With Ever-Dwindling Resources . . .

Today self began to wonder:  what will she do if her memoir class doesn’t make?  She has no other teaching gigs lined up (except for on-line UCLA Extension class), and the California economy’s looking none too good for start-ups like hubby’s (their brilliant machine went on the market earlier this year and —  well, let’s just say that sales have been less than spectacular)

But, that’s fate, right?  That’s life!  One just has to learn to suck it up!

Self now does her shopping exclusively at Safeway:  her clunker can’t make it even the 11 miles to the Mountain View Costco.  Well, at least the Orange Crush liter-bottles were on sale today for 99 cents each.  Self snagged a particularly fresh-looking Valu-pack of pork chops, and the customer standing behind her in line looked at the price and said, “Wow!  That’s a really good deal!”  Self should know!  Six loin pork chops cost $6.84!

Then she bought a lot of veggies:  salad greens, mushrooms (at $3.99/lb., not exactly cheap, but anyhoo).  And fruit for dessert:  cantaloupe and watermelon.

Self is so glad she has trained herself to check out books from the library, instead of spending money in bookstores!  Though, this morning, self got pretty annoyed because she was renewing two of her books by phone, and happened to press the wrong button on the keypad, and she ended up renewing all her eight library books, even though at least four of them weren’t due until almost three weeks from now. Grrrr!!!

But, just think, self:  just think how happy you will be to be standing on a mountaintop (after this is all over) looking down at all these mis-steps and near-disasters.  Will they not appear miniscule, inconsequential, mere blips on the way to self-fulfillment and success?  What you need to do, self, is focus!  And hurry up with that novel so you can at least try and sell it and get paid for all your blood, sweat and tears!  Then hubby won’t have to agonize over how many units of that fancy thingamajig he has sold this month, and son won’t have to work three jobs so he can pay the rent on his San Luis Obispo apartment, and you can fly off to Europe just any time you please, like your Dear Bros and Dearest Mum, and you can dispense words of wisdom to worshipful acolytes, as if they were so many bon mots, and you can spend the rest of your time sitting on your backyard deck, sipping expensive merlot.  And there will be no more of this gnashing of teeth and complaining about how artists get so little respect.  Because you will be sitting on top of the world!  Yes!  And when you stretch out your two arms, you will feel like screaming into the wind, a la Leo in the execrable “Titanic,” how you are feeling just so, so —  Queenly!!!

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

Love, As They Say, Is Blind

So, for the past two days, self has been reading a fascinating novel by Francisco Goldman, The Divine Husband (It has a very strange cover that self hasn’t yet been able to figure out: a woman in pink has her back half turned to a camera, and she is holding by the hand a tiny figure dressed all in black, in a cape with pointed ears — could that be a midget Batman? Or is that supposed to be the Devil? But why is he a midget? Self is completely mystified).

Here’s the section self happens to read after dinner. It is so risible that after self read it, she couldn’t stop laughing. (Earlier, she read Andrew O’Hehir’s Salon.com post and had the same response: this really must be the day for belly-busting laugh inducers). Here’s the context: Maria de las Nieves is a former nun; Wellesley Bludyar is a British diarist who’s been trying (unsuccessfully) to flirt with her. The place is an imaginary country in Latin America.

When Wellesley Bludyar saw Maria de las Nieves’ expression (as he later confided to a sympathetic Mrs. Gastreel; and many nights later, though quite inebriated, and not so explicitly, to others; and within hearing of yet others, for the city was so infested with secret police, informers and spies that another foreigner living there at that time, who kept an eventually published diary, famously wrote here even the drunks are discreet — though not always Bludyar) he thought his little joke had impressed her as cheeky and clever, and he felt unaccustomedly and gratefully thrilled. An instant later all had subsided into a feverish chill in his intestines. Could he really be falling in love with the odd little half-breed legation translator, with her crooked, gapped, discolored teeth, and tobacco-fouled breath and tobacco-stained (nearly vermilion) fingers?

Ha. Ha. Ha. Haaaaa !!!

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