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.