It's Cyber Monday

Remember, Bastard Husband: A Love Story makes a great present for anyone on your list who's going through a divorce or other turning point in life. Or anyone who just needs a laugh. Available on Amazon, Amazon in Canada and the UK, or get free shipping and a signed copy right here through PayPal on this site.

Short post, but I have lots to report when I have more time

I am busy as hell here in Albany and don't have time to write a proper post today, but I'll just say that even though Mike got me to the airport a full two hours before my flight because he knows I'm neurotic about running late, nonetheless I was the last person to board my flight to Albany. Yes, the whole plane was waiting for me. Yes, as a matter of fact I did meet some new friends in the bar, but no, that's not why I was almost missed my friggin' flight. Details soon.

Fortunately, I did get on my flight all right, and even with my eleventh-hour boarding, the plane was so empty I still had the entire row to myself. My sister Lori was there at the Albany airport eagerly awaiting my arrival, and so was my favorite little boy on earth.


Man, I am so not photogenic. (What's with the goofy mouth?) But look how big Connor is--I can't believe I have a grandson who's just a couple of inches shorter than I am!

More to come... Tonight' is Lori's 50th birthday party and tomorrow is my Albany book release event. Busy, busy. Hope you're enjoying your weekend as much as I am!

Yes, yes, of course I’m thankful

Thanksgiving... again? If you really want to hear my take on the holiday, just read last year’s post. Nothing’s changed since then.

So today I’m catching a 2 p.m. flight to Albany, which is awesome because I’m totally going to miss Thanksgiving dinner. (You know me and food.) I haven’t been to Albany since Courtney’s wedding party in June, and I cannot wait to see my kids and get my hands on my precious grandson, Connor. I can tell from Court’s Facebook photos that’s he’s really getting big and older looking. (I’d kick his ass if he said that about me.)

I have a direct flight on Southwest and I’m A-59, which means I’m guaranteed to get one of my favorite seats in the back next to the window. You know me about being so goddamn neurotic about getting to the airport with a friggin’ hour to spare (remember this post?); let’s hope I’m on more on the ball than I was last time I flew to Boise. Yep, I made some friends in the airport bar and, well, time kinda got away from me and even though I was an A-28, I ended up being one of the last people to board. Tsk-tsk, Linda.

I’m taking Monday and Tuesday off from work (thank you, Baby Jesus) so I’ll have a nice long time to visit. Lori’s having a 50th birthday bash on Saturday and the next night is my Albany book release party. (5 p.m. at Tess’ Lark Tavern on Madison Avenue) It will be very similar to the book launch event I had here in Vegas with a reading and whatever other b.s. I come up with. I hope it goes just as well! One of my friends is going to film it and I’ll ask him to put the video in a format that will allow me to load snippets onto YouTube. I’m praying for a decent hair day on Sunday, but you know, there’s only so much even Baby Jesus can do.

I’ll still be posting on my regular schedule and will have lots of pictures to show you. Hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving, and to my friends around the world who don’t celebrate the holiday—just have a great freakin’ day!

If someone could get away with murder, would you still be alive?

When I lived in Wyoming (2001 – 2002), I got to know a lot of people, but I deliberately didn’t make too many good friends. My ex had a one-year visiting professor gig and because our time there was limited, I didn’t want to start friendships only to have to move on. But I couldn’t resist one of my yoga students, Marguerite. She was so nice and so much fun! Last year for my birthday she made me fridge magnets out of bottle caps with Beverly d’Angelo’s picture on them--that’s how good a friend she is! They’re in my cube at work or I’d post a picture. I will some other time.

Anyway, Marguerite once said that everyone should be able to kill one person in the course of their lives with absolutely no ensuing consequences. That's right, you get a pass for one murder.

Wow. Imagine how nice people would be? You’d be afraid to piss someone off in case they haven’t killed anyone yet. Be careful with the road rage—you never know. Cheating spouses? Both parties would be crazy! And the woman who used to cut her fingernails in the cubicle next to me? I can’t say for sure she’d live to see her year-end performance appraisal.*

So here are a couple of questions:

Given this scenario, would there still be a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card in your wallet, or would that have been cashed in long ago? Who would you have used it on?

Is there anyone on your hit list right this minute?

Do you think someone might have offed you by now if they could get away with it?

* I'm kidding--I would probably save my One Free Murder ticket for a serial rapist/ax murderer chasing me. Or for someone who asks, "Are you gaining weight?" Or anyone who gives my book a bad review.

Hmmm….

Bastard Husband is now in Canada, the UK and Europe, too!

Yep, BH is now available on Amazon.ca and Amazon.co.uk. I have a lot of Canadian readers, so that’s good news, eh? (They know I freakin’ love Canadians; I’m just being an eh-hole.)

Unfortunately, all the great reviews that are on the American Amazon site don’t transfer over—dammit! And reviews definitely sell books—I heard from a woman on a memoir forum who said she bought my book because of the reviews, and the fact that some were written by men.

Thanks to all of you who took the time to write something up!

So. easily. annoyed. even when I'm having fun

I don’t think I ever told you, but I’m a tribute band freak. My friend Donna shares my guilty pleasure; together we’ve seen tribute acts for U2, Neil Young, Bruce Springsteen, The Doors, and there are more I can’t think of right now but they were all great fun. Except one--a band called Lez Zeppelin. We should have known.

So last night I met Donna and her husband, Joey, up at The Cannery, a hotel/casino on the north end of town to see a band perform Led Zeppelin IV in its entirely. The room at the Cannery is pretty decent—nothing special, though—and last night they set it up with rows and rows of chairs all facing the stage. Well, just as Donna and I finished our conversation about how, as we’re getting older, every goddamn thing seems to bug us and we get annoyed by the stupidest shit, two big guys sat right in front of us. [Eyes rolling.] One guy’s head was obstructing my view of the stage and the guy in front of Donna had a string of lint on the back of his shirt that she soooo wanted to pick off.

Anyway, the band came on stage and immediately made it clear that they’re not a tribute act, which was a huge disappointment because it’s much more fun when the band is decked out like their idols. They opened with a promise to get to the album we came there to hear after a few classic rock songs and within seconds I felt like I was watching your typical bar band. Fortunately, a woman in the row across from us provided some entertainment, dancing all sexy-like in her micro-mini sweater dress and reminding me of the line in a Leonard Cohen song that goes, “She’s a hundred, but she’s wearing something tight.”

The lead singer increasingly annoyed the hell out of me; in his stupid golf cap and preppie clothes, he reminded me of a spoiled suburban kid whose parents still pay for his car insurance even though he’s 32 years old. When he introduced a Soundgarden song with, “You older people probably don’t know this one,” Donna and looked around at the age 50+ crowd and wondered who the hell did he think was gonna turn out to hear Led Zeppelin IV? What a douche. (I never used to say that word, but I do now because Stewie on Family Guy made it cool.)

Anyway, the night turned out fine. The dancing Monet (do you get that reference?) moved to the bar area, so the people sitting in back of her didn’t have to shoot her. I was able to position myself so Giant Head Guy in front of me perfectly blocked my view of Douche Boy. (And to think I was pissed when he sat down—see, everything really does happen for a reason!) For the rest of the show I focused on the guitar player, who looked like he could be Keith Richards’ grandson, which, if you ask me, is how young rock-n-rollers should look if they’re gonna cover Led Zeppelin.

And yes, the band did get around to playing Led Zeppelin IV but perhaps most importantly, after her third beer, Donna found the courage to surreptitiously pick the lint off the shirt in front of her.

Good times!

Do you believe in psychics?

Hey, if you missed last night’s Aging Nymphs internet radio show, you can always listen to the archives by clicking the link on the right sidebar of this page or you can go to www.blogtalkradio.com/agingnymphs.

We had a fun show--duh, I love talking about my book--and Prudence, my tarot card reader, also called in. I don’t talk much about psychics in this blog, but I’ve used them regularly for the past 15 years or so. I had my first reading with Prudence back in February 2000 when I was still living in Albany. At the time, I was going out with a guy I called “Mike Peterson” in my book, a Grateful Dead lover 12 years younger than me. (Yeah, that’s when I had two kids and a boyfriend all in their 20s.)

Among other things, Prudence saw that relationship ending and another strong romance starting “in 3-6 months, one with greater intensity than I’d ever experienced before.” (I save all my notes.) Then she pulled a card that indicated a marriage proposal and I thought, “You gotta be kidding.” Marriage was the last thing I could ever imagine. She also said I’d be moving to someplace warm and dry. Another thing that wasn't on the radar screen or even a twinkle in my eye at the time.

Three months later, to the day, I met BH and by the end of the year we were married. Needless to say, it doesn’t get any warmer or dryer than Las Vegas. And the date of my reading was BH’s birthday.

That was the only reading I’d had with Prudence until November 2008, when I called her out of the blue (she does phone readings, as well as in person). I’d used the services of other psychics over the years—and was happy with almost all of them—but for some reason I felt it was time to reconnect with Prudence. I’m happy I did. And oh, man… did she predict Mike coming into my life to a T.

I know that some (most?) people don’t understand psychics and think they’re a waste of money. I’ve always liked that stuff and won’t even engage in an argument. I don’t feel the need to defend them; I’ve said a million times that you can’t tell anyone anything and I’m not about to waste any time trying. For me, psychics can be more helpful and certainly cheaper than psychotherapy and I get what I need out of them, and that’s all that counts.

I usually call on a psychic when I need some direction, but can’t see the forest from the trees on my own. How about you? Do you ever consult psychics? Do you feel that you’re psychic yourself?

Bastard Husband... any questions?

What does BH think about the book? Whatever happened with Perry? Will there be a sequel?

How do you go about writing a memoir? What does it take to get a book published?

I'll answer all questions when Aging Nymphs internet radio show returns tonight at 10pm Eastern/7pm Pacific. To listen live, go to the Aging Nymphs Blog Talk Radio show page and click on the show title. Call in with your questions, leave them here as a comment, or email me at linda@bastardhusband.com. And remember, you can listen to the archives anytime!

And hey--my sincere thanks to those of you who posted reviews for BHALS on Amazon.com. Thank you, thank you!

Partyin' it up, Boise style

Well, I had another fun weekend in Idaho and we were so busy this visit, we didn’t even have a chance to break out the Scrabble Deluxe.

My sister Lori flew in from Albany earlier in the week and since Wednesday was Stepdaddy’s 74th birthday, they decided to have a bash for him on Saturday night. I know that partying in Boise with a bunch of senior citizens may not sound like fun, but these are cool folks. You can tell by the wine bottle, right?


This lady’s name is Donna and she used to own a biker bar in Pocatello.


She told us about when the Hells Angels came to town and how she 86ed a biker who later rode right through the front door and into her bar to ask her how long he was banned. She got in his face and said, “Forever!” and then he rode right back out. I think she could have kicked his ass.

Here’s Mom and her girlfriends. I love these gals and not just because they told me they liked my book.


Mom moved to Idaho from Albany about five and a half years ago—about a year after I moved to Vegas. Like me, she’s found that people out West are friendly as hell. How’s that for a generalization? But it’s a good one.

(Can you freakin’ believe you’re reading a blog post about a septuagenarian’s birthday party?)

Lori is a nut when it comes to cooking and they had enough food to feed the whole local AARP chapter. Here she is with Mom.


The music was excellent—my son-in-law’s band, Red Haired Strangers, just released a new juke joint/honky-tonk/bluegrass CD which played throughout the night. But the best part was that Lori and I got to meet our stepsister, Cindy. Here she is with her husband, Traig, their awesome son, Cale, and Stepdaddy. Isn't she adorable?


They live up in Manhattan, Montana, and when I heard them talking about other family members—Brea, Paisley, Sackett, and Gage—I thought who the hell named you people, Sarah Palin? They were so nice, and it really was a thrill to finally meet them.

But hey, it wasn't all party-party. Lori, Stepdaddy and I managed to get in some exercise. That morning, the three of us took a walk around the 'hood. It was like 32 degrees, but nice and sunny. We came across this house for sale on our walk.


Wait, what's the name of the Realtor?


BAH-ha-ha-ha! You're never too old to laugh at a name like that, are you?

If you have some free time today...

Bastard Husband: A Love Story is now available on Amazon.com. If you've read the book and want to kill some time at work today, please do me a favor and submit a short review (a sentence or two is fine) here. Reviews help greatly with sales and are very much appreciated!

If you want to save shipping costs and receive a signed copy, you can always order BH right from this site. You can also get it through your local bookstores, but you'll have to order it--it won't be carried in stock.

Happy freakin' Monday...

Aural pleasure

Doesn't that sound sexy? I'm talking about Leonard Cohen. He performed here in Las Vegas on Thursday night at the Coliseum in Caesar’s Palace and of course I had to go.

You might remember this post from when Mike and I saw him in Phoenix back in April. Mike was unable to go this time, but you know me, I don’t mind doing things by myself and there was no freakin’ way I was going to miss Leonard.

I’d never been to the Coliseum; as I expected, it’s a beautiful venue. I bought my ticket, got myself a t-shirt and beer and settled into my seat about 20 minutes before show time. The lady who sat next to me, Rita, was super nice. She’s from Israel, but has been living in Encino for the past 15 years. We had a great chat and of course I had to show her my book because that’s just what anyone who crosses my path these days has to endure.

Then about a minute before show time, two guys made their way into our row and I swear, the one who sat himself next to me looked exactly like George Clooney except he was a little bigger, a little younger, and about 10 times better looking. Yeah. And he was really friendly. Rita and I exchanged knowing glances and as the lights went down, I leaned over to her and whispered, “God loves me.”

The show in Phoenix was fantastic and Thursday night’s was just as enchanting. (That’s a pretty gay word that I don’t usually use, but in this case it really fits.) I’d say the two performances were about 80 percent the same—both were perfection. I’m so glad I didn’t miss that show.

I know there are a lot of you—both women and men—who wouldn’t feel comfortable going to concerts by yourself, or soloing on the town as I do. I wish I could convince you to give it a try. You'll never have as good a time sitting at home as you would sitting next to people like Rita and George.

Somewhere there’s a psychologist working on a research project yelling, “JACKPOT!”

So how about me posting almost every day this week? Who loves ya—huh?

Hey, I was reading Tuesday’s post and then I thought, I wonder if my friend Kathy is pissed that I told the world she’s overweight? I didn’t mean like, holy shit overweight, just overweight like everyone else on earth. You know what I meant, right? Well, if she had a blog and wrote “Happy Birthday, Linda” and then told everyone I have crappy hair, I’d be like yeah, no kidding.

I hope she’s not pissed because she really is one of my best friends. Man, it must suck to be in my social/family/work circle. You never know what I’m gonna say, and maybe about you. But if you knew me in real life, you would freakin’ love me. I bet you would.

Anyway, I’m heading to Idaho again this weekend. My sister Lori is there and Mom is having a party on Saturday for Stepdaddy, who along with Kathy, celebrated his birthday yesterday. Stepdaddy, like Kathy, is freakin’ awesome. Whenever he and Mom pick me up at the airport, he gives me a big hug and even lifts me off the ground. Sometimes if we’re just standing around, he’ll hug me for no reason.

This is very different; the other day I was thinking, man, if my real father (who died in 1999) ever hugged us for no reason, we’d be like what the hell? I mean, we all knew he loved us and all—he would take the ends of the loaves of bread and leave the good slices for us, and he always made sure there was ice cream in the house—but he was definitely more the “Jesus Christ who spilled the goddamn gravy” kind of father. Which is totally different from the hugging for no reason kind, if you know what I mean.

Ha—I remember when my little sister first heard of the concept of incest. I think she was about 12 or so. I remember her saying, “Well, that’s nothing we have to worry about,” like how lucky is that?

Whew!

Happy Veteran's Day!

Last year at this time, I had just a few readers, so odds are you haven't seen this post about my favorite vet. It's adapted from my book, so if you've read it, you already know about Paul.

Happy Veterans Day and thanks to all who have served and currently serve our country.

When you’re laughing your ass off, nobody cares how big it is

One of my dearest friends turns 51 tomorrow. I met Kathy in 1976 during her freshman year (my sophomore year) when we were students at the State University of New York at Plattsburgh and since then we’ve had a million beers and as many laughs together. You know how some people get after they get married, have kids, and work a professional-level job--all boring and grown up? Not Kathy. She’s a friggin’ blast.

Over the years, we’ve taken countless “girls’ trips” to places like Lake Placid, Montreal, Newport, Burlington, New Orleans, Las Vegas, to name a few. On our last trip we spent a fabulous weekend in Sedona with our fellow Plattsburgh friend, Maggie.


One of my all-time favorite things to do is to drink beer and shoot pool with Kathy in a dive bar with a great classic rock band, and that’s exactly what we did when we raised hell in the biker bar last year at the Connor Hotel in Jerome, AZ. I can picture her now, grinning broadly with her eyes closed, playing air drums (not air guitar like most people). Goddamn! Just having that image in my mind makes me so very happy! We had so much fun, laughing our asses off. You know how sometimes you have those “life-gasmic” moments when you could simply burst with joy?

Kathy is so freakin' awesome and she's the most loyal friend on earth. But oh, I didn’t tell you... Kathy is overweight. I'm sure that's what the charts would say.

But it doesn’t matter.

I'll say it again: it doesn’t f*cking matter. The whole goddamn universe is overweight. My mother, my sisters, three-quarters of my BFFs... So what?

When you’re laughing your ass off, nobody cares how big it is.

One of my favorite friends at work has lost 80 pounds over the past year. I’m thrilled that no doubt she’s at a healthier weight and she must be enjoying quite a boost to her self-esteem, but seriously, I can’t say her sarcasm is more entertaining or her smile more endearing since the weight’s been off. Everything I adore about her now was there a year ago, too; she hasn’t suddenly become a more worthwhile or valuable person.

I’m telling myself this as much as I’m telling you. I'm not even overweight and I bitch about it. And God knows I’ve wasted half my life fretting over my fine, thin, shitty hair. But seriously, do you think any of my beloved friends loves me an iota less because of it? It’s a pretty safe bet that no one at my wake is going to say, “Linda would have been so much more awesome if it weren’t for that crap on her head.”

Let’s stop this, huh? Let’s stop being so hard on ourselves; let’s not treat every goddamn imperfection like it’s the end of the world. Nobody cares. It doesn’t matter.

Although Jesus H, can you imagine if I actually had beautiful, long hair? Can you imagine how full of myself I’d be then?

And BTW, Kathy has gorgeous thick hair.

Happy Birthday, Katter!

I used to think I was a female Larry David, but now I think I'm a female Ricky Gervais. Either way, I'm being awfully complimentary to myself...

... but that's nothing new.

Did you happen to see Ricky Gervais on Letterman last Friday night? He was talking about how the older he gets, the more he's annoyed by everything and I was like, "YES!"

He said, for example, he gets annoyed when he's in an empty restaurant and the waitress sits people right next to him and he has to listen to them chew, and how every other little noise drives him insane (short trip), but the best was when he talked about his intolerance for people who are late. He said something like, "I'm always 20 minutes early, so when someone shows up 10 minutes late, they've kept me waiting for half an hour."

[Picture me sitting on my couch with the stains from my kids' beer parties shouting "Amen, brother!" like a black person in church. (How's that for a stereotype?)]

And then he said something like, "I just can't imagine why people wouldn't want to rush to see me," at which point I turned into an octogenarian in an assisted living home and yelled, "BINGO!"

So maybe the perfect man does exist for me. Yeah, he's a short, pudgy, pasty little guy who obviously dyes his hair and has fang teeth... but he does have a killer sense of humor and an English accent. And as you know, I can overlook a lot for that.

Bastard Husband newsflash and the crap on Facebook (literally)

GREAT NEWS! Thursday night I met with Joe Lowers, my comic friend who runs the showroom at Alexis Park, where I had my book launch party. He’s encouraged me to create a one-woman show around my book and he wants to produce it. We’re looking at opening mid-January.

A one-woman show has been in the back of my mind for a while. It's something I think I'd really like doing--more than stand-up. We still have a lot of details to work out, but the concept is on its way to becoming a reality, and like everything else, I just have to take the steps to get there, one foot in front of the other.

I’m very psyched. And what a great motivator to get back in shape—years of sitting on my ass at the keyboard is really starting to take its toll.

Of course, if you’re a Bastard Husband: A Love Story Facebook fan, you’ve already heard this big news. Did I tell you I love Facebook? I used to love MySpace, too, but like a lot of people, I’ve given that up since there’s only so much of that social networking stuff you can possibly do without having it consume your life. It seems most people these days are on Facebook, so Facebook is it for me now. Twitter can still kiss my ass, and earlier this week I deleted my Linked In profile. I just decided I don’t want to play the corporate game anymore; it’s not a ladder I ever wanted to climb in the first place. And my sarcastic updates like, “Linda is busy writing TPS reports” simply couldn’t be helping.

One of my friends at work poo-poos Facebook, saying, “I don’t need to hear from former classmates and others from my past. I didn’t care about those people then, why would I care about them now?” I’m the exact opposite. I love to hear from people from my past! I love hearing about their lives and what they’re up to. People mean a lot to me, even if I haven’t seen them in years. This morning I heard from a girl I knew since first grade who wrote to tell me she’s enjoying my book. Yesterday I got the sweetest message on Facebook from the daughter of my best friend from high school—it was the highlight of my day.

And of course, Facebook makes it easy to catch up with my brother and sisters. Like earlier this week when my sister Stacie posted this:

Stacie is not in the mood to potty train.

Her subsequent comment:

The diaper was off for about 10 minutes and she shit on the rug and I stepped in it and I cried. I’ll remember this for a while.

Then:

Can you wait at least until tomorrow to admit to laughing? It happened about 4 minutes before I had to get Charlie from the bus and I still haven’t gone back to clean it up yet. I’m thinking of just throwing it out instead. I never did like that rug.

So that little exchange prompted my sister Lori to send me this message:

Can you believe Stacie left the shit on her rug? What if a robber comes in and thinks she shits on her rug?

I was like, I know! That’s exactly why I make my bed every morning, even if I’m running late for work—what if a robber comes in and thinks I’m the type who doesn’t make my bed? And if the robber has to take a shit, I hope he uses the guest bathroom since no boys are allowed in mine.

Are you, too, thoughtful when it comes to robbers? Any special accommodations?

Which social networking sites do you frequent? Are you on MySpace anymore? Can Twitter kiss your ass, too?

And can you believe this little angel would shit on the rug?

Hey, you know what today would have been? My thirty-second wedding anniversary.

Yep, back on November 5, 1977, my first husband, Chris, and I got married up in Plattsburgh, NY, where we were going to school. We had a small wedding with just immediate family and friends in a church on Lake Champlain, just steps away from our favorite dive bar on Royal Street, the Deliri.

Man, we had a lot of good times in that place. And the night before our wedding, Chris had way too good a time. A bunch of guys took him out for one last night on the town before settling into married life and OMG, I don’t know what they did to him, but he was so friggin’ hung over the next day—to this day I’ve never seen anyone hurting like that.

Chris was literally shaking as we said our vows and he could hardly move or speak. Believe me, I was pissed! We were totally in love, but I remember thinking, “If I weren’t six months pregnant, I would NEVER marry you.” Ha!


I think that was taken with one of those cameras with the rotating flash cube. Look how fat my face is--and I bet I weighed all of 120 pounds.

After the ceremony a bunch of us went out to dinner and Chris was still so sick, he couldn’t get out of the car. Somebody at the table told the waitress we were celebrating my wedding, and I remember her looking at me all pregnant and all, and saying, “Well, where’s the groom?” with this quizzical look on her face. I was like, I am so gonna kill him.

Chris is awesome, though, and as I’ve said before, I couldn’t ask for a better father for my kids. I always enjoy seeing him when I go back to Albany, and I wish every divorced couple could have the mutual respect for each other that we have.

Here are a couple of other old pics I dug up. This one was taken at a wedding we went to. I think it was April 1977.


I loved that gown and I loved those shoes!

This was taken at Chris' parents' house; I remember I was on really good behavior. It might have been Easter 1977. It was some kind of holiday.



Man, the passage of time is pretty damn scary, don't you think?

Not just ranting, I actually did something and you can, too

Hey, remember my rant last week about those lousy banks and credit card companies?

As you know, Congress passed a law earlier this year that would put an end to their abusive tactics -- including raising interest rates on our card balances for no goddamn reason -- but the reforms don't go into effect until February. In the meantime, those rat bastards have been hiking interest rates, adding new fees and doubling our minimum payments.

Yesterday I came across the Consumers Union's money web site, www.creditcardreform.org, and filled out a simple online form that sent an email to my rep in Congress saying they need to make this law effective immediately -- we can't afford more months of the banks' F-ing with our credit cards. I also suggested a class-action suit for retroactive repayment to those of us who've already been fucked over (doesn't hurt to ask!)

I'm hardly an activist, but you know this pisses me off. It literally took 2 minutes to send that message. It's worth a try.

Chicken Soup Gone Wild -- the new mega-series

I don't think I ever told you that I once had the big idea to come with a Chicken Soup for the Soul satire, a collection of demented tales mixing spirituality and debauchery. Well, that idea lasted all of about half a week. But Saturday's post, where I ranted about the co-founder of the series, inspired me to dig up this little gem, the only story I wrote for my tongue-in-cheek project.

Note to Mom and any future employers (ha!) (as if): THIS IS FICTION. It's probably the only piece of fiction I ever have written or ever will write. Though some parts are clearly rooted in reality. Seriously, I am not a pothead. You know my drug of choice is Guinness, Young's Chocolate Stout, or Moose Drool. Or Bailey's.

So here it is--my anti-Chicken Soup story:

"We Met in the House of (Fermented) Spirits"

Every once in a while you experience a special type of drunkenness, a buzz that expands your awareness and opens you to appreciate the perfection of everyone around you. If you’re lucky, you may cross paths with other souls vibrating at the same level of inebriation, recognizable by the alcohol-induced twinkle in their eyes. Those of us who are students of spirituality refer to that as “synchronicity.”

I could tell Ozzy was special by the way his aura lit up the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.

“Why, yes, thank you. Guinness for me, please,” I said, graciously accepting his offer. The universe is indeed abundant.

I watched him sip his Bud Light and observed a familiar sense of judgment arise from within. Remember, Linda, I said to myself, God is not thinking, “Ozzy certainly has shitty taste in beer.” And so I vowed to look at him through the eyes of the Almighty and forgave him for his pedestrian choice of beverage.

We engaged in some small talk and I was entranced by Ozzy’s delightful English accent. Then ego reared its ugly head and I began to question my self-worth. What would a guy with such an attractive verbal inflection possibly want with me? Fortunately I tapped into the goddess within and reminded myself that, yes, I deserve to be with a man who sounds like Ozzy.

“I don’t show these to just anyone, but I’d like you to take a look.” Ozzy said. He then presented me with a few pictures of the biggest, juiciest marijuana buds I’d ever seen.

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “Are these yours?”

He beamed with pride. “Yes, I’m growing them in my basement. I’ve been studying hydroponic gardening—I’m quite good at it.” Catching himself, he added, “Sorry, I don’t mean to brag.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “By all means, take ownership of your God-given talents.”

Of course, I know well enough to stay in the present moment, but when I saw the size of his illicit crop, I couldn’t help myself and immediately projected into the future. I envisioned cuddling together on the couch listening to the Grateful Dead, watching Animal Planet with the sound muted, sharing a bag of Cheetos. If he turns out to be my soulmate, I thought, I’ll never have to buy pot again. I silently thanked the universe for sending me this incredible connection.

“I’m going to submit these photos to High Times,” Ozzy told me.

“Good for you,” I said, impressed by his lofty ambition to submit to such a prestigious national publication. Though I doubted High Times would accept unsolicited Poloroids, I suppressed my skepticism—never try to crush a person’s aspirations with your own limited thinking.

Fast forward in time and, well . . . life doesn’t always unfold the way you think it’s going to. You enter a relationship believing your beloved is a mellow toker and he turns out to be an intolerable sot. I don’t think Ozzy intentionally led me to believe he was more of a stoner than the boozer he turned out to be.

And so I learned that first impressions are sometimes wrong; you see what you want to see. And to be fair, maybe I didn’t exactly present my authentic self either—between my dyed hair, contact lenses, artificially whitened teeth and perky cleavage courtesy of Victoria Secret’s bra technology. Perhaps the lesson is, the Law of Attraction works both ways.

And the universe always unfolds in divine order.