The Jobless Goddess

   I don’t think I’ve ever lived in a place where so many people bring their dogs to work. The new pope would love this place. Wild turkeys run the neighborhood and you can’t go into a store without finding man’s best friend somewhere on the premises. I’m not complaining. In fact, it really just goes along with the vibe here – sort of a canine “don’t worry, be happy” attitude.    I’ve never been a great “pet” person. I wish I was. I wished I was when I was 9 years old and I’m still wishing. My parents always used to say, “Wish in one hand, shit in the other.” That saying has puzzled me for years too. Anyway, I think it may have started back when I was a little girl and my parents let me bring home one of the pups of my grandparents' gargantuan Great Dane, Bridget. Their other dog was named General and you had to throw his food over the fence to feed him. He was a boxer I believe. I was terrified of him. I think if memory serves me correctly – and I think we all know that’s i

   We’re coming up on St. Patrick’s Day, which is pretty much my favorite day in the world. It’s even better when you take a solid week to celebrate. Once I followed the truck full of green beer all the way up 81 to Coleman’s Irish Pub in Syracuse. It wasn’t on purpose. Honest. It was inspiring. We used to talk the priest at my old job into going out for a green beer with us because no decent Irish bartender would charge a man with a collar. We’d ask him to order for us, and he usually obliged for at least a round or two.    And on top of the green beer, there’s the corned beef and mashed potatoes with onion, celery and carrots. I always doubted whether Dubliners actually eat corned beef on St. Patty’s Day. Probably not. This year I didn’t buy the corned beef, another casualty of moving away from my two oldest. They loved my corned beef and cabbage, and I made it for them every year. Now it’s my husband and I, and God only knows what might happen if we ingest that much fat and s

   I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I got to be 51 years old when it feels like just yesterday I was blow drying my feathered hair, pulling on my painter’s pants and grabbing my backpack before I went off to a college class. It’s like I blinked and it was over. With that in mind, I think there may be a few common factors for those of us who are growing older, while our hearts are still at that kegger party from 30 years ago.    You know you’re getting older when: You find saucers in the cabinet with dried food on them.    You know you’re getting older when: Your husband helps you put on your socks.    You know you’re getting older when: You no longer look forward to water slides.    You know you’re getting older when: You get dizzy watching your grandchildren ride a merry-go-round.    You know you’re getting older when: Your friend tells you she has named one of her varicose veins: Veinessa.    You know you’re getting older when: You hope for an underactive th

Isn't it beautiful?

   As a good friend pointed out recently, maybe I should be writing more about being jobless and less about being a goddess. You know sometimes it’s hard to think of my situation as fodder for writing but I will give it a whirl and get back to my roots. And I have to tell you all about recent developments.    Namely, my husband and I have decided to use joblessness in our favor. That’s right. We took all we had and bought the equipment he needs to start a business here. Listen, it was that or the highway. We prefer to think of ourselves as “spunky” not “crazy.” Never fear, I still don’t get a paycheck and probably never will. In fact he doesn’t either. We’re just happy to keep the heat on right now. It’s amazing how the basics can mean so much sometimes.    My husband is a fantastically gifted upholsterer. It’s a lost art really and there aren’t many people working at it on an island so our hope is that we’ll be able to stay on Martha’s Vineyard and keep admiring the view. We’