The Devil and Stormy Daniels
Okay y’all. In 2018 this actually happened. I'm not proud of it, but l’ll tell you anyway.
One day I’d had a fab morning coffee outing with a friend. It really helped to socialize more than I had since my husband’s death. Dragging my butt out of the house some days took more energy than it felt like it was worth.
This particular morning was a win, social-interaction wise. I felt uplifted. Cheerful even.
After our coffee date I hugged my actress/singer pal Megan, then decided to mosey to Conyers, Georgia, and buy food for my chicken, Dixie Licklighter, at a feed and farm supply called the Stock Market. They have a frequent buyer program, so I didn’t mind the drive.
It can be a bit rural there. This store is where people shop who own acreage, livestock and horses. You can buy dog food or cow wormer. Hay. Saddles.
I was wandering around, looking at new birdhouses (so cute) when I heard two women talking (one streaked blonde, one with heavily dyed black hair, both with nicely done nails and attractive in that I-Could-Kick-Ass-And-Date-Elvis way.)
They wore snug jeans, were probably in their forties, and were chatting with some urgency when I hear the words "Stormy Daniels."
So of course I stop, pick up a birdhouse and pretend to examine it closely so I can listen. I had nowhere else I needed to be and y'all already know I have zero shame.
They were talking about the president and the porn star.