Drum roll, please.
My first book is (finally!) available on Amazon.com:
Underemployed Is the New Organic
Just the paperback, Kindle version to follow in a few days. Also available on Amazon Europe.
Tell all your friends! Brag about it to your kids! Tell a Kardashian, if you know one.
Of course, as soon as I approved it for publishing, my husband found a mistake in the text. Which he thought was very funny. I did not. But I'm consoling myself with a half a bottle of prosecco, and I'm sure I'll get over it.
Free copies to all my followers here, upon request.
Now I will start on the second book, "Pass the Vodka", which will be a collection of more essays from this blog. I am still naive enough to believe that this will be easier to edit and publish than the first one, now that I know the drill.
But I am also old enough to know better.
Thank you all for your patience and support.
And for telling me that I make you laugh.
Monday, March 28, 2016
Friday, March 18, 2016
So the other day I'm checking the Missouri primary results and...
...Oh. My. God. What are you wearing?
Ruffles. Ruffles? RUFFLES??? Are you KIDDING me?
At least they look like ruffles. They could be some other form of bunched-up material that doesn't do you any favors. And they are dark blue. Your fashion consultant (who should be fired immediately) probably convinced you that dark blue ruffles were "serious" and "presidential", yet at the same time "youthful" and a little "fun" and she (I say "she" here because no man - straight, gay, or indifferent - would allow you to show yourself in public wearing blue ruffles) was wrong. Terribly. You might be able to get away with white ruffles. I'm not sure. Check with Christine Lagarde.
At least you spared us the horror of pink ruffles. But...really?
Hillary. Call me.
We've got to fix this thing before it goes any further. Enough with the Munchkin outfits. Don't even get me started on the one with the big white rectangles standing out in high relief on your hips. Your hips, girl! Your. Hips. Who told you that was a good idea? And why do you still speak to that person? You're a gazillionaire and can not only afford gorgeous clothes, but you can also hire some brilliant fashionista to tell you how to wear them. Don't tell me you don't care. You've GOT to care.
Because as far as I can tell (and I really, really, REALLY hope I'm wrong), you are all that stands between us and Donald Trump. Trust me on this: A good outfit will atone for the sins of a lifetime in the minds of Average American Voters. It doesn't make me proud to say that, but the truth is they're more interested in Armani than Benghazi.
Since I brought up the subject, I should say a few words about The Donald. Just in case I am ever in a position to say, "See? I told you so."
At first I was as appalled as the next person about the man. His hair alone raises questions about his sanity. And I was more than appalled. I was suffering from a full-blown case of "Trump Anxiety", which is a thing now, according to psychologists. I recently read that our species has not evolved to the point where it can handle low-level, long-term stress. As a result, humans react to ALL stress like they're being cornered by a bear.
Which describes exactly what I was feeling and I found myself in the throes of an obsession, spiraling out of control.
Until I realized that Donald Trump is just Your Uncle Bob. You know, your lard-ass Uncle Bob who belts his pants below his gut, bosses everybody around, bullies children, believes in right-wing conspiracy theories, and compulsively forwards stupid emails (do not give your email address to Your Uncle Bob) in the hope that SOMEHOW your brain will stop functioning normally and you will give them serious consideration. If you are an intelligent and emotionally sound person, you only see Your Uncle Bob on holidays, and only because you feel sorry for your aunt.
In this way, Donald Trump is merely representative of a familiar - though, I grant you, repulsive - American archetype. He is not the anti-Christ, counter-intuitive as that may seem. But just remember this: If Donald Trump gets into office, life will become one very long, very painful visit from Your Uncle Bob.
Give that some thought.
Before you vote.
For myself, I am firmly relegating all thoughts about Donald "Uncle Bob" Trump to the newly-created corner of my psyche which I have designated the "Zone of Avoidance", a phrase borrowed from the science of astronomy. What this all means is that I can, using the process of creative visualization, send the mope into virtual exile on the far side of the Milky Way Galaxy.
And hope he falls into a black hole on the way.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Friday, January 29, 2016
I am in the throes of getting my book ready to go to press.
It's been coming along quite nicely, thank you. I've had a terrific editor who - having once worked for the Red Cross and is therefore used to catastrophes - has gotten me under control.
That being said, I can now say with some confidence that turning a blog into a book is no easy process. I would advise any of my friends and followers who have the same idea to first make sure they have no weapons in the house. And then move to a state where marijuana is legal.
Complicating the project is the upcoming United States presidential election, which my friend Jan refers to as the "clown car". Trust me, there is no more of a buzz-kill to the creative spirit - or any other human activity - than Carly Fiorina. Maybe Donald Trump. For sure, Sarah Palin (in a very good impersonation of a college student on her first bender) introducing Donald Trump to a room of rabid, foot-stompin' yahoos.
Donald Trump. A man who can't handle Megyn Kelly, for chrissakes. This is a man who's going to take on Kim Jong-un? Try to write something fun and witty with THAT scenario running through your head.
It's enough to envy Matt Damon on Mars.
So here's the help I need: Reviews.
I am now working on the cover design and need some reviews from people who have read my work. The book is also called Underemployed Is the New Organic.
Yes, I can pay my relatives and probably will, but if any of my dear friends from the blogosphere could take a moment and send me a line in Comments? I would be very grateful, plug your blog, and maybe fly out and buy you a cocktail.
When I'm rich and famous, of course.
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
I have just come back from seeing "The Martian" and am in the sort of anxious state that can only be produced from eating an entire box of Mike and Ike while watching a charismatic young man trying to survive on Mars.
Seven years of underemployment allow me to empathize with that situation.
No more. Before I started whining about the upcoming presidential election (and who can blame me? have you seen the Republican candidates? this is why people are afraid of clowns), I related that I finally had my dream job at a museum, though it was only for the summer. Well, my summer job at the museum ended and I declined the offer to make it permanent. Instead, I signed on with them as a volunteer. Because I am inspired. And my volunteer experience will support what is now my new life's quest: to become a scientist.
You read that right.
Why a scientist? Because I learned this summer that I like scientists. And because it is possibly the most preposterous thing I can do.
I am studying like a demon. Math, astronomy, and physics. For now. Chemistry next. And Italian, just to mix it up. The volunteer experience will provide training, and my goal is to one day be worthy to join the museum education team. My brain is in mega-fucking-hyper-drive.
And I am very, very happy. Who knew?
At first I thought I'd keep things at amateur status, because I have sworn to never write another academic paper. But now I'm thinking that there are probably math and science courses out there that might benefit from the presence of a grey-haired old lady.
What a wonderful luxury to have the choice.
In addition, I'm in the process of preparing this blog to be published. In two books. The first will be titled "Underemployed Is the New Organic" (surprise!), with the second title TBA (I'm thinking "Pass the Vodka"). I thought I had already done the hard part by writing the thing. Silly me. As usual, I gravely underestimated the new task. This is not necessarily a bad thing. Many-a-time, my naive underestimations lure me into the undertaking of absurd tasks, and vanity (also not necessarily a bad thing), dictates that they be completed.
Works for me.
So watch this space. And thank you for your patience. Someday (hopefully) soon, people be able to purchase copies of my books as presents for underemployed friends and family. Much, much cheaper than therapy.
And it will support my math habit.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Thursday, August 6, 2015
The minute I saw the Republican candidates all lined up on the stage, chomping at the bit to get debating, I knew who the nominee would eventually be.
And how did I know this?
Hair. It was all about the hair.
Needless to say, my vision of next November's election began with noticing that Donald Trump's hair looked a little weirder than usual. Donald Trump's hair has always befuddled and, dare I say it? disturbed me. It has befuddled me because it's not like he's poor, or clueless, or doesn't care. He's a gazillionaire and goes to great lengths to get his hair to look that way, which can only be described as "surreal". And I have been disturbed, because it creates an eerie connection with Bill Gates that can't possibly be coincidental.
Jeb, I promise you, Woodrow Wilson would never have been elected president if TV had been around back then. Along the same lines, Mr. Huckabee, your likeness to Hubert Humphrey is doing you no favors.
Rand. Dude. If that's a perm, stop it. If it isn't a perm, cut it.
Chris, are you trying to look like "Big Boy"? I mean, is it necessary to have the hair, too? You haven't noticed? Don't get me wrong, darling. Personally, I find the resemblance rather endearing on account of the nostalgia I always feel when I see you. Because I knew, as a small child, that we were near Grandma's house as soon as I saw that jolly guy smiling down at me from the top of his restaurant.
Scott Walker? A walking ad for Hairclub for Men. To be fair, some of the hair on the back of his head may have defected and moved to Megyn Kelly's eyelids.
Ben, your hair is okay. But you're going to need more than okay to distract people from the growing suspicion that you hear voices.
(Where did this Kasich guy come from? Did I spell that right?)
So who's going to be America's Dream Date?
Marco Rubio, of course. With Ted Cruz (the thinking man's Donald Trump) right behind him.
It's so obvious.