Marcella sucks and I’m a pathetic blob of goo #cherrypiecure

posted by susan-oh-susan / february 20 at 5:13 pm / uncategorized / 8 comments

Marcella came over this morning on her way to work to make sure I was out of bed and showered and dressed. That’s my promise to her—I made it… when? Just a few days ago. Valentine’s Day, I guess, when she came over for our “Don’t commit suicide on Valentine’s Day, Susan” date and found me in pajama pants, week-old socks, and John’s disgusting old bathrobe… at 7 pm.

“Susan,” she said, very sternly, “this ends today.”

“My husband of twenty-two years left me six weeks ago,” I snotted into the sleeve of John’s bathrobe. “I’m entitled to be miserable. I should probably be on medication.”

“You should take a shower,” Marcella said. And then more or less man-handled—woman-handled?—me into the bathroom.

It was later that night, actually—after the third bottle of wine—that she convinced me to start this stupid blog.

Which, I still think, is a terrible idea.


When she was over this morning—and I was out of bed, showered, and dressed—she said that “So Christmas sucked” was a shitty blog post.

“It’s true,” I said. “Also, succinct. And also—what’s the point of details? You know them all. God knows I know them all.”

And she said…

“What about Stacey-Sugar?”


“The blogger who’s left comments on your posts. She probably wants to know more than ‘So Christmas sucked.’”

And then we got into a fight… well, not a fight, but an argument, over whether the blog was a therapeutic exercise or an exercise in self-indulgence, and Marcella, who has an opinion on everything and a solution to everyone’s problems except her own, said, “Look, Susan, do what you want, but either keep on with the blog or go fuck a twenty-five-year-old boy. Do you want to be a pathetic blob of goo in your cheating husband’s bathrobe?”

And I said, “I am a pathetic blob of goo in my cheating husband’s bathrobe,” although I was dressed. In yoga pants and a T-shirt, but still. They were clean, and the shirt was kind of pressed. Not that I ironed it or anything, but it’s made of that material, you know, that comes out of the drier looking ironed.

I used to iron John’s shirts, did you know that?

Stupid moron.

Me. Not you, Marcella.

Although I’m still kind of mad at you. Even though you shovelled my driveway.

Thank you for that.

Where was I?


Christmas sucked.


8 comments on Marcella sucks and I’m a pathetic blob of goo:

sugar&spice76: I totally want to know the details! Christmas sucked! What happened? Did you confront him?

susan-oh-susan: I’ll tell you, but please don’t judge me.

BeautifulThingsEveryday: I love you, you pathetic blob of goo in a bathrobe. And this is so good for you.

susan-oh-susan: I’m still not talking to you.

BeautifulThingsEveryday: K. But make sure you have coffee on when I come over tomorrow morning, because I have a late night planned tonight.

susan-oh-susan: With Charles?

BeautifulThingsEveryday: No, I’m done with Charles. This one’s called Raoul. I’ll show you pictures, and maybe you can convince me to share him.

susan-oh-susan: Stop it.

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About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance TELL ME, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) CONSEQUENCES (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) CHERRY PIE CURE, and TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and presenter, Colette is also the author of the Dirty Writing Secrets Series, which includes the non-fiction collection of essays ROUGH DRAFT CONFESSIONS: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway, 101 FLIRTY WRITING PROMPTS TO SEDUCE YOUR MUSE, and ORGANIZED CREATIVE. She's also the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Screw Chocolate, and A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown. Releasing Spring 2020: CUPID IN MONTE CARLO.

One comment

  1. Pingback: Cherry Pie Cure–the real time Blog Edition | m jane colette

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