Not All Jelly Comes In a Jar

He sells sea shells, I wish

So now rather than being obsessed with fake fingernails I can’t afford, I’m becoming obsessed with checking this blog. I’m pretty sure all 52 views were made by either me or my husband. That leads me right into the current situation at hand. We need friends. We’re desperate for them. I’ve started handing out my telephone number to people I meet while doing my meager freelance work. They think it’s for the story I’m writing but really it’s in hope that someday they’ll find a reason to call and then I can hit them with, “By the way, do you play cards? Bingo? Gin Rummy?” If I wasn’t so arthritic I’d throw Twister in there. It’s not so much for me, it’s my husband who likes to have people around. I have become hermit-like since moving here while he has become convinced we could die here and not be found for months. He had friends back in Syracuse but he chose to stay home at night with his loving wife. Now all of a sudden I get the impression he’d hightail it out of here a

Splitting Hairs

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

Life of the Party

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

The Jobless Goddess

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