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That would yesterday when Honey lost his golf glove. The way he carried on, Sheesh! He emptied out the garage and turned his golf bag upside down for a shake. Man, you would have thought it was a needed prosthetic. I mean, he could play the game right? He still had his custom clubs. (I mention this – because it’s okay for him to buy CUSTOM clubs, but when I come home with one measly pair of shoes that cost more than a hundred bucks he freaks) *insert shaking head here* He still had his balls – more actually, because he had the nerve to blame me for this. And, he had his tees. I know this because I continue to pull them out of the drain holes in my washing machine on a regular basis. So, why all the fuss?

WELL, according to Honey this was his lucky glove. I had to think about that for a minute because I can’t remember a time that he hasn’t come home from the course complaining about how he played. So, um, lucky? I’m not thinking so.

But why argue when I can just wait, bide my time, distract myself with something else until the garage is spotless, his bag is reorganized and the laundry is folded. I’m in no hurry  it’s not like I’m scheduled on the course or anything. So, when he’s done pulling out his hair and doing all my chores for the day it’s then that I ask him if he looked in the trunk of the car as it might have fallen out of his bag the last time he went golfing.

I know. Sheer brilliance, right? He pops out to the car and wow, the earth is moving again. The lucky glove has been found! Imagine that? Who would have thought?

Who you may ask?  Well, that would be me. And why? Easy. I saw it in there when I loaded the expensive shoes I’d bought, (and he bitched about) into said trunk. Hmm… Moral of the story? Don’t come between a woman and her shoes unless you want to be kicked with them or in this case? Run-a-round by them. :)

Riley

UP LOAD TO WEB

Now I shouldn’t complain, but you know I’m going to because when a guy says you smell good you should be able to count on that, right? I mean, most women work hard to smell good. I know I do. And that’s why I’m a little… no, scratch that. A lot steamed! And The Boy? Well, he’d be right at the heart of my boiling point.  Check this out.

The other night when I slipped between the sheets and sidled up next to him, doing the sexy rawrr and working all my feminine wiles on him, I was happy. My efforts seemed to be paying off. Yes, he pulled me up close, rubbed his cheek against the side of my hair and I’m thinking, damn, I’m good. I’ve still got it after all these years. He breathes in deep and sighs like he’s in heaven or something. Geez, I must be better than I thought.

“God you smell good.”

I’m mentally agreeing with him thinking yes, and you would too if you spent as much on perfume as I did. But then he growls low in his throat and hugs me tighter and I’m ready to stop thinking altogether until he says:

“Mmm…really good. You smell like pot-roast.”

Pot roast! WTF? I push away from him and sit straight-up.

“Pot roast?”

His arm drops to his side hard enough it makes a noise, and he falls back against the mattress. And even though it’s dark I know he has that face. The annoying one that says: Oh boy, here we go again. (You gotta know I call him on certain things. It’s my job, right?) But hey, this time? Pot roast? COME ON!

I try to keep my tone even. “I smell like roasted meat?”

He sighs. It’s not a regular old sigh, either. Nope it’s one that has the undercurrent of a grumble that says, great she’s going to make a federal case here. I better turn on the charm or come up with a good excuse.

“I meant it as a compliment.” <-See? He chose the latter.

Compliment? I shake my head. Here I’ve spent sixty bucks on a bottle of perfume, I washed-up, brushed my teeth, fluffed my hair – and put on some great looking lingerie before I climbed in bed with him – and who knew? All I had to do was tie a freaking meat-bone around my neck and I’d have his undying affections for the duration of the night?

Sheesh!

“Don’t be mad,” he says, like I have a choice. “I like the way you smell.”

And that would be the problem, but I didn’t dwell on those words. Nope, I was stuck back on, don’t be mad, and the realization I didn’t have a choice about it. I was angry, and just because he apologized and gave me a plausible excuse, (oh, it was an old one to fall-back on: men being stupid – but a good one, because how can you argue with that?) I couldn’t get past my emotions and simply accept the fact that he’d made a mistake.

On some level, I knew he didn’t say this to be hurtful and in his own weird way he probably did think it was a compliment. So what to do now? Turning and putting ‘the moves’ on him wasn’t going to happen, because, let’s face it, when a guy tells a woman she smells like a cooked cow’s ass, the last thing she’s feeling is sexy.

I flopped back down on my side of the bed and stewed (may as well, as I’m already halfway there, smelling like pot roast, right? :) ). Would an argument at this point make the situation any better? No. So, I did what I usually do in these instances. I try to reason out a scenario that’s going to show him why I feel as bad as I do. Oh, I could have bitched, complained, screamed and cried – but if I didn’t put this reasoning in terms he could relate to – he’d never get it and I’d be destined to smell like lemon in Dill sauce (that’s what I planned to make for dinner the next night) if he didn’t get it.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, here’s the thing. You telling me I smell like pot roast turns me off big-time. That would be like me telling you that you smelled like puppies breath and fresh picked daisies.”

Silence, I’d say *crickets here* , but there’s an energy between us as if he has something to say and he’s choosing not to. Normally I’d let it go, because it never winds up being  a good thing when I push while he’s usually right on-cue with his self-auditing. Me? Meh, not so much. :) That would explain why I shifted my head and looked at him. “What?”

He turns and looks at me. My eyes have adjusted to the dark and I can see that he’s debating. I wait and wait and just when I’m about to demand that he say something , he comes out with it.

“Honey, you could tell me I smell like the cow’s un-wiped asshole and providing you were still game, I’d be okay with it.”

And there it was. Another fundamental difference between the sexes that no argument, right or wrong could or would settle. And it occurred to me. Some things, between men and woman have to be accepted.  No, tolerated, because there simply is no winning about it. No right or wrong. It just is what it is and there’s nothing wrong with that. Did this mean that I was going to cave and roll his way? Not on your life. But, did it then mean that I was going to go to sleep angry? Nope. What it meant was that I was going to fall asleep thinking what a strange creature man is and thank my lucky stars that I’m a woman.

Riley.

The Boy made a new friend, which at first glance was awesome because it could have meant more alone time for me to write.  The new guy likes to golf, fish, and hang out for an hour on Saturdays at the local sports bar. *sigh*  He’d be a perfect fit for us, if he didn’t have a wife…But alas, he does.  Bummer.
Now, why is it that men automatically assume when they have a buddy who’s got a girl, that their ‘girls’ will get on well?  I mean, that rarely ever happens.  And with this particular woman and me?  ‘Rare’ reared it’s ugly head – big time.

Picture this.  Two guys geared up to go to the big game while their wives have been roped into spending the afternoon together. (I’m taking a liberty here and assuming she isn’t keen on me either)  So, here’s me thinking.  What can I do that won’t break any laws, but at the same time give me the assurance that she’ll never want to spend another afternoon alone with me again?  Hmm…we’re sitting across from each other having coffee.  My wheels are turning and I’m scrambling here, this was worse than waiting in a line at the dentist office.  Why couldn’t I–

And bingo! She says it.  “So, I hear you write filthy books.” She shuddered and made a face.
Personally, I was going to tell her that they were actually spotless, as I’m no animal – What?  I keep them in boxes – hence no dirt.  But then it occurred to me.  This was my out.  And who knew I was going to have fun escaping?  Suddenly the daylight shined brighter, the birds chirped louder and well, you get the picture, right?

I suggested we go shopping and we did.  I spent the whole afternoon listening to her tell me, “I could never wear that, it’s too low cut.”  My favorite comment of hers for the day, “Wow, this is weird.  It would look perfect on you.”  Sheesh! Women can be so mean, can’t they?  Hilarious.  I let her have her fun until it was my turn.  Because I got to choose the last shop of the day.  Perfect. *rubbing hands together with glee*

Now, just to let you know, I usually reserve this place for my sister-in-law when she comes to town because she’s so much fun to mortify, but this girl had it coming.  So, there we went into a local sex shop.  I didn’t give her a chance to say no.  I marched right in and dragged her along beside me, assuring her it would be a fun experience.  I started playing with all the merchandise until I came across a rather suggestive woman pleaser that was standing up on end.  I flicked the switch and it began vibrating across the counter toward her and then I walked off.  She had no choice but to catch it when it fell off the edge.  The second it was in her hand I called, “You like that one, do you?  It’s a little much for me.”  All eyes were suddenly on her and I could see she wanted to melt into the floor.

Don’t worry, I’m no meanie.  I only made her suffer for a few minutes more – oh, okay, I admit it.  I may have set off the talking latex man.  I may have even been the one to make his hand playfully slap her butt as she walked by – but hey, I had nothing to do with the falling male genitalia.  That, my friends, was divine intervention.  Believe me, if anyone needed to be knocked on the head with a *insert what rhymes with ‘knock’ here*…it was her.

I was good.  I just grabbed a bottle of mint shower gel and pushed her along to the checkout.  Once there,  I thought she was going to die when I introduced her to Bernie.  He’s the guy who runs the shop.  He’s five eight, on account of the four inch, black platform boots he wears.  He sports a nose ring, with a chain that goes to his matching earring, a tattoo of a monkey on his neck (I always thought that should have been on his back), and a double eyebrow piercing.  She was all googlie-eyed until I started asking him about his latest merchandise.  Then she was all ears.  No doubt taking mental notes to report back to her husband.  Did I care?  Nope, but The Boy will probably have something to say about it. *sigh*  More explaining.

Maybe I’ll throw out one of my mixed metaphors to totally confuse him.  How about: “Look, I could grab the bull by the hand and talk to you until the cows are blue in the face, but that won’t change the fact that the woman hates me.”  You see that?  This covers everything.  He’ll be so busy trying to process that mess he won’t have any idea about what I’m saying.  No, all he’ll hear is: the woman hates me.  (Well, that’s providing she doesn’t mention the latex guy and the flying dick to her husband, and he in turn, doesn’t spill the beans to The Boy – because then, all bets off.  Crapatola!)  But this does bring up a good point.  If you strategize an argument between your characters, no one really has to win.  In real life, things happen, people do things and sometimes there’s no easy resolve, and that’s okay. If I were writing this?  The point I’d want the reader to ponder would be why he only hears the part about the woman hating her.  I mean that’s the telling remark, right?

Riley

I need a disclaimer here.  First off, this is a true story and I’ll apologize ahead of time to all who were inadvertently involved, but to my credit I’ve changed all names, including the main event. So if you were there, and you read this and somehow manage to put two and two together?  You’re much more clever than I originally gave you credit for and again, I’m sorry. :)

It’s a Saturday night and The Boy and I are out with a neighbor couple. We’ve had dinner and head to a local lounge for a nightcap.  Once we’re in there, we realize that it’s Tons Of Tuna Nite.  An evening where this establishment hosts a meet-and-greet for a local online dating service.  This was the nuts and bolts of the organization – literally.  If you belonged, a girl gets a huge metal nut and for the guy a huge metal bolt.  So, when you make a connection, the nut and bolt are one.  Seriously, you can’t make this stuff up.

Okay, there we are and I’m looking around at the odd patchwork of people, thinking…which is never good.  The Boy knows this about me, but fortunately the neighbors are new and don’t. :)  It doesn’t take The Boy long to throw down a dare.  Um, have I mentioned that a reasonable dare to me, is like chocolate-coated chocolate to someone with a sweet-tooth?

Anyway, the dare is that I sign up and become a fish. No biggie. Since I have to sneak to the ladies room, I figure I’ll throw my oar into the dating pool on the way by (After all, this was a very official function.  Your name and information had to be included on a list before you got your name tag and in my case a nut.).  My neighbor says she’ll come with me (honestly, at this point I don’t think she believed that I go through with it), but I did.  Yep, I stood proudly at the hostess stand and told the woman my name was Linda G. Sothimer. (Not my real name – but strange enough to be believable, right?)  After a few more questions, which I fudged my way through, I got my name tag and slapped that sucker on my chest.

The hostess then turned to my neighbor, but I cut in.  I gave the woman my neighbor’s real name and answered all the questions honestly for her.  When I was done and she had her name tag, we headed to the ladies room.  On the way there, she chased behind me and demanded to know why I got to be Linda and she was stuck being herself?  There was only one answer to that.  I didn’t want anyone of these people to know my real name.  The look on her face when I told her that was priceless, but then listening to her bitch about it, when we were in the restroom?  Not so fun.  I was almost regretting this little escapade, until we headed back to our table and got hijacked.

There I am, shouldering my way through the thickening crowd when this big guy, I mean he was six foot five and three hundred pounds, steps in front of me.  I’m nose to nipple with him.  He doesn’t move.  When I look up he has this odd look on his face (later that night, I decided it was his version of sexy-smoldering) and he says: “Oh, little Linda, we are SO going to dance later.”  I can only image that I  frowned before I stepped by him and shook my head.  I probably even muttered, “idiot” under my breath.  It wasn’t until my neighbor caught up with me and grabbed my arm that I stopped and demanded:

“Did you hear that guy?”
“Yeah.”
“What a Freak.”
“Freak?  What do you mean?”
“He called me Linda.  Who the hell is Linda?”
She poked me on the shoulder and pushed.  “You are, you freak.  Name tag, remember?”
I made a wordless ‘O’ and tried not to feel bad for the guy and within seconds he was forgotten as my neighbor started whining about why she hadn’t been approached by anyone.  At this point I suggested we head back to our husbands so she can complain to them about her not being picked up.  I have to give her credit, she did just that.  Which prompted the guys to get into the action.

A few minutes later, The Boy is Ray Smith (as you can see, I’m the creative one in the family) and my neighbor’s husband is now Chester.  The Boy sits back down and connects his bolt to my nut and for all intents and purposes that should have been the end of our Tons Of Tuna extravaganza.  But you know?  It just wasn’t.  My neighbors forgot about their nut and bolt, and with no connection in sight, a little while later we received a visitor to the table.  How she got there is a mystery.  If the glaucoma hadn’t stopped her, you’d think her walker tipping on the uneven concrete floor would have.  But nope, she came and stood right beside Chester.  She held her nut up, in a gnarled arthritic hand, while she intently peered at his shoulder (her Dowager’s hump precluded her angling her head back far enough to look him in the eyes) while she patiently waited for the mortified man to respond.

This is when Chester turns to me and is dead serious.  “She’s not looking at me, is she?”
I’m dead serious right back.  “Yes.”  And it’s like he’s cemented into place.  He doesn’t move.  He just keeps his back to her and swallows.  Kill me now is written all over his face.  What to do?  I take a quick gander at The Boy.  He’s doing his usual, ‘Oh, Lucy, you got us into this mess – you better think of something to get us out of it’ look.  So I do.

I lean over and pat the table beside her. When she turns those coke bottle lens my way,  I nod.  “Chester, here?  He’s not in the market for a nut.”  I wave a negligent hand toward The Boy.  “Neither is Ray.  They both prefer bolts if you know what I mean.”  I smiled and winked really hard, and when her mouth dropped open, I knew my work there was done.  She pursed her lips, sniffed deeply, and hobbled off.  Easy-peezy.

Chester thanked me. The Boy, on the other hand?  Not so happy.  He pulled me over on my barstool, closing the distance between us, and whispered in my ear, “How can you say I don’t like nuts?  Look who I’m married to?”  I didn’t have anything to say back to that, because, you know, he had a good point.   Instead I was determined to get out of this place unscathed, but it wasn’t to be.

Ten minutes later, the woman organizing this shindig stopped by our table.  She made note of our connection and congratulated us.  She even went one step further and told The Boy and I that we  looked like we belonged together.  The second she left, The Boy growls, “After thirty years, we better look like we belong together.”

The next thing I know, here she comes again, only this time with a photographer in tow. Happily, she declares that The Boy and I are their love connection for the night.  They’d like a picture to post on their website.  And before I know it, the flash goes off and we’re famous, which would have been okay, if I hadn’t spotted one of my son’s friends mother in the crowd.  I tried to duck, but she saw us and waved.

Crapatola!

Try explaining this one to the kids on Sunday morning.  I mean, there’s no easy way to say: “Guess what guys?  Mom and dad are the new poster couple for online dating.” *Sigh* Yes, that was a tough one.  But, if you knew me, you’d know I’m immune to the phrase: “Aww, mom!” And you’d also know that I thank my lucky stars every day that my children are smart and successful, because when they need therapy (as I’m sure they will) they’ll be able to pay for it themselves. :D

Riley

This is a re-post that’s been updated. Here’s my old picture that went with this post:

for update

Here’s a newer picture

Mama_headshot (1771x1568)-001

And here’s the newest picture.

New photo 2013 (2) (511x800)

There’s also this newest one that people don’t like because you can’t see my eyes

Riley 2014

Pick one of them and imagine me talking to you looking that way…

There’s no easy way to put this – so I’ll just blurt it out.  Even though I blog as Murphy,  Murphy is not my real name. Oh, I’ll continue to blog as Murphy, but now that I’m ready to take on my writing career full time?  I figure it’s time I grew up and embraced the name I’ve spent my whole life running away from: Margeanne.  I agree.  What kind of name is that?  For those of you still mentally tripping over it – it’s pronounced: MarJan.  I know, right?  Bizarre.

My own parents had a hard time explaining where they came up with this monstrosity.  All through my younger years, I was told that I was named after my mother.  But hey, eventually I caught on.  And by the time I was twelve, it occurred to me that my mom’s name was Marjorie, so you know, I had to ask.  Once again, those tricky little people (Mom and Dad) sold me down the river.  Apparently, I was named after a great aunt (whom I’d never met and who, suspiciously, was no longer with us). Convenient, huh?

Consequently, it wasn’t until I sat with Mom and Dad, discussing the prospective names I’d lined up for my first born child, that I learned the awful truth. On that afternoon a long, long time ago, when they’d officially named me, they were tipsy – I prefer to think of them as overcome with emotion, but then there was champagne involved so that blew that theory. True. Some idiot friend of my dad’s brought the happy couple a bottle of bubble, and one empty decanter later, with the two of them facing a disapproving records nurse holding a clipboard, my name was forever Frankensteined.  Instead of Marge-Anne (notice the hyphen and normalness of that moniker) I was now oleo’s distant cousin. Hmm…where was I going with all this?

Oh yeah, so this is how strange life is. Things are finally in place for me to write and my first decision?  I’m going to claim a name for myself. Now, I knew I needed something catchy because I planned to design a website, start a blog, and set up appropriate email accounts for the career of my heart and the one I’ve always planned on. And there I was, disappointed at every turn because all the names I wanted were already taken.  I’m literally sitting at my desk, racking my brains, thinking…thinking, when it hits me.  I don’t need to make up an exotic name for myself.  I already have one. (Okay, exotic might be stretch, how about grotesquely unique?)

Only one problem.  I can’t remember how to spell it half the time. *insert finger snap here* Besides, who wants to sign that nine letter ‘good for scrabble’ name for the duration of  their career?  Not me.  So, I made an executive decision.   From now on, I may blog as Murphy, but around here?  I’m simply M. It’s clean, neat, and easy to pronounce. :)

Good bye Murphy – so long Frankenmoniker – Hell-lew M.

Here’s a thought. Given my blogging, and all this name changing stuff, I can’t refer to my honey as ‘Honey’ around here, can I? Oh, yes I can. Hey, I’m sure he’d be thrilled if I told him. *insert casual shrug and a hair flick, here*  So I won’t.  It will be our little secret.  Much like all the other stuff I write about him. (heheheh)  Hey, I need something entertaining to write about while I’m waiting for “The Call”, right?

Besides, the things I incorporate in my writing come directly from my real life experiences, and he’s a big part of that (um, mostly against his will), but it still counts.  The way I see it?  On any given day, there’s always potential for useful material. And what can I say?  I like taking the normal day-to-day happenings around me and spinning them into something fun.  After all, I’m an incurable optimist who loves to get, give, or create surprises.  This is one of the things I love about my characters.  Sometimes they’re predictable, but more often than not?  They’re not.  Who likes normal anyway?  I mean, what is normal, and more importantly, who got to decide?  That’s what I want to know…

M.

**UPDATE** To all my readers and the general public!!! This is an old re-post! (not the picture, that’s new, but since this post was written I’ve published and my pen name is Riley Murphy. Margeanne is my real name, but I really liked the idea of my ancestors getting physical six feet under. I’m sure they are rolling around down there knowing that their sacred ancestral names have been combined to make up my pen name for writing BDSM erotica! *Beams* I was always the pioneer in the family. And like every good pioneer I don’t care what you call me as long as you call me. Especially if it’s around dinner time and you’re serving. Or pay check time and you’re paying. Or…well, you get the drift, right? :D

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