After 27 years. . .
For several weeks, a strange, pink, obviously-meant-for-a-guy (even though it’s pink) T-shirt has been keeping the box of Splenda, basket of drawing stuff from #5, dust bunnies and super-sized jug of Snuggle company on our dryer. Today, #3 comes to me, shirt in hand, to say that, yes, it’s his, but — he says his father asks — would I like it to sleep in?
Huh???
Never, not once in twenty-seven years of marriage, have I slept in a T-shirt. How can the father of my children, who has slept beside me for that entire twenty-seven years, not know this???
But I exacted my revenge later. You see, my husband has a sneeze that rivals a call used to begin a cattle drive, usually delivered with no warning, when my back is turned. That I have withstood, in the last twenty-seven years, roughly 8,756 of these sneezes without having a coronary is a miracle in itself. Well, tonight I got him back, thanks to a brain-rattling sneeze of my own, three feet away from him while he was washing dishes.
God, that felt good.
On a completely different subject. . . For reasons known only to my publisher, they decided to re-issue an English (as in, British) edition of PLAYING FOR KEEPS last month under the title SEX IN THE SUBURBS, Vol. 2 (Vol. 1 being Jennifer Skully’s black comedy for HQN, SEX AND THE SERIAL KILLER. Don’t ask, it wouldn’t do you any good, anyway.). So today my obligatory three copies land in my mailbox. Now normally I never read the my books once they’re in print, because I’m neurotic enough without finding goofs in the final product that I can’t change. But for whatever reason, I happened to open this book, of course immediately spotting a place where the copy editor changed something, I asked to have it changed back, but somebody decided to let the CE’s change stand.
The heroine’s ex is this very down-to-earth, blue-collar Hispanic guy. Not exactly crass, but not what you’d call polished, either. In response to a jibe from the heroine, his response was supposed to be, “Jesus.” CE changed it to “Jeez.” I stetted it, but. . .there it is.
And whose name is on the cover again?
Jeez. . .us.
