The Jobless Goddess

                 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 u...

             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 tw...

    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 F...