It’s also true loving daughters don’t poke fun at their mothers’ marital missteps. “Haven’t you been married enough for all of us?” ”What’s the hurry?” she says, whenever I mention it. The middle one, Mace, is the only one I’ve had no luck marrying off. The murder put a damper on things, but Teensy was adorable as the ring-bearer at our recent wedding.
And it’s not average to get tossed in the slammer just because you can’t explain why a corpse was inconveniently located in your convertible trunk.Īnyhoo, I live in Himmarshee, with my new husband Sal (he’s from the Bronx, but we’ve forgiven him), and my Pomeranian, Teensy. It’s not average to have your wedding caterer killed in the kitchen at the VFW, even before the first pig-in-a-blanket is passed. It’s not average when you saddle up for a trail ride, only to find your old flame dead in his campfire chili. We’ve had a highly unusual spate of murders, and I’ve been right in the middle of most of them. There’s nothing average about life in Himmarshee, Fla., just north of Lake Okeechobee. When Dru Ann asked me to write about an average day in my life, I almost told her no.
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