Update on my trip east

I know--Monday is not my usual blogging day, but I'm going to be traveling tomorrow and won't get a chance to post.

Lori and I left our sister Stacie's house in Fairfax, Virginia, early Sunday afternoon and headed north to Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania. On the way we stopped at the King-of-Prussia mall, where we met my blogging buddy Debbie Schubert and her husband, Chuck, for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. I hadn't met Debbie before, so it was a real treat to see her in person, and she and Chuck are absolutely adorable together. How wonderful that they've been married for over 25 years! It was such a joy to meet them. I'll post a picture once I get back to Vegas.

Beautiful Aunt Joyce is hanging in there. Cancer is such a pain because it seems once you get one thing under control, something else pops up. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, BAJ had brain surgery recently and the steroids they have her on are kicking her ass. Sucks.

She has such an unbelieveable attitude, though. Last night Lori and I were bitching about something or other and our Uncle John was ragging on Joe Biden, and then Lori said, "What about you, Joyce? Do you have something you want to complain about?" Poor Joyce just sat there trying to get comfortable in her recliner and said, "Oh no, I'm good."

One of the reasons I picked this weekend to come back east was that Lori told me Loretta Lynn was going to be at Penn's Peak, this awesome venue about a mile from BAJ and John's house, on March 30. We saw Little Feat there over Christmas; it's really a fantastic place. John picked up our tickets for us a couple of weeks ago, and all the way up from Stacie's we talked about what a freakin' treat it will be to see Loretta Lynn. Not that we're into country or anything, but for Christsakes, she's a legend! And Lori said John told her it was almost sold out, so how lucky were we? We were even bragging about it to Debbie and Chuck, and I'm missing my incredibly handsome boyfriend's birthday today, which I feel terrible about, but this just seemed like a good weekend to come back here.

So this afternoon Lori, BAJ, and I are sitting around, with BAJ nestled in her recliner. She had a rough morning; another doctor's appointment. It takes all her strength just to get up and out, and of course they did another biopsy because now they suspect skin cancer; one more thing to contend with once she gets her strength back. One of us mentioned that we'd better check and see what time Loretta Lynn goes on tonight and then John yelled in to us from the other room.

"GIRLS! We have a problem. These tickets are for Friday, March 20."

Ever the optimist, I wondered why they would have printed the wrong date on the tickets. I mean, that would be weird, right? They never print the wrong dates on tickets.

Um, the show was 10 days ago. John picked up the tickets on March 19, the day before the concert. That's why it was almost sold out.

Lori, Joyce and I laughed our heads off--the kind of cracking up where you think you might cough up a lung. My head was actually hurting from laughing so hard. Lori felt terrible for screwing up the date, but it's all good. It was worth it to see Beautiful Aunt Joyce get such a kick out of us; she seemed so down after her appointment. We had a great afternoon looking at old pictures of the family and the truth is, I'd rather spend the extra time hanging out here. Every minute with BAJ is a gift.

Tomorrow morning Lori and I drive up to Albany; I fly back to Vegas at 6:00. Hopefully I'll get to see my kids and grandson before my flight.

Thank you all for your kind thoughts and prayers for Joyce--so very appreciated! I wish I could meet each one of you and thank you personally.

XOXO

P.S. Just had this conversation with Lori:

Lori: "What are you doin' Linda Lou? Blogging?"
Me: "Yeah, I'm putting up my post since we'll be on the road tomorrow."
Lori: "Well, good thing you didn't have anything else to do tonight."

On the road again...

Short post today. I'm at my sister Stacie's house in Fairfax, Virginia, outside of Washington, D.C. I got in last night around midnight; my sister Lori drove down from Albany yesterday. We'll have a brief visit with Stacie and her family, and tomorrow we're driving up to Jim Thorpe, Pennsylvania, to see Beautiful Aunt Joyce.

BAJ has been fighting cancer and all the related crap that goes along with it for a few years now and has been through how many rounds of radiation, chemo, blah, blah, blah... A few weeks ago she had surgery to remove a brain tumor and it seems that the recovery from that has been the most challenging. Can I just say I fucking hate cancer. I can't believe that with all the friggin' geniuses walking around, no one has been able to figure out how to get rid of it. For good.

BAJ is a young aunt; she's only 12 years older than me. Trust me when I tell you she's the nicest person on earth--not a foul-mouthed, center-of-her-own-universe type like me. She has a master's in divinity and was a pastor at her church for many years before she became too ill to keep up with the responsibilities of her position. A pastor. In my family!

So Lori and I will be up there to see her tomorrow, and then Tuesday morning we'll be driving up to Albany. Hopefully I'll get to see my kids and grandson for a bit before I fly back to Vegas that evening. I should get in around midnight, and then it's back to work in the cubicle at 7 a.m. Wednesday.

So it doesn't look like I'll be able to post Tuesday since I'll be on the road, but if I can put something up before then, I will. In the meantime, any thoughts, prayers, and positive vibes you can send to our Beautiful Aunt Joyce will be very much appreciated.

Thanks so much. I love you all.

Maybe I should take the bus

I forgot to tell you—I got stopped by the cops again. This is the fourth time that’s happened in the almost six years I’ve lived here, and each time I was pulled over on the same stretch of highway within a mile or two from home.

The first time was because I started to get off at an exit and then realized it wasn’t, in fact, my exit, so I pulled a lane switcharoo that apparently wasn’t safe.

“What do you call that?” the cop asked.

Honesty is supposed to be the best policy, so I said, “I call that… ‘Not my Exit’” and then smiled and gave him a single, deliberate nod. It worked; he scolded me a bit, but let me go. That little incident inspired a line for my comedy act:

“I admit I’m a shitty driver. Thank God I never get in accidents… but I hear them happening behind me.”

The next two times happened about a month apart. I was stopped each time because my registration sticker had expired. Actually my car was registered, I just forgot to put the little sticker on the plate and so both times they let me go. I know... you’d think that after the first time, I would have just put the damn sticker on, but I kept forgetting.

The second registration sticker cop pulled me over right in front of my apartment complex and that guy had a bit of an attitude. In his defense, I think he might have been following me with his lights on for miles and I just didn’t notice and that’s why he was a little exasperated. Now I point the rearview mirror out the back window, not at myself, which makes it a little more difficult to check my lipstick while I drive. Yeah, I know.

The last time I got pulled over was a few weeks ago (I think by the same cop). Traffic on the highway was all backed up and my exit was right there, and okay, I admit I kind of crossed some lines from the on ramp merging onto the highway, but what the hell? I got into my exit lane prematurely—that’s it. It’s not like I was speeding or ran a red light.

This time I got a ticket I was pissed! I so wanted to ask, "Evidently all the child molesters are in jail? All the cold case files have been solved? That's why you cops are free to pursue crappy drivers like me?" But for once in my life I kept my mouth shut.

So I’m telling my mother about getting pulled over yet again in my beloved 13-year-old Saturn with a dent on the roof. And what does she say? What kind of support does she offer?

Mom: “I bet the cop was surprised you could speak English.”

So now I have to go to court in May. The ticket says I must appear—I can’t just mail it in—and the cop said it would probably cost me about $200. Great. Now I have to find something to wear; I have no cute court outfits.

Looks like I’ll be taking another trip to Ross. I'd better take the side streets.

More about last weekend

So I still have a couple of other things to tell you about last weekend. First, look at this picture I took of my car's odometer.


Only 1,100 miles to go until 200,000! If you haven’t already read my post about my awesome car, click this link immediately to read about the greatest vehicle on earth.

Not to brag or anything (because I know you’re all so jealous), but I am so freakin’ excited about hitting this 200,000 mile mark. We have people who come to our office to wash our cars while we work, and when my little Saturn hits the big milestone, I am totally gonna spring for a car wash. Yeah.

Another thing about this weekend: I went to my first Mensa meeting.

I’ll let that sink in a minute…

Yes, I was a guest. BAH-HA-HA! Did I have you fooled?

Everybody was really nice and not like all, “What the hell is she doing here.” People were just talking about stuff and I was psyched to hear one lady say that she, too, likes Kath and Kim. So now you know what the smart people watch.

I was almost a member of Mensa a few years ago when I lived in Utah. One day I got the mail and I couldn’t believe it when I saw an envelope with a return address that said, “The Mensa Institute.” I remember thinking, how did they find me? It was addressed specifically to me, not my brainiac husband, which I thought was kind of odd because he was the one with the Ph.D.

“Hey, look what I got in the mail,” I said, waving the unopened envelope in front of him. “The Mensa Institute wants me!”

He took the envelope from me and gave it a look. “Mesa,” he said. “The Mesa Institute wants you.”

I grabbed the envelope back from him and sure enough, it was some stupid Mesa Institute looking for a donation. Dammit!

Okay, so I wasn't almost a member of Mensa. But I still got to go to a Mensa meeting this weekend. That should count for something.

Great weekend (Part 1)

See, I told you I’d post a little extra something since my Saturday blog was full of info for writers. Aren't I nice? Seriously, if you knew me in real life, you'd think I'm nice as hell. Or you'd think I'm an a-hole. Definitely one of the two.

Anyway, I had the greatest weekend! I darted out of work Friday like my ass was on fire and headed straight to this new shopping plaza on Lake Mead Blvd. in Henderson that I love, love, love. I absolutely hate to shop, but this plaza has a Target, a Marshall’s, a Famous Footwear, and a Ross Dress for Less (opening soon), so this place is like heaven to me.

I can’t wait for the new Ross to open! I love Ross—look at these four cute tops I bought at the store on Eastern and Serene last week. Total cost: $35.


I swear, I should be in a 12-step program for cute Ross tops; I have about 40 in my closet, arranged according to color. If I’m having a bad day or feeling the slightest bit depressed, I just head to Ross and pick up a new top for $7.99 and everything is back to being perfect!

So after work on Friday, I struck gold at Famous Footwear, where I found these Steve Madden Girl wedges. How freakin’ cute are these? Plus, I’m like 5’8” in them, which of course makes me look soooo much thinner. Seriously, that’s how heels work—it’s like magic! (P.S. My ankles are not that fat in real life; it's just the angle of the camera.)

Then Friday night my super cute and sexy BF and I went to a party at the MGM Grand by invitation of my beloved blogging buddy Hurricane Mikey. They had a very cool suite with a balcony, which was awesome, but the best part was that everybody there was like the nicest person on earth--Mikey's peeps are as awesome as he is! I got to meet some of Mikey’s family, including his sister Amy, who got married Saturday at the Special Memories Wedding Chapel. Amy is an absolute doll, plus she’s a Deadhead, which I love because you don’t get to meet many Deadheads in Vegas. Personally, I love the Dead, and can’t hide my amusement when I forget to put my cell phone on vibrate at work and “Uncle John’s Band” emanates from my cubicle. Yeah, then I’ll wonder why they chose me for random drug screening…

I also got to meet some of Mikey’s blog readers who follow my blog now, too. OMG, what a thrill! People seem to love the Courtney stories! Here I am with Drew from Wisconsin. He was really, really nice and has amazing calves, which you can’t see here, from doing step aerobics.


Whew! I’ll tell you about the rest of my weekend on Tuesday. It’s all good!

For all the writers out there

Today’s post is for all the writers out there. I know that this is probably boring stuff for normal people, so I’ll tell you what… I’ll put up a little something else before my next scheduled post on Tuesday that will be more of general interest. Fair enough? I aim to please.

I’m not sure if I told you that I had another one of my essays published recently in a collection of stories about grandmothers. The book is called Patchwork Patch: Grandma’s Choice and it’s put out by Choice Publishing Group. My essay, “Till the End” is about visits with my grandmother while she was under home hospice care.

Here’s the first paragraph:

In our family we reproduce young. My grandmother was 45 when I came along, my mother was 43 when my first child was born, and I became a grandmother at 41. If the pattern continues, my daughter will be so blessed at age 39, at which point we’ll have to move to Appalachia and start handing out banjos.

I know—everything has to be a joke.

This is the fourth time I’ve had something published. Last fall one of my essays was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Divorce and Recovery and two excerpts from Bastard Husband: A Love Story have been included in Writers Bloc I and II: A Las Vegas Valley Authors’ Showcase.

I know many of you are writers, and maybe for some of you, it’s been a twinkle in your eye to write something someday, but you have yet to act upon. I want to tell you about a few story call outs for some upcoming publications that you may want to consider contributing to. Consider this a gentle nudge. (None of these have an entry fee or reading fee.)

Choice Publishing Group is looking for original stories and essays from 250 to 2000 words about friendship. Each submission will be reviewed and considered based on creativity, originality, concept, and style. The deadline for submissions is March 31. (Hurry, that’s soon.) For more information, including complete submission guidelines, visit Patchwork Path: Piecing Together Our Lives online at http://www.PatchworkPath.com.

Ultimate HCI Books is requesting photo and story submissions for two upcoming titles. The Ultimate Runner will feature true stories from beginning runners to Ironman veterans. The Ultimate Bird Lover will feature stories celebrating what’s good, challenging, and downright funny about these “angels with wings.” (Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that one…) Go to www.ultimatehcibooks.com for format and submission guidelines. Deadline for both is June 15; books will be published in November.

The Chicken Soup for the Soul series is looking for a variety of submissions. Check out their website and pick a title. Just do it!

Compensation for stories is typically between $50 and $200, but of course money is not the motivation. It’s a kick to see your stuff in print, and if you’re querying agents, it’s nice to have a couple of publications under your belt.

Speaking of agents… The Las Vegas Writers Conference is just around the corner! Held from April 16 – 18 at Sam’s Town Hotel and Gambling Hall, the conference is chock full of workshops on all aspects of writing and publishing, plus you’ll have an opportunity to personally pitch your project to agents. Check the conference website for schedule and full details. I’ll be presenting sessions on “How to Get the Most Out of a Writers Conference” and will be a panelist for a session on blogging. This intimate (attendance is limited) conference is always great fun and is a fantastic place to network with other writers.

So there you go. Now get writing!

Three things…

I have three totally unrelated things to tell you today, with no segue ways between topics. Sorry.

First, 10 years ago today my father died of a massive heart attack while on vacation in Florida with his girlfriend, Pat. It was about 6 a.m. on a Friday morning when my sister Lori phoned to tell me the news. I remember the call like it was yesterday—I was in a hotel room in Shelton, Connecticut, where I’d been working for GE. Lori relayed the details as she knew them and told me that Pat had signed off to have his corneas donated.

After I got off the phone, I mechanically packed up my things, going through the motions as one does when they’re in that type of surreal state. I then went down to the hotel lobby to check out, and you’ll never believe what song was playing on the radio as I stood at the front desk.

It was Eric Clapton’s “Looking Through My Father’s Eyes.”

Is that freaky or what?

Next, I want to share a beauty tip. Totally unrelated—I told you. You know what I’ve been using on my skin lately and I swear to God it’s noticeably softer? Good old fashioned Gold Bond Lotion. I mix it with Bath & Body Works Warm Vanilla Sugar (cream or lotion) because I like the scent, but it’s the Gold Bond that’s keeping my skin soft. And—I don’t know if this is related—the eczema breakouts I used to have stopped since I’ve been using it.

I know—we should be sharing beauty tips more often. (I can see Hurricane Mikey rolling his eyes now.)

Here’s the last thing I want to tell you…

My ex is on the friggin’ warpath because he caught wind that my book is getting closer to becoming a reality. He shot me several nasty emails yesterday, each with liberal use of the C word. He thinks I’m out to “fuck up his entire life” and I’ll be ruining his chances of ever finding a girlfriend.

Certainly, I’d have been spared untold headaches and heartaches had an ex-girlfriend written this book before I got to him. And note to anyone (male or female) who gets stinkin' drunk and obnoxious and pours water on their spouse at 3 a.m. while they sleep: Don’t think your actions will always stay a dirty little secret.

Or… should they stay a secret? Should I reconsider this project? Tell me what you think. I assure you, ruining his life was never my intention. I never mention his name in the book, and I’m going to make some changes that will obscure his identity a bit, but I realize it wouldn’t take a genius to piece things together.

So what is my intention? By sharing my experiences in this book, I know I will help other women gain perspective into their own lives. That’s my intention. And aside from that, the book is really funny; my goal is to entertain and inspire. Am I looking to cash in from all this? Hardly. Though if the book takes off, that would be a sign that there’s a need in the marketplace.

I really am sorry about this, on so many levels. I wish none of that bullshit ever happened. The most damning thing I say about him in the book was in the excerpt I posted last Saturday. BTW, I wrote this in response to a comment someone made about the Bastard Husband: A Love Story title. In case you haven’t seen it:

I can't tell you how many times I've reconsidered that title, and for two reasons: 1) the book is more about my post-divorce journey than it actually is about my ex (though certainly reflections on that relationship are threaded throughout) and 2) the title, as you've say, implies bitterness. That said, I've decided to stay with it for one huge reason: the title gets attention. People remember it. It came to me one morning in the pool area of the Ramada Inn in St. George, Utah, where I'd spent the previous night due to an episode like the one in the excerpt from last Saturday. I sat in a lounge chair thinking, "What a bastard, but I love him." That's when I thought I had the makings of a book.

Hmm…. Lots of stuff here. Tell me what’s on your mind. Was the Clapton song a message from beyond or just a crazy coincidence? What's your beauty secret? And if you were me, what would you do about the ex?

Let me know!

If you could change anything about yourself...

One of the last times I was back in Albany, my sister Lori and I went out for a few beers with our childhood friend Chuckie Bell. At one point he asked, “If you could change something about yourself—anything at all—what would it be?"

That was a no-brainer. “MY HAIR!” I exclaimed.

I have fine, thin, limp, crappy hair that flattens to my head about 30 seconds after I turn off the blow dryer. The actress Molly Shannon, star of my guilty pleasure Kath and Kim, once said, “I was born with three hairs on my head and I’ve spent my entire life trying to make them look like five.” I can so relate! Believe me, I thank God every day for a pretty face and a hot body, but at this age it’s about five minutes to midnight as far as they go, if you know what I mean. Pretty soon I’ll be SOL.

Lori went next and said something like, “I wish I could be more tolerant of other people.” Chuck’s answer was equally annoying.

Jesus, I thought. How freakin’ superficial am I? Yup, other than my hair, I pretty much have it all together. Sure, I’m the center of my own universe, I have absolutely no patience, I’m quick to judge, and when people don’t see things my way, I secretly think they’re mildly retarded. And I wish I could change… my hair? What an a-hole.

What about you? If you could change anything about yourself, what would it be? And be honest—give us your knee-jerk reaction; don’t go thinkin’ up some goody-goody Pollyanna response unless that’s really what comes to you. Though in that case, you're much too nice to be reading this blog.

Oops! I almost forgot...

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!!! Lori sent me this pic of herself and her husband, Russ, taken at the parade in Albany last Saturday. Don't they look like fun?

Rejections no more… and a timely excerpt

Last week I received another rejection letter for my manuscript, Bastard Husband: A Love Story. As rejections go, it was a really nice one.

Hi Linda,

I received your sample manuscript and enjoyed reading it very much. You have a great voice, and I found myself laughing out loud on many occasions. Unfortunately, with today's difficult publishing market, we don't think our agency would be able to get your book the attention it deserves.

Best of luck,
Andrea

Well, I wasn’t disappointed—rejection is part of the game—and actually, by the time I heard from her, I’d pretty much decided to self-publish. Having an agent say she liked my work, but can't do anything with it because of the state of the industry sealed the deal for me. Now it’s full steam ahead. I’m psyched; this is going to happen, and it’s not going to take forever. I've received my last rejection.

For those of you considering self-publishing, I’ll keep you informed of the steps I take along the way. I'm still very early in the process. So far I bought two domains: bastardhusband.com (can you believe that was available?) and bastardhusbandalovestory.com. I’m going to push traffic to bastardhusband.com; the longer URL will be directed to that one. Tomorrow I meet with Gregory Kompes, who’s going to do the internal design (fonts and layout), and possibly the cover. Next week I’m going to purchase my ISBNs and set up an LLC to establish my own publishing company, which will be called “Aging Nymphs Publishing.”

I think my regular readers are going to like my book. I really do. However, some people are going to hate it, and hate me. I expect that and won’t be forcing anyone to buy it.

Anyway, this week as I’ve been doing my final, final, final editing, the media’s been full of stories about Chris Brown’s alleged (!) attack on Rhianna. Watching Larry King and Oprah this week, along with rereading my pages, brought back some uneasy memories. I can’t say anything that hasn’t already been stated about that case and the problem it represents. I'll take a more personal approach to putting in my two cents by posting a couple of pages from my book.

I know this is the one piece of my story that my ex would rather I didn’t release for the world to see, though I don’t think he disputes the veracity of my account. Certainly my intention is not to embarrass him; I have no doubt that he was sorry for his actions that night (as well as others), and I’ll emphasize that he was never physically threatening.

So what is my intention? I'd like to think that if any woman recognizes herself in my words, she'll know she's not alone and will have the strength to remove herself from the situation. I'm particularly hoping one young friend of mine sees this and finally does what she should have done long ago and gets the hell out.

This is not fiction; it’s a memoir. And a memoir reflects an author’s representation of the truth, as remembered through the filter of the author’s own experience. This is how I remember one night back in 2002.

My heart raced as I waited for the Laramie police to arrive. Oh, God, did I do the right thing? I wondered. Maybe he’s not as bad as I thought.

I met the two female officers at the front door and closed it behind me. “I think everything’s under control now,” I said, shivering in the overnight chill. “I probably don’t need you after all.”

“Where is he now, ma’am?” the taller woman asked. I’d put her at about five-foot three. Talk about a small police department. Good thing I didn’t fear for my life.

“In the basement,” I replied. “There’s a little room with a couch. He’s settling down now. I probably didn’t need to call. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“We’d like to speak to him, ma’am,” the other one said.

I could tell they had no intention of leaving, so I let them into the house and led them through the kitchen to the stairs.

“Why don’t you stay here,” one of them advised in a question that wasn’t a question. The two of them trudged down the steps and after a moment, the blasting Iron Maiden CD shut off mid-scream.

I remained in the kitchen, mentally trying to justify the call. I kind of expected a blowout that night, since the day marked the last day of classes. He was particularly vulnerable when something came to an end, whether it was the semester, a paper he’d written for an academic journal, or sometimes simply the end of the week. All ends seemed to lead to the deep end.

I knew the pattern well. The beers in the first stage of intoxication inspired brilliant philosophical revelations, invariably related to harness racing or the stock market. During Stage Two, he loved me deeply, and would even wake me from a sound sleep to profess his adoration. “I’m the luckiest guy, babe,” he’d say. “You’re the woman for me. You understand me.”

And then there was Stage Three.

Somehow between the eighth and tenth beers the most perfect woman on earth inexplicably morphed into a white trash whore who should be eternally grateful to be married to an amazing guy like him. He would sometimes accompany the tirade with a peculiar, and extremely annoying, practice of pouring water on me in bed. Water doesn’t leave a mark, but believe me, it can scar.

Often when events began to unfold like that, I’d leave before the situation got too ugly. But on that night I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I’d already taken my contacts out and wasn’t up to facing a puzzled front desk clerk remarking on the fact that I was checking into a motel three blocks from my house.

I should have left anyway; I should have recognized the new level of aggression, the way he followed me around, pressing his weight into me and shouting, “You can’t control me!” “You fucking bitch!” and other selections from his greatest inebriated hits. He’d never been physically violent, but the behavior that night scared me. I didn’t want to risk what could happen if his mood escalated. Mostly I worried he might accidentally shove me into something or send me flying down the very cellar stairs I’d fantasized about finding his drunken ass at the base of. I thought I was right to call the police. Maybe not.

I listened hard at the top of the stairs, but heard only muffled conversation. What the hell could they be talking about? He’s probably giving them stock tips.

The women finally made their way back upstairs. I half expected them to tell me he’s the greatest guy and I should be thankful to be his wife.

“He’s going to stay down there tonight,” the smaller one reported. “I think he’ll be asleep soon. I doubt you have anything to worry about.” She handed me a card with her name and badge number. “I’ve circled a referral on the back for Project SAFE. They can help you if you need a place to stay. I think you’ll be okay for tonight, but you’ll have the number in case you need it in the future.”

A police officer just gave me a referral to a women’s shelter.

“You know, I have a master’s degree…” I wanted to say. Instead, I took the card and muttered, “Thank you.”

This excerpt shows the “bastard” side. I can’t begin to tell you how much I loved him.

Questions? Comments?

Something borrowed

Well, I talked to new bride/new 30-year-old/precious daughter, Courtney, on Monday, her birthday. She and her husband are on their honeymoon down South. When we spoke she was in Wilmington, North Carolina; their ultimate destination is Vero Beach, Florida, where they’ll be meeting up with John’s parents on their houseboat.

Remember her wedding last month? Remember how she got this beautiful dress from The Deb, of all places? (Evidently it’s a very uncool place to shop if you’re over 15.)

Yeah…

Courtney: “So you know my wedding dress?”
Me: “Of course, sweetie. You looked so beautiful.”
Courtney: “Yeah, well, I brought it back to The Deb.”
Me: “You brought it back? What do you mean?”

Well, you see that satiny sash around her 23-inch waist? Evidently the price tag of the dress is hidden under there. Evidently that was the plan all along.

Courtney: “I knew I was never gonna wear it again, so I thought what the hell, I’m gonna return it.”
Me: “You brought back your wedding dress?”
Courtney: “Hell, yeah! I told them it didn’t fit and they totally gave me my money back. A hundred and fifty bucks! Woo-hoo!”

Over the phone, she couldn’t see my eyes rolling back to my cerebellum. But I have to admit, her reasoning is sound…

Courtney: “You know what they say, Mom. ‘Something old, something new, something borrowed… Well, I borrowed my dress from The Deb.”

And evidently her underwear was blue.

If the TV execs don’t go for my reality show idea, which is brilliant, by the way, perhaps I can interest them in the Yankee-hippie version of Kath and Kim. We are so there.