Blunder Woman Returns! (Maybe)

I've met some people lately who've read and/or listened to BLUNDER WOMAN and I can't tell you how grateful that's made me. Funny thing is, Chloe's been talking to me a bit lately. I think she waited until I finished writing my gothic historical novel. But I think...I think she's back. In fact, here's the opening to her new story. Tell me what you think. If you want to hear more. If you do, I'll keep listening to what she has to say: Screen Shot 2016-05-11 at 11.26.08 AM

BLUNDERFUL

Prologue

It’s high noon. The sun quivers in the sky. A tumbleweed rolls past.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t a showdown with Clint Eastwood or whatever. It’s actually like 9 or ten o’clock at night. And I’m drunk as pee.

I’m standing/slouching with a bunch of hot and sweaty females, everyone panting and focused, and everyone’s wearing shiny dresses in various hues of the rainbow. Everyone except me. I’m not in taffeta. Nope. Not me. Me? I’m in a mammoth and very hairy bigfoot costume that smells like hot horse. I lost the head to the costume ages ago (I see better without it and right now seeing is key) so my head looks all shrunken or something. Plus, it was so hot in that mask that my face melted off.

I mean that sort of literally.

The fake eyelashes are sort of swimming down my cheeks along with mascara streaks.

My lipstick is smudged.

And there’s a hickey on my neck.

But I don’t care. No. I don’t care because this monstrous weekend has all led up to this moment and I’m so incredibly focused I can’t even breathe. Everyone else smooshed up around me is breathing plenty. Like they’re some kind of giant taffeta lung or something.

Then we all gasp as Megan holds her bouquet in the air and a beam of light, I swear to the All Mighty, a beam of fucking light falls on it.

I adjust my costume at the neck. Stamp my hoof.

My foot.

Whatever.

And when she tosses it in the air (and it’s in slow motion because of course it is) I do the only thing I can think. I take a flying leap. It’s a real thing and I do it.

And so do the twenty other single ladies, their manicured nails like sharp talons in the disco balled night.

I scream with everything inside of me “MUTTTTTHHHHHHEEER FUCKAAAAAAAAA!” because it is a war cry and at this wedding, I’m an Amazon. In a bigfoot costume.

There is a perfectly logically explanation for this.

I assure you.

If you’ll just bear with me, I can start from the beginning.

Ahem.