. My dark fantasies were interrupted by Rebecca’s assigned ringtone on my phone: Lunatic Fringe, er, Bitch.

      “How’s the head?”

      “Pounding,” Rebecca whined. “That cheap wine you served did a number on me.”

      “Alcohol is alcohol. Drink too much, no matter how expensive, you suffer the next day.”

      “Whatever. Listen, though I enjoy our little verbal sparring matches, I didn’t call to discuss my hangover.”

      “Okay, so why did you?”

      Rebecca huffed. “I told you we need to talk about the trust and Mom’s house. We don’t have much time to make the changes before Stephen and I are liable for the taxes.”

      “God, you are a vicious wench. Your life revolves around money. Rachel hasn’t even been in the ground a day and you’re already—”

      “Roxy, it has to be addressed! I’m the next in line for the house.”

      “Yes, I’m well aware of that. Recall I’m the one who went with Mom to get all her affairs in order before she forgot who she was? I specifically put myself last in line because I was trying to be fair to you and Rachel.”

      “Oh, how sweet. A moment of kindness from the great Roxy! Don’t try and play off that you did it for any reason other than you wanted another feather to add to your hat.”

      “Goodness, sister, what a low opinion you have of me. I’m so hurt,” I responded, a devious grin on my face. “Shouldn’t we try to make amends, bury the sisterly hatchet now that it’s just the two of us?”

      Rebecca snorted. “Please. We’re way beyond that, Roxy, so stay on topic, please. I explained to you a hundred times while Rach was in the hospital why we don’t want the house. It’s not that we can’t afford it we just don’t need the tax liability! We already have four rent houses, and I don’t want the hassle of handling another. I’ve had our lawyer draw up the papers, passing ownership over to you. What you do with Mom’s house after it’s transferred to you is not my business. And who knows? You might just need the place soon.”

      “What the hell does that mean?”

      “It means, dear sister,” Rebecca responded, softening her tone, “with Carol leaving, you’ll need something to occupy your time. Being a landlord is full of all sorts of activities. Collecting the rent, maintaining the residence—”

      “Enough. I get it. Sheesh, you’re just as bad as Carl. I got an earful last night about what I should do with my life now that things are changing. Fine. You win. What do I need to do?”

      “Nothing except sign on the dotted line. I’ll have a courier drop the papers off this afternoon.”

      “A courier? That’s silly and beyond pretentious! You live around the freaking corner! Just bring them by after work.”

      “Unlike you, Roxy, I have a very full life and little time to spare. That’s why God invented young men who enjoy wearing tight bicycle shorts. I’ll make sure to request one who has the thighs of a Greek God.”

      Yes, my sister is a bitch, but sometimes, she is hysterical. “Make sure to ask for one with no body hair, okay? I can’t stomach a man-beast. I’ll be home all day.”

      “Well duh, what else would you be doing? Your nails since you’re too cheap to get them done professionally? Slaving over a hot stove cooking some meal that no one will appreciate? Wait, I know! Not a damn thing except cleaning.”

      “If Mom heard us—or anyone else for that matter—talking to each other with such disrespect and ugliness, our fake personas would disappear. You know, up until today, I didn’t really grasp how odd our relationship is.”

      “Can’t pull the wool over the eyes of the

Скачать книгу