Goodness, am I looking forward to the end of this election. I can’t take it for much longer.

I just can’t.

My nerves are so frazzled and my thighs should only be as thin as my patience for this presidential Joe-the-plumber-who’s-not-really-a plumber politics. I’m sooo ready to get back to good old boring things, like the weather and why we shouldn’t eat dairy and how many ways I don’t understand the Nasdaq.

After all, isn’t it painstakingly obvious by now that Obama should win and McSame should lose? I mean, is it just me?
 

Aside from my being all knowing about most things (okay, okay, don’t write me), I am only human. And my fuse for the “stump” grows ever shorter with each passing minute.

ENOUGH ALREADY. That’s what I want to scream–walking to and from the mailbox, yanking propaganda off my front door, and at the people I see on the street who I’m sure are Republican. (Yes, I’m talking to you, Christmas-plaid lady.)

Now perhaps my fuse is growing short because my jeans continue to dig into my liver despite the fact I’ve had a raisin since August, or that it’s that time of the month, or because REM sleep has become as elusive as the eight-track. (How I miss Boz Scaggs. He never sounded so good.)

Whatever the case, I am longing for the hard “g”. I’m tired of hearinG about Diva Palin’s haute couture and how it’s goinG to charity (yeah, so’s mine). And I’m super duper sick of holdinG back the gag reflex every time John McCain refers to us “ordinary” people as “his friends.”

I’m also terrified that the Republications will actually succeed in stealinG another election. They are a shady lot. So to all of you who are readinG (yep, you mom), please: VOTE.  (And send me that meatball recipe already.)

VOTEVOTEVOTEVOTEVOTEVOTEVOTEVOTE.

After all, I’ll be doinG it. In fact, I’ve got some little white pills lined up like a pretty pearl necklace at my bedside in preparation for pushinG the button on the left–and then promptly droppinG into an ignorant slumber on the night of the election.

Because what I don’t know through the dark hours of the night won’t hurt me (and CNN won’t miss me). Instead, I want the joy of waking up to good news for a change, my friends: That Barack Obama made his way into the White House.

  Share

Goodness, am I looking forward to the end of this election. I can’t take it for much longer.

I just can’t.

My nerves are so frazzled and my thighs should only be as thin as my patience for this presidential Joe-the-plumber-who’s-not-really-a plumber politics. I’m sooo ready to get back to good old boring things, like the weather and why we shouldn’t eat dairy and how many ways I don’t understand the Nasdaq.

After all, isn’t it painstakingly obvious by now that Obama should win and McSame should lose? I mean, is it just me?
 

Aside from my being all knowing about most things (okay, okay, don’t write me), I am only human. And my fuse for the “stump” grows ever shorter with each passing minute.

ENOUGH ALREADY. That’s what I want to scream–walking to and from the mailbox, yanking propaganda off my front door, and at the people I see on the street who I’m sure are Republican. (Yes, I’m talking to you, Christmas-plaid lady.)

Now perhaps my fuse is growing short because my jeans continue to dig into my liver despite the fact I’ve had a raisin since August, or that it’s that time of the month, or because REM sleep has become as elusive as the eight-track. (How I miss Boz Scaggs. He never sounded so good.)

Whatever the case, I am longing for the hard “g”. I’m tired of hearinG about Diva Palin’s haute couture and how it’s goinG to charity (yeah, so’s mine). And I’m super duper sick of holdinG back the gag reflex every time John McCain refers to us “ordinary” people as “his friends.”

I’m also terrified that the Republications will actually succeed in stealinG another election. They are a shady lot. So to all of you who are readinG (yep, you mom), please: VOTE.  (And send me that meatball recipe already.)

VOTEVOTEVOTEVOTEVOTEVOTEVOTEVOTE.

After all, I’ll be doinG it. In fact, I’ve got some little white pills lined up like a pretty pearl necklace at my bedside in preparation for pushinG the button on the left–and then promptly droppinG into an ignorant slumber on the night of the election.

Because what I don’t know through the dark hours of the night won’t hurt me (and CNN won’t miss me). Instead, I want the joy of waking up to good news for a change, my friends: That Barack Obama made his way into the White House.

  Share

Last night, I had a dream my husband’s ex-wife came to live with us. We lived in three rooms that had black dirt for walls, an old white refrigerator, a faded moss sofa and matching easy chair, a 1970-inspired remnant of a television, and one loud and banging radiator heater. I woke up in the morning of my dream to find my husband’s ex and my stepdaughter, C, sharing the easy chair and watching Milton Berle on TV.

I was surprised to see them, but they acted as if I were as normal a sight as the bad reception that comes from using rabbit ears. “Please move,” said Dan’s ex, referring to my blocking the television. She was eating Captain Crunch out of a shallow crystal vase from Tiffanys. C, on the other hand, seemed to look right through me.

As I huffed my way to another part of the room, it dawned on me, in my dream, that Dan and I had spent the night in the guest-room portion of this hovel (which looked like a small walk-in closet after a kitchen fire). While his ex and C spent it in what was supposed to be our room  (which upon further inspection, was filled with our king-size bed and Moroccan-inspired duvet, Belgian antique furniture and carpenter’s chest, and two wood and wicker night tables that I got on Overstock.com for a bargain).

Sweet Jesus, was I pissed.

So I pulled Dan into the bathroom and demanded he tell me why “that woman dropped off her kid and then proceeded to crawl into bed with her and sleep here, in our bed no less!”

I have no idea how, in my dream, we got relegated to the guest room or where the dream came from in the first place, but yet, it mercilessly lingered. After a poorly restrained exchange of angry whispering with my husband (which I’m sure the ex heard), I opened the door and went to confront her. Politely, of course, because even in a dream manners count.

As I got closer, however, she stood up and turned her back to me to welcome a short, pregnant-looking male with tattoos, hair loss, and several equally imaginative and revolting piercings that had me stifling my gag reflex. Seems he was there to pick her up for what appeared to be a date.

And I thought: Sheesh, she could at least brush her hair and put on a little lipstick. (Because even in a dream, hygiene matters.)

Anyway, at that point, she embraced him (only getting her arms about one-fourth of the way around his mid section), grabbed a cold one from our frig (entitled bitch) and said, “See ya” like a petulant she-girl who finally mustered the courage to defy her controlling mother. And who, with great bravado and the Beastie Boys in her brain, was carried off by an antithetical version of Richard Gere, on her way towards (instead of away from) some sort of nasty chemical operation.

As you can imagine, I was over the moon to see her go. Once she left, I went to unravel what was happening with Dan and C, who were now both rapt in watching Bob Hope climb his way into a bright yellow sponge while members of the “gotcha” media looked on from their shiny Studebakers.

As I tried to get their attention by doing a few military-style jumping jacks (which always make me have to pee), I quickly found myself transported through some sort of nocturnal time machine into the bathroom of a cowboy saloon.

C and Dan were nowhere to be found. I was standing in front of two maplewood stalls, contemplating which to go in, when my friend Georgeanne barged in–her recognizable head perched atop a testosterone-laden manly-esque Arnold Schwarzenegger-like body. I couldn’t help but stare at her large package, at which point she gave me wink and a nod, opened the left stall, and vanished straight into the plumbing that connected the toilet to the wall….

I yelled just as she disappeared: “Hey, have you been working out…?” But my words just trailed off, leaving me stunned and confused as to what was happening. That’s when I heard gunfire.

Suddenly, my handsome husband burst in, all out of breath and sweaty, wearing a pair of plaid knickers and a white tank top. “Honey,” he said, “I LOVE it here. They have guns really cheap!”

And then he ran back out. That’s when the real-life Dan’s cell phone alarm went off and I was catapulted back into full-blown reality.

“Listen Mister,” I said, as he went to hit the snooze. “We are NOT moving. And we’re certainly not getting a gun.” I picked a sleep boog out of the dog’s eye.

“Okay, babe. Good. You have fun now.” With that, he pat me on the ass and dropped back down for the count.

But I didn’t. I snuggled our cocker/sheltie mix close and sat up, alert and troubled. Damn his easy six extra minutes of sleep. I wondered: Why I can’t I be so easily unconscious? Are my crazy dreams the sign of a troubled or bored mind? Will I ever find out where my friend went? And if she reappears, who’s body will she be wearing? Will I ever know if I left the bathroom? If the shooting ever stopped? If we did move after all, filling our house with cheap pistols? Will my husband’s ex get home at a decent hour–and if not, will she at least be considerate enough to call and let us know she’s staying out?

Will these troubling times during both Delta sleep and hyperconsciousness ever make sense? Can I expect to dream crazy from here on in? Is this another byproduct of middle age that the powers-that-be (CURIOUS GEORGE W. BUSH, you bad little monkey) have kept a dirty little secret?

Should I fear all sleep forever?

If you can shed any insights, by all means. Until then, please. Don’t wake me…

  Share

Last night, I had a dream my husband’s ex-wife came to live with us. We lived in three rooms that had black dirt for walls, an old white refrigerator, a faded moss sofa and matching easy chair, a 1970-inspired remnant of a television, and one loud and banging radiator heater. I woke up in the morning of my dream to find my husband’s ex and my stepdaughter, C, sharing the easy chair and watching Milton Berle on TV.

I was surprised to see them, but they acted as if I were as normal a sight as the bad reception that comes from using rabbit ears. “Please move,” said Dan’s ex, referring to my blocking the television. She was eating Captain Crunch out of a shallow crystal vase from Tiffanys. C, on the other hand, seemed to look right through me.

As I huffed my way to another part of the room, it dawned on me, in my dream, that Dan and I had spent the night in the guest-room portion of this hovel (which looked like a small walk-in closet after a kitchen fire). While his ex and C spent it in what was supposed to be our room  (which upon further inspection, was filled with our king-size bed and Moroccan-inspired duvet, Belgian antique furniture and carpenter’s chest, and two wood and wicker night tables that I got on Overstock.com for a bargain).

Sweet Jesus, was I pissed.

So I pulled Dan into the bathroom and demanded he tell me why “that woman dropped off her kid and then proceeded to crawl into bed with her and sleep here, in our bed no less!”

I have no idea how, in my dream, we got relegated to the guest room or where the dream came from in the first place, but yet, it mercilessly lingered. After a poorly restrained exchange of angry whispering with my husband (which I’m sure the ex heard), I opened the door and went to confront her. Politely, of course, because even in a dream manners count.

As I got closer, however, she stood up and turned her back to me to welcome a short, pregnant-looking male with tattoos, hair loss, and several equally imaginative and revolting piercings that had me stifling my gag reflex. Seems he was there to pick her up for what appeared to be a date.

And I thought: Sheesh, she could at least brush her hair and put on a little lipstick. (Because even in a dream, hygiene matters.)

Anyway, at that point, she embraced him (only getting her arms about one-fourth of the way around his mid section), grabbed a cold one from our frig (entitled bitch) and said, “See ya” like a petulant she-girl who finally mustered the courage to defy her controlling mother. And who, with great bravado and the Beastie Boys in her brain, was carried off by an antithetical version of Richard Gere, on her way towards (instead of away from) some sort of nasty chemical operation.

As you can imagine, I was over the moon to see her go. Once she left, I went to unravel what was happening with Dan and C, who were now both rapt in watching Bob Hope climb his way into a bright yellow sponge while members of the “gotcha” media looked on from their shiny Studebakers.

As I tried to get their attention by doing a few military-style jumping jacks (which always make me have to pee), I quickly found myself transported through some sort of nocturnal time machine into the bathroom of a cowboy saloon.

C and Dan were nowhere to be found. I was standing in front of two maplewood stalls, contemplating which to go in, when my friend Georgeanne barged in–her recognizable head perched atop a testosterone-laden manly-esque Arnold Schwarzenegger-like body. I couldn’t help but stare at her large package, at which point she gave me wink and a nod, opened the left stall, and vanished straight into the plumbing that connected the toilet to the wall….

I yelled just as she disappeared: “Hey, have you been working out…?” But my words just trailed off, leaving me stunned and confused as to what was happening. That’s when I heard gunfire.

Suddenly, my handsome husband burst in, all out of breath and sweaty, wearing a pair of plaid knickers and a white tank top. “Honey,” he said, “I LOVE it here. They have guns really cheap!”

And then he ran back out. That’s when the real-life Dan’s cell phone alarm went off and I was catapulted back into full-blown reality.

“Listen Mister,” I said, as he went to hit the snooze. “We are NOT moving. And we’re certainly not getting a gun.” I picked a sleep boog out of the dog’s eye.

“Okay, babe. Good. You have fun now.” With that, he pat me on the ass and dropped back down for the count.

But I didn’t. I snuggled our cocker/sheltie mix close and sat up, alert and troubled. Damn his easy six extra minutes of sleep. I wondered: Why I can’t I be so easily unconscious? Are my crazy dreams the sign of a troubled or bored mind? Will I ever find out where my friend went? And if she reappears, who’s body will she be wearing? Will I ever know if I left the bathroom? If the shooting ever stopped? If we did move after all, filling our house with cheap pistols? Will my husband’s ex get home at a decent hour–and if not, will she at least be considerate enough to call and let us know she’s staying out?

Will these troubling times during both Delta sleep and hyperconsciousness ever make sense? Can I expect to dream crazy from here on in? Is this another byproduct of middle age that the powers-that-be (CURIOUS GEORGE W. BUSH, you bad little monkey) have kept a dirty little secret?

Should I fear all sleep forever?

If you can shed any insights, by all means. Until then, please. Don’t wake me…

  Share

Even though I am 45, I am still too young to know people who are dying.

And not just older people–following the cycle of life that says, when you get to be over 90 (yep, 90, that’s the age I’m picking), you grow sicker and, at some point, let go.

I’m talking young people or, okay, middle aged like myself. And this week alone, I’ve learned of three of them. In the process of leaving…

One who has been slowly withering away like leaves in winter for a long while now.

One who, after a couple of beers with a few good friends, dropped dead of a massive heart attack on his way home to his lovely wife (who survived her own bout of cancer-at-too-young-an-age some 10 years ago).

And just yesterday, during a routine phone call with my mother, I learned of yet another: Just three years my junior with a husband and two young daughters, to make the tale even more tragic. She went to the doctor with stomach pains and left with a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer that’s so fast growing, it’s already spread to her liver. She’s got three months. Tops.

She and I used to play with our little-girl dolls together. My mom tells me we were even swaddled in the same pink blanket. (Me first, then her.)

I don’t know how you receive that news, and I can’t even imagine–as I sit here in my pretty little home office and my pretty little life with my pretty little arms, rowing out from under what now feels like an insignificant puddle of dirty bathwater. The same one that just days ago felt big like a tidal wave–and heavy like 20 bloated beer kegs on my belly.

Today, it pales beside a widow’s pain. A man dying on the vine in hospice. Or a poor young mother, delivered the harshest of blows. The latter the sons and daughters of the ladies who came, blissfully ignorant, just months ago to my mother’s 70^th birthday party. When it was all smiles and cake and potted plants on the back deck. And laughter.

How things can change.

It’s humbling. (It could easily be me.) As is all cancer, heart failure that shakes like an earthquake, and the slow decay of what remains under a snowstorm. (So easily. Why not me?)

I may only be 45, but I am, indeed, old enough to know: We’re all dying slowly. (Even me.) It’s the beauty of not knowing when that allows us to fill the space in between with something other than weary anticipation and despair. But for the rest of us and those who care, well…

I’m sorry for the depressing post, but I’m trying to make sense of it–and how it came to be within the specter of real.

Fannie, Freddie and the Dow be damned, a little perspective: I’m so sorry Anna Mae. Rick. Cheryl.

I am so sad.

  Share

Even though I am 45, I am still too young to know people who are dying.

And not just older people–following the cycle of life that says, when you get to be over 90 (yep, 90, that’s the age I’m picking), you grow sicker and, at some point, let go.

I’m talking young people or, okay, middle aged like myself. And this week alone, I’ve learned of three of them. In the process of leaving…

One who has been slowly withering away like leaves in winter for a long while now.

One who, after a couple of beers with a few good friends, dropped dead of a massive heart attack on his way home to his lovely wife (who survived her own bout of cancer-at-too-young-an-age some 10 years ago).

And just yesterday, during a routine phone call with my mother, I learned of yet another: Just three years my junior with a husband and two young daughters, to make the tale even more tragic. She went to the doctor with stomach pains and left with a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer that’s so fast growing, it’s already spread to her liver. She’s got three months. Tops.

She and I used to play with our little-girl dolls together. My mom tells me we were even swaddled in the same pink blanket. (Me first, then her.)

I don’t know how you receive that news, and I can’t even imagine–as I sit here in my pretty little home office and my pretty little life with my pretty little arms, rowing out from under what now feels like an insignificant puddle of dirty bathwater. The same one that just days ago felt big like a tidal wave–and heavy like 20 bloated beer kegs on my belly.

Today, it pales beside a widow’s pain. A man dying on the vine in hospice. Or a poor young mother, delivered the harshest of blows. The latter the sons and daughters of the ladies who came, blissfully ignorant, just months ago to my mother’s 70^th birthday party. When it was all smiles and cake and potted plants on the back deck. And laughter.

How things can change.

It’s humbling. (It could easily be me.) As is all cancer, heart failure that shakes like an earthquake, and the slow decay of what remains under a snowstorm. (So easily. Why not me?)

I may only be 45, but I am, indeed, old enough to know: We’re all dying slowly. (Even me.) It’s the beauty of not knowing when that allows us to fill the space in between with something other than weary anticipation and despair. But for the rest of us and those who care, well…

I’m sorry for the depressing post, but I’m trying to make sense of it–and how it came to be within the specter of real.

Fannie, Freddie and the Dow be damned, a little perspective: I’m so sorry Anna Mae. Rick. Cheryl.

I am so sad.

  Share

Now that I’ve gotten my feelings about Sarah Palin off my chest (I’ll let Tina Fey take it from here), I’d like to talk about the economy. I know, I know. The market is saturated with unsolicited opinions on this topic. Still, what else is there to talk about? Shoes? The latest version of the Grapefruit Diet? How much I wish pizza was a health food?

It all seems to pale in comparison to the big white donkey in the living room, dining room, kitchen, gas pump, bank, the mother ship of Nordstroms, makeup counter, favorite boutique, and, of course, most beloved sushi restaurant. Ever. (Sorry Rise in Chicago. You’ve been replaced by Ooka. Work it out.)

It’s weird, being in my 40s. I’ve never felt the problems of our times so acutely–or cared so much about the economy or, for that matter, presidential politics. Still, by the time you get to my age, you must embrace the fact that you’re a bona fide grownup–with bona fide grownup concerns that cannot be ignored. You can’t lean on mommy and daddy for a warm snuggle and an “everything-will-be-fine” frothy glass of hot milk before bedtime. Or, on your young children who need you for solace.

Nope, whatever happens to you–the overspending, the overeating, the overreacting and over-hysteria over being over-everything–that’s all yours to contend with.

————————————–

I’m afraid to say that I’m not contending with it well, especially when it comes to work. As a consultant, I feel a little like a tourist in a Tsunami. One day, I’m on the beach applying a healthy layer of St. Tropez, thinking about how to build that 800^th sand castle–and promote it on Twitter.  And the next minute, I’m belly up under a mountain of water and a rabid jellyfish, wondering what happened.

Because, as it turns out, my workload is shrinking faster than a decomposing corpse. And I’m a not somebody who takes kindly to too much free time and not enough forced creativity. I like being charged with too many tasks. I bask in busy like a lizard basks in too much sun. I prefer being too crazed to pee.

And yet my clients, who are nothing if not exact, continue to rob me of that joy–the type that comes with a perpetual state of overwhelmed and exasperated.

“Jill,” they say, “we LOVE you and your work, you are the best, the very best, the best writer, the best strategist, the best of the best, why haven’t you won a Pulitzer yet, you little devil, all that experience you don’t look a day over 28, and you’re so thin and delightful and what a head of hair, is that your natural color, it’s glorious, you are a celebrity!, and why we don’t even deserve to be in your company (potential employers, are you listening?)…BUT sadly, the company is cutting back, what with the economy and all. And you’re out. See ya wouldn’t want to be ya. We’ll be back in touch after the uprising.”

(Note: here’s where Jill goes to her happy place–Pizzeria Anywhere with her personal shopper, sky’s the limit on both fronts.)

As a result of these shenanigans, much of the past two fiscal quarters have been shaky for me and I’ve had to sit idly by while, for example, eight newsletters have turned into four, 10 class facilitations have to turned into three, and four articles a month have turned into well, “we’re holding off for now and will be in touch when we’re ready to start making new assignments.”

(Cut to Jill foraging in her own cabinets for food. And trust me when I say: There are just so many cans of stewed tomatoes and packets of tuna one can eat without losing it altogether. Not good.)

————————————————

Beyond any comfort that comes from knowing it’s the economy and not me–and having enough canned vegetables to last well into 2009–is knowing that I’m not alone in being terrified about, well, what’s to become of us. Especially if McSame wins the election.

Why just the other week, I had dinner with my friend Joy, who so aptly described the direness of the situation by saying this: “This economy is killing poetry and girlfriend gossip, not allowing beauty to flower.”

Her eloquence makes me teary. This made perfect sense after both three glasses of Plum wine and even now, in the height of lucidity. Her point: This shit sucks.

Fortunately, like Joy, I have a strong survival instinct, skills, and enough good sense to keep a few irons on the fire at all times. But I don’t want to jinx myself and talk about them now. So you must stay posted. Good news is coming. For us all. I just know it.

Until next time -

  Share

Now that I’ve gotten my feelings about Sarah Palin off my chest (I’ll let Tina Fey take it from here), I’d like to talk about the economy. I know, I know. The market is saturated with unsolicited opinions on this topic. Still, what else is there to talk about? Shoes? The latest version of the Grapefruit Diet? How much I wish pizza was a health food?

It all seems to pale in comparison to the big white donkey in the living room, dining room, kitchen, gas pump, bank, the mother ship of Nordstroms, makeup counter, favorite boutique, and, of course, most beloved sushi restaurant. Ever. (Sorry Rise in Chicago. You’ve been replaced by Ooka. Work it out.)

It’s weird, being in my 40s. I’ve never felt the problems of our times so acutely–or cared so much about the economy or, for that matter, presidential politics. Still, by the time you get to my age, you must embrace the fact that you’re a bona fide grownup–with bona fide grownup concerns that cannot be ignored. You can’t lean on mommy and daddy for a warm snuggle and an “everything-will-be-fine” frothy glass of hot milk before bedtime. Or, on your young children who need you for solace.

Nope, whatever happens to you–the overspending, the overeating, the overreacting and over-hysteria over being over-everything–that’s all yours to contend with.

————————————–

I’m afraid to say that I’m not contending with it well, especially when it comes to work. As a consultant, I feel a little like a tourist in a Tsunami. One day, I’m on the beach applying a healthy layer of St. Tropez, thinking about how to build that 800^th sand castle–and promote it on Twitter.  And the next minute, I’m belly up under a mountain of water and a rabid jellyfish, wondering what happened.

Because, as it turns out, my workload is shrinking faster than a decomposing corpse. And I’m a not somebody who takes kindly to too much free time and not enough forced creativity. I like being charged with too many tasks. I bask in busy like a lizard basks in too much sun. I prefer being too crazed to pee.

And yet my clients, who are nothing if not exact, continue to rob me of that joy–the type that comes with a perpetual state of overwhelmed and exasperated.

“Jill,” they say, “we LOVE you and your work, you are the best, the very best, the best writer, the best strategist, the best of the best, why haven’t you won a Pulitzer yet, you little devil, all that experience you don’t look a day over 28, and you’re so thin and delightful and what a head of hair, is that your natural color, it’s glorious, you are a celebrity!, and why we don’t even deserve to be in your company (potential employers, are you listening?)…BUT sadly, the company is cutting back, what with the economy and all. And you’re out. See ya wouldn’t want to be ya. We’ll be back in touch after the uprising.”

(Note: here’s where Jill goes to her happy place–Pizzeria Anywhere with her personal shopper, sky’s the limit on both fronts.)

As a result of these shenanigans, much of the past two fiscal quarters have been shaky for me and I’ve had to sit idly by while, for example, eight newsletters have turned into four, 10 class facilitations have to turned into three, and four articles a month have turned into well, “we’re holding off for now and will be in touch when we’re ready to start making new assignments.”

(Cut to Jill foraging in her own cabinets for food. And trust me when I say: There are just so many cans of stewed tomatoes and packets of tuna one can eat without losing it altogether. Not good.)

————————————————

Beyond any comfort that comes from knowing it’s the economy and not me–and having enough canned vegetables to last well into 2009–is knowing that I’m not alone in being terrified about, well, what’s to become of us. Especially if McSame wins the election.

Why just the other week, I had dinner with my friend Joy, who so aptly described the direness of the situation by saying this: “This economy is killing poetry and girlfriend gossip, not allowing beauty to flower.”

Her eloquence makes me teary. This made perfect sense after both three glasses of Plum wine and even now, in the height of lucidity. Her point: This shit sucks.

Fortunately, like Joy, I have a strong survival instinct, skills, and enough good sense to keep a few irons on the fire at all times. But I don’t want to jinx myself and talk about them now. So you must stay posted. Good news is coming. For us all. I just know it.

Until next time -

  Share