The Jobless Goddess

   I love to watch a good television train wreck. I don’t mean a real, live Northeastern Railroad smash up. I’m talking about Nancy Grace, nostrils flared in indignation, interviewing pretty much anybody. I like how she asks the dirty questions we all want to ask but can’t. I like how she chokes up every now and then. I like how she clearly doesn’t care that she’s got really bad hair. I like that handcuff necklace she wears in the CNN promos. She’s kind of badass.    And I love watching The Little Couple. You all know how much I enjoy that one. I find myself tearing up all the time when it’s on. Sometimes they’re tears of joy because I’m so damn happy they adopted those two little babies. And God knows I can’t believe all the crap they have to go through to live a happy life. Enough already.    Then there’s my infatuation with the Duggars. It’s like I don’t want to watch them purely on principle. I don’t agree with their views on just about everything and yet, I see them all

   I am thankful that I have a stove to cook Thanksgiving dinner on; I’m not thankful that I have to wake up at 6 a.m. on a day off to put a turkey in the oven.    I am thankful that my legs still carry me into the kitchen, even though they rub together when I walk.    I am thankful that my husband did the last minute shopping tonight for Thanksgiving dinner; I am not thankful that he will probably not obsess over the meal like I will tomorrow.    I am thankful that there is an entire day devoted to eating; I am not thankful that I will have to do extra time on the elliptical to erase the consequences of this day.    I am thankful for new friends we’ve made in our new community; I am not thankful that I miss my old friends like crazy.    I am thankful that I live in a place where food is in abundance; sometimes I’m not grateful that there’s so much abundance.    I am thankful that our ancestors took time to express their appreciation; I’m not so thankful that I forget

tex I like to walk around with bare feet and I don’t like to comb my hair.   – Beyonce Knowles            

                 I have married myself. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to meet the male version of me, right down to the weight insecurities and the penchant for fart jokes. Between us our combined age is somewhere around 19.                 This brings me great joy.                 I had decided after many long distance phone calls from my sister that I really wasn’t going to meet a nice guy by sitting on the couch in my living room. I needed to get out. “You’re not getting any younger,” she egged me on. “You know, those kids are going to grow up and leave you and then what are you going to do?”                 So one Saturday night I let the kids help doll me up and I drove about 10 miles due north of Syracuse to St. John’s Church in Liverpool. They were hosting a St. Patrick’s Day dance, and by God, I liked to dance and I didn’t care at that point if I did it alone.                 I tried psyching myself up on the way there.                 “

             My coffee maker broke last Monday. This meant, and this comes as no surprise to those of you who know me, I had to make the 5:45 a.m. run to Cumberland Farms in my pink and red long-suffering pajama pants and my new fuzzy slippers for a couple of large black coffees. I pride myself on wearing my pajama pants until they are threadbare enough to see through.   This trip set me to thinking about what it’s like to live on an island. I know this particular island is only about seven or eight miles from the mainland, but you still need a plane or a boat to get here. Unless you’re Jesus, of course, or maybe the Flying Nun.                 Anyway, my trip to Cumberland Farms (affectionately known as Cumby’s in these parts) was a bit of an eye-opener. First of all, the only two women there were me and the cashier. We were also the only two not wearing rubber boots. There were about a dozen men in varying degrees of he-man wear milling around the coffee counter – and I need t

    They just don’t make them like they used to. That pertains to just about everything doesn’t it? And in some ways it’s probably better that they don’t make 8-track tapes anymore.     But, if I’m listening to Van Morrison, Levon Helm or old Eric Clapton I can almost taste the blue raspberry Lip Smackers on my lips and I can see my painter’s pants topped by a pastel-colored oxford button shirt with the fruit loop in the back, much much narrower hips swaying to the easy beat. That was a different time, a different life. Much simpler that’s “for sure,” as we all used to say.     Sometimes I can’t believe that my biggest worry most days circa 1980 was either A) Would someone take pity on me and take me to the cashew chicken place for dinner; or B) Would the check for $150 that my parents sent at the end of every month while I was in my sophomore year of college arrive in time for me to pitch in for that keg of beer we planned to have Friday night, and how much would that leave m