Welcome, Roxanne!

Thank you again for hosting me on your blog.

So what is this title about my wine cellar?

One of the consequences of social distancing is that the number of bottles of wine in the shelves under the stairs has fallen way below par. Sometimes I find only one or two bottles, and I don’t seem to be able to get the stock back up. I think I’ve figured out why.

It’s about being cooped up with one other person, namely, my spouse. This is not to say anything bad about my husband. It could be any relative, or a roommate or friend.

I’ll be doing something I always do, say, peeling the lower half of asparagus stalks in preparation for dinner, when my dearly beloved looks over my shoulder and says, “Why are you doing it that way?”

Since I grew up with three brothers, I happen to know the correct response to this. It is “How would you like a punch in the nose?” However, my mother, bless her, earned a whole lot of grey hairs trying to shape us into acceptable human beings, so instead, I explain, in sugary tones, that I always do it that way.

He says, “But you could just snap off the tough part.”

This leads directly to terms of endearment. “I have been doing this, my darling, for many years, and it always turns out fine.”

“I know, sugar pie, but my mother …”

No wonder the wine cellar is suffering. Next time, I’m going to offer him a punch in the nose.

~ The Wild Rose Press ~ Amazon ~

~ SEAPORT BOOKS 360-399-1800 – YOUR STORE FOR PACIFIC NORTHWEST BOOKS ~

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Excerpt:

Matt stopped. His mouth hung open for a few beats. “What are you doing here?”

            The darkest parts of me, those that I kept stuffed way down inside surged to the surface. My face burned with indignation. I was Kate the Shrew at her best. “How dare you! You and your pretty little Live Like King Tut fable. You kiss me and tell me you liked it. You say you are my biggest fan. You pretend to bare your soul. You think I can’t figure out what’s going on? All you want is for me to believe that you’re a good guy, so you can leave me hanging out for a pack of wolves. So I can end up as dead as Mariella. Well, damn you all to hell!”

            Slick as spit, Matt reached out and took my hands. “It’s not like that.”

Settings for books. Ah, Paris… 1- Ben Sidran's quartet at a jazz bar in the Marais, 2 - gowns made of chocolate at the annual Salon du Chocolat in Paris, 3 - and Murder Undetected takes place in Provence, in a fictional town similar to Gordes.

Recently, I ran into an old boyfriend “You’re looking good,” he said, pulling me in for a hug.

I started to smile and say “thanks,” when he said, “… for an old broad.”

I’d forgotten he was the class clown.

Ah, well, I’ve forgotten a lot of things. Sometimes I even forget how many wrinkles I have.

Being an old broad isn’t all that bad. I don’t set my alarm and rush off to work anymore. Instead, I sit in my flower garden and plan what I’m going to write that day.

I’m working on Murder Undetected, in which the darling of a hilltop town in Provence has been getting away with murder. And I’ve just started an untitled work set in Paris, my favorite city. A young woman finances her extravagant lifestyle by helping herself to diamonds and other baubles their owners don’t need.

My life is rich and full. I’m learning how to post on Instagram. I cook, clean, garden, do yoga, text my grandchildren, update my website, phone my aunts, teach my husband how to make pie crust, and make sure I have clean underwear.

To quote essayist John Burroughs, “I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, and all the friends I want to see.”