Spring break is wrapping up in my corner of the world and while those lucky bastards still venturing off to warmer clients, oblivious to the fact their 529s won’t buy books, I took my soon to be 17-year-old daughter college hunting in the sort-of, kind-of, mid-west. Or rather, what Nor’ Easterners call mid-west. Ohio and Pennsylvania. According to Yahoo Maps, it was 21.45 hours of actual drive time, round trip.
Will work for food signs on the off ramps often tug at my heartstrings. And those poor saps holding the festively designed Going-Out-of-Business, Everything-Must-Go signs outside Macy’s or Linens ‘N Things or Circuit City or Home Depot or Foot Locker or Domain or …. well, the list is way, way too long. Now I glare and lecture. Not to the poor dude (why always a guy?) holding the sign in
Update on my friendly neighborhood racist homophobe senior citizen, Vicki. (Biting My Tongue) Yes, it happened. She’d fallen and couldn’t get up. I visited at the hospital where they had no one there by that name. I went home, confirmed and called, insisting, I know she’s there. Nope. Not there. Of course, I thought she’d died, but this old pain-in-the-ass will live forever no doubt. Recuperating in a not-too-bad-smelling nursing
I, like everyone else with a pulse and empty wallet, am cruising craigslist for that great paying, local job that somehow passed by those more qualified than I. So far, not so good. As of late, I’ve been applying to many not even close to my qualifications, but perhaps, just maybe, I’m first in line for a job they haven’t considered needing yet. It’s a reach, but I’ve got plenty
This is my town where backyard finagling and barbecue lead to stacked teams while deserving athletes and families are left outside looking in. This is my town where police blotters are scoured for names of the afflicted, and sighs of relief echo when we escape another week unscathed. And this is my town where one terrible phone call alerts the gossip mill of a sick kid, a dead spouse, a tragic accident,
Last year my goal was to make $20,000 as a part-time, freelance copywriter. I made less than five. Disappointed but not broken, this year I vowed to wow the industry and return triumphant after the childrearing hiatus I survived. Nearly four months in, and I’ve billed $145.00. One hundred, forty-five. That’s billed, not received. Hmmmmm, apparently my return-to-work, I-am-woman-hear-me-roar work ethic has hit the economic tsunami, and while I pound
Yesterday, I was a lady who lunched. Three of us went; they had salad, I bit my tongue off, and the inside of my cheeks and my nails. We’re the only two friends this woman has anymore, and here’s why. Our lunchtime, um, discussion: Couldn’t vote for Obama because of his terrorist background. Our government is running a ponzi scheme just like Madoff. Reverend Al is a racist and hates white
In my town, if you start to look good, really good, it is assumed, rather accurately, you’re having an affair. Men or women, this is universal suburban slander for anyone over, oh, say 40. Forty is such an easy target. Too thin, too fit, good hair, nice clothes, shoes. Real shoes, instead of crocs, Uggs, or sneaks. Bingo. Marriage over, someone’s stepping out and so begins the gossip race to