The Jobless Goddess

  Lord have mercy. It's Friday night — which means Guinness night in this house — so I try the ol' Pandora on the television again. Sometimes this works out for me and sometimes it doesn't. It's hard to try the Smart TV with a couple of old people in the house.     Anyway, I turn it on for a little backdrop for my chili cooking on a cold night and I decide to use the quickmix button.    I'm thinking Frank Sinatra and Luck Be a Lady is nice. Then it's followed by Jackie Wilson. Then Jackie's followed by Hank Williams. Then Hank is followed by Dean Martin. Then Dean's followed by the Supremes and I Hear a Symphony. This causes me to stop and think for a minute: Am I maybe just a little bit less hip than I thought I was? Well, that answer was obvious.    And then I get a little indignant. I think maybe Mr. Quickmix is a real person and I should have a chat with him. Tell him that I like the Red Hot Chili Peppers and that new Mumford and Sons group. I'

   So I picked out my funeral music years ago. It features Steppenwolf in the forefront. I'm pretty sure I can think of some Syracuse priests who would bend a couple of rules and blast some Magic Carpet Ride for me. Believe me, they've done worse. That's why I love them. Anywho, I do spend more than a little time thinking about how I'd like my "after party" to play out. I'm nothing if not morbid. These things are important to me.    First of all, I want a kegger. Absofuckinglutely. And I want there to be all manner of food just like I like it. Huge portions, bottomless red plastic cups. You get the picture. The music is key and must include Steppenwolf, a fantastic Motown medley, Mony Mony, maybe a Monkees song, a little Led Zeppelin and definitely some Levon Helm. And if there's time left and people are feeling sappy, a couple of Van Morrison songs. I'm thinking as I write this that I want to go to this party. Jeez.    And you know I'll be t

   I'm experiencing a bit of a dilemma. I am no longer jobless. I am still, however, a bit of a goddess — although of the Rubenesque variety.    This leads me to pondering a new name for the blog, and because I am now employed, my brain is all cramped up and I cannot begin to decide on a new title.    I am openly soliciting suggestions. I have been told that the word "goddess" is a little intimidating. Far be it from me to project a strong personality. Whatever.    These days my brain is freeze-dried at the end of the day. Makes me wonder what the hell I was doing for 16 years at my previous job. That place was a cake walk compared to my new situation.    At the Catholic paper, on Fridays when we had to finish the layout, correct and produce the paper, I'd throw my Steppenwolf CD on and do a little dancing on the old magic carpet. Here, after we finish the paper, I have to run home and soak my feet.    I can't figure out whether this job is more challenging o

   It’s a toss-up. Do I write about the fact that if you search “jobless goddess” in Google the dairy goddess and the library goddess come way ahead of me, or do I write about the fact that my husband is incapacitated due to a broken elbow? I guess I’ll go with the broken elbow. Besides, who the hell breaks their elbow anyway? My husband of course.    It started out innocently enough. I, in my desire to lose weight and become the wrinkly, thinner woman I was meant to be, decided we should start up the morning walks again. I prodded him while he was still under the covers. “Come on, let’s do it. You know we have to do this,” I said while tugging on my really sexy yoga pants (which, by the way, never get used for yoga).    To his credit, he got up, pulled on his pajama pants and went with me. We got about a 16 th of a mile past the driveway before he landed in the gravel. I’m talking a bed of gravel. Gravel embedded in the palm of your hand. Gravel in the folds of your shirt, d

   I bought some lottery tickets today. They were $2 tickets so we all know I didn’t become a millionaire. I know. I’m 52 years old and haven’t changed a diaper in 18 years but I still get a kick out of a six pack and a fistful of scratchers.     If I had a nickel for every time I daydreamed about winning the lottery I would have been a millionaire years ago. I get to thinking about how I’d hire a cleaning lady to scrub the dried toothpaste out of the sink every Thursday. I’d probably make some coffee for her or offer her some iced tea. I’d be quite pleasant to her. I wouldn’t want her to clean while I’m not here of course. She might take off with my collection of stretched-out underwear I got from my sister 10 years ago, 3 years after she wore them.    I’d love to have a cleaning lady. And after I hire her, I’m spending some money on liposuction and some new leggings to go with my big tops. I may look around for an electrolysis provider.    Some people immediately go out and buy

    I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned my hair a few times. I think we need to delve into it a bit further. You see, when it takes a $200 trip off-Island to get a haircut, or new underpants for that matter, you take a haircut seriously. Besides, when you’ve got the broad shoulders and the wide hips, you rely on your hair as a sort of aphrodisiac, if you know what I mean.                 I’ve been thinking about a haircut for about 8 months now. Did I mention life chugs along pretty slowly around these parts, giving me plenty of time for watching paint dry or the grass grow? Anyhow, I came to the decision that I should go ahead and do it even though more than one woman here told me she left her last appointment at the hair salon in tears. Hey, it takes more than a crappy haircut for me to turn on the waterworks. And naturally I consider tears over a haircut pretty much wasted. There are so many other crappy things to cry over, so I try to save my tears for things that have a heartbea

      Does laziness count as an excuse? I think I tried to tell my kids it doesn’t but it seems very applicable here.    It’s sort of difficult to keep a blog going. You’re all excited in the beginning. You think everyone will read it. Maybe somebody in NYC will read it and you’ll become famous like in Julie/Julia or something. And then you sort of realize…that was a movie…and then you slow way down on posts. That’s my story.     That and I do have a job now. My job is all about commas and semicolons and it’s so perfect for me. The world could be experiencing like a major, major disaster with Armageddon on top of it and I’d be like, “Wait a minute…did you just make ‘after school’ one word? And there’s no hyphen? Oh is that where we’re going with this?”      I know Syria is having a little something and Pope Francis is rocking my Catholic world, but right now, if you try to capitalize something I’m going to Google that shit.      So I hope those of you who read this a

   Oh how times have changed. My girl is here now. I have one girl and she’s almost 23. I’d say I see myself in her but she’s about five feet eight inches tall and about 115 pounds on a heavy day. I see a zipper in her instead. I was more like a tufted sofa at her age. Anyway, she’s here and it means a different dynamic that’s for sure. Not worse, just different. And I did finally get her to say that when she lies on the beach she gets a sort of buzz from it. Now that’s like her mama.   So here we are.    You’ll   be glad to know that my swimsuit finally arrived from Lands’ End and they have a great slimming contour thing going on. I’m here to tell you if you’re “heavy set” and you need a swimsuit you need to do no more than Google “Lands’ End.”     Now my new dilemma is that I’m in dire need of a good pedicure. I dared not investigate this possibility on the Vineyard until recently when I heard there was a lady off Main Street who did them for cheap. I shall let you know