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.