The Jobless Goddess

         Lent is my favorite liturgical season. When else do you get to have an enormous sanctioned pancake supper/chocolate pig-out followed by a fish fry? This season was made for me.          Probably the churchmen who came up with this idea were trying to think of an easy way to make me feel remorseful. Or even more remorseful.          Well, fellas, it backfired. I actually feel giddy knowing that before Lent begins I’m stuffing myself full of treats and delicacies such as fried oysters, fried haddock, fried Oreos, fried chicken fingers, fried mushrooms, fried green beans, fried ice cream, and fried green tomatoes with delicious remoulade, which by the way, contains many more ingredients than you imagine. Then throughout Lent I can think about how I’ll have all of the above again after my 40 days of mindfulness. And calm down my true Catholic friends, I know there are more than 40 days between Ash Wednesday and Easter. Work with me.          This is where people who are not

Couple of things I heard this week: “We need to clean the toilet” and “I’ll pay for it.” The latter was in reference to paying $150 to get my hair dyed. Neither one of these made me feel good about myself.          First off, I know of exactly zero men who are good about cleaning a toilet. And I know of even fewer who give a crap if the toilet is actually clean.          That one single comment set me to thinking.          Mostly that I might kick said person’s ass for even saying something so outlandish. Seriously, who’s going to actually clean a dirty toilet other than a wife, girlfriend or mother? I see no fathers, uncles or brothers in this scenario.          Secondly the person who said she’d pay full price on Martha’s Vineyard to get my hair dyed is my daughter. Apparently I’m looking a little worse for wear.          She has no idea that this bill will start at $150 and that’s before the shampoo and dye job. Or maybe she does and she could care less?          I find

            As if cursing like a sailor, cutting my hair short, singing off-key and wearing socks to bed wasn’t enough, now I’m crocheting at night in front of the television just like my mother used to.          She’d say it kept her hands busy while she was trying not to smoke. In my case, it keeps my hands busy so that I don’t reach into a bag of Fritos. I guess we all have our little habits.          Actually I tried to knit first, but I found my stitches were so tight that you couldn’t pass a strand of baby’s hair between them. Apparently even my knitting is uptight.          I remember crocheting with my mom and grandma when I was a kid, and I wondered if I might be able to pick it back up again. I asked my friend Sharon to help me get started, and then she reminded me about a little thing called YouTube and I was off and running. Since October I’ve finished two-and-a-half afghans and half of a baby blanket. I’m still waiting for the other half of the baby-blue super-sof